A/N: I can't believe anyone is still reading. This update is late and not very good. I apologize in advance, and feel free to send all complaints via reviews, private messages, and my Tumblr, SeahorseSantana.
In a related note, I've been writing without a beta for the last three updates. If any history buffs out there are interested, feel free to drop me a line.
As always, thank you so much for reading and for your reviews. I read each and every one of them!
Chapter 6: Tunisia 1942-43
"Artie is missing in action, Santana."
Blanca waits. The bar is definitely not silent by this point in the night. It's half-past one, and they don't call New York the city that doesn't sleep for nothing. The bar is crowded with older men, maybe about her mother's age, laughing with each other and trying to buy drinks for the few women seated at the bar. The area between the bar and the tables has filled up with people dancing to some old, vocal, jazz, some of which she recognizes from her childhood.
It's surprising how loud the bar has become. Blanca didn't even notice it happening. The gently buzz of nine-o-clock has become a roar.
Despite the laughing and the yelling and the music and the sound of glasses slamming onto wet tables, Blanca's pretty sure that in their little corner of the bar, you could hear a pin drop.
"I…I think I have to stop there," Santana says, her voice is hoarse.
She has that look on her face again. It's the look that Blanca wants to ask Santana about. A look she doesn't entirely understand. It's a little like she's thinking, but it's more intense than her thinking face. It somehow reminds her of her father, but she doesn't understand how. She wants to ask SK about it, because SK seems to understand their parents better than anyone else, but she doesn't want to talk to SK about these talks she's been having with their mother.
These talks seem sacred somehow. They seem like they're another family secret, but this one she gets to be in on.
"I'm tired," Santana says. "I'm going to see Edward tomorrow."
"You leave off in the worst places, Mama." Blanca says. She wants to say so much more, but she knows better than that.
"I know. It's the only way to guarantee you'll come back next week."
"I will. I promise."
"Well, I'll be here."
"Have fun in Connecticut," Blanca says as they part ways in front of the bar.
"I always do, my dear," Santana says.
Santana catches the train to Westport the next morning. She likes going to Connecticut, even though she'd never admit that to her children or her colleagues, or really anyone she knows in her regular life. She's a city person, through and through, but there is something so peaceful about seeing the country once and awhile.
Sometimes, when she's on her own at her son's house she likes to entertain the idea that this is her life, and not her son's that she is imposing upon. She likes to sit in a chair on the front lawn and listen to the rustle of the animals and smell the fresh grass. She thinks about what she would grill on their big Black & Decker and what kind of dogs she would have. She thinks that maybe she could have been happy with a life a little bit quieter, and little bit slower than the one that she led.
The train is quiet on her way up, filled mostly with businessmen quietly shuffling through their papers and a few college students. The scenery very quickly changes from Harlem and the Bronx into winding rivers and greenery.
Edward picks her up from the train station when she arrives.
"Where's Agatha?" Santana asks before Edward can even say anything.
"She's visiting her parents," Edward replies. Santana doesn't ask anymore questions. She knows when her children don't want her to pry. Vanessa jumps up into her arms.
"Abuela! Want to see the new school I'm going to?" Vanessa squeals. Santana kisses the top of her granddaughter's light curls. They are pulled into tight pigtails and skinny ribbons tied around them.
"I would love nothing more."
"We can tell Abuela all about it," Edward says, leading his daughter and his mother to his mustard yellow Lincoln Continental Town Car with a radiator grille and an opera style window.
Edward waits, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, for Vanessa to buckle her seatbelt.
"I'd like to see Vanessa's school," Santana says.
"It looks just like every other school, Mama," Edward says, pulling out of the Westport train station.
"It's not just every other school, though," Santana says, winking at Vanessa through the rearview mirror. "It's the school my youngest grandbaby is going to, and I'd like to see it.
Edward scoffs but makes a u-turn, as well as he can in his bulky car.
