Part Two | Chapter Sixteen: Through Sickness and Health
Newport, Rhode Island
July 1919
We haven't done much these past two days and I don't count finding Harry at a cemetery as a vacation activity that a couple does together. But we've been in Newport for two days and have yet to go out and visit the place that Harry heard his friends talk so highly about.
He's heard about Newport from his company members, but he doesn't wish to meet them. I know they're not dead because he's told me they were on the same train home. ButNedjam was alive on that train too, besides Harry, getting off at the stop before the train continued into New Jersey. We haven't spoken about Nedjem since last night, though it's not as if I'll be bringing him up on my own. After the night Harry's had, the new goal is to keep him distracted. Of course what happens in his brain won't be completely transparent to me, but I've become better at reading his facial expressions again, so I use them to judge his mood.
Today is a particularly dry day. The residue of rain is gone by the afternoon, birds chirping loudly and people returning to the streets. The shore is just a few blocks away, the salty air carrying its way over to the hotel where Harry and I sit to have lunch. Due to the situation last night, we've slept in.
Well, Harry slept in until nearly noon. I was just happy being in his arms again. I'd turned around and looked at him for what felt like hours, familiarizing myself with every line and freckle on his face.
This morning, my attention was on the white scar. Since Harry was sleeping so soundly, I took my time, gently tracing over the soft skin with my fingertips. I've never touched it before. It feels softer than his skin everywhere else, a tissue that's saved the injury from bleeding out now separating the hairs of his eyebrow. Hair will never grow there as the cells are too damaged.
I blocked his scar with my finger and looked at his face to see if I could recognize him easier this way. I could; it was 23 year old Harry in my bed again, holding me tightly in the room that once used to be his. We listened to the heavy rain outside and occasional thunder, his hand sliding up and down my sides, creating goosebumps. My own hand rested on his cheek, thumbing at his eyelashes until one fell off. That was the man in my bed.
But when I removed my hand, my husband returned and I realized that no matter how badly I wanted Harry to be happy, the 23 year old would not be coming back and that my husband lying beside me was still the man I would be in love with for the rest of my life.
I swallow some water, remembering how he looked in the bed, white sheets pooling at his waist, his chest peeking out from under his nightshirt.
My throat aches a bit when I swallow. I cough into my arm. Harry glances at me carefully.
"Not getting sick, are you?"
"Of course not," I say dismissively. "Why would I be?"
"If I remember correctly, you stood out in the rain for a good while."
"That doesn't mean I'll get sick," I laugh, resisting the urge to cough again. "Anyways, what should we do today? I want to go out."
Harry nods. "I know. I overheard some people talking about an exhibition at the beach. Some sort of art showing."
"Beach?" I groan, putting my fork down. "I am not going. I will burn and die."
"Wow," Harry says sarcastically around his salad. "At the same time? Maybe you'll catch on fire."
"Ha. So funny."
"No, really. It will be quite a sight."
"You're paler than me."
"But you burn easier than me."
"I will set you on fire."
"Like a candle?"
"Stop!"
Harry laughs softly and slings an arm over the back of his chair. "It's not on the beach. It's in the lighthouse by the beach. Not outdoors. Is that any better or do you want to argue some more?"
I scoff. "Argue? Styles, you know what an argument between us is like."
The smile doesn't leave his face. "Yes. I do. So, shall we go today?"
"What kind of art is it?"
I glance outside. It's dreadfully hot, merely looking at it makes my throat ache with dehydration. I reach for my water. Harry narrows his eyes when I wince at the pain as I swallow.
"I'm not sure. It's some local artist who's given himself a name here or something. We should go. Staying inside is never good for you. I know how much you like being outside."
Those simple words make me lighten and I immediately give in, delighted by what he knows about me, even though it's a very basic fact. "Okay. Let's go after this."
Harry looks at me from over his glass. "Sure you won't catch on fire?"
"Shut up!"
***
Back at the hotel, Harry's getting dressed in the bathroom and I'm pushing earrings through the holes on my lobe. As I hear Harry move around, I wonder how things will be back at home when we eventually get there.
