Through the Darkness Read online

  Today is May 15th. A day without any importance for a good deal of people. And for the briefest of moments upon waking this morning, I was lucky to be one of them.

  But then I remembered its significance in my life, and instead of it being a typical day full of normal activity, I've spent the past several hours on the verge of despair.

  As you know, my parents are gone. But what I never told you was that a year ago this very day, we were notified that my brother had been killed in action. Perhaps you'll recall (although if not, it's understandable) my week of absence from the hospital and your questions regarding my whereabouts upon my return? Well, now you know the cause.

  My purpose in telling you this, however clumsy it has turned out to be, is simply to express the magnitude of what I feel.

  I'm alone in the world, (yes, I have Daphne and her dear friendship, but she has her own husband and children to take care of) and this past week has driven my lonely existence home with brutal clarity.

  That is until your letter arrived this morning and you, with your words and the vivid pictures they brought to mind, became the sunshine missing in my melancholy life.

  Suddenly, I find myself hoping that maybe my dreams might still be able to come true. And for that, I am grateful to you.

  With love,

  Elyria

  Sixteen

  Wednesday, May 21, 1919

  Dearest Elyria,

  I'm not sure how to begin. You have touched my heart and left me humbled. (Something that has happened more times than I can count since knowing you.) I have become like a man lost at sea, drowning and desperate to be saved; counting down the moments until my postman hands me your letter. What must poor Marcus think of me in my deplorable state?

  With your first words on the page, I'm renewed and find myself eager for the next week to arrive—if only to hear from you once more. I'd like to think that there will never be a need to feel we must censor our words to one another. We certainly haven't done so before.

  In fact, the more I think about it (which is quite a lot, if you were wondering) from the moment you came into my life, you've been the only person I've ever talked so freely with. It's a curious thing, meeting someone for the first time and yet feeling you've known them your entire life. And that's precisely how it has been with you. Do you feel the same?

  Please be honest with me, and I will be honest with you in return.

  Forgive me if my words prove over-dramatic (my mother always did tell me I should be on the stage), but I hope you will grasp the sincerity I'm attempting to convey (and no doubt failing at horribly).

  Now that the matter is settled, and I've firmly established there should be nothing except honesty between us, may I tell you something?

  The night Nurse Winters kicked me out and dumped me on the first train to Idaho, I was a bit out of hand in trying to learn of your whereabouts to give you a proper goodbye. How out of hand? you may wonder. Let me just say you would not have been pleased with me.

  I'm ashamed to admit the infamous Captain Rattlesnake was in fine form that night. But can you blame me? It wasn't until your friend Daphne tapped me on the shoulder and told me to use my inside voice (and saying it in such a way she made a grown man feel reduced to the age of three) that reason took hold.

  Did you receive the note I wrote that night? And are you very disappointed in me?

  With much love,

  Everett

  May 29, 1919

  Darling Everett,

  Oh, how you've brightened my day! I wish I'd been there for your departure if only to hear Daphne talk to you so! If your intention in sharing such a tale with me was to make me laugh, then I assure you it worked.

  Upon asking Daphne about that night, I was surprised to learn that you, my dear, have painted a tamer experience than what she remembered.

  No, I'm not disappointed in you. To be honest, (Daphne believes I've lost my mind) I find your behavior—concerning that particular instance—quite endearing.

  Although, it does make me wonder, now that you know I'm rather fond of Captain Rattlesnake, will you take that to mean I condone such behavior?

  Perhaps we ought to arrange a meeting with Nurse Winters and Major Buchanan to see? I think that should such an event take place, you would be surprised to find that I do indeed—at least where those two specimens of humanity are concerned.

  I've sat here for the past twenty minutes trying to come up with a good segue into what I want to write next. But there isn't one, so I believe I'll state it plainly.

  I was relieved when you wrote that you too feel you've known me your whole life. Before I first decided to write to you, after learning of your ad, I feared this connection may have been lost in our time apart.

  But since then, I've come to realize that whatever this is between us, it is unique and not something easily broken by mere distance.

  You made mention of a note Daphne was to pass on to me? I never received one, and upon asking Daphne about it, she assured me she hadn't been given one.

  What did it say?

  Thinking of you always,

  Elyria

  Thursday, June 5, 1919

  My Darling Elyria,

  I'm pleased beyond measure that I haven't lost your favor. But should you seriously be considering arranging a meeting between me and two of my least favorite bipeds, I must strongly discourage you.

  As for the elusive note that you never received…I guess we'll never know what I tried to tell you so long ago.

  Can you believe that it's been over a year now since last we were in one another's presence? How quickly the days have gone, although, isn't that often the case when looking back? I often wonder...if you met me on the street, would you recognize me? Or would I you?

  I suppose much about my outward appearance (other than my clothing) has remained the same. The only significant difference being my fabulous walking stick, which I've named Steady—a name it has most assuredly earned—and a dashing new pair of spectacles to replace those bequeathed to me by Major Buchanan.

