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The pile of letters lay at my elbow awaiting a response. Edward had written regularly. Some begged I return for my own safety. Others demanded it. After a while he seemed to realize the demands were getting him nowhere, and the letters turned into chatty missives about life in D.C., the staff, and reminiscence about places we’d lived in Europe with Mother. The letters evoked a painful memory that I’d intimated to Charlie but was too embarrassed to fully explain. My behavior revealed an ultimate lack of maturity in dealing with my mother’s death, and it hurt Edward deeply. A hurt for which I had yet to apologize.
♠♠♠♠
January 1939
Washington, D.C.
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“I wish you’d rethink this decision. There is no need for you to move out.”
Someone had left the door open. The winter chill invaded the foyer where Edward and I stood rehashing the same argument. A D.C. cab idled in front, plumes of smoke puffing out from the exhaust pipe. Its boot was tied down with twine to keep my trunks and overfull bags from bursting forth.
“There is every need for me to move out, and well you know it, Edward.”
He flinched at my use of his first name. “Sarah—”
“I go by Lily now, my middle name.”
He sighed. “Lily, a girl your age shouldn’t be on her own in the city.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m moving into an apartment with two other women.”
“If you insist on moving, then at least let me hire you an apartment in a decent section of town.”
“The row house I’m moving into is in a perfectly fine location.”
He crossed his arms and his mouth flattened. “If that’s the case, why won’t you tell me where you’re going? You’re behaving like a child running away from home.”
“I’m no longer a child, Edward,” I said dryly, pulling on my gloves. “And I’ll send you my new address ... once I’m settled.”
“Sarah.” His face softened and he placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back sooner. She went downhill so quickly. I told you, we thought she’d rebound, like she did before, and she didn’t want you to see her like that.”
The tears, so close to the surface these days, welled up in my eyes. I mashed my lips together to keep them from quivering and breathed deep.
“You know, I miss her too. You’re not the only one hurting.”
His last statement invoked the anguish and deep sorrow I’d tamped down in the weeks since Mother’s death. “You kept her from me,” I cried. “I was to come home ... from England. Then you shipped me off to that ridiculous finishing school. She didn’t pull the strings to get me in ... you did. You were always jealous of our relationship. I was her daughter, for god’s sakes.” I pounded a fist to my chest and sniffed.
“You resented me. Didn’t you? I was tolerated because you loved Marie, and I was her daughter, and in order to have her, you had to take me too. But you were very skilled in getting rid of me. Weren’t you? First the British boarding school, then Switzerland. Well, now she’s gone and there is nothing holding us together anymore. I suspect you’ll be pleased.” I couldn’t stop the deeply hurtful tirade as the devastating pain that had been burning in my chest since the funeral spewed forth like molten lava at my stepfather.
Edward’s mouth dropped as I spoke and his face turned ashen. “My God. Is that what you think?” he whispered.
The tears flowed in earnest now. I shrugged, wiping my face with a handkerchief. My mother’s death was so painful I didn’t know what to think. She wanted me to go to that school and Edward pulled the strings to get me in. Right or wrong in my blinding grief, I blamed him for that.
“I wanted you home. I asked her to bring you home with us. I knew, as an adult, you would be such a comfort to your mother. I begged her to allow me to call you home, especially near the end. She refused me, over and over. She only wanted what was best for you. In the end, I gave in because she became so agitated, and I wanted to placate her. But though you aren’t my own blood, you are my only child and I love you. Deep down, I think you know that. And ... I don’t wish to lose you too.”
I glanced away from his pleading gaze. “I can’t stay here, Edward. As you pointed out, I’m an adult now. It’s time I stood on my own two feet. I’ve got to make a difference, and it’s not going to happen by becoming some politician’s wife. I can’t be the person my mother wanted me to be. I’m not sure I ever could.” I drew a hand down my face, as though doing so could erase Mother’s dreams. “Europe is falling apart at the seams. Maybe I can help. You can reach me at the Senate Foreign Relations Committee office on Capitol Hill.”
I turned to go, but he grabbed the cuff of my coat. “Don’t leave like this. Please, stay. I can’t stand the thought of rattling around this place alone.”
