Love's Brilliant Wreckage

By Cheryl Sterling

The first time she stepped into the pages of a book, she delivered a baby boy.
When graduate student nurse Annie Faraday enters books to deliver babies, she blames the illusions on multiple stresses. Her fiancé fights in the bloodiest battles in the Pacific Theater; her family is falling apart; and her boss, who is also her future father-in-law, controls whether she graduates from nursing school.
Now, with the end of the war within tantalizing reach, and the return of her beloved Jimmy, she can no longer find excuses for her visions. She must dig deep into her family's unspeakable past to discover whether she's traveling into an alternate world, or following the trail of insanity blazed by her mother. Which is real?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheryl Sterling
• Release date: May 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386282402

Cheryl Sterling

Cheryl Sterling is an American author of several paranormal and contemporary romance novels and short stories. Cheryl is a co-founder and past president of Grand Rapids Region Writers Group in Grand Rapids, MI. She has conducted several workshops that focused on the writing craft and co-chaired their first “I’ve Always Wanted to Write a Book” regional conference. Her passion is learning and improving her craft, but mostly, she is a teacher. Cheryl currently lives in Phoenix with her husband.

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Chapter 1

Friday, March 16, 1945

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THE FIRST TIME I ENTERED the pages of a book and interacted with the people inside happened on a Friday. I remembered because it was the day before St. Patrick’s Day, 1945, and already I worried about my father celebrating early. Mike Faraday embraced any holiday, official or made up, as an excuse to get drunk and blame anyone else for his troubles.

I glanced around my employer’s office. He wouldn’t return from lunch for a half-hour. Normally, I worked a half-day on Fridays, but Dr. Smith had asked me to stay because too many in our small town of Elmwood suffered from influenza.

I’d pulled the files for his afternoon patients. Nothing remained for me to do but seek out a few minutes of peace, a state I’d not experienced in three-and-a-half years.

That’s all I wanted. Peace.

From my purse, I withdrew the book I’d brought from home and opened its well-worn cover to the page I’d marked with an old envelope. My fingers smoothed a bent corner and rested on the text. I pinched the bridge of my nose with my other hand to erase exhaustion and worry.

The words blurred, and I squinted to bring them into focus. A high-pitched buzzing filled my head.

The lights died.

I stared upward and gasped at the black, black sky and trillions of stars strewn across it. I could see to the end of the Milky Way.

The buzzing droned to a stop.

I stood on a dirt trail, a sharp wind drilling into me and stirring long grasses. Apart from the wind, nothing moved; no animals, no birds, no creatures of any kind.

As I turned to get my bearings, a man and woman, a few yards away, emerged from the darkness.

Can you help me? the woman sobbed. She was young, barely out of her teens. Her advanced pregnancy and the possessiveness in the young man at her side proclaimed her no longer a maid.

When do you expect? I asked. I glanced around and spotted a dilapidated shed nearby. Motioning to the man, I led them into its shelter and steered the woman onto the ground. Her companion produced a rough blanket for her to sit on.

It’s time. The girl settled, her back against one of the three walls of the open air shed. She grimaced, and stroked the bulge of her stomach.

I knelt at her side, my heart skipping, my mouth dry. I knew how to help, I’d trained as a nurse for three years, but this would be my first solo delivery.

Bring the light closer, I asked the man, noting the dim light of the lantern he carried. To the girl I said, You’re going to be okay.

The girl nodded, then a contraction took hold, doubling her over. She cried out, startling a chicken that roosted in a corner.

I glanced at my watch to time the labor pains, but the instrument was gone. Snagged on something? I remembered fastening it this morning—

I needn’t have bothered keeping track. The girl’s pains came one on top of another in increasing waves. No more than a half hour later by my guess, I delivered a squalling, healthy baby boy.

The girl’s face shone as she touched the infant nestled on her breast. The man knelt at her side. A rooster crowed, and the sun crept over the horizon . . .

I woke.

The new family, the shed, and the other world evaporated like mist.

Panic, stinging in its intensity, grabbed me. My heart beat triple time and my breath caught, choking me.

