50

 

There’s much joy and festivity around Dad, and he’s absolutely beaming at the attention, the laughter, the food, the wine, and the kisses from all the gals who love him.

Dad doesn’t recognize everyone, however. He gives Carmen a blank stare and pulls back from Sissy’s touch, which has to hurt her feelings. He looks at Brad with suspicion. So it’s rather miraculous when he looks at his cousin and says, “Will, how are you?” There’s cheeriness in Dad’s voice, and the fact that he recognized Will after decades of not seeing him only adds to the mystery of dementia’s manifestations.

He and Dad are now engaged in swapping memories. Will is patient with Dad’s halting speech. I’m happy Dad is having such clear memories that are prompting moments of laughter for the two of them. Everyone’s busy eating, drinking, talking, and laughing, and beautiful baby Lucas is getting much of the attention that might otherwise be on Dad. Jennie is comfortable with his being passed around, even though he’s only three weeks old. He sure is a sweet baby.

It’s a festive yet relaxed and calm atmosphere. The party I threw for Dad at Crestview seems so long ago.

“I want to give you my present, Joe.” Anna hands him a colorfully wrapped box and kisses his cheek. After thanking her, Dad pulls off the bow, but his hands are holding the package clumsily, and he can’t find the seams. At this pace, opening his gifts will take hours.

Anna and I exchange a look and a nod. “Lord, look at all the tape I put on that, Joe! What was I thinking? Let me get that tape off there first.”

It’s a beautifully framed photo of the two of them I had taken some time ago. It is a great picture, and Dad is tickled with it. “That’s our engagement picture,” he says with a crooked smile and a gleam in his eye, and we all laugh with him at his joke.

With guests taking turns helping him, Dad opens fourteen gifts, including some from Kathy and Cindy. He hasn’t even asked where they are.

He’s being bombarded, and at times he’s confused about who the people are who are handing him gifts. He’s innately gracious, so it isn’t readily evident. He seems to understand his required participation in the festivities.

Now that all the others’ lovely and thoughtful gifts have been opened, I hand him the one from David and me. It was a challenge to come up with something unique for his birthday. Though he loves handsome sweaters, he has a plenty, and another one just wouldn’t do.

So I combed every corner of eBay and the Internet to find every badge and insignia that is relevant to his Army unit, the 82nd Airborne Division, 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment, Company C. I’ve sewed them or pinned them onto a lightweight fleece vest.

The vest elicits the biggest smile I’ve seen from him today. I’ve snapped pictures all afternoon and looked at each one the very moment I took it. In some, his eyes are glazed, his Parkinson’s mask is pronounced, and he’s looking off to the side. In others, he looks removed from what’s happening around him, despite his noble efforts to stay alert and participate.

But he’s fully present for this gift, and the picture I take of his open expression of wonderment is one I’ll cherish forever. I snap another, and in this one, he’s studying the patches and insignias. His expression is oddly proud and humble at the same time. Although he was part of an elite unit and was awarded a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart, among several other medals, he’s never bragged about them.

Anna and Debra slip his arms through the vest. As everyone is admiring the effect, Adam says, “Hey, Joe, remember what you told me when I asked you why they called your unit ‘Those Devils in Baggy Pants?’”

Dad looks at Adam and grins. “I remember.”

There’s light laughter and questions of, “Those what?”

“Devils in Baggy Pants.” Adam repeats. “There’ve been lots of books written about Joe’s unit, so I asked him why they were called that.

“He said, ‘Well, Adam, as a paratrooper being dropped behind enemy lines, you have no supply line. What firepower you had on you was it, so paratroopers had the pants with big pockets and they could carry twice the firepower of normal foot soldiers. We could really make our presence known.’”

“That’s right,” Dad confirms.

“There’s something else I would like to say about you, Joe. Something you taught me,” Adam continues.

Dad looks a little wary, but then he nods his head, giving Adam the go-ahead.

“Joe, you’ve taught me to have a good attitude no matter what happens. You told me that even though you were injured in the midst of hell, it probably saved your life. Now if you could look at a serious war injury like that and put that kind of positive spin on it, I figure I can handle just about anything that comes my way, too. You’re a true American hero, Joe. That’s what I think of you.”

Dad has been looking at Adam as he spoke, but now he looks down and begins fingering the vest. “I’m not a hero,” he mumbles.

Unexpectedly, Will speaks up. “You are a hero, Joe.”

Dad looks up at Will, but there’s no recognition there now. Will seems to realize this but handles it well by forging ahead.

“Do you remember when you used to come into my office and sit on my desk and eat crackers, Joe?”

Dad shifts his eyes to the right, a sign that he’s trying to remember. He shakes his head slowly. He doesn’t remember.

“Well, you did. You got crumbs everywhere.”

“He still does,” says Marcy. We laugh, but quieten to a hush, waiting for what’s coming.

“One day you asked me if you could tell me something about the war. You seemed to be weighed down by whatever it was, so I wanted you to go ahead and tell it.” Will pauses and waits to see if Dad has anything to say, but he stays silent, just staring at Will, who continues.

“For those of you who don’t know, Joe was seriously injured in Anzio, Italy. His platoon was out on patrol and hiding in a barn when a shell hit it. His leg was busted up from hot shrapnel.”

