I'd seen pictures of returning soldiers being greeted at train stations, at bus stations, in town squares and outside of homes and businesses. Everyone looked so happy in the pictures, but I imagined feeling lost in such a scene. That kind of homecoming wasn't for me. I knew it. My letter to my parents from the hospital in California was simple.
"Dear Mom and Dad, I'm coming home. If all goes well my train should arrive there around 2:30 a week from next Thursday. Please come and pick me up by yourselves. I just need things quiet for a while. I love you, and I've missed you so much. See you soon. Peter."
When I step off the train in Pittsburgh I'm smiling. My tired eyes scan the throng of people standing on platform, but I don't see Mom and Dad. The trip had been a long one had been a long one, and for some reason I can never sleep on trains.
"Now, Peter, if you ever get lost again like you did today just stay in one place. I'll come and find you. Do you understand?" My mother told me that when I was nine and got lost in a clothing store.
"Stay in one place," I breathe out. "Stay in one place."
I watch as a small but noisy group descends on a man from the next car, a sailor. They hug him and shout. Then the sailor picks up a small child among them and flings her over his back and up to his shoulders. The girl giggles. The sailor kisses a young woman, his wife perhaps. He's laughing.
My trance breaks. A tug on my arm jolts my attention to thoughts of survival, thoughts unnecessary on a train platform in Pittsurgh. I pull backwards hard, hitting the side of the train car in the process. My hands fist as the damaged skin on my back adjusts to the pressure.
Then I hear my name. "Peter, are you alright?" The voice is my father's, and I look up to see him standing in front of me with my mother right beside him.
"I'm sorry, Peter, I just wanted to hug you." My mother says as she reaches for me again. She puts one hand on my upper arm and the other on my hand.
"Mom, I…I…missed you so much."
"Oh, I missed you too. More than you'll ever know. Let me look at you," she says. She takes both of my hands in hers while turning me to face her. Her eyes look from my head to my feet and back up again. Then they meet mine, full of alarm and sadness. Worry creases her face, but the corners of her lips curl up just a little to work into an anxious smile. Only my mother can express all that emotion through her countenance in a span of three seconds.
Wish you hadn't looked so closely, don't you Mom?
Mom opens her mouth to speak. "Everything is going to be fine," she says.
How many times had we said those words to her? Sometimes they weren't true, but the words had to be said.
My father and I exchange glances while Mom lets go of my hands and steals the hug she's needed before rushing into my father's waiting arms. My arms suddenly feel empty.
"Let's get you home, Peter. You're mother made some of your favorite foods."
/
The ride home in the car feels long, and when we pull up to the sidewalk in front of the house I notice a "welcome home" sign hanging from the porch railing. Imprints of small hands that must have been dipped in red and blue paint just before they were pressed against the fabric surround the words. On the other side of the porch an American flag flaps in the breeze.
"The neighbor kids made that sign for you," dad explains. "We told them they'd have to go home when they saw the car pull up, but they'd like to see you when you are ready. Everyone in the neighborhood's excited about you coming home."
As I turn to open the car door I catch a glimpse of the back wheels of a red wagon. I watch as the wagon rolls forward and back a little, but it remains mostly concealed by the oversized bush that grows between our house and the next one.
"That's really thoughtful," I admit.
"Yeah, they are good kids. There's a new baby in the house since you left. A girl," Dad adds.
"She's not really a baby anymore, Stan. She was toddling all over the back yard yesterday," Mom points out.
"Still a baby in my book," Dad says.
As I step out of the car several sets of eyes peek through the woody branches of the bush. I lift my arm and fingers in a gentle wave to the kids. They disappear, fully hidden by the foliage and trying to stifle laughter.
My Dad chuckles. "Those older three could learn to be slightly more obedient, though."
"It's all right. I love the sign," I reply. Having been discovered the kids scramble to the sidewalk, teasing each other about whose fault it is that they were caught. One of the two boys pushes the other playfully.
"Thanks for the sign," I call to them.
The boys pretend to snap to attention and salute, laughing wildly when they break the form. Their older sister, who's grown much taller and more grown up looking in these last few years, blushes and looks down as she digs the toe of her black leather shoe into the concrete. She looks so sweet, and I hope she'll stay innocent and sweet for a long time. She's narrowly missed having to watch her classmates go off to war, and I'm thankful she's missed that, that they've all missed that. I'm so thankful that it's all over.
When we reach the porch I see that the welcome home sign has a few toddler sized foot prints scattered across it along with the handprints, and touch one with my fingers when I pass the sign. I'd like to meet the neighbor's baby. I want my Dad to be right about her still being a baby. She has to still be a baby if I've not even met her!
Mom laughs, "you should have seen how that little thing squealed when her big sister dipped her foot in that paint."
"She didn't like it?" I ask with a twinge of guilt.
"She liked the paint, but she didn't like her sister holding her foot. She probably wanted to paint the grass instead of put footprints on a bed sheet," Mom answers.
"Can't blame her for wanting to paint grass blue, I suppose," my father laughs.
The screen door creaks just like I remember it creaking and then slams behind us just like always. The smells of Mom's cooking fills the air, but it's all too much. I make for the sofa and sit down because my leg is sore, and it's becoming harder to hide the injury. The kids might have noticed the slight limp. As I crash down on the sofa, I lean back gingerly against the cushions. Pulling a throw pillow over my face, I sigh. I'm home.
/
The comfort of home lulls me to sleep almost as soon as I lay down on that sofa. Sleeping is easiest during the day anyway. As I slowly awaken, I hear my mother calling my name.
"There's somebody here to see you. Someone I know you've missed, dear," she says, her voice sounding distant.