The thought of returning home leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and something falls to the pit of my stomach, cramping right there. What will it be like at home? At school? During dinner? If things are the complete opposite of how they are right now, will us being in such close quarters be as bearable?
I look towards the bathroom door, frowning. Will he come back to our bedroom at home? Or will this progress stay in during the vacation and be one of the memories we leave behind?
As I'm thinking about how things have shifted between us, my anxiety only increases when I remember Harry's job and the administration calling him for an evaluation at the end of next month. It's approaching quickly and these last two weeks have distracted us, but the reality is exactly what I told Harry before we went to Atlantic City and exactly what I've forgotten myself: this vacation is temporary. Our problems will still be waiting for us and ready to be addressed when we return to New York.
And some there, I turn my thoughts towards Harry's emotional issues rather than our marriage. Are all the problems we're solving just going to return in full send in New York?
Harry steps out of the bathroom and fixes his hair. One of his wet curls falls directly onto his scarred eyebrow and he pushes it away, reaching for his watch on the nightstand.
"Ready?"
I look down at my clothes. "Yes." Harry nods and leans down to put his shoes on. I watch him fix his laces and then roll the sleeves of his shirt.
"What's wrong? Why do you look like that?"
I wipe the sweat from my upper brow. "Nothing. I'm just ready to go."
"Eager are we? Even though you were throwing a fit in the dining area."
I gasp. "A fit?!"
"A classic Annaliese fit when she doesn't get her way."
Harry smiles and reaches for his hat, putting mine on my head as he walks by me.
"I rarely ever get my way," I inform him sardonically. "You, however, always get your way."
"I think it's interesting how we both always get our way yet think that we don't. I wonder which one of us is right. Come on, I've got to lock the door."
I walk out, holding my hat on my head because the rush of wind when we leave the room usually knocks it off, but the air outside is dry, so nothing happens. The hot air makes me deflate immediately.
Harry glances at me. "I know. It's not a long walk."
"Walk?" My head snaps up to look at him with wide eyes. "No car?"
"Oh it's not that bad."
"Is it as far as the cemetery?"
"Just a mile more. No big deal."
"Harry!"
***
The local artist goes by the name of Naila Szvescky. The lighthouse itself is quite packed, and more importantly, the people who are there are more dressed for a fancy dinner rather than the beach. I look down at my regular sundress and frown. Perhaps I should have dressed nicer.
I've never been inside of an actual lighthouse, but it's nothing like how it would normally be set up. There are no residents as if this is an actual house, but the place is set up well with the blue walls and the salty smell of the ocean. It's beach themed, similar to how the Atlantic City hotel was decorated, except now there are paintings and sculptures set up around the stairs. People weave in and out of the area and lighthouse itself, walking up the twisted staircase up to the top floor.
Harry places a hand on my head, when I crane my neck to look at the top floor, to make sure my hat doesn't fall off.
The artwork presented by Naila Szvescky is abstract and she's clearly comfortable with using a variety of colors. All the artwork is up for interpretation, the cards in front giving them viewers some insight for respective art. We don't see the artist herself, but the art is engrossing so we don't try to seek her out.
More people arrive and begin to walk through the artwork. Some are alone while most people come in groups all at once.
One of the paintings that grabs my attention is one of a grenade. It's so graphic and I can see all the lines in it, all the different textures, and the smoke depicted around it. It catches my eye because while all the other works are difficult to understand or not coherent, this one is obvious in both its message and it's illustration. The card for it reads, "In Memory Of My Late Brother."
There are no people crowding around this painting. It's to the point, clear. Nobody stands to inspect it. The mere sight of the grenade is intimidating, but the knowledge of what it does to people is more frightening. I feel unsettled and turn to Harry.
He's besides me, eyes training on the painting. He doesn't say anything for a while, but then suddenly blinks down at me and gives me a weak smile. "It looks very real."
I take his hand and gently steer him to a different art work. The sculptures are next. There's a self
portrait of Naila and then a few other people, mostly just their heads, perched on a white pillar like something you'd see in an actual museum.