I don’t interrupt Will to tell him everyone in the room has heard the story and knows Dad was the only survivor, and spent many months in the hospital in Italy. After all, this is something I’m grateful for (else I wouldn’t be here). I don’t allow much time to pass in between someone’s meeting Dad and my telling that story about him.

From the nods he sees around him, Will realizes everyone’s heard the story.

“You told me that day, Joe, that there was one other man still alive.”

Wait. I haven’t heard this part of the story. What is Will talking about?

“And you told me you threw him over your shoulder and walked five miles back to the front line to get help.”

Now I’m truly astonished. I’ve questioned Dad about the incident. I’ve asked him how he survived when everyone else died. He’d told me he was sitting behind several other men, and they had absorbed all the shrapnel before it got to him. But he’d had his leg cocked out to the side, so that a piece had hit his lower leg—the only part of him that was exposed.

Dad’s forehead furrows into an agonized frown and he drops his head. Maybe it’s emotional pain being dredged up at the memory. I want to stop Will, but I also want to learn what he knows.

“I don’t think you ever told me that part, Joe,” Adam says. “What happened?”

Dad doesn’t answer for a long moment. “He was dead by the time I got there.” His voice is barely audible, but we all hear. The air seems to go out of the room.

“But you carried him five miles on your back to save him,” Will says. “Five miles with a busted leg. If that’s not a hero, I don’t know what one is.”

Dad hunches his shoulders and averts his gaze. Perhaps he’s reliving the harrowing truth of it. I’d long suspected he had “survivor’s guilt” in being the only man in his platoon to survive, and I’ve often wondered how deeply that affected him throughout his post-war years.

But to learn he had tried to save another man’s life, and failed, on top of losing every other man in his platoon . . .

Even as my heart swells with pride for his heroism, it also aches for him. Talk about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Where has he put that all these years? My eyes meet David’s. He’s as affected by this news as I am.

Everyone’s quiet. Even baby Lucas had ceased his happy gurgling. Now I’m ticked at Will for throwing a wet blanket on what was a joyous occasion.

Debra puts her arms around Dad’s neck from behind him. “You are a hero, Uncle Joe,” she says. “I’m so proud of you.” She kisses him on his cheek, adding another layer of color to his face.

Everyone crowds around Dad and praises him for his valor. What an incredible group of good and caring people. Their love and admiration seem to pull Dad up from the depths of sadness, but he doesn’t come back to us with the same level of engagement as before. The empty stare in his eyes tells me he has disconnected from his surroundings. Well, hell.

“I’m sorry, Rachel,” Will leans over and says to me. “I never intended—”

I interrupt him. “I know, Will. You were just trying to point out he was a hero, and why.”

“I was, but I guess it was the wrong time to do it.”

“Yes, it was, but what’s done is done. Will, this is the first time I’ve heard about him carrying a wounded man over his shoulder. He’s never told me that part of the story, so I’m in a bit of a stupor right now.”

“From the way he told it, I think he’s always felt guilty he didn’t save the man’s life.”

That makes sense, but I also believe there’s another part of Dad that kept him from telling anyone, aside from Will, about his act of valor and the devastating outcome. He did what a soldier should do. He carried out his duty with a badly-wounded leg and earned a Purple Heart. I realize now that heroic feat is probably what also earned him a Bronze Star. When I’d asked him what he’d done to earn it, he’d been vague. He’d said something about taking out a nest of snipers, but now I believe it was because he tried to save another man’s life under the toughest of circumstances.

Pieces of conflicting, puzzling information fall into place. My irritation with Will turns to gratitude. I’ve learned something about my dad that makes me admire him even more, and I didn’t think that was possible. Will has given me a gift on this day of gift giving. I tell him so.

“But I tell you what, Will. I’m going to let you cut the cake and pass around the plates, and you’d better do it with the intent of getting this party back on track.”

He looks surprised, but then bursts out laughing. “Easy penance. Thanks.”

After hiding from the commotion, Nick has appeared next to Dad. He puts his head on Dad’s hand and awaits a response. When Dad says, “Good boy,” Nick’s tail wags. He stays where he is, looking into Dad’s face, waiting for more.

I bend down in front of Dad and tell him, “You Devils in Baggy Pants gave those Germans hell! You’re all heroes.”

“All heroes,” he repeats, looking into my eyes. His face smooths out as the fog lifts. Then he delights me by reaching out for a hug, and we hold each other for a minute. Happy and uplifting conversation is once again humming around us. Dad asks, “What kind of cake did you burn for me, Rachel?”

There are more than a few laughs in acknowledgment of my lack of baking skills.

“Dad!” I pretend to be indignant, but then I laugh along. “It’s your favorite, red velvet, and it’s only burned around the edges.”

“Black velvet cake, then,” David teases.

There’s another titter of laughter, and then Jennie starts singing, “Happy Birthday to You.” Everyone enthusiastically joins in.

Dad’s spirits are revived. He takes the slice of cake proffered by Will, sets it on his lap, and cuts into the first bite with steady determination. He carefully guides it into his mouth and says, “Mmm, that’s good. Happy Birthday to me!”

Being the generous soul that he is, Dad holds the plate out to his buddy. Nick licks it clean.