The school is beautiful. It's a series of farm building, but larger, made to fit into the country landscape of Westport. The letters "Quisque Pro Omnibus" are inscribed on the front door, and Vanessa excitedly leads Santana through the grounds.
Santana hates it. She tries not to show it, but she knows that Edward can tell.
It's ivied walls remind her of all the places she was turned away. She knows that doesn't make any sense now. She teaches at Barnard. She can't help her reaction.
When they arrive back at Edward's house, Santana carries Vanessa up to her room and helps her out of her yellow jumper and Mary Janes and loosens her pigtails for a nap. Vanessa chooses to keep her socks on.
Edward is nowhere to be seen so Santana pours herself a glass of scotch and sits in Edward's backyard, her favorite part of his house. Edward joins her a few minutes later and they sit in silence.
"I know you're not happy about the school, Mama," Edward says.
"Why are you sending her to this private school? Why not the public school? Isn't it closer?"
"Why didn't you send us to public school, Mama?"
"Because the public school wasn't good, Edward. You know that. There are wonderful public schools here. I just don't want Vanessa to ever feel like she doesn't fit in."
"She'll fit in just fine! She's not you, Mama. Her name is Vanessa Evans—no one will ever realize that she's ¼ Puerto Rican. Besides, this is just the way that it is done here. She'll be better off going to public school. You wouldn't understand, you'd never been to New England before I met Agatha."
"I just don't understand how you can be so blasé about this," Santana says. "You just suggested that your child pass, Edward. She should never have to hide who she is, even if it's just a small part of her."
"Like you did?"
"What are you talking about?" Santana asks.
"That story you were telling us on Mother's Day. Didn't you say that you passed as Italian in order to join the Army Nurse Corp?"
"I did that to serve my country, not because I have ever been ashamed of who I am. My country was ashamed of me."
"You are ashamed of yourself, Mama! If you want to talk about this, then fine, we'll talk about this. Should we talk about you passing, or your relationship with your sisters after you met Dad, or that ridiculous story you started to tell us on Mother's Day, which I'm sure would explain more about just what you're ashamed about, Mama."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Your father…"
"Don't talk about Dad like you know more about him than I do!" Edward shouted, rising from his chair, his drink in his hand. "Maybe SK should be here to talk about all the things he knows about you and Dad." Edward seems to rethink his last thought, but remains standing. He finishes his drink, tilting his head back to get the last drop of liquor.
"Let's just let it go," Edward says.
"Besides, I have been to New England before, thank you very much," Santana says. Edward sits back down and sighs as he places his glass on the table. "I once spent a week in Cape Cod."
"Doesn't count, Mama. That was vacation."
"I guess you're right," Santana says. "I don't really know what it's like to live in New England."
Edward picks up his glass and goes inside. The sun is beginning to set over the trees. Santana can't help but think how nice it is here. How nice it would be if this were her place and not her son's. Edward walks back outside, his glass now full, and sits down on the black Cape Cod chair next to Santana.
"Do you want to talk about Agatha?" Santana ventures.
"Mama," Edward begins, taking another sip of his drink, "don't you know by know that we're not a family that talks about these kind of things?" Edward rises with his drink in his hand. "Why now? Why do you suddenly want to get to know us, and want us to get to know you?" He walks inside before Santana can say anything.
Santana is glad to leave.
Blanca hasn't seen her mother since their previous meeting. She's afraid that she won't want to continue the story. She's afraid that she going to take her fight with Edward out on her.
It wouldn't be the first time that her mother's fight with someone else in the family left Blanca punished.
She doesn't even really know what happened. Edward told SK who told Tia Catalina who told Tia Marisol which is how it ended up back to Blanca.
"I can't get a clear story from anyone," Marisol said.
"Well, don't ask me, I haven't talked to her since she went to see Edward."
"You're her new confidant, though."
"I don't know, Tia," Blanca said again.
"Well, whatever it is, I heard that it was big."
Blanca hopes that it wasn't.
"Edward and Agatha are splitting up," Santana says once Blanca sits down.
