Kathy Altman - The Other Soldier

“That soldier.”

Parker paused, the two mugs she’d selected from the tree on the counter poised in midair. “What makes you think I’m sad?”

“Mom. Why else get up in the middle of the night to bake muffins?”

“Maybe I was hungry.”

Nat rolled her eyes. “You were hanging out in the attic. With a bunch of photo albums. If you were hungry you wouldn’t have let the muffins burn.”

Busted. Parker set a container of water in the microwave to heat and sat next to her daughter. “All right. Yes, he made me sad. I miss your father, and I know you miss him, too. Seeing someone wear the uniform Daddy used to wear…that was tough.” She paused. She’d tried to ask Nat about it earlier, but the little girl had first clamped her lips tight and then, when Parker had gently persisted, she’d scuttled up to her room. Now Parker tried again.

“Harris said you saw him, too. Did it make you sad?”

Nat hung her head. She swallowed, and the sound was loud in the midnight kitchen. Parker reached out and tucked Nat’s soft auburn hair behind her ear. “Want to talk about it?”

She mumbled something and sniffled. Parker waited, and was about to ask again when suddenly Nat raised her head, and Parker’s heart ached at the hurt in her daughter’s eyes. “At first I was so h-happy,” Nat whispered. “I thought it was Daddy. I mean, I knew it couldn’t be, but then I thought maybe it was a mistake after all, that the bomb had missed him and they couldn’t find him but then they did and he wanted to surprise us and—” Her chin trembled, and she swiped at her nose with the heel of her hand. “Then I saw it wasn’t him and I ran away because…Daddy always told me to be a little soldier and…and…and I didn’t want his friend to see me cry.” She squeaked out the last few words and broke into sobs.

“Oh, Nat. Oh, sweetie.” Parker gathered Natalie onto her lap and into a hug. She squeezed her daughter hard, fighting and losing the battle against her own tears.

Nat pressed her face into Parker’s T. “Did he leave because of me?”

Were they still talking about their visitor? “You mean—”

“Did he leave because I ran away?”

“No. No, honey. He left because of me.” The microwave beeped. Parker ignored it.

“Why?”

“He wanted to stay for a while. And I thought that would be too painful for us.”

Silence. Then, “Did he know Daddy?”

Parker shook her head, realized Nat couldn’t see her, and leaned away. She smoothed the hair out of Nat’s face and shook her head again.

“So why did he come?”

“He’d…heard that Daddy had died.”

“And he wanted to help?” Parker nodded. “That was nice.” Nat sniffled, and dipped her head. Chance abandoned the rug and pressed against her knee. “So you think he might come back?”

“Not unless I ask him to.”

Nat opened her mouth, shut it, frowned. Parker braced herself. “Why?”

“Maybe he’s lonely.”

“What?”

Nat slid back into her own chair, tearstained face suddenly animated. “Maybe he was lonely, and he heard about what happened to Daddy, and he figured we must be lonely, too. So he came to keep us company.”

Blindly Parker stood and groped for the microwave. “I already told you why he came. He isn’t lonely.”

“How do you know? Did you ask?”

“Nat, we can’t invite every lonely person in the world to stay with us. It’s not feasible.”

“But I’m not asking about every lonely person. I’m asking about him.”

“Nat.” Parker stirred the powder into the water and set a mug on the table. “Drink your hot chocolate and go to bed. You have school tomorrow.”

Her daughter frowned down into her mug. “No marshmallows?”

“Natalie.”

“Remember when we took in Chance, Mom?”

Oh, dear Lord.

Nat bent down and hugged the Lab, resting her cheek on top of his head. “You said it was wrong to turn your back on someone in need.”

“Chance is a dog.”

“Yeah, but he’s human like the rest of us.”

Parker wanted to laugh but didn’t have the energy. “What is it about this man? You never even talked to him.”

Nat straightened, and up went the chin she’d inherited from her mother. “What if it was Daddy? What if he didn’t have anyone? Would you want a family like us to turn him away?”

It was like facing a nine-year-old Harris Briggs. Parker’s fingers curled tight and she fought the urge to kick a table leg.

“He’s not your father. And he won’t be staying long. He has to go back overseas.”

“To be a soldier.”

“Yes, to be a soldier.”

“What if he dies like Daddy?” Her eyes filled again. “And he doesn’t think anybody cares?”

It was a conspiracy, that’s what it was. Nat didn’t even know the whole story but just like Harris, she was determined to make Parker out to be the bad guy. Her fingers started to ache, and she frowned down at the dishrag in her hand. She’d squeezed all the water out onto the floor.

“Mom?”

Parker squatted and scrubbed at the linoleum a lot harder than she had to. Then she jerked to her feet and carefully laid the dishrag over the rim of the sink. “I’ll give it some thought. All right? No promises. Now if you don’t want your drink you need to get to bed.”

Nat heaved a put-upon sigh and carried her mug to the sink. She eyed the ruined muffins. “You making another batch?”

Parker nodded. Might as well. No way she’d get any sleep. Not now.

“Could you add some chocolate chips this time?”

That was how Harris preferred them. “You planning to share?”

“We should do something nice for Harris. He works hard.”

Parker’s breath snagged. “Yes, he does. Have you—” she swallowed “—noticed he looks more tired than usual lately?”

Nat nodded slowly. “I didn’t want to ask him about it ’cause I figured he’d just yell.”

Parker gripped the back of the nearest chair. Had she been that blind? She straightened and motioned Nat toward the stairs. “Time for bed, kiddo. And on the way you can tell me all about it.”

* * *

HARRIS OPENED THE DOOR the following morning and Parker thrust the plate of muffins at him. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

He backed away from the doorway, rubbing his stomach where she’d shoved the plate. “A moment ago I felt fine. But that was before the bruised rib.”

“Stop it. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“You tell me.”

She pushed past him into the living room. “I thought you were scamming me. When you said you were tired. I thought you were trying to play on my sympathies so I’d let Macfarland stay. Then Nat said something and—” She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her overalls. “It’s true, isn’t it? You’re sick.”

“You make it sound like I have TB or cancer or schizophrenia. Something that’ll put me in slippers and a hospital gown, eating baby food and watching game shows for the rest of my life.”

“You don’t have cancer.” Thank God. Her knees went weak and she sank down onto the seen-better-days sofa. It went so well with the battered pine coffee table and the over-the-hill leather recliner. “How long will that be?”

“What’s that?”

“The rest of your life.”

She watched him struggle with a smart-aleck response. Finally he shrugged. “Ten years. Ten days. Same could be said for us all.” He set the plate on a side table. Denim shushed against leather as he settled into the recliner.

“What is it?”

“Viral cardiomyopathy. Affects the heart muscle.”

Parker curled her toes inside her work boots, fighting tears he didn’t need to see. First they’d lost Tim and now— “What can they do for it?”