Lovely War(103)

A nurse gently peeled off the bandages and plaster. Hazel right eye opened and blinked at the unfamiliar light. All the better to see James smiling down at her.

“Look at you,” he told her.

“I can’t, unless you’ve brought me a mirror,” she told him tartly. “Please do.”

He handed her a mirror, and she appraised herself with curiosity.

“These have healed up better than I might’ve expected,” said the surgeon, examining her scars. “No infection. You’re very lucky.”

Better than he’d expected? “I look quite horrible,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Compared to how you looked on the train,” said James, “you look remarkably well.”

“Thank you,” Hazel said. “I think.” She glanced at her parents and saw her mother struggle to keep her composure. Poor Mum.

“I’m Frankenstein’s monster now,” Hazel told the room. “This will be useful any number of ways. Scaring burglars, warding off evil spirits . . .”

Mr. and Mrs. Windicott, huddled close together by Hazel’s side, beamed at their girl and poured forth every encouraging word. If they went back to their hostelry that night and wept into their pillows, no one, I believe, will blame them for that.



* * *





Aubrey managed to visit one Sunday afternoon. Colette kept his visit a surprise, then paraded him into Hazel’s hospital room, where she sat diligently completing her strengthening exercises.

“Whatcha been up to, Lady Hazel de la Windicott?”

Hazel squealed and tried to jump up, but a sharp twinge of pain stopped her. Aubrey swept up the piano girl in an embrace. He knew what she did not about what she’d done on the train, and he would never forget it.

Aubrey and James met at last. I’m certain they would’ve been friends under any circumstances, but with Hazel and Colette in their lives, they quickly became brothers-in-law, or, if not in law, in truth.



* * *





    August wore on, and the nights began to cool. Hazel learned she would be dismissed from the hospital the next day.

James’s current sergeant was a tenderhearted soul, underneath a great deal of bluster. He let his young private visit his injured volunteer girl whenever he could be spared from duty. With the Second Battle of the Marne well behind them now, a great deal of repair and fortification and cleanup work remained to be done, but if a heroic young lady in love with a soldier in his company didn’t deserve comfort and cheer, who did? Private Alderidge wasn’t good for much if he hadn’t gotten his hospital visit in every couple of days.

That last night in the hospital, after Hazel’s parents had returned to their rooms to pack for tomorrow’s trip to London, James arrived in Hazel’s room and sat beside her.

“You’re not really leaving me tomorrow, are you?” he asked her.

Already her scars were flattening a bit, though still crimson and cruel. Her face would never be the same. He knew that; she knew it. Her smile was crooked now, and her right eyebrow was crisscrossed with lines. A wedge of pink lower eyelid intruded upon the view of her right eye. Her cheek would never again be round and smooth.

But she was wholly here, and entirely Hazel.

“They’re kicking me out,” she said. “I haven’t been paying my rent.”

“I wish you could stay,” James told her, “but I’m glad to have you safe, away from here.”

Hazel rolled her eyes. “It’s quiet now,” she told him. “The papers say the Allies have pushed the Germans back to the Hindenburg Line.”

“The tide is turning,” he said. “This year, I think we just might be done by Christmas.”

Hazel closed her eyes. “Wouldn’t that be heaven?”

She turned and watched James. Her heart was brimming, and broken. He’d been so kind, and she, ever since waking in this hospital room, had played along with the charade that all was still right between them. It seemed the kindest thing to do. But the pretense could not continue.

When she first woke up, life felt bundled in sweetness and gratitude. Any life, even a maimed life, was a gift. Her scars, hidden behind bandages, didn’t weigh her down.

But with each passing day, the sweetness sloughed off, leaving uncertainty in its place.

At last she made up her mind. It was time; she was going home. The war wasn’t over. Any parting could turn out to be a last goodbye. And some things die even when everyone survives. There were words she needed to tell James while she still could.

“Thank you,” she said. “For saving my life. And staying close by me, all this time.”

He smiled. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

“You’ve been the dearest of friends to me,” she said. “Your kindness has meant everything.”

James’s eyes grew wide. “Hazel,” he said quickly, “what are you saying?”

Her heart sank. For days she’d been dreading this. How could she ever put it into words?

“Hazel Windicott,” he said, with a waver in his voice. “Are you telling me goodbye?”

She took a step back. How could he sound so shocked, so hurt? And how could she bear to do it? She took a deep breath and steeled herself to what must come next.