"What?" Blanca says, barely having the time to take off her purse. "Are you serious?"
"I don't know," Santana says. "It seems like it. She wasn't there."
"It doesn't mean they're splitting up, Mama," Blanca says. "What did Edward say?"
"He didn't say much of anything. When's the last time you talked to him?"
"Mother's Day. Edward and I don't talk unless you're forcing us into the same room."
"That's sad," Santana says.
"It is what it is," Blanca replies. "Was that what you fought about?"
"This family never changes. I can't believe that already got back to you. We didn't fight. We had a disagreement, and it's fine now."
"Okay," Blanca says. "So, Artie was MIA?" Blanca asks, hoping her mother will continue the story.
"Artie was MIA. I went to go talk to Brittany. There was so much…so much tension between us. No one had ever taught me how to handle this."
"I'm so sorry, Britt," Santana says, "is there anything I can do?" Brittany just shakes her head. She looks at Santana like she's expecting something, her eyes wide and glassy. Santana can't read the look though, and she doesn't know what she's supposed to say.
"Are you going to leave?" Santana asks. She keeps her voice from cracking. It's hard, but it's the one thing she feels that she can do in this moment. "I mean, are you going to go home, to be with your family, to be with Artie's family?"
"What good would I do there?" Brittany asks. "So we can all sit around together praying that he'll be okay? There's nothing I can do. Unless you want to steal a plane so we can fly out to the Pacific to check on him?"
"I don't think that's the best idea, Britt."
"Me neither."
"Do you want to talk to me about anything? About Artie…or anything?" Santana asks. Her voice is small and unrecognizable, even to herself.
"No," Brittany says.
"That's all she said?" Blanca asks. Santana seems more concerned with getting the waitress' attention than answering Blanca's question.
"You know that phrase, 'the calm before the storm'?" Santana asks. "I hate it, I really do. It's clichéd and dull, but phrases like that are cliché because they are true. The one thing you have to understand about Tunisia is that it's dry. It's a desert and it's dry and dusty and most of the plants are those withered, desert shrubs. It was so strange to me, so new, There were moments in which it felt like there could be nowhere more peaceful than that little desert corner of the world."
She trails off as the waitress brings her drink. Blanca suddenly feels uncomfortable looking at her mother. That strange, new vulnerability has returned to her face, as if a sudden noise would make her crumble. She looks around the bar instead, wondering how her mother found this dirty place downtown, this small, dark, brick-lined walls. It's the kind of bar you always check for lipstick stains on the glasses. Half of the time, you find them.
Her mother is the kind of woman who, despite her small stature, gives off the immediate impression that she could tear you to shreds. She is strong. It's maybe the only adjective the family could ever agree upon to describe Santana. Right now it looks like this dirty bar could eat her alive.
"Brittany shut down," she finally says, taking a sip of her drink and then a breath. "She shut down and the world came at us like a barrage."
Suddenly there were no moments of peace. They weren't working all of the time—no one could possibly work all the time. Gone, however, was the downtime with dancing and drinking and card playing. In it's place came a terrible stench. The smell of gunpowder and fire and blood filled the camp at all times. The smell of whiskey was no longer accompanied by the smell of dancing and sweat and the sound of laughter, but instead by fear and crying and gangrene.
The front, the allied front, stretched across a huge expanse, about 20 miles from the coast. It curved around the corner of the country, and the Germans invaded from over the Mediterranean sea.
The hospitals were further inland. They were close enough to be within reach with a medic's truck, but far enough that we didn't have to worry about getting caught in stray gunfire. It didn't mean that they were completely in the clear, however.
There was confusion everywhere. Confusion and shouting that added to the confusion. A nearby shell caused the white cross to fall off the tent of the 84th nurses' unit. Minutes later a shell hit the tent itself. They tried to rush everyone out, they tried to get another cross up, but the tent burned to the ground. Everyone reacted as quickly as possible, but there was only so much they could do. Suddenly they were working on their fellow nurses as well.
