Beneath the Apple Leaves(15)

Before this day, the war had been confined to a battered and ravaged Europe—a war far across the sea, a war in which Woodrow Wilson promised America would stay neutral and out of conflict. But even waves that begin so far away eventually ebb and flow onto every shore, lap into every life. And until this day of April 6, 1917—the day America declared war on Germany—Eveline had cared little about the great battle. War was a topic that Wilhelm and other men spoke of and read about and debated their views on, no different to her from talk of strikes, women voting or prohibition.

But the war was upon her now, upon them all—stark and bold and flooding the streets of their city. The twins stirred within her depths and a deadness ached her legs, made her stomach plummet. She thought of her husband and their sons—of Andrew. She thought of the future that would be ahead of them all. She closed the curtain, let the roar of the crowds seep into a longing for a life that would never be the same again.

*

After Andrew’s stitches healed and the subsequent fever dissipated, the doctors allowed him to be transported to the Kiser home. In his new room, converted hastily from the nursery, Eveline sat at the edge of his bed. Her nephew leaned straight-backed against the propped pillows. The scar at his shoulder was jagged and bright red, but she was used to it now. She could see the tortured flesh without crumbling.

Despite the fever and loss of weight, lines of muscle definition were still visible upon the young man’s body, belying a strength that did not atrophy. Andrew’s face had thinned, making the fine cheekbones more prominent; his dark hair provided a bold contrast to the pale skin and nearly indigo eyes.

The handsome face stared stonily out the window, his profile hard and immobile against the sunlight filtering through the lace curtains. Eveline picked up one of the shirts draped over the iron bed frame and folded the material on her lap. “I’ll have your shirts mended, sealed at the shoulder,” she said quietly. “Better than the sleeve hanging loose.”

She saw his jaw clench. “You have every right to be angry.”

“I’m not angry,” he answered hollowly, his face still turned.

Eveline touched the buttons of the shirt she held in her hands. “I haven’t heard back from your mother, but I’ll wire her again. It’s hard to know what gets through with the war. We’ll pay whatever it costs to bring her home.”

“I don’t want her here.” He snapped his gaze from the window. “I don’t want her to see me like this.” His chest rose and fell rapidly, expanding across his ribs.

Eveline patted the blanket covering his legs. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m grateful you’re here, Andrew. A bit of my family came back to me in you. We lose things and we gain things, son. What you lost in body will take shape in other ways.” She shook her head. “I know these sound like simple words, but I hope they bring you some comfort.”

Eveline stood and picked up the rest of his shirts from the dresser for stitching, remembered the letter in her pocket. “Almost forgot, this came for you. Must be a friend from back home.” She held out the letter, but he didn’t take it, turned back to the window.

“Take as long as you need,” she said softly. “You grieve. Get angry if that calls to you.” She placed the envelope on the bed near his covered thigh. “And then when you’re ready, you’ll stand again. You’ll find your way again.”

*

The door closed. The silence left in his aunt’s wake drummed in his ears. His insides were sick, his mind numb. He grimaced against the endless pain in his shoulder. Waves of sharp fire mingled with the settling agony. He closed his eyes. Each time he opened them, he thought the arm would return, appear like a forgotten joke. But the nightmare continued—asleep or awake—the constant truth of what had been taken away. He didn’t want to live; he didn’t want to die. He simply wanted to close his eyes and disappear.

He picked up the envelope, the return address scrawled in the corner from C. Kenyon of Uniontown. His left hand went to hold the paper, but the arm wasn’t there, and again he had to drill into his skull that the limb was gone. He shimmied his thumb nail under the seal, then used his teeth to rip the top and pulled out the letter. A note on simple pink stationery was clipped to the top.



Dear Andrew,



I hope this letter finds you well. The classroom isn’t the same without you. The students miss you a great deal, as do I. The attached letter came to the post for you under my attention. I hope it brings you as much joy as it brought me. Be proud, dear Andrew, and congratulations.



Sincerely, Miss Kenyon





He removed the note to read the letter below. It was from the University of Pennsylvania—congratulating him on getting accepted into the veterinary program.

Andrew stared at the typed words. Congratulations. The sentiment replayed, mocked cruelly. He was never going to college. He didn’t have a cent to his name. He was never going to be a veterinarian. He was now the charity case of a family he hardly knew. He couldn’t even open a simple envelope without using his teeth.

The burn in his shoulder ignited again, made him nauseous with pain. He grimaced and clamped his eyelids shut. Blindly, he balled the paper and threw it against the wall, the simple action leaving him weak and limp.





CHAPTER 11