I’d not delivered the afterbirth. I’d not advised them of post-natal care, of when the woman’s milk would come in, on how to care for a newborn. So much needed to be done before I could leave. They were so young . . .

I wiped my eyes with the back of a shaking hand and blinked to reorientate myself.

I’d returned to Doc Smith’s office and sat in a patient’s chair facing his desk. The click, click of typewriter keys from the receptionist area anchored me in a new reality.

I must have fallen asleep, that’s the only excuse. I’m so tired.

But the couple and their baby were real. I’d touched them, spoke with them, delivered their baby—The dream, and that’s the only logical explanation for the phenomenon, had been unlike anything I’d experienced.

Lurching to my feet, guilty for sleeping on the job, and sending a prayer heavenward that Dr. Smith hadn’t returned from lunch and caught me, I threw the book into my pocketbook and glanced at my watch.

Twelve-twenty five. The doctor, always prompt and looking down his aquiline nose at anyone who wasn’t, would return at any moment—

My heart stopped as I realized what I’d done. Looked at my watch. The same watch missing in a dream my tired mind had mislead me into believing real.

Expecting the instrument to blink from existence again, I lifted my arm and hazarded a glance.

The watch rested on my wrist, its second hand sweeping around, mocking my foolishness and the waste of time.

It was nothing but a dream.

It had never happened.

I straightened my senior cadet nursing cap and erased all clues I’d used his office as my lunch room and napping space. Dr. Smith expected me to have his office in tip-top shape at all times.

The jingle of the overhead doorbell and muffled voices alerted me to his return. Shaking in case I’d left a clue behind, I straighten the files on his desk before he entered his office.

Stephen Smith always reminded me of the movie star John Barrymore. They shared the same deep set, dark, piercing eyes, the famous profile, and a struggle with life. While Barrymore had turned to alcohol for relief, Dr. Smith threw himself into his medical practice.

One of two doctors in the village of Elmwood, he would not rest until he’d claimed every patient. Not because he needed the money, but because he would not lose.

His caustic gaze swept the room, noting every detail. Could he see the remnants of my dream? I had never learned to lie well, especially under his scrutiny. A well-worded question and I’d spill the beans about falling asleep.

Instead, he grunted, put on his white coat and scowled at me before sitting at his desk.

Who’s first?

I uncrossed my fingers behind my back, stole a breath and opened the top folder. Eloise Hobbs. Gallbladder. You last saw her last two weeks ago.

He’d probably passed her in the waiting room, but men of his stature didn’t make small talk with cleaning women, not even their own. He hobnobbed with lawyers, judges, business owners, and old money.

I know when I saw her. Do you also have her prognosis? He looked over the top of the folder, his gaze scorching.

I bit my tongue and hung my head. He’d been in a better spirits this morning. What had happened at home that had soured his mood?

So I’m to be the brunt of his anger. Not for the first time. No, sir, I do not. I struggled to keep my expression bland.

Of course not. I doubt your school taught you the existence of a gall bladder, let alone its treatment.

He’d hired me under duress, and wasted no opportunity to degrade Dunlap-Dodge School of Nursing, far inferior to his Bowdoin Medical School and twenty years experience.

Yes, sir. Agreeing with him wouldn’t change his attitude. Only Winnie, his wife, could coax him from the doldrums.

I switched between innocence and compliance, playing a dangerous game of ball with my boss. I had two months left until graduation and needed this assignment. As long as I minded my P’s and Q’s—and didn’t let him catch me sleeping—I’d pass. After graduation depended on the war.

Dr. Smith regarded me, looking for a chink in my armor. He tossed the patient file at me. Get her ready, Miss Faraday.

I caught it, my clipped nails leaving half-moons in the paper. Of course, sir.

And so it went throughout the afternoon. From Eloise Hobb’s gallbladder to Burt Russell’s bunions. Villagers paraded through the office, paying with cash, eggs, and ration stamps. By four-fifty two, I ushered the last patient out and stood waiting, knowing the doctor would not dismiss me before the stroke of five.

He penned his last notes and placed the folder in his out basket, expecting me to file it with the rest of the afternoon’s before I left.

