It was never on purpose—on their side and even on mine. Please believe me. Unlike Lewis—or maybe like the rest of humanity—I believed my view was reality. I’m only now understanding that it isn’t and never was. It’s quite remarkable what five nights alone will do.
I am alone because you are not here. I am alone because I have sent George away. I still love him, Margo, but there is a gulf between us right now. I can’t carry his vulnerability and he can’t trust my love. I am causing him pain. If I could control my reality, George and I will still marry and still live happily ever after someday soon. But we know that’s not in my power and, as I once told you, it’s easier for him—for anyone—to be mad at me rather than worry about me. Please don’t let him in on that little secret, dear sister. All will be clear in time.
I leave tomorrow. Perhaps that’s what makes this night so poignant. The bombings are worse now. The papers said four hundred planes come each night. How much longer can this last? How much longer can we last? It feels like an apocalyptic fireworks display ramping up to the finale. But tomorrow, I leave the city behind and pray she stands until my return. I’ll be gone a few days, then I’ll try to telephone or at least write again. Don’t worry—in fact, by the time you get this I may already be safely tucked back in bed here at the London House.
Anyway, back to the broadcast and to my point. Goodness, I’m meandering more than our fishing stream tonight! I hope you were listening because I’d like to believe we were linked in that moment. I laughed aloud when Lewis cited, as proof points of a higher law, sayings such as, “You promised,” or “You can’t do that.” Those were hallmarks of our childhood. Sisters bound by love, promises, our own language, and what I thought was our unique sense of fairness.
Yet, that’s just it. It wasn’t just ours. And if not only ours—we are part of a larger story. And that’s what presses upon me tonight, Margo—my part in this larger story. Because, when in danger, my world shrinks to only us again. When the telephone lines fell, you were the first one I wanted, the first one who felt out of reach, and it was physically painful. I need to hear your voice sometimes to feel well.
I’m sorry to sound so grim. As I said, I am worn out and writing to you is the only true moment when I can drop the facade and stop pretending to be brave. Again, please don’t share any of this with Mother and Father, and never with George.
This is for you alone.
Mother and Father would try to solve these fears. They’d try to solve me. And George, dear sweet George, wouldn’t understand. He sees me as something shiny and bright and, when I am with him, he is not wrong. I feel that way. I can do anything—and that’s why I sent him away for now. While I still love him, my vulnerability would terrify him more than my defection. He’s up in the skies tonight—keep him in your prayers, dear sister.
I’m sorry to lay all this on you and you alone, Margo. I can only trust I am not too heavy a burden for you to carry.
Love,
Caro
P.S. The announcer mentioned in the introduction that C. S. Lewis’s friends call him “Jack” and that he made up his own nickname when he was young. There is something to be said for that . . . I may have to devise my own nickname someday. That would be a project, wouldn’t it? Something reflective of my past, but fitting for the circumstances? Something secret. Maybe one I only share with you. Maybe that, rather than all these dark musings, should occupy my time.
However . . . if you had done that, there would be no Margo Moo and, for Randolph, there would be no George. The world would be a darker place for me without those endearments. But I do love the name “Jack,” don’t you?
I love you, my Moo.
I gasped.
Mat’s head shot up.
“Jack. She says she loves the nickname Jack, after C. S. Lewis. My father’s nickname is Jack. He said my grandfather constantly questioned why Grandmother insisted on giving John an equally long nickname . . . This is why.”
Mat cleaned his glasses with the hem of his shirt. Somewhere in the morning, he’d pulled out a set of round wire-rimmed glasses—a must for every true scholar. “I suspect, now that you’ve met her, you’ll start to see Caro’s stamp all over your lives. Your grandmother never forgot her sister.”
“Did you catch that she broke up with George? Her defection comment?” I lifted a brow, remembering Margo’s hawk comment.
“I did.” Mat laughed.
“She meant withdrawing her affections.” I gestured to the diaries. “But Margo never mentioned it in her diaries, because she knew it wasn’t real. Caro didn’t really break up with him. Her ‘defection’ was to protect him.”
“Yes, and the word plays both ways, doesn’t it? I sense she was laying the groundwork for that final letter her parents received. Maybe cueing her sister to its double meaning? And she’s not subtle about her intentions either. Over and over Caro said it was better to be angry with her than to worry about her. Here, I just reread her last letter to Margaret. It’s a whole new letter now.”
15 October 1941
Dearest Margo,
I can’t sleep tonight. I’m not sure why, but I’m wide awake and all I see is you. Two halves of the same coin. How does one survive without the other? How is one whole if the other half is not near?
Do you remember when we were seven and I got lost in the village? You searched for me for hours. It was dark by the time you found me. I had followed the river the opposite direction from home. I still don’t know how you did it, how you knew where to search, and why you kept looking so deep into the night. You got in so much trouble and you never told Father I was the one lost. You let him believe you were the one who led us astray. You shouldered the brunt of every misstep back then and I always wondered why. I understand now.
There could only be one of us.
Be careful, dear sister. Mother and Father need you, but don’t let them make you their sun. They revolve around you now and I fear they will keep you from growing your own roots and soaring on your own wings. They were so frightened in ’34. We all were. But you have recovered. You are strong. And you do not need the pedestal upon which they’ve lifted you. I’m not giving you this warning from a place of jealousy. Please know that. I’m thinking of you, only of you. I don’t want you to be so lonely forever.
You were wild once and you taught me to be brave. When you climbed that tree higher than anyone ever had, I was so proud of you. I was even more proud when you didn’t cry after falling. No girl could touch you. No one could touch you. You were the brightest and most alive of us all.