  My students tell me they make me look charming and knowledgeable, and if I cross my eyes while looking at myself in a mirror, I'd have to agree.

  What of you? Are there any changes in yourself over the past year that would alter my ability to recognize you should we chance to meet?

  Perhaps that isn't the best question. I was blind at the time after all.

  I've been pondering my last day with you, especially of what you said to me when I was ready to give up.

  You said several things of which I've been thinking on, but one has stuck out more than the others lately. 'What if this is the beginning of something better than you could ever dream?' At the time, I didn't know how to reply.

  My dreams up until the war had been to teach; to be able to reach just one student in a way that would somehow make my life meaningful in return. So far, I've yet to see it fulfilled.

  And then, during the war, my dreams changed. In the beginning, I wanted only to survive and return to my life and family; after being wounded, when I lay there in agony and fever—fearing I would be crippled and blind the rest of my life—I dreamt of death and yearned for the escape it would grant.

  Surprising how quickly our wants and desires can change, isn't it, and to such a drastic degree? Over the past year, your question has settled upon my heart; I've discovered you've touched my life in more ways than I'd first thought. Because of you, my dreams for what I want out of life have evolved and changed once more.

  Perhaps one day, I'll gain the courage to share them with you.

  Most affectionately yours,

  Everett

  June 13, 1919

  My Dearest Everett,

  Your most recent letter was delayed in arriving, taking seven days to reach me instead of the usual four to five. Over those extra days, I admit to fearing our correspondence might have ended.

  Imagine my elation upon learning this was not the case. Your comments on the ev
olution of your dreams have struck me. I, too, have been able to see mine change and alter as the years have gone by.

  To an extent, they have differed, though in large part they also echo yours. I don't know if it's strange, or comforting, that a dream can belong to an individual and yet be shared and harbored by many at the same time.

  I've spent the past few hours sitting here at my desk, wondering how, or even if I've changed since last we met. I also asked Daphne (she is by far the best judge in my case) for her opinion on the matter.

  She merely pointed out the obvious, that of my hair being shortened to reach just below my chin—a proper length I assure you—and much more manageable than before.

  Seymour, my ever-faithful walking stick remains steadfastly by my side—a warm and comforting reminder of my dear brother now that he's gone.

  In answer to your question, I wouldn't recognize you should fate deem our paths to cross. Not if it was to be solely based upon your outward appearance. But my heart would know yours without a doubt.

  And I would know your voice even should I hear it amongst a crowd—especially should Captain Rattlesnake be up in arms.

  There's so much more to a person than what the eyes behold, so much that only hearts and ears are privy to; and it is those pieces, I believe, that would allow us to recognize one another.

  I must admit I dreamt of such a meeting between us the other night. We were both on a train, going I don't know where. You spoke from behind me to another dream passenger. I turned at the sound, feeling my heart would burst from my chest with gladness. We reached for one another, but I awoke with arm outreached and heart-pounding before we could touch.

  What do you say, shall we make my dream a reality and put my theory to the test?

  Most ardently yours,

  Elyria

  Friday, June 20, 1919

  My beloved Elyria,

  The very act of writing your name brings a smile to my face and joy to my very being. There is only one answer to your parting question. Yes!

  Your words have struck a chord deep within my soul, and I cannot help but agree. My heart would know yours. And yes, I believe that I too would know your voice in a crowd.

  I apologize if my eagerness is off-putting or causes you alarm, that is not my intention. My only excuse is that the thought of having you near, of being able to see your beloved face for the first time and know you are real, no longer a figment of memory or fantasy, sets my heart aflame with longing.

  Am I too honest? Too forward? How embarrassing if I'm alone in these sentiments… Should you not echo my feelings, I apologize.

  However, I sit here furiously penning this letter and cannot shake the certainty that we two are in agreement. You need only name a time and place, and I'll be there. However, may I suggest it be soon?

  Now that school is out for the summer, my days are rather dull. I've all but set up camp by my mailbox, waiting for your letters to arrive.

  Marcus looks worried.

  I shall await your reply with bated breath (meant as a figure of speech, of course. I would never literally be able to hold my breath until I heard from you.)

  Adoringly yours,

  Everett

  July 2, 1919

  My beloved Everett,

  I believe we are having issues with our mail. For the second time in a row, it took 6 days longer than usual for me to receive your last letter, a fact that had me nearly ripping the letter out of our postman's grip this afternoon when he handed it to me.

  I'm sure I've terrorized him. I even managed to shock Daphne, who stood behind me on the stoop and had alerted me to his presence. I know this because she said so right in front of him. Although I must also add she laughed near to hysterics while doing so, so I don't blame myself completely for his terror.

  What shall I do, bake him a plate of his favorite cookies to apologize for our bad behavior? Or perhaps something a bit stronger and gift him a bottle of spirits?

