Page 20 of The Lies We Leave Behind

20

I wrote my aunt the following morning before Beatrice woke for our ride into town. My words were stilted. Guilt-ridden. But in the end, determined. I included a list of items I’d need. A few clothing items for the colder weather that was coming, money, the appropriate paperwork, and a list of contacts I might be able to check in with should I find myself in trouble.

“You’re quiet today,” Beatrice said when we arrived in town a couple hours later.

“I got a letter from home,” I said, keeping my voice light. “There was some news. A family member died.” I held up two envelopes in my hand. “Mind if we swing by the post office?”

“Not at all,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Someone you were close to?”

“Not at all,” I said.

As we moved from shop to shop, I was distracted by both thoughts of my sister, and of William. He was everywhere here, trying on hats, flipping through pages of books, smelling different cheeses, and picking out bouquets of flowers for me. Every so often one of the memories would be replaced with one of Catrin, jolting me from a place of wistfulness and making me feel as though I’d swallowed a stone, stealing the breath from my lungs, the weight of the news she was alive and I hadn’t known heavy in my belly.

I caught Beatrice watching me with concern and pasted a smile on my face, making a concerted effort to bring my mind back to the man I loved, rather than the pain that threatened to swallow me whole.

I remembered watching him as we rode through town. I had adored peeking at him as we walked, or staring down at our intertwined fingers between us. He’d always caught me looking and the delight on his face was like the sun on a cloudy day.

It was overwhelming when I found him doing the same to me. Studying me as I chose this apple over that one at the market, or watching me as I woke, and smiling in a way that was at once shy and sexy, leading me to slide my body toward his, my hands pulling him close.

After I’d written to my aunt this morning, I’d pulled out another piece of paper and written to William as well. I said nothing of the letter I’d received, the loss of my father, my mother’s illness, or the sister I’d long thought deceased. Instead, I told him about work, the girls at the house, and my upcoming trip into town with Beez.

“I’m sad to go without you,” I’d written. “To ride past our tree and see the many things we laughed at together. To glance up at the windows of our rented room...”

At the post office I dropped both letters in the mailbox, and then Beatrice and I rode around the corner and parked our bicycles next to a café to grab some breakfast before we wandered.

“You sure you’re okay?” Beatrice asked as I stirred my weak coffee and stared blindly out the window.

I put on a bright smile. “Never better.”

Two weeks later I received William’s and my aunt’s next letters within days of one another. His was full of news from the front. Most of it grim.

“Lost five men today,” he wrote. “One pushing me out of the way and taking a bullet meant for me. I’m not sure how any of us will come out of this okay.”

But there were bright spots mixed in among the harder musings.

“The guys in my unit are a bunch of cards. Playing pranks to keep morale up. There’s nothing like putting your boot on, only to find it filled with rocks. I thought for a minute I’d broken a toe.”

He asked how our tree looked, if the town felt different without him, and said he expected me to visit our favorite bookstore. “Pick me out a truly atrocious book of poetry.”

I grinned as I folded the letter and tucked it back into its envelope, pressing it to my chest before setting it aside and opening the one from my aunt.

I hadn’t paid attention to the writing on the envelope until I went to slice it open. There was no return address. No stamp. Just my name written across the front in her beautiful penmanship.

“That’s odd,” I murmured and got up from the window seat I’d been perched in.

I entered the kitchen with the letters in my hand and a frown.

“Does anyone know anything about this letter?” I asked.

I held it up and looked around the room where five of my roommates were making late-night snacks.

“I think Luella received it,” Edith said. “She said a man dropped it off.”

“A man? The postman?”

She shrugged. “She just said a man. You can ask her. She went upstairs a few minutes ago.”

“Thanks,” I said and hurried from the room.

Grabbing my duffel bag from where I’d left it when I’d come in, I hurried up the stairs to Luella’s room and knocked.

“Yes?” she called and I opened the door. “Oh. Hi, Kate. Did you get your letter?”

“I did,” I said, holding it up. “Edith said a man dropped it off? What man?”

She shrugged. “He didn’t leave his name. He said he was a friend of your uncle’s and that he had a small care package from your aunt to give you. But he didn’t want to leave it with me.” She shrugged and then her eyes went wide. “Oh! And he left an address.” She stood and patted her hips, and then remembered she was in a nightgown and grabbed her uniform trousers and pulled a slip of paper free.

