Long Way Home(88)

I swallowed a sob and told him how there was a sock hop at the school that night, and the other girls had been whispering and giggling all day about what they were going to wear and which boys they hoped to dance with. A bunch of these girls were also having a pajama party afterwards, and it sounded like so much fun—but of course they would never invite someone like me. “They make me feel so worthless. Like there’s something wrong with me. That I’m not like everyone else.”

We sat side by side for the next hour while Jimmy patiently explained that I had been made in God’s image. I had value and worth in His eyes. God loved me with a passionate love that made Him grieve when I was mistreated. He had stroked Buster’s head and said, “The fierce, protective love that you feel for Buster is only a fraction of the love God feels for you. You don’t care that Buster isn’t like other dogs, do you?”

“No,” I’d said, shaking my head.

“If you ever doubt God’s love for you, Peggety, just look at the cross. It will always remind you of how much He loves you. He hates to watch you suffer. He would never allow it unless He had a reason for it.”

Jimmy’s words hadn’t changed my situation but they had changed me. I needed to remind myself of them now, alone in the echoing guesthouse. I thought about the passage in Isaiah that had become one of my favorites. “Can a mother forget her nursing child? Can she feel no love for the child she has borne? But even if that were possible, I would not forget you! See, I have written your name on the palms of my hands.”

“You are God’s beloved child,” Jimmy had said. I wished there was a way that I could remind him of his own words. I wanted so badly to help him get well. I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and think about helping him. And helping Joe, too. I had packed stationery and envelopes in my suitcase, planning to write a letter to Joe’s girlfriend, Barbara Symanski. I got them out now, thinking of what I could say. I rehearsed everything in my mind, then pulled out a sheet of stationery and wrote: Dear Miss Symanski . . . I stopped. Exchanging letters took much too long. I didn’t know how much longer Joe would keep coming around before he took off for good. I needed to telephone Barbara instead.

The August evening was warm, the summer sky still light, so I gathered up all of the loose change I could find and walked through town to the corner store to cash some dollar bills. Then I closed myself inside the public telephone booth that stood outside the store and called directory assistance in Youngstown, Ohio. The operator told me that the phone number for Barbara’s address was listed under a Henry Symanski. I wrote down the number, then said a little prayer and dialed the long-distance operator. She told me the amount, and I plunked coins into the slot as fast as I could. I could have made the call person-to-person for a little more money, but I decided to take a chance on reaching Barbara. A man answered the phone.

“May I please speak to Barbara Symanski?” I asked, my voice trembling.

I heard him shouting, “Hey, Barbie! Telephone,” and my heart sped up. I had never done anything this bold or crazy before. What in the world would she think of this busybody from New York calling her on a Tuesday night? I didn’t have time to worry about it.

“Hello, this is Barb,” she said a few moments later.

“Um, hi. My name is Peggy Serrano. I-I met a friend of yours, Joe Fiore, and—”

“Joe? Do you know where Joe is? Is he all right?” I guessed by the way she nearly shouted the questions into the phone that Barbara still cared for him.

“Yes. Yes, he’s fine. He’s here in New York State.”

“Thank God!” I heard her sigh. “What’s he doing there? Where’s he staying? Do you know when he’s coming home?”

“Well, Joe came here about a month and a half ago to visit my friend Jimmy Barnett, who he knew from the Army. But when he found out that Jimmy is in the VA hospital with battle fatigue, Joe decided to stick around and help Jimmy’s family and me try to get him better again. Joe has been coming and going ever since, staying in my pop’s car repair shop and even working for Pop when he needs a little money. Joe has been a real godsend to us.” I had poured out my story quickly, aware of how much each minute was costing me. I could only hope my hurried explanation made sense to her.

“Oh, I’ve been so worried about him!” Barbara said when I paused. “Joe has battle fatigue, too. I tried to help him when he came home from the hospital, but he got mad at me and everyone else and took off on his motorcycle. You say he’s better now?”

“Well, not exactly. He still has nightmares about the war, which he tries to forget by drinking too much. He’s still a bit of a lost soul. That’s why I decided to call you. Joe carries all your letters around with him—that’s how I got your name and address—so he must still care about you.”

“I love him. I’ll do anything to help him!”

“Great! Joe has become a good friend. We’ve been contacting some of his old Army buddies, and they’ve been offering some good advice about how to leave the war behind and move forward. Joe has been listening to everything they’ve said. I know he can’t be a firefighter anymore, but I think with a little help, he could figure out what to do next. Many of his friends told us how important their wife or girlfriend was in their recovery—”

“I tried so hard. But Joe just got mad and accused me of nagging.”