Today's Reading
Dad stood near the sink, wearing his usual faded blue-jean overalls, yet I barely recognized him. He'd lost weight, and he looked as though he'd aged ten or more years, with grayer hair and a haggardness to his features I didn't remember. As a young girl, I'd thought him the handsomest man in the world, but this gaunt, worn-down version held little resemblance to his former self. I wasn't sure what to make of it.
"Guess you've had a long day."
The stiff words were apparently all the greeting he intended to offer. I responded in kind. "Three long days."
After a beat, he nodded toward the stove. "We've already eaten, but there's a plate for you."
I shifted my gaze to see the foil-covered dish he indicated.
"Thanks."
We stared at each other in silent standoff, just as we'd done dozens of times in the past. I braced myself for the reprimand he'd undoubtedly been itching to give me for a year. I couldn't blame him. I knew I deserved it. I'd abandoned my family in their greatest sorrow. Despite being right about the war and the need to keep Mark safe, I'd done a ghastly thing by leaving home one week after my brother's funeral. Mama's desperate pleas and anguished wails that followed me out the door would haunt me the rest of my life.
Yet the stern words I anticipated never came. His shoulders drooped, as though a heavy weight bore down on him. As I watched my father seemingly struggle for something to say, Nash's statement about him surfaced. Kurt isn't the same man he was before. Had he been right?
"Your mama—" His voice cracked, and he pressed his lips tight while his chin trembled. Several ticks from the wall clock above the sink passed before he spoke again. "Your mama's sleeping. Nash told you what the doctors said?"
I nodded, my emotions too raw and confused for anything more.
After another stretch of silence, he said, "I'm sure you're tired. We'll talk in the morning." He moved toward the door to the hallway. "Your room is just as you left it."
In a blink, I was alone.
I wasn't certain what had just happened, but I was glad for it. My brain couldn't have tolerated a lecture, deserved or not. I was disappointed not to see Mama tonight, but that might be for the best too. The changes in my father's appearance were startling. I could only imagine what I would find in the morning when I saw Mama.
I glanced around the kitchen, with its pale-yellow walls and white cupboards. It was odd being in this house again. I felt more like a stranger rather than someone who once belonged. I didn't know what was expected of me. Without Mama's warm embrace and Mark's joyful presence, everything seemed wrong.
Exhaustion stole over me. Sleep was the only thing I craved. Despite having eaten very little the past four days, I had no appetite. Without lifting the foil to discover what was hidden beneath, I placed the plate in the refrigerator, noting it was well stocked, with milk, cheese, and fresh vegetables. I couldn't recall my father ever going into town to shop for groceries, but clearly his appearance wasn't the only thing that had changed.
I turned out the kitchen light and followed the same path I'd taken to my upstairs bedroom from as far back as I could remember. When I came to the closed door to Mark's room at the base of the stairs, however, my feet refused to go any further.
My heart raced as I stared at the wood, the white paint chipped in places. Flickers of memories sped across my mind. I could almost hear Mark on the other side of the door, strumming his guitar or laughing with Nash as they jawed over the football game they'd played that night.
Without thinking it through, I reached for the doorknob.
Faint light from the hallway illuminated the familiar space. A musty odor met my nose, as though the door hadn't been opened in a long time. After my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I found a handful of football trophies and a half dozen favorite books on a shelf in what looked like an ordinary bedroom. Everything that once declared the space as Mark's—his clothes, his record albums, him—was gone.
I took a tentative step inside. Then another. I had almost convinced myself I could do this when I turned to my right. There on the wall above his desk hung a new, large portrait of Mark in his marine uniform. Crisp, dark jacket. Brilliant white hat. Serious, handsome face. Exactly how he looked the day he walked out of the room four years ago.
My undoing came when my eyes fell on the folded United States Flag below it, encased in wood and glass. Two medals lay next to it.
My knees gave way then, and I crumpled to the floor, the pain in my heart as piercing as the day the hateful telegram arrived. As excruciating as the moment I understood, with unbearable clarity, I would never see my brother again.
I lay on the hard floor and wept until I had nothing left inside me.
This excerpt ends on page 14 of the paperback edition.
Monday we begin the book The Amish Quiltmaker's Unattached Neighbor by Jennifer Beckstrand.
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