“Here it is,” she said, handing it to me. “This is where he’s staying. He said you can get in contact with him there. He’ll be in town for the week.”

I stared down at the paper. Lee Baker, it read, along with an address of a hotel in the next town over, and the dates confirming what Luella had just said. A memory pushed its way to the front of my mind. I knew his name somehow; I just couldn’t recall why.

“Thanks,” I said, staring at the paper as I backed out of the room and shut the door.

“Whatcha got there?” Hazel asked as I entered our room, William and my aunt’s letters in one hand, the slip of paper Luella had handed me in the other.

“A friend of my uncle’s is in town. This is the address to where he’s staying.”

“Ooh. Is he handsome? Young? Does he maybe want a tour of the nearby towns from a local?”

I peeled my gaze from the slip of paper, the name Lee Baker nagging at me, and stared at my roommate who had struck an alluring pose.

“You’re not a local,” I said.

“He doesn’t know that,” she said, putting on a terrible version of a British accent.

I laughed.

“Well, if he’s in the market, I’ll be sure to tell him about your offer.”

“Perfect. Because the boys around here are getting dull. All they talk about are the Jerries and their itchy feet.”

I snorted, set the letters down on my bed, grabbed my pajamas, and went to stand in line for the bathroom.

A half hour later I was midshampoo when it hit me. Lee Baker was the name of a man my uncle worked with. A fuzzy memory tried to make its way in. A tall man with sandy colored hair and a nice but forgettable face. It wasn’t until I was safely moved into their home in Manhattan that I learned more of my aunt and uncle’s many secrets. The work they’d continued to do from the States, the lives they’d saved, including my own, and the things I’d need to store away, either physically or in my mind, for what my aunt liked to call “Just in case moments.” One of which was, “Should we ever need to get information to you, we’ll send it by way of Lee Baker. That’s how you’ll know it’s from us and it’s to be believed.”

My heart gave a little lurch.

Lee Baker wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important. He must have the items I’d requested from my aunt.

I hurriedly rinsed my hair, dried off, put on my clothes, and ran past the others waiting for the bathroom to my bedroom and my aunt’s waiting letter.

“That was fast,” Hazel said when I returned to the room.

“There’s quite a line tonight,” I said, sitting on my bed and ripping open the envelope. “I felt bad making them wait too long.”

“You’re too nice. I take my damn time. After what we go through? We deserve a relaxing shower.”

I shook my head and unfolded the single page I’d been sent, my eyes flying over the words.

“My Sweet Niece,” the letter began.

Her words were careful. She’d received my letter, was glad to hear I was well and hoped William was safe. A tidbit of life in New York, and a casual mention of “a dear old friend of your uncle’s and mine will be in the area. We told him to look you up. I’ve entrusted him with a small package from home for you. I hope it finds you well.”

Her sign-off was warm, if not formal, and that was it. One page instead of her usual three or four. It was unlike her, but I had a feeling there was a good reason she was being so cautious.

Tucking the letter back in its envelope, my heart racing in my chest, I slid beneath the covers and prayed for morning to hurry up and arrive.

“You’re quiet today,” Theodore shouted over the noise of the engines as we flew toward France, puffy white clouds like wisps of cotton floating past the window nearest us.

I shrugged and gave him a smile. “Just tired.”

“Late night?”

I suddenly wanted to tell the truth. A truth I hadn’t even told William, the weight of which made me feel sick to my stomach. What would he think of me if he knew where I’d come from and the kind of people I’d been born to? Would he understand? Would he stick around to hear how I’d been against them and their ideals, as had my aunt, who’d been working against them right under their noses for years? Or would he find me disgusting and no better than them, merely for being their daughter?

And what would he think when I told him I’d left my little sister behind, and had assumed, in a strange twist of fate, that she had been killed just as my parents had been made to believe I’d been killed.

I couldn’t tell William. And I most certainly couldn’t tell Theodore.

I shook my head. “No. Just another early morning.”

He yawned then and I laughed and pointed to the deck of cards poking out of his chest pocket. He nodded, pulled them from their box, and started shuffling.