With stiff hands, Lucy turned to the next page. The paper was different, thicker, richer, an embossed monogram at the top, the handwriting fluid, the ink a rich black. The date at the top read January 30, 1893.
My darling Olive, it began. Or had almost begun. The salutation had been crossed out, replaced with a curt, Mrs. Jungmann—because I can no longer call you dear. But how can I call you anything else? You will always be dear to me, no matter how far you have run, or how you have hurt me. Why? Why, my darling? Didn’t you trust me just a little? Didn’t you know I knew, almost from the beginning— The sentence ended there, with a blot.
Knew what? Not about Lucy. He couldn’t have known about Lucy from the beginning; there wouldn’t have been a Lucy.
These past weeks have been a fever dream, my only hope that I might find you. But I never thought to find you married to another. How could you? How could you leave my bed and—Did you never love me as I love you? Oh, my Olive. . . .
This house has become a prison to me; I see you everywhere, but when I reach for you, I wake, and you are gone. There is nothing for me here without you. I have packed my paints and easel and booked a ticket west. Where I go doesn’t matter, not anymore. Perhaps I shall find the lost treasure domes of Kublai Khan. Without you, they will be dim and dull.
Farewell, my love
It wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be. Nor was it the only one of its kind. There were three other drafts of the same letter, some crumpled, one torn down the middle, none sent.
Lucy’s heart ached for her mother, but also for the man she had always believed to be her father, for Hans Jungmann, who had loved her mother so long and so devotedly, but always from a distance, never quite able to touch her heart.
And now Lucy knew why.
Why had her mother left Harry Pratt? What had he known, almost from the beginning? Why had her mother married Hans Jungmann? How could she have, knowing how she felt about Harry Pratt, particularly if—
January. Lucy’s eyes flew to the date, riveted on the numbers, curving and elegant, bold in black ink. She had scarcely noticed the date before, too intent on the content of the letter. But there it was. January.
Lucy had been born in late November. If Harry Pratt had followed through with his resolution, if he had left for parts unknown by the end of January, even if he had seen Lucy’s mother again before he left, there was no way he could be Lucy’s father.
Lucy felt an unexpected surge of joy, coupled with a weakening rush of tears as a kaleidoscope of memories danced around her, rainbow bright. Her father—truly her father—wiping away her childhood tears, gently painting iodine on a scraped knee, giving her a cookie, reading her a story. The thrill of going for a walk with him, holding carefully to his large hand, the careful courtesy with which he tipped his hat to their neighbors, the joy of being swung up on his large shoulders to pick a peach from the tree in their neighbor’s backyard.
Vati, Vati, I miss you so.
She didn’t say it aloud, but her throat vibrated with the words. Lucy felt the sunlight through the skylight warm on her head, like her father’s hand, like a blessing, and knew that he was there with her, would be always.
With the papers trembling in her hand, Lucy turned away from the fireplace. “John?” Her voice sounded strange in the high-ceilinged room, rusty and hoarse. “I’ve found something.”
“So have I.” John was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the Chinese cabinet, the bottom drawer open, a pile of yellowing papers on his lap.
“It’s—” Lucy didn’t know how to begin. Pity for her mother, love for her father, relief and confusion, all warred together. So she just blurted it out, her knuckles white against the yellowing pages. “John—I’m not Harry Pratt’s daughter.”
“I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.” John looked up, his eyes meeting Lucy’s. His face had a dazed expression, as he said, “Because I’m pretty sure that Harry Pratt was my father.”
Twenty-eight
AUGUST 1944
Kate
Danny O’Shea was an older boy in the neighborhood whom I’d grown up with and walked to school with, and I even imagined, when I was very young and didn’t know that I wanted to be a doctor, that he and I might marry one day. Danny joined the Army right after Pearl Harbor and had been killed eight months later at Guadalcanal. Before he’d left that last time, he’d given me my first kiss and made silly promises we hadn’t meant, for a future when the war would be behind us. He’d told me with the enthusiasm of a child with a new toy what he envisioned his life in the Army would be like, sharing with me how heavy all the gear was that he’d have to march and fight with. It had been inconceivable to me then, how any soldier—any person—could manage to fight battles with such a load on their backs.
But I imagined now, as I navigated through my daily routine, a little of what it must have been like, my knees nearly buckling from the weight of my own burden as I took each step. I kept remembering Danny telling me that a person got used to it. I just had to hope that he was right.