The Orchard House Page 5

  At first, I thought I was just too involved with Will. Too involved with my own life. But when I heard Victoria and Lorraine laughing together downstairs one morning, I felt suddenly empty. I convinced myself it didn’t matter so much. I was growing up. I was falling in love. Separation was bound to come sooner or later.

  I pushed aside the hurt. And I clung instead to Will.

  On our fifth date Will took me into Boston for a gondola ride on the Charles River followed by Shakespeare on the Common. When the crowd thinned, we walked beneath the stringed lights of the Public Garden, the distant scent of food vendors competing with that of lavender and hydrangeas.

  We stopped over Lagoon Bridge to glimpse the graceful leaves of weeping willows shimmering in the moonlight, the Swan Boats parked until dawn called them forth again.

  “You ever think how we would have never met if it weren’t for your date that night? That maybe we never would have met if it wasn’t for that restroom sign?” he asked.

  I smiled, studied his handsome profile all in pockets of light and dark, the stars hanging in a canopy above him.

  He was beautiful. Perfect. And I was more than a little starstruck that this beautiful, perfect thing had happened to me.

  “Yeah, I do,” I said. “All the time. I even thought about calling Anthony and thanking him for being such a jerk that night.”

  Will laughed, and the low rumble warmed my insides. He had his hands loosely folded over the railing of the bridge, the blanket we’d used for the Shakespeare show on the Common tucked beneath his arm. He stared at the slight ripples in the water below us. “I want to tell you something, Taylor, but I don’t want to scare you off and I don’t want you to feel like you have to say it back.”

  My brain suddenly felt low on oxygen, as if I were swimming in a bowl of pea soup. A heavenly bowl of pea soup.

  He licked his lips. “I guess I just want to make sure you know how I feel about you before we both go back to school . . .” Usually he was the epitome of confidence; I’d never seen him so nervous, so unsure of himself. This was a different side of the man I was coming to care for. “Guess I’m no Shakespeare, huh?”

  I laughed, but it came out tight, full of anticipation. You’re perfect, I wanted to say.

  “I love you, Taylor.”

  His words hung in the star-studded night and I sank into them, let them linger sweetly within my spirit. I placed a hand on the bare muscles of his forearm until he looked at me, for he’d spoken into the water until that moment.

  One corner of his mouth was tucked up into a question mark, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. Then, slowly, he tilted his head to mine.

  We’d kissed before, but it was nothing like this. The entire world fell away and nothing mattered except the two of us. The heavens seemed to open up, to transport us to a place that could only be found in the presence of someone you love.

  The kiss deepened, and I felt the intensity of it, of him. His hands tightened on my arms—almost too tight—but I ignored the slight twinge of pain. This was someone who wanted me fully. I felt vulnerable in his arms, but at the same time I felt safe. At home. And I never, ever wanted to leave.

  We parted, and I was surprised to find tears at the corners of my eyes. He saw them and brushed them away. “So I know I said you didn’t have to say anything, and you don’t, but . . . you like me too, huh?”

  I laughed and nodded. I’d never told anyone—anyone—that I’d loved them before. Even when my mom told me she loved me, right before she left me on Uncle Rob’s doorstep, I had been too busy crying to say the words back. Uncle Rob never was one to talk of emotions, and although Lorraine had told me multiple times, the most I’d been able to push out was a “You too.” Never the full three words.

  Now, though the thought of saying them caused more than a little anxiety, I felt that I must. I was baring myself, but I also felt sure of the worth of it. Like I stood at the edge of a grand cliff, and all I needed was to make the leap for all to be right with the world forever.

  I jumped.

  “I love you too, Will.”

  He exhaled a large breath, and again I marveled that someone could care for me to this extent, that how I felt about them could mean so much to them.

  That was the beginning of the most magical two years of my life.

  Will filled something within me I didn’t know was empty. Or maybe I did know. Beneath the blossoming possibilities of our relationship I felt, for the first time, as if I completely belonged. As if I was out of the shadow of who I had been all my life. An orphan. A foster kid. Victoria’s sister. Paul and Lorraine’s daughter—the one who would never be their real daughter.

  I latched on to the identity of being Will’s girl, Will’s love. And I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to be with him every spare minute. Victoria and my parents seemed happy for me. And while Victoria showed some disappointment that we didn’t share as much as we used to, I felt her pulling away too. Accepting all too easily what seemed to be our fate—to grow apart and go our own ways. She busied herself with writing and school and time with Mom and the planning of her future.

  The horror and tragedy of 9/11 had her organizing a fundraiser to benefit the victims’ families. I was too busy convincing Will not to join up to help. When she finished her novel, I offered to read it, but she never handed it over to me.

  Other than that, all seemed well enough.

  Until it wasn’t.

  Until the day all my castles in the air fell without warning. Until the day hope dried up and withered.

  Until I came home from my last class of senior year, anticipating a night of celebration with Will, and found the man I loved leaning over my petite sister in front of the doors of the Bennett garage, his hands gently at her slim hips, his mouth on hers.