At four-fifty seven, he rose and shrugged out of his white coat. The three minute walk to his house guaranteed he sat down for dinner at exactly five.

Do you have plans for this weekend, Miss Faraday?

I almost dropped the files as I grabbed them from his desk. He rarely asked me anything personal. What did he want to know? What was his intention?

No sir, I do not. I studied his face for an ulterior motive.

No Saint Patrick’s Day shenanigans with your friends?

I bristled at the word shenanigans, but kept my expression neutral. I didn’t party every weekend and resented the implication.

His interest seemed genuine, which raised my guard.

Not with a war on, sir. There’d been dances in the beginning, but the lack of men had shut down most mixed couples entertainment. Nowadays, if I did go out, I went with my girlfriends to the movies.

Then you are free for Sunday dinner. Mrs. Smith requested me to pass on an invitation.

I dropped into a chair, and a dozen scenarios flitted through my mind. His courtesy flabbergasted me, especially in light of his earlier, surly mood.

I have her invitation with me. Dr. Smith patted his coat pocket and pulled out a lilac colored envelope. Before he could hand it to me, he added a folded paper.

I forgot to tell you. Jimmy enclosed a letter for you in this morning’s mail.

Jimmy? My heart leaped at my fiancé’s name. I took the papers from the doctor, my hand unsteady.

Thank you, sir. I would not open them, not with him near.

One o’clock Sunday, he said then left the room.

Shocked by the encounter, I stared after him.

In a million years, I’d never understand my future father-in-law.

March 1, 1945 V-Mail

#119

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Dearest Bunny,

I received your letters of Feb. 12th and 13th, and sadness moved my heart. Another Valentine’s Day without you. How many have we missed? Three now, and I can only pray next year we will be together. I long for the day I see you, kiss you, and hold you in my arms again. Darling, I want to be home with you, but this war pulls us apart. I just know the end is in sight, but it cannot come soon enough.

I cannot sleep for fear of waking to a world without you.

It’s dark and I’m lonely, and I don’t know why.

It’s over a year since I told you goodbye.

And why should I lie here and add up white sheep

Still thinking about you and trying to sleep,

Reasons why surpass my knowledge.

Unless it can be

That restlessly somewhere,

you’re dreaming of me.

Take care until I am back with you.

All my love,

Jimmy

My hand shook as I folded the letter and tucked it and his mother’s invitation into my uniform pocket.

Jimmy fought in the thick of our battle to conquer a stupid island in the Pacific called Iwo Jima.

The Navy had strict rules about what he could and couldn’t write, but I understood his code. His heart moved not with sadness, but physically, deployed to the island from his last assignment. I just stood for Iwo Jima.

Had he escaped injury or death in the three weeks since he’d written? All reports echoed the same news of the tenacious fighting of the Japanese and high casualties on both sides.

Damn the war. I bottled up my grief as I set the office to rights. I chatted with Mavis, the receptionist, without bursting into tears, then preceded her out the door. I’d not unmask my feelings to anyone.

The bike ride to my family’s farm, Walnut Hill, a half-mile south of town, usually took ten minutes. I made it in eight, pedaling furiously, anger at the war, President Roosevelt, the Japanese, and the Navy propelling me forward.

I hadn’t seen Jimmy since the summer of ’43, when he’d had a week’s leave. He missed me as much as I missed him, voicing his loneliness in one of his poems. Why couldn’t he chat about the Pacific weather, or the food, or the latest movie played aboard ship? Why break my heart further with a poem I’d commit to memory and recite in the still black of night?

I wiped away tears and turned the bike left at the cemetery gates. Across from the cemetery, came in handy when giving directions, but the number of young men interred there saddened my days. Would Jimmy be next?

I parked the bike in the lean-to shed on the south side of the farmhouse, noting my father’s beat up Ford and the bikes of two of our three boarders.

The kitchen smelled of roast beef and onions. Not for the first time, I thanked God for Ida Freeman, one of our boarders. She worked second shift at the armory, and we shaved off part of her rent in exchange for her help five days a week with the cooking.