"Cai?" I whisper under my breath.
"What's that, dear?" Mom asks.
I open my eyes, willing them to focus because I can't stand this disorientation. It terrifies me even in the presence of my own mother's voice. Delly's smiling face comes into view. Her blonde curls are pinned back, and her eyes sparkle even more deeply blue than I remember. I find it difficult to look at her, but I don't pull my eyes away.
But as my fiancée sits down on the edge of the sofa beside me and runs her hand up my arm, I start to realize how nice if feels to have her touch me again. I've missed her.
"Peter, what is it?" Mom repeats worriedly.
"Nothing," I tell her. "I was just dreaming."
"I'll leave you two alone then," Mom whispers. She squeezes Delly's hand before she exits the room.
I dig my elbow into the cushion and start to sit up.
"Don't. You don't have to get up," Delly tells me. Then she crashes her lips into mine the way I've seen women doing in those pictures of soldiers returning home. Since I'm lying down she's hovering over me. When she pulls away I gasp.
"Did that take you by surprise," she says with a sigh. Her lips are smeared with red lipstick, and I wonder if mine are smeared with it now also.
"Yeah, it kind of did," I say.
She smirks, then her pretty face falls into a frown.
"I missed you so much," she tells me. "I can't imagine what it was like, Peter. We've heard stories. Awful stories. Thank God you're home."
My bottom lip starts to quiver. I glance up as far as my eyes will go, willing myself not to cry in front of her. There might be another reason I'm on the verge of tears, though. Delly can't be what she once was to me, not now that I'm married to another woman. How will I ever explain what happened?
I can feel Delly's hand run up my arm again. She rolls her fingers along my wrist and elbow particularly. I hear her starting to cry.
"I was afraid I'd never see you again," she says rubbing the thin skin over the protruding bones of my wrist too hard. "Your parents got a telegram that said you were 'missing in action.' Then a letter came, and they let me read it."
"You don't have to tell me all this, Delly," I tell her gently.
"Am I upsetting you?" she asks, looking down at me, almost doe-eyed.
"No. No. I just don't want to make you cry."
"You never make me cry. What happened to you makes me cry."
A sharp pain rips through my chest. I'm going to break her heart, but mine's hurting also. I take her in my arms. How can I not? She keeps talking as she naïvely rests her head against my shoulder.
"The letter was so polite, but the officer who wrote the letter said he couldn't provide any details. He said such nice things about you, but I just ached when I read all those compliments. I wanted to know where you were and what had happened!" She begins to shake with what I think is actual anger, a rarity for Delly. "Then your parents got a letter from the War Department that said the same things the officer had said except without the personal comments."
I squeeze her a little tighter, wishing I could take away all this hurt that seeing me alive hasn't relieved and wishing that I could somehow spare her the future hurts that her relationship with me would soon bring.
"Every time they sent your parents something else I felt like I was coming one step closer to losing you forever. I wondered how I'd ever face hearing that you were dead if I couldn't even accept that you were missing, and then another letter came. I couldn't even read most of it, but I'm sure it was just as polite as the others. All I could see were the words 'presumed dead' in bold type in front of me."
I paused, imagining my mother, my father, and Delly reading that letter. How terrible.
"I'm so sorry, Delly. So sorry."
Delly sat up from where she'd been draped across my shoulder and gave my upper arm a little whack with the back of her hand. She always had been a little feisty.
"Don't you dare be sorry about my worries when you were a prisoner of war, Peter. I can't imagine it. Oh, God! I'm sure they hurt you."
She presses against my shoulder again before she can even get all the words out of her mouth.
"Did they hurt you?" she asks. "I know they must have. I'll take care of you. I promise."
And I believe her. She would take care of me. She would promise…had already promised. I'd promised too, and I'd broken my promise.
"I got what I deserved, I think," I tell her, and then wince at how such a statement must sound to her. In some ways I believe it, but Delly doesn't need to hear it.
She stiffens. "How could you ever deserve such a thing? A room at the Chateau Marmont for a little more than a year is what you might deserve, Peter."
"Didn't I tell you that that's where they put me up in California?" I try to joke.
Delly giggles. She knows I was in the hospital instead, but I've managed to lighten the mood.
Then the phrase "a little more than a year" starts to echo in my mind. Delly must think I was imprisoned that long.
I start to sit up. With a confused expression, Delly lets go of me and settles against the sofa cushions. I lower my gaze to the floor.
"Delly, I wasn't a POW for fifteen months."
"You weren't?" she asks, rubbing my arm with her delicate fingers. It's only a matter of time before she kisses me again.
"No, our plane crashed over a Chinese family's farm. They rescued me, and they hid me for almost ten months before I was captured."
Delly gasps.
"That's wonderful news," she says, almost giddy. "I'm sure the farm was a better place than the prison camp. Wasn't it?"
"It was. Much better. We were cold and hungry sometimes on the farm, that's all. We worked really hard to harvest the rice."
"We?" Delly asks.
"Yes, the family I stayed with and me. They took huge risks for me."
"Well, who are they? Can we thank them? I know we don't have much, but maybe we could send them money or something. Peter, I want to give them something."
Oh, God, she's killing me. She's certainly given Cai something, though not willingly.
I lower my elbows to my knees and bury my face in the palms of my hands.
"What's wrong?" Delly asks me. "I didn't mean to upset you."
Delly reaches up to rub my back between my shoulder blades, and I flinch.
She draws her hand back sharply.
She falls forward also resting her own elbows on her knees. Still resting my head in my open hands I turn to look at her. Delly's so smart and she seems to look right through me as she stares at me. "I just want to help you. Tell me what to do to help you, Peter."