His honesty struck a painful note in my chest. Part of the reason I’d worked up the nerve to leave was the exact reason he stated. We’d drifted around the large townhouse like wraiths, speaking in stiff platitudes and trying not to show the other how much the unbearable weight of depression pressed down upon us.
At the funeral, I’d been approached by a distinguished Senator in his sixties who knew my mother before I was born. He spoke fondly of her, gave me a comforting handshake, and told me to let him know if there was anything he could do to help on his way out the door. I thought of him when I could no longer stand the tedium of doing nothing but bouncing between despair and anger. I never realized how busy my life had been until I came home and there was nothing to be done. I hadn’t developed local friends, so there was nowhere to go. No more lessons to be learned. And besides allowing me to arrange the weekly flowers, the household staff took care of everything else with minimal direction from me. Beyond my anger at Edward, I envied him his job. At least he had a place to go every day. Somewhere beyond this depressing mausoleum of a house. A constant reminder that I never belonged here and would never see my vivacious mother living here, even though her scent and decorative touches whispered to me at every turn.
“I’m staying on Fourth Street Southeast.” I pulled the cuff loose. “Number twelve.”
♠♠♠♠
Dear Edward Father,
I’m writing to tell you that I am hale and hearty and I hope that you are enjoying good health as well. I have been working diligently to help the war effort, and I know you are worried for my safety, but you needn’t be. I understand it is in a father’s nature to do his best to keep his children out of danger, but I am begging that you please stop using your connections to have me sent home. My job is far from the fighting, I am in minimal danger, and my contribution is more valuable here than in D.C. As I’m sure you are aware, our brave boys are doing their best to bring Hitler to his knees and end this war. I have high hopes that all will come to an end by summer.
On a different note, I am glad you aren’t here to see the destruction this war has wrought upon the lands and her people. The memories of places you write in your letters have gone to wrack and ruin. The pretty church we attended in Lyon with the cherub frescos on the ceiling... Sadly, it was burnt to the ground. It is not the Europe you once knew, and the Vichy government did its best to tear France apart under Nazi occupation. Although, you would have been proud to see the strength a village farmer or grocer or rural doctor showed putting their lives at risk to defy the Nazi regime. I have witnessed great bravery against an indomitable foe, especially in the face of certain torture and death if caught. Those were the people of France you knew when you were stationed here, not the turncoats and Nazi collaborators.
I don’t know what you’ll be allowed to read from this letter, but know that I miss you. When I’m in Paris, I think often of Mother and our last shopping trip. She loved this city so much, but when I remember her fragile strength those last days, it is perhaps best she isn’t here to be subjected to the misery Europe is witnessing.
Finally, Father, it has been long in coming, but I wish to apologize for my childish behavior the day I moved out of the Georgetown house. You remember what I speak of. I was distraught with grief and blamed you. My conduct was reprehensible, and though you were gentlemanly enough to ignore it, and we returned to speaking terms before I left, things have never been quite the same. I’m embarrassed I never had the wherewithal to say ... I am sorry. I apologize for the deep hurt I caused you.
When my time here is over, I’d like to return to the Georgetown house for a visit, if you’ll have me.
Sending my love,
Sarah
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Writing words I should have spoken years ago eased my nagging conscience. I’m sure parts of my letter to Edward would be redacted for security’s sake, but I couldn’t help writing the bit about France. It saddened me that neither it nor the rest of Europe resembled the place I enjoyed during my childhood. I wondered if the beauty and serenity could ever be restored to its people.
My Dearest Charlie,
You’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve been given a holiday. I have a full week at my disposal, here in Paris, and I don’t know what I’m to do with it. My roommate tells me to stop moping and take in the sights. She says there is no city to compare to Paris and she is correct. Whenever I look at the Eiffel Tower, I can only think of our time together and I shan’t consider doing it without you. I hope things are well with you and the 101st. Send my regards to Jake, Glassman, Peterson, Tank, and the rest of the gang.
If you get a pass, perhaps you would consider coming to visit.
Yours,
Lily