  I sat in my Toyota Corolla, blinking over and over again, certain I was seeing things.

  But the vision didn’t disappear.

  Instead, I watched as the kiss deepened. I remembered that beautiful kiss I’d shared with Will on Lagoon Bridge nearly two years earlier, and a thousand others since then.

  We’d been planning our future, planning our lives together. He hadn’t proposed yet, but he’d hinted at marriage more than once.

  And all of a sudden he was kissing my best friend. Kissing my sister.

  I thought about pushing the gas pedal hard enough to propel the Toyota forward, to completely do away with the cause of my pain. Instead, I laid on the horn, blaring so loud it made them jump apart.

  I didn’t stop. Again and again I honked. Again and again until their mirrored looks of surprise and confusion turned to guilt. Again and again until tears streamed down my cheeks.

  I managed to put the car in park and stumble out of it. Will’s hands were on me. “Taylor, honey, I’m so sorry. We didn’t mean—”

  I slapped them off me, pushed at him. “Get away from me.”

  Through my tears, I saw Victoria, and she looked almost as hurt as I felt. I couldn’t make sense of it, but right then I didn’t care. I just wanted to get away.

  For good.

  Against Mom’s many protests, I packed everything I could fit in my suitcase and loaded it into my Corolla. I was done with it all. People said you could count on them. They said they would love you forever. But you could never really know they would. Never really trust they would.

  You could only hope.

  And hope, as I’d known for a long time, wasn’t all that dependable.

  I couldn’t stay. There would always be hurt here. There would always be betrayal.

  Will chased me around the house as I packed, saying words I didn’t hear. They became distorted in my mind. Felt like threats. I tuned them out, and finally he just stopped talking. And then he was gone.

  Victoria didn’t approach me and an insatiable urge to punish her possessed me. With my Toyota packed, I went to her room and into her closet, grabbed her softball bat from the corner and approached her laptop, sitting on her
desk.

  The initial hit was satisfying, but each hit after became less and less so. Still, I wanted to believe she had stories she hadn’t backed up. I hoped she would cry long and hard over all her work.

  When I was done, I threw the bat beside the laptop.

  I didn’t have to behave anymore. I didn’t have to earn the love of the Bennetts. I was leaving. Immediately.

  I drove around aimlessly waiting for the bank to open the next morning so I could close my account for good.

  Maybe I never belonged here in the first place. Maybe this was how it was always meant to be. Me, on my own. An orphan.

  After I took out all the money I had—six thousand dollars—I drove west until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. Then I checked into a motel, where I discovered all the things I’d forgotten at the Bennetts’ house: the stuffed puppy I’d had since I was three; the medal I won for a race I’d won sophomore year of high school; maybe most devastating of all, my beloved copy of Little Women. But starting over meant leaving it all behind, right? I slept a few hours before driving again.

  My cell phone rang continuously, and without giving it much thought, I threw it out the window in a field a couple hours outside Des Moines.

  I didn’t stop driving until I reached the Pacific Ocean. At that point, I wondered if everything had been a misunderstanding—if quite possibly things could have been made right if I had stayed.

  But I was the one who had been wronged. If Will still loved me, he’d have to find a way to make it up to me. He’d have to search me out, stop at nothing, just like in the movies. The same went for Victoria and for Mom and Dad.

  Only life wasn’t a movie. And happy endings weren’t a guarantee.

  More than once I picked up the phone to call Mom, but then I’d remember the last couple of years, how she’d pulled away from me, had likely been trying to make things fair between her two daughters, but had ended up choosing Victoria over me.

  But life wasn’t fair, and if I hadn’t learned that when my birth mom left me at four, I sure had learned it now.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  There is no easy road to successful authorship; it has to be earned by long and patient labor, many disappointments, uncertainties, and trials.

  ~ LMA

  Johanna

  SEPTEMBER 8, 1863

  Dear Miss Alcott,

  I am writing on behalf of Mother and myself to thank you for the precious gift you’ve given us in sending us so much bounty—not only the ring Mother had given John upon his departure into the army, but a copy of your Hospital Sketches, in honor of our dearly departed. We count it a blessing to receive one of the three copies you gifted to your “soldier boys.” More than once, Mother has called you an angel—first to our John and now to us.

  I recognized your letter right away, for it was the same hand that wrote the last letter John sent to us, received too late.

  I read Hospital Sketches aloud to Mother and George for the last four evenings by the fire, not without tears. As you can imagine, it is difficult to hear of our John’s last days, but we thank God over and over again that he was in the tender care of your hands.

  Mother has requested I send along her best for your continued recovery from the typhoid. You have served our country as well as any soldier, and we realize the personal sacrifices you have made. I am sorry your service ended too soon for you. My cousin suffered the same illness last year and I know what sorrows it can bring forth. We are glad to hear you are recovering.

  You say you are a writer of stories and feared we would take issue for the fictionalization of some of John’s story in your desire to protect his likeness. Please do not give it another thought. We are so very proud of our John’s bravery and will forever treasure and hand down the copy of the book you’ve given us to all the generations that come after.