I ran up to my room at the head of the stairs and changed out of my uniform and into an old sweater and skirt.

Five minutes later, the roast rested on a platter, surrounded by carrots, onions, and potatoes I’d brought up from the root cellar. Bits and pieces of the beef bubbled in the bottom of the roasting pan as I made gravy.

The scuffle of boots and the creak of the kitchen door heralded the return of my brother and father from their chores.

I looked up from stirring the gravy. Boots—

Off at the door. Yeah, yeah. Sixteen-year-old Donny shrugged out of his red-and-black checked coat and tossed it on the wooden coat rack. He gestured to his stocking feet and grinned, displaying the Faraday charm. And wash up in the lavatory. I’ve got that right, eh, Annie?

He tousled my hair as he passed me into the washroom our grandfather had tacked onto the side of the house when he’d installed running water. I would have returned the gesture, but he’d cut his hair, the same light brown as mine, as close to the scalp as was legal.

I’m glad you remembered. I shut off the gas flame and tipped the gravy into a dish.

A moment later, my father, Mike, entered—in his socks—and crossed to the kitchen sink. Smells good, he said with a nod toward the roast.

We’ve not much beef left. We’d butchered at the end of October, but six adults had devoured the freezer’s contents.

There’s always chicken. Mike wiped his hands on a homespun towel, poured a cup of coffee I’d had time to make, and sat at the head of the table.

I bit my lip. My father prided himself on always having his own meat and not using food coupons. When we could find meat, that is. Lately, Hart’s Market hadn’t received any new shipments.

All for the war. I didn’t mind eating cottage cheese or macaroni and cheese for protein if it meant Jimmy received hot meals.

How was your day? I asked out of habit, knowing the answer to be a grunt or a long litany of problems, all caused by someone else at the lumberyard, where he worked.

I rang the dinner bell hanging near the stairwell, the surest way to bring everyone to the table.

Mike poured something into his coffee from a flask, not masking his actions. He’d not hid his addiction for two years, since my mother died.

Nothing to complain of. It’s Friday, and I don’t have to see any of their faces for three days. He grinned, in a royal good mood, and smiled at Donny as he took his place.

I slid the food dishes on the table as the two other boarders, Jerry and Roger, tromped down the stairs from their rooms over the kitchen. They too, looked festive. Did the three men have plans for later? Or did they start celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day early? Maybe I should be happy it was Friday as well.

Who has good news? Jerry, kept out of the war because he was a skilled tool-and-die maker, asked as he reached for bread and homemade butter. He was the most cheerful of the boarders and was due to leave us in June, when he married Jill Bennett, our neighbor across the road.

School’s out in eighty-three days. Donny grinned. Too bad they won’t let us out to plant like they did last October, when we helped bring in the harvest.

It’s too early to plant, Roger said, spearing a piece of roast.

I looked up from my plate. I’m putting in early potatoes and peas tomorrow. Mike had harrowed the kitchen garden, a fenced quarter acre next to the chicken coop.

Jerry whistled. It’s early, isn’t it?

I shrugged. Saint Patrick’s Day is traditional. I spooned gravy over my potatoes and added a dollop of butter. I’d have to churn tomorrow as well as plant and do the laundry. No wonder the men celebrated not working for two days. They didn’t have my endless chores.

Put in half tomorrow and the rest Easter Saturday, Mike said.

I opened my mouth to argue what difference two weeks would make, but clamped it shut. Mike in a good mood was a rarity. I’d not spoil it.

I had a letter from Jimmy today. The paper burned a hole in my pocket. I couldn’t wait to read it again, but several hours of housework stopped me.

Mike beamed. He considered Jimmy a second son, one with more ambition than Donny. In his eyes and Stephen Smith’s, Jimmy’s stint in the navy was a temporary hiccup to medical school. Having a doctor son-in-law elevated Mike’s social standing. I’d never told him Jimmy had other ideas once the war ended.

What does he say? He helped himself to a second piece of beef, though he’d not yet eaten the first.

He’s being moved. Iwo Jima. My heart contracted at the new danger Jimmy faced.

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