The War Bride #4
In Froid, I no longer had a first name—I was Buck’s wife or the War Bride.
I tried to befriend the other ladies, but under Jenny Miller’s sullen eye, they backed away.
When Mrs. Gustafson spoke to me, her voice was still stilted.
The meaner they were, the kinder Buck was.
He and I didn’t discuss the past, but once I showed him a photo of the Library, with its lovely flower bed.
The next day, he planted a border of petunias along the walk to the mailbox.
At least I had correspondence from my own kind, women who’d suffered the same traumatic rebirth.
And I wrote and wrote. The truth to some, lies to others.
But mainly my letters were somewhere in between.
I even wrote to Maman and Papa. To ask if they were in good health, to say I was sorry.
Shame stopped me from mailing those letters.
My favorite time of day was 2:00 p.m., when the postman brought news from fellow war brides.
My husband gave me a strand of pearls and took me to the opera for our fifth anniversary.
My husband beats me and no one here cares.
I’m expecting my fourth child, people call me the Rouen Rabbit.
I’m still not pregnant—the doctor says it’s because of malnutrition during the war.
Pray for me. Pray for us. We live with his parents.
Still. He hasn’t found a job. Yet. Our house has walls made of cardboard covered in newspaper—my parents would like to visit, but I can’t bear to have them see how we live.
I want to return to France but don’t have any money.
No one here understands. My husband drinks too much.
He jumps when I touch him, and sometimes he cries for no reason.
The doctor gave him pills. Suzanne from the ship lives three doors down!
Sorry I haven’t written in ages, the university asked me to create a French-language curriculum; I’ll direct the entire program.
My little ones are feisty, I can hardly keep up!
I write for the local paper. My in-laws are adorable.
My in-laws will never accept me. I’m glad I came here. I never should have come.
Finally, after seven long years, I had news of my own: I’m with child!
Buck couldn’t keep his hands off my belly. Instead of going to the bar, he stayed home. We sat on the couch and waited for the baby to kick. His flask was forgotten behind a cushion, and his midnight strolls stopped.
When my water broke, he gripped my hand, more scared than I was. Who hadn’t heard stories? “Hazel had another stillborn.” “Mildred died in childbirth, God have mercy on her soul.” “The baby was breech, Stanch had to reach in with both hands and turn things around.”
“I wish I could bear the pain for you,” Buck said as he drove us to the hospital.
“Je t’aime,” I said as he helped me alight from the pickup. “More than anyone.”
“I love you, too. You saved my life more than once.”
At the front desk, the nurse jumped up and got a wheelchair.
In the maternity ward, she helped me into bed.
She didn’t say much, but stayed at my side.
I couldn’t stop passing gas, couldn’t stop my tears from falling, couldn’t blow my nose because I hadn’t brought a handkerchief.
I wished I knew what to expect. The library had had a book about this—the truth made grown women faint. Why hadn’t I read it?
The nurse left, just left without saying a word. I watched the door close slowly, cutting me off from everyone. Homesickness hit me as hard as a contraction. I cradled my belly. “Maman,” I whimpered, eyes on the door. I’d never felt so alone.
The nurse returned with an extra blanket. She’d been gone just for five minutes, but it had felt like hours. “We wouldn’t want you to catch cold,” she said and tucked the blanket around me.
“Thank you.” I felt something wet between my thighs. “I think my water broke some more.”
The nurse giggled, but when she pulled back the covers and saw the blood, she stopped laughing.
She and an orderly rushed me to the labor room. The pain was so bad that I screamed. I felt a prick of the needle. I felt the next contraction. I felt myself fall into oblivion.
After Mass, seated at a table in the hall, Mrs. Gustafson cradled her grandson in her arms. His arrival stirred up old gossip. Buck’s mother reminded the other ladies that he and Jenny had never been engaged. She refused to hear another word. After all, the Millers had moved to Missoula.
“We’re proud of Buck’s little gal,” Mr. Gustafson told anyone who’d listen.
Buck’s parents showered me with advice, the baby with affection. They called him Marc instead of his given name, Marcel, which they considered effeminate, and worse, too French. When they invited me to call them by their Christian names, I just couldn’t.
The townspeople thawed, too, finally forgiving me for stealing Jenny Miller’s sweetheart.
Their snubs had hurt, but as the years went by, I found I simply had nothing to say to them.
I had my family. Buck and I watched Marc learn to walk, we watched him try to roller-skate for the first time, we watched him walk up the aisle for his first communion, we watched every one of his football games.
Buck remained at my side, and I knew I’d made the right decision all those years ago.