Brittany wasn't speaking, not to anyone. She was working and sleeping and occasionally eating, but she was no longer telling her fantastic stories, she was no longer playing cards or hitching rides with soldiers who were more than willing. She worked and she slept.
Santana didn't see Brittany at all. To be fair, there wasn't that much time to think about how little she was seeing Brittany. It was like in Algiers, but worse somehow this time. Santana had grown accustomed to sharing a bed, to having someone to speak to at the end of the night and when they first woke up in the morning. Suddenly it was gone.
There were more important things to worry about. She knew that, but she couldn't shake the gnawing sense of loneliness that seemed to surround her all day.
Then, out of nowhere, Shannon gives her the night off. There's no reason for it. There's work to be done and not enough people to do it. Men keep streaming in, from an unknown location, wounded, hungry, dehydrated and disoriented.
She doesn't know what exactly had happened on the front, but she knows that it doesn't seem good. There were more soldiers than ever being wheeled in and so much yelling that she didn't know where it was coming from. Shannon asked her to sit with a young man who had burns covering almost his whole body.
"You know I fell in love with a Puerto Rican girl once," he says. He could barely speak, this was probably the first thing she entirely understand coming out of his mouth.
"Why are you telling me that, soldier?" She asks, lightly washing his body with a damp cloth. She doesn't know why Shannon is making her do this. His body is burned in ways she didn't know could happen to human flesh. It's just melting off of his bones. She doesn't want him to look at himself, but she knows that he probably doesn't want to see either.
"You're Puerto Rican," he says. "Don't lie to me. I know I'm dying. I saw part of my arm…my arm…" he says again, the spit bubbling from his lips as he tries to speak. He chokes on his saliva and Santana wipes it from his lips. "I saw it," he says again. "It just was caught on flames. I wanted to put it out and Ricky was just dead, just lying there, the blood dripping out of his mouth, and I wanted to put the fire out but it was all over me."
"It's okay, soldier," Santana says.
"My name's Bobby. Don't lie to me, okay. I know you're Puerto Rican. I was in love with a Puerto Rican girl once. Your secret is safe with me. I don't have anyone to tell but God."
He's quiet then and Santana continues wrapping his bandages. She has somehow stopped noticing the smell.
"Thank you, Bobby," Santana finally says.
"Thank you…"
"Santana. Santana Lopez."
"Thank you, Santana Lopez.
Thirty minutes later Santana stretches the white sheet up over his head.
She walks back out into the main room, and it's just as busy as it was before. She's surprised. She doesn't know why. She should be used to this by now.
(This is something she starts telling herself during the war and never really stops telling herself for the rest of her life.)
She's surprised that Bobby just died in a quiet, peaceful way. He just closed his eyes and drifted off into death, while all of this chaos went on outside of his curtained room. She's surprised that she told her secret to anyone and her walls didn't come crashing down.
These days, she's just surprised that the world keeps on turning.
"Take the night off," Shannon says. "No arguments. There won't be anymore fighting tonight, we're just managing the soldiers we have, Santana. You look like you need the night."
She thinks that it might be New Years Eve, but it also might be New Years Day. She doesn't have the energy to check. She doesn't want the night off. There's nothing for her to do here, and there are so many people who need help.
There's a film playing at a movie theater. Santana doesn't understand whether the theater has always been there or whether it was built for the troops, but either way, there's an old Jean Arthur movie playing, and she sits by herself in the back with a pack of cigarettes.
"Hey," a voice says next to her, breaking all the movie theater etiquette rules by sitting next to her to begin with and then talking during the film.
Santana just nods her head and reaches into her purse to find a pack of cigarettes.
She knows its Brittany.
"You have the night off too?" Brittany asks.
"No," Santana whispers. "I'm assisting Dr. Phillips in a very complicated surgery right now. Can you please be quiet?" Santana smirks at her witty response, but she can feel that Brittany is not smiling.
She hates that she can feel the expression on Brittany's face.