Suddenly, we're all squished together in a tight, hot lighthouse, being shoved around. Sweat drips down my spine. I reach over and quickly grab Harry's hand again, taking note of his discomfort.
There are people swarming us by the time we get near the stairs. As the ground isn't too spacious, people jostle Harry and I, shoving us and pulling us one way and then the other. Harry's grip on my fingers tightens and his ears slowly turn pink due to agitation.
One look at his face tells me he's not enjoying this.
But he sticks it out for an impressive amount of time. Harry has always enjoyed art, especially studying art from years ago, and under normal circumstances, Harry loves being a part of the crowd and following the excitement wherever it leads him, but I know that's not the case right now. I'm keeping a careful eye on him, even shooting dirty looks at the people who push against him or walk into him without apologizing. It's the most I can do, yet the lack of air and the suffocating amount of people getting to me too.
The stern look on Harry's face reminds me of how badly I wish to never see that discomfort again. Especially after last night. It's the last thing I want to see on his face. He should be having fun, laughing.
"Let's get out of here," Harry says quietly in my ear, bending down to make sure he's heard. "Right now, please."
I agree immediately, but Harry doesn't budge. It's as if he's frozen in place, unable to swim through the crowd. I take the role of the leader and begin shuffling through the mass amount of people. I have to shove a bit towards the exit, but when we're out, Harry's hand immediately falls from mine and he finds the nearest bench, sinking into it.
He unbuttons his collar and takes a breath. "Christ."
"Are you okay?" I don't jump at him, giving him space.
"Yes," he says slowly, nodding up at me. "I'm fine. Just so many people. Reminds me of something."
I sink into the seat beside him, passing him my handkerchief. "What is it?"
His eyes are unfocused, but he still manages to look at me. "It's stupid. It reminded me of the enlisting room. It was hot in there, unbelievably stuffy. Same time as now, same weather. And it smelled so badly of sweat." His eyes darken. "Do you know how bad a room of 100 men smells?" He shakes his head. "It's awful." He rubs his upper brow with the cloth. "I didn't think it would be so bad there."
"It was pretty bad," I admit. Harry makes a noise in the back of his throat to express agreement.
"How are you feeling? Still sick?"
I blink at him in surprise. "I'm not sick, Harry. I never was."
"You look sick."
Frowning, I wipe the sweat from my face with the clean side of the cloth. "No, it's just the heat. Let's go for a little walk and then we can head to the beach for a swim. How's that?"
Harry says, "No. No cold water for you. You're sick."
I cross my arms. "I'm not sick!"
"Let's see in a few hours."
He stands up and rolls his neck until he hears a solid crack from both sides. "Let's go walk, then."
***
Two hours later, Harry rests his hand on my forehead and sighs, his shoulders falling. We're back in the hotel, my nose dripping and my body trembling.
I know he wants to do nothing more than scold me, but instead he stands up and fills a glass of water for me. He holds his hand under my chin as I messily drink, giving him the saddest look I can put on my face.
"Don't give me that look," he says, putting the glass on the side table. "I told you not to stay outside for too long."
I want to argue, but my throat feels tight. Swallowing has been rough and I'm sure using my throat to talk even more than I already do will make matters worse. If I were able to reply, however, I'd tease him and say that he must be happy I'm barely able to talk. But judging from the expression on his face, I know that irritating him will only make matters worse on him.
Harry looks worried, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he puts his hand on my forehead again, for longer this time, and sighs once more, shaking his head. "I told you," he repeats, sitting beside me. "Didn't I?"
I woke up this morning feeling completely fine, and yet I have a fever and my throat isn't working because it's so sore. Harry runs his fingers gingerly over the sides of my neck to check my lymph nodes again.
"I just don't understand how this happened so fast," Harry says, brows pushed together. You were only out in the rain for a few minutes."
"Actually," I croak, "I went back outside while you were showering."
"You..." he trails off. "God, Annaliese. Your hair was wet!"
"Yes. I should've known better."