  And still, Mother, George, and I long for more. Though we realize we are being presumptuous, we can’t help but ask for any last tidbit of John you may give to us. Did he tell you of his time in battle? Captain Schrock wrote that he did not initially know how grave his situation, and you confirmed that for us in Sketches. Mother is driving herself mad thinking of possibilities both in battle and in John’s last days, and while I realize the truth may be worse than her imaginings, I have told her I would ask.

  Please, Miss Alcott, we realize you’ve already given us more than we’ve a right to ask and yet we boldly ask for more so that we may finally put our John to rest. We know you were with him and took care of him, and for that we are thankful. Do not spare us—tell us all you know so George and I may better honor our dear brother, and so Mother may honor her son. Many times it feels as if memories and stories are all we have left.

  Sincerely,

  Johanna Suhre

  September 23, 1863

  Dear Johanna,

  I was not certain whether I would hear back from you, and I am so very glad I did. Our Concord company is to return home tonight and the town is in as wild a state of excitement as is possible for such a dozy old place to be without dying of brain fever. Still, I find I cannot succumb to the celebration—won only by the sacrifice of those like your brother—until this letter is off.

  Presumptuous as it may be, I confess that your John had become very dear to me in the short time I knew him. I still think of him often. His strength of character and bravery in the midst of the impossible will, I am quite certain, stay with me forever.

  His was the best letter I wrote home, for even dying royally, his simple dictation was more heartfelt than the rest as he tenderly bequeathed you and your mother to George.

  The reason Hospital Sketches has become so successful is because of John. He is the hero and the praise belongs to him. He is what draws readers—the face of courage in the midst of adversity, unassuming and innocent but full of warmth and nobility. Quite simply, your brother, a common blacksmith from my understanding, was the finest gentleman I’ve ever been privileged to meet.

  To go very near death teaches one the value of life. And though I believe wrestling with the typhoid has taught me the immeasurable worth of this, it was in ministering to the wounded souls at the Union Hotel Hospital and of doing the most noble thing one may be called to do in life—sharing another’s suffering—that I have truly come to glimpse the beauty of life, your brother being the highest example of which I speak.

  To honor your family—and John—I will recount a more personal story of him for you here. I pray it does his memory honor. I hope it is an accurate reflection of the fine man he was.

  The truth is that I was deeply impressed by your brother before ever I laid eyes on his tall form, fine face, and serene eyes. To be honest, I was at first intimidated by this stately looking man. A friend of his, who came in with the first group, could not stop praising him, saying John insisted that others more tragically wounded than himself (as if being shot in the lung were a small thing!) be first evacuated from the field station at Fredericksburg. As a result he came in a few days later than the other men.

  Among three or four hundred men in all stages of suffering, disease, and death, your John, my prince of patients, stood out. It was more than the way he silently bore his pain. There was a peace and grace about him. I meant what I said in Sketches—that no picture of dying statesman or warrior was ever fuller of real dignity than this blacksmith. And yet he worried for you, your mother, and for George. When I asked him why he’d gone to war when you all so very desperately needed him, he simply stated, “I wanted the right thing done, and people kept saying the men who were in earnest ought to fight. I was in earnest, the Lord knows! But I held off as long as I could, not knowing which was my duty—my family or my country. Mother saw the case, gave me her ring to keep me steady, and told me to go, so I went.”

  I must admit he grew in my estimation another tenfold for his answer. The only time I saw his peace waver was at the thought of you all not being provided for.

  John was struck twice in the breast, with
one piercing his lung. It was only after you were informed of his whereabouts that the hospital matron found a third wound under his shoulder. I feel as if this is not to your benefit to know, but I do as you request and spare no details. He fought bravely, advancing with his division though the wounded men lying at his feet begged him not to. In the cold dark, he ran out of ammunition. His injuries soon followed.

  During the night, squads were sent to recover those who had been wounded, and still the Confederate sharpshooters were relentless. Wounded himself, John ushered a comrade to the gates of eternity with all the grace and peace you can imagine of him.

  He was evacuated to the east side of the Rappahannock but gave up his place in the convoys in deference to others. I have an inkling he would have done this even if he realized how grave his injuries were, which he did not.

  I felt the most worthy thing I had done during my time as a nurse was hold his hand during the probing, bathing, and dressing of his wounds. He never asked for anything except for me to help him bear his suffering, and even that he did not forthright ask, but only happily agreed to after I suggested it.

  Under his plain speech and unpolished manner I saw a noble character, a heart as warm and tender as a woman’s, a nature fresh and frank as a child’s. In some hidden part of him, it seemed he had learned the secret of contentment.

  My feelings for your brother are so very tender and complicated. For when I stood by his bed, straightening things up, and when I felt him softly touch my gown, as if only to assure himself of my presence, my heart near overflowed. With what, I am still uncertain. I am not a mother, and yet I felt very much a love I imagine a mother to feel. I am not a wife, and yet I felt very much a love I imagine a wife to feel.

  I spent an hour each evening with him and tried to gain a broader picture of his life in his pained whispers.