"Can you come outside?" Brittany whispers into Santana's ear. "I know you don't actually care about what happens to Bambi," she says.
"I do."
"His mother dies and it's pretty sad after that," Brittany says. "Please come outside, Santana."
There alone in the dark, waiting for someone to speak.
"What did you want, Brittany?" Santana finally asks. Her arms are crossed over her uniform.
"Where have you been?" Brittany asks. Her voice is defensive. Hurt, even.
"Where have I been?" Santana asks, "I'm here, Britt, I told you I wouldn't leave, and here I am! Where have you been?"
"I've been dealing with stuff."
"I know, and I've given you your space to deal with your stuff! How can you come here and ask where I've been when I've been dealing with this mess, this hellhole all by myself. Don't ask where I've been, Brittany."
"I'm sorry, it's just, Artie may be dead or lost and I feel so…."
"I get it, Brittany. Go deal with Artie. He's your husband. I've been fine on my own so you don't need to expend any precious energy worrying about me."
"This isn't a competition between you and Artie, Santana!" Brittany says, a little louder than within comfort for Santana. "My relationship with him is different from my relationship with you!"
The words sting more than Santana expected them too. In a different way than Santana expected them to.
"I know that, Brittany," Santana hisses, her words barely audible. "How can you think I don't know that? He's your husband. I am just some girl you met through some pretty awful circumstances."
"That's not what I mean, Santana. I wish you would listen to me!"
"You haven't been saying anything!" They don't say anything now. Brittany stares at her, the disappointment clear in her eyes. Santana just feels full of shame, but she doesn't know why.
"I thought I was pregnant," Brittany says. "I thought I was pregnant and they made us get married. And now I feel horrible about myself, because I don't love him like a wife is supposed to love her husband, even though I do love him, just not the way my brothers' wives love them. When Jonas left for the war, Mary couldn't stop crying. She just cried for days. She cried to my mother and to her mother and to me and Martha. When Artie left, I felt free."
"That's okay, Britt," Santana begins.
"It's not okay! I felt free and even though this is a horrible place with horrible things happening, part of me never wanted this freedom to go away. Maybe that wanting, maybe that little piece of hope that I could feel this free forever made whatever terrible thing is happening to Artie happen!"
"Britt, that's crazy," Santana says.
"It's not crazy! Don't say that, Santana. I got both of us trapped in this marriage because I was too stupid to know that just because I was feeling sick and there was a stork making a nest on my garage that it didn't mean I was pregnant. By the time we all realized what had happened, we were married. And now I've gotten Artie kidnapped or killed or worse because I wanted a moment of freedom!"
"Honey, you couldn't have prevented what happened to Artie. This is a war. Artie would have gone over just like everyone else whether you wanted him to or not."
"I know. I just feel so guilty. And everyone is so worried about me and how I feel about Artie and they don't know that I'm just such a horrible wife."
"I'm sure your not a horrible wife, Britt. How is that even possible? You're beautiful and you're funny and you're the best dancer I've ever seen in my life, and I've seen a lot of amazing dancing."
"None of that makes a wife, Santana."
"I think it does."
"Artie and I love one another Santana. We do. I just don't know if we love one another the way that we're supposed to."
"I didn't know that there was a particular way that we were supposed love," Santana says.
"That sounds like something I would say," Brittany replies.
"Well, maybe you're rubbing off on me."
"Let's go to bed, Santana," Brittany says, rising and reaching her pinky out to Santana's. Santana takes it tightly and allows Brittany to lead them back to their bunk. She hesitates at her bed, not sure what to do now that they've made up. Brittany climbs in first and reaches down to Santana again, so Santana climbs in after her.
Santana doesn't want to fall asleep. She used to sleep so much better with Brittany near by. Now she is too attuned to the transience of the world around her. A pin can drop and her world may shift on its axis. She knows she has to hold onto this moment while she can, and in this moment, the stability of the rise and fall of Brittany's breathing feels about as permanent as it can get.