"Damn right you should have," he says, shaking his head. "Bet you had your fun, huh?"
Grinning, I nod. He stands up and takes the glass, bringing it to the table in the middle of the room.
"I should stay away from you then, since you're sick."
That kills the mood. My eyes widen and I shake my head quickly, holding my hands out towards him. When he turns back, there's a faint smile on his lips before it's gone. He leans against the table with his palms, looking up at the ceiling incredulously.
"Okay," he says finally after a few moments of thinking to himself. "I'm going to run to the pharmacy and get you some medicine. You," he says, pointing his finger accusingly at me, "are going to stay in bed. If I see that you've moved even half an inch, Annaliese, I'm going to be very upset."
A thrill runs up my spine at his orders and I nod solemnly. He walks back to me and pulls the sheets away from the bed and waits for me to tuck myself in. Then, he drapes the sheets over my body and shoves them tightly under my body.
"I feel like a mummy," I tell him.
Harry flicks my forehead. "I'll be back in a bit. Do. Not. Move."
"Yes, sir."
"I'm serious, Annaliese. I better not see you out of bed."
"Yes, doctor," I sweetly reply and then sneeze twice, shuddering until I relax back into the mattress. "Merde. Even sneezing hurts. Talking too."
"Maybe you should stay quiet then," Harry says, shrugging his jacket on and then bending down to lace his boots. "For once," he adds under his breath as if I can't hear him.
***
I fall asleep almost as soon as he leaves. My dreams are feverish and distorted and I wake up drenched in sweat. I wake up a while later when the sun is beginning to set.
I couldn't have slept for more than half an hour. I don't fall back asleep right away. My stomach aches with the need for food, however, Harry's voice echoes in my head. Somehow, he'd just know if I moved from my current position.
Cold sweat is pooling at my hairline and other places I don't want to mention. The thought of a shower is so attractive right now, I nearly get up and crawl to the bathroom.
I wait for a long time in bed before gathering enough strength to sit up and reach into the drawers beside me to grab a book and distract myself.
All the books in the drawer are Harry's foreign ones. The erotic book is there and I steer away from it, not wanting to laugh and hurt my throat even more. Not to mention my head is pounding.
I pick up the red book instead, the only other book. It's an Italian book. I open the cover and squint at the small words. A sheet of paper falls out from one of the pages. I reach for it and unfollow the paper.
I instantly recognize Harry's handwriting, the elegant form far more fancy and legible than mine could ever be. It's a letter.
It is only a page long and smeared with ash or dust, translating black onto my finger tips from where I hold the page. This is Harry's personal belonging, so I tuck the paper back into the binding of the book.
It folds almost perfectly with the name of who this letter is addressed to staring up out of the fold. I nearly shut the book and place it back into it's drawer until I realize it's my name written at the top.
It reads, "Annaliese." No other greeting. Just that.
The date tells me this letter was written right before Harry was shipped back from the western front. Conflicted, I pull the letter back out and slide the rest of the folded part half an inch down. The first sentence is all I'm going to read, I tell myself firmly. Harry deserves privacy.
The first part, however, causes me to pause, pain spreading through my chest, mixing in with the symptoms of my cold. My eyes water instantly on their own, breath caught in my throat.
I don't want to read something so personal to Harry, so intimate that he carries it nearly everywhere he goes. He's tucked it in a book he knows I would never open.
I inch the paper down more, catching some words before I can stop myself.
It's addressed to me, I think. I should read it.
Suddenly, I violently push it away and shove it under the sheets. "But he didn't send it," I remind myself out loud, hitting my palm against my forehead. "Be smart. Don't break his trust."
The last thing I want to do is ruin something strong between us. It's why I decide to tuck the book and letter back into the drawer. Be smart, I think to myself, sliding back against the mattress.
***
It's hard to be smart and fever ridden at the same time. As I stumble in and out of sleep, I imagine myself opening the drawer and reading the contents of the letter. I wake up every time and make sure the letter is still there. Pain runs through my body as I shiver, tightening the sheets around my body the best I can. My teeth begin to chatter, fingers almost numb. I feel delusions, vision swimming whenever I try to get up.
