And...about that other stuff. Id be a fool to expect hearts and flowers all the time. Please continue to write about what you are really seeing, without worrying about what might be upsetting to me. If Im in this war, too, then I should be upset. You know Im not the type to think collecting bacon grease and scrap metal will keep anyone from dying. How about you give me the words so you dont have to hold them in? Its the least I can do.
If I sound like a broken record, so be ittake care of yourself. Irene says you should keep your feet dry. She came across some articles about trench foot, but given her filing skills they could have been from the last war. And, no, I wont set her up with Roland. Hes half her height and twice her width. Come up with someone better.
Love you,
Rita
P.S. Youll probably need a magnifying glass to read this letter, but I can get twenty-two lines on these things if I shrink my handwriting to Lilliputian proportions. I believe Ive developed a permanent squint.
April 4, 1943
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
As I write this letter I sneak glances at my sleeping baby in her Moses basket. The sun is pouring in through the window. Springs come early in many ways.
Robert came to the hospital after she was born. He was granted a leave and he came. I swear, Rita, I thought I was dreaming when I woke up and saw his face.
Labor was harder this time around. I thought it was supposed to get easier? This one was plain stubborn and turned all upside down. They had to pull her out by her feet. I dont remember it because they put me out. Thank God.
But when I woke up there he was. My shining man. Holding our baby in his arms.
And for a moment I thought we were all dead. And it was heaven. Heaven through a field of yellow tulips. How Robert managed to get those tulips with such short notice is nothing less than a miracle. This whole thing feels miraculous. Shes here, my sweet baby. And she got to meet her father. Thats more than many, many women can say these days.
As I woke, Robert leaned over me, his mouth against my ear. You fought for this one. Youre a tough gal. Id go to battle with you at my side any day, he murmured.
We named her Corrine. After my mother. I was so glad he didnt want to name her Claire, after his mother. But I think my dear old mother-in-law was angry about it. She left the hospital in a huff when we told her.
Dont worry, shell get over it, he said as he smiled down at Corrine.
Oh, Im not worried,
No, you wouldnt be. He laughed. You dont worry about things even when you should.
I smiled at him and reached up to take off his hat so I could run my fingers through his thick, golden hair. Only, Rita, he doesnt have any! His hair is cut so short. Hes a true soldier now.
Do you like it, Glory? he asked.
Well, it reminds me of when we were little, in the
summer. When your mother made you crop your hair.
I cant tell if that means you like it or not. You play unfair, Mrs. Whitehall!
Ah, it is my job to remain enigmatic so you will remain forever in love with me, I said.
I meant it as a joke, Rita. But then he looked deep into my eyes and pulled my face toward him with his free hand.
I will never love anyone else. Youre my girl. You always have been, he said.
When Robert left the hospital I promised him Id be brave. That I wouldnt cry. And I didnt...until he left. Then I cried a river.
For my mother.
For my husband.
For my little boy who now has the big-boy responsibility of being a big brother.
Things are slowly getting back to normal. Levi, my childhood friend who helped with the garden, has also turned out to be a help with Robbie. You should see how hes transforming my yard. I told him what you said on how to treat the soil. He said you were wise and a good friend to have. Hes right.
And Mrs. Moldenhauer, that woman who dragged me to the 4-H what seems like ages ago, has been a great comfort as well (even though I make fun of her). Ive employed her roommate, Marie, to nanny for me. Robert insisted. Shes much younger than Mrs. Moldenhauer. Nicer, too. She cares for me and fusses over us. Shes been cooking meals and bringing them over still piping hot from her own stove.
But I have to admit Im also warming to Mrs. Moldenhauer herself. Shes written short stories featuring Robbie as the main character to keep him entertained. And she has this powder-white hair piled up on top of her head. I think shes a liberal Democrat. And guess what? Shes also some sort of preacher! Keeps trying to get me to come to her church in Gloucester. But I steer clear of religion and politics.
I only wish Marie cooked better, but thankfully Ill be up and around and off this stupid REST soon. Robbie misses my chicken soup. Keeps asking for it, the sweetheart. Ive been making it with chicken feet lately. I really have. It tastes better, I think.
What about you? I took your last letter with me to the hospital and read it over and over.
When I close my eyes I can see your place. So open. Almost like the ocean.
With love (And peace soon?),