Kristina McMorris - Letters From Home

Please congratulate Dalton on my behalf. From what I have heard, he is running a powerful senatorial campaign for his father. I wish them continued success. Respectfully, Your father

Respectfully. Such distance conveyed in a single word. A sad reflection of the fissure between them that had widened into a canyon.

Liz turned to the half-open window and closed her eyes. A gentle breeze swept over her sun-drenched face. Once again, she was eight years old, poking her head out the window of his shiny black Ford Victoria. Zooming past the California palm trees, she and her daddy would talk, laugh, and improvise silly songs, their excursions drastically warmer than those spent with her mother.

Isabelle.

In Liz’s memory, she embodied a caricature in a household appliance ad, her cool disposition offset by her grace and beauty. How close their family could have been had Isabelle exuded the warmth and affection of a mother like Julia’s.

Then again, ruminating on the impossible was as useless as deferring the blame.

A jolt from the bus’s brakes brought Liz back to the present. Familiar landmarks and rising passengers reminded her of her stop. She stuffed her father’s form letter into a skirt pocket and dashed down the aisle, her grocery bag slipping in her arms.

Around the bend of Kiernan Lane she pushed against the humidity. Sweat rolled down the slide of her spine as she passed the string of contemporary bungalow homes. The sharpness of newly cut grass clung to the air, blocking pollutants from the bordering city of Chicago. Service flags paraded in window after window; their proud stars of blue outnumbered the dreaded gold symbols of loss.

Willing herself to smile, she returned waves from neighbors relaxing beneath their shaded porches. Sun lovers basked in the late afternoon rays and giggly children played tag through the rainbow sprays of sprinklers.

Liz adjusted the bag, ripping the bottom corner. She cupped the protruding soup can to keep it inside while crossing the street to reach her house. Her favorite accents on the modest, brick-red structure remained the same since her childhood visits: a small garden of irises, a large picture window in the kitchen, facing the street, and a two-person swing her grandfather, “Papa,” had built for the covered porch. Best of all, a towering cherry tree shaded the east side of the house, a finishing touch as sweet as the turnovers her grandma used to bake from its abundant fruit. Papa had purchased the home more than twenty years ago for his wife, his “sole reason for living.” It was a claim he literally proved after she lost her battle with cancer.

“Your grandfather’s had a stroke,” Liz’s father had announced. “We’re moving to Illinois.” The triangular plane of his face had concealed all emotion, a defensive mask not unlike her own. It was one he’d acquired six months before, the day her mother left their lives forever.

Correction: the day Liz sent her away.

And so, with Isabelle gone, there was no discussion, no call for a vote. By the eve of Liz’s fourteenth birthday, they had packed up their boxes, along with their unspoken feelings, their devastation and sorrow too potent for words.

The paving of Liz’s regret had stretched clear across the country, permanent as concrete. And there it took up residence, beneath Papa’s roof, where she and her father coexisted for the next four years. The cordial but mechanical nature of their exchanges, maddening as a blackboard screech, gripped even his farewell words after her graduation: “I’ll send your tuition payments directly to the university and quarterly allowances to the house. We’ll touch base once I’m settled at Georgetown.” With a nod, he’d grabbed his suitcases and left her on the front porch. It was at that moment she had realized: Abandonment struck in degrees.

Standing now on that same rickety platform, Liz squeezed the grocery bag to her chest. She closed her eyes and gave her head a brisk shake, as if emotional wounds were cold droplets she could simply cast off.

When she lifted her lids, the memory prevailed.

Liz placed the food items on their designated kitchen shelves. Cans of Scotch broth soup and corned beef hash, Mello-Wheat cereal, bread, oleo, and a splurge of Cocomalt. With the sleeve of her blouse, she dabbed her temple while washing her hands with a bar of lavender soap. The thick, purple lather failed to soften her calloused mood, and the dry texture in her mouth—like flavorless cotton candy—only irritated her more.

She tossed some ice cubes into an empty glass, a ricochet of clinks.

“Liz?”

She cringed at the distant voice, not in the mood for company.

“Liz, is that you?” Betty called again from her bedroom, a room Liz would have to pass to reach her own.

Reluctantly she answered. “Yeah, it’s me.” She poured herself the last of Betty’s freshly squeezed limeade and downed half the glass. Sourness puckered her cheeks, stung the corners of her eyes. Of all the items rationed for the war effort, she missed sugar the most.

“Hurry up and get in here!” Betty’s trademark impatience.

“Hold your horses, I’m coming!” She dragged herself down the narrow hallway lined with framed photos of deceased and twice-removed relatives.

“Come on, slowpoke.” Betty reached through the doorway and tugged her inside. Liz nearly tripped over the girl’s old teddy bear doubling as a doorstop. His lone button eye hung by a thread, his cream fur matted and stained. Clearly he had seen better days.

Yep, buddy, she wanted to tell him, you’re not the only one.

Julia sat at the vanity. “Hey, hon,” she mumbled around two bobby pins between her pursed lips.

Liz returned the greeting before daring to ask, “So what’s the crisis?”

Betty tsked. “Now, why does it always have to be something bad?” She spun around so fast the white polka dots on her violet sundress streaked into lines. Grabbing an envelope from atop her pillow, she belly flopped on her bed to face the vanity. “Fact is, it couldn’t be keener. Just wait till you hear Christian’s latest.”

Thanks but no thanks. Liz had read all the letters she could handle for one day. “I’d love to hear it, gals, but I really have to get some work done.”

“Oh, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.” Betty reached across the path created by the nightstand to pat Julia’s mattress. “Sit, sit, sit.”

Liz groaned, then stopped short; she did not want to hurt Julia’s feelings. Christian’s posts were, after all, among the redhead’s prized possessions.

“Believe me,” Betty told Liz, “it’s even better than those Emily Dickens letters you like.”

A smile crouched behind Liz’s lips. “Dickinson,” she corrected, speaking the author’s name with reverence.

“Yeah. Well, this is better.”

A sacrilegious comparison, no doubt. Though who was Liz to deny any writer a fair swing at the title?

“Fine,” Liz conceded. “But only for a minute.” She strode over to the wrought-iron bed she had given up when she moved into her father’s former bedroom, and started clearing space to sit among Julia’s fabric swatches. Vogue pattern pieces and celebrity shots torn from Silver Screen magazine added to the fashion hodgepodge.

“Did you happen to pick up some bread at the market?” Julia asked.

“Yeah,” Liz said, settling in. “I noticed we were out when I tried to make toast this morning.” She should have known then what kind of day she had ahead of her. “Speaking of which, when did Hillman’s start charging eleven cents a loaf? It’s outrageous.”

While Betty sorted pages from the envelope, Liz glimpsed Julia’s pearly face in the vanity’s oval mirror. The crimson-haired girl contorted her expression at an uncooperative spit curl. Limited reflection space further challenged her efforts, with a mural of photo graphs covering half the mirror: a graduation picture of the three of them amidst her family snapshots, a sepia-toned portrait of her and Christian, and a new photo of her sailor leaning on a signal lamp of his ship, with Love you Red penned across the bottom.