Harry should be coming soon. I hope he hurries.
I close my eyes.
***
Harry's there when I open my eyes again, placing a glass of water on the side table. His cool hand rests on my forehead and he clicks his tongue.
"Christ," he mutters.
"That bad?" I croak.
"Stay quiet."
I laugh quietly, putting a hand on my chest when it begins to ache. "Sorry."
"I've got a lot of stuff for you. Let's get you up." He wraps his arms around my middle and shoulders, gently forcing me up. I groan and let him move me while trying to help him.
He delivers the medicine to me, watching me sympathetically as I swallow with difficulty. He opens the drawer to push the medicine in while ordering me to lay back down.
When he opens his drawer, he hesitates after putting the medicine away, and slowly pulls out the book. Fear strikes my chest. I put the letter back didn't I?
Harry takes a deep breath, expression unreadable. "Were you doing some reading?" he says as he sits beside me.
Inhaling sharply, I push my palms into the mattress to try to sit up better. "I didn't read the letter I promise! You have to believe, I didn't!"
To my surprise, his eyes are light, eyebrows raised with humor as he watches me lose my mind.
"I believe you," he says, sliding the letter out of the book. "Lay back down. I wouldn't have been upset if you read it."
"How did you know I looked at it?!"
Harry frowns. "The red book was under the French book. I remember that. Why didn't you read the letter? It's addressed to you."
"But...you never sent it! Which means it's still yours."
He holds the letter out towards me. "Here, I'm sending it now."
"Harry, you don't have to. I promise, I wasn't that curious."
Harry laughs quietly, opening the letter. "I can tell when you're lying. Here. I didn't want to send it at that time because I'd just been injured and I guess I didn't want to worry you too much or feel the guilt of making you upset with me. At that time, I felt ashamed of what had happened, so even though I wrote this, I didn't want to send it. Now, though, because of this vacation and home much we've grown, I think I can finally deliver it to you. So please, Annaliese. Just take it.."
"Ashamed?" I swallow hard. "Harry, if I ever said something to make it seem like I'd be more upset at you getting hurt than your actual injury—"
"I know you didn't mean it," Harry quickly interjects. "That's not all that I was worried about. It was the end of the war and I was in the infirmary for weeks. I felt like I didn't have a purpose and I was scared as to how you'd react to me when I came home?"
"Because of your scar? Harry," I whisper, throat closing up due to my emotions and not my illness. "I told you I didn't care about it. You're still you. My Harry."
His lips thin but spread into a smile nonetheless. "I know, Annaliese. I was more worried about my behavior and the person I had become. It was right for me to worry considering all the arguments we've had so far have been because of that. It was unavoidable. One couldn't just go to war and come back the same person. I think it especially hurt me because I loved life with you and I was afraid I would make life less enjoyable for you."
I run the back of my hand over my face, putting the letter down and reaching for his face. "I love life with you. I love you."
Harry leans in and hugs me tight, chest to chest. He firmly kisses my hair and mumbles in my ear, "Stop it. Stop crying over me. I hate it."
"I can't help it. I don't want to cry because it scares you but I can't stop it." I pull away, sniffling. "Every time I see you, I just want to hold you and cry."
"Seems like I'm not the only one that changed," he whispers, kissing my head again, holding the back of my neck. When he pulls away, he looks down at the letter and then at me.
"I want you to read it. Maybe it'll help me because my feelings will be out in the open. Please read it."
"If it will help you, you know I will try it."
He nods. To my surprise, however, Harry doesn't sit and watch me read it. Instead, he stands up and sticks his hands in his pockets, walking backwards.
"I'll go shower," he says, giving me a small smile. I don't ask him why he doesn't want to stay with me. He's had a rough day. I wish he'd hug me again though, but I can wait, no matter how excruciating the desire is to wrap myself into him and stay there for hours.
I say, "Okay. Take your time."
When he shuts the door, I slowly open the fold and begin reading the letter.
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