  Do you have any idea of the thrill your words in your last letter have stirred to life within me? Just the idea of meeting you once again, no longer a figment of memories past—I'm giddy at the thought!

  However, I fear I have some bad news concerning how soon we'll be able to put such a plan in place.

  I don't know if you'll remember my mentioning I attended school in Watertown, Massachusetts, when I was younger?

  Well, every year there's a two-week retreat in July, this year it's scheduled for July 9th thru the 23rd, and they've asked me to be on the planning committee for the event. I'm tempted to cancel and claim a family emergency requires my immediate attention, because honestly, I'd much rather be with you.

  But doing so would mean Francine Duncan, a sweet and terribly shy woman, would be left to handle it all on her own and I would never be able to forgive myself.

  When does school start again for you? Is there any chance we might arrange to meet beforehand?

  Forever yours,

  Elyria

  Seventeen

  Wednesday, July 9, 1919

  My Dearest Darling,

  While I applaud you for your kindness to Francine, and honestly, I wouldn't expect anything less from you—you are a noble and good woman, of that I have no doubt—Captain Rattlesnake was distraught to learn the distance between us must remain for a little longer. (Is it as worrisome to you as it is to me that I've referred to Captain Rattlesnake as an individual separate from myself?)

  I shall try to be patient; however, it's never been a strong suit of mine. How was your 4th of July holiday? Mine was quite eventful. Aunt Mable and Uncle Edgar arrived with their two rambunctious boys, Timothy (as tall as me and he's only 16) and Thomas (nearly just as tall as his brother and he's only 13), on the 2nd.

  Thankfully, they are managing to divert me from being too melancholy with disappointment at not being able to see you sooner. Speaking of them, the boys and I went swimming the day after their arrival and got into a little trouble with a skunk.

  We've been sleeping outside since and bathing three times a day in a concoction of Aunt Mable's, which seems to have helped.

  Aside from the overwhelming stench that turned my stomach and made eating difficult the first several days, it proved to be quite helpful in gaining an unobstructed view of the parade for the holiday. The whole town attended—either participating in the spectacle itself or gathered on the sidelines.

  All in all, we enjoyed a fun-filled day of activities, socializing (from afar in my case), and food, followed by fireworks later that night.

  Will you think less of me if I admitted after the first one shot into the sky and exploded, I suddenly found myself ducking for cover and shaking like a leaf? The only thing that made it tolerable was looking around and seeing I wasn't alone in my reaction.

  I don't think Aunt Mable was surprised when I (along with several others) excused myself and walked home, not even caring my leg burned with pain.

  Looking back, I feel whoever was in charge of the event should have rethought the use of fireworks so soon after the war.

  Just thinking about that night, or my failed attempt to sleep in the root cellar to muffle the noise, makes me break out in a cold sweat.

  In any event, I've enjoyed having my family here with me and seeing how much the boys have grown and changed since I last saw them upon leaving the hospital.

  I know this letter will arrive while you are gone, but I can't help but wonder if you'll still write to me while on your retreat? I sincerely hope so, for I don't know how I'll survive a week—let alone two—without a word from you.

  To answer your question in your last letter, school begins after Labor Day on Wednesday the 3rd. I'd very much love to meet with you before then if possible. Perhaps the moment you are returned from Watertown?

  I must go, for now, Aunt Mable wants me to take them for a drive in the countryside before they leave tomorrow.

  I miss you.

  With Love,

  Everett

  July
9, 1919

  Beloved Everett,

  It's close to four o'clock in the morning, and all I can think about is how much I shall miss receiving word from you over the next two weeks. I hope they pass by quickly, for I know my mind and heart shall be focused on you as usual.

  Is it too late to cancel, do you think? I could send a telegram saying I've suddenly come down with a case of some highly contagious but not deadly disease. Know of any good ones?

  Oh! I almost forgot! Daphne is expecting her third child. The news came as a shock to me, although Daphne said Simon looked pleased as a cat with a fresh bowl full of cream when he heard.

  Am I a horrible friend to admit that my happiness for her in adding another sweet baby to their growing family was dampened by sadness at the news?

  ‘Why?' you are probably asking.

  Quite simply put, it goes back to what you talked of several letters earlier regarding our dreams in life.

  When I was younger, before my accident, I used to dream of a time when I would have a family of my own to love and care for. You know, typical girlhood fantasies.

  But my fall from that tree I told you about changed many things; with each passing year, I've come to realize there are some things in life that I will never experience.

  I've never been courted or had any man show interest in me beyond helping me cross the street to avoid being run over. And for the most part, I believed myself to be reconciled to my lonely fate.

  So along those lines, now I dream of being satisfied with what I'm able to make of my life, painful though it may be at times.

  Oh dear, this has taken a very maudlin turn. Perhaps it means I ought to get some sleep before it's time to leave.

  I hope you had an enjoyable 4th of July (that's a terrible attempt to redirect the tone of this letter, I know. Go along with it and we'll pretend it was successful).