Yours Truly

20 - A Promise Kept

 In the year 2014, Alyson Fletcher the nurse ascended the stairs silently, to check on her patient, Mrs. McCaden. It had been about two minutes since Wanda Charles, the kindly little girl from down the street, had interviewed Mrs. McCaden. 

        As soon as Aly reached the second floor of Mrs. McCaden's cottage, she heard soft, quiet sobs, drifting into the corridor from the attic. Alarmed, Aly rushed down the sunbathed hall. "Mrs. McCaden? Mrs. McCaden? Are you alright? Mrs. McCaden? Are you hurt?" 

        Aly stumbled into the attic, and that's when she spotted something that broke her heart: Mrs. McCaden, a frail, tiny white-haired old lady, sitting on her rocking chair, clutching a pile of letters and photos, weeping to herself while listening to a scratchy, old record on her gramophone. 

        "Mrs... Mrs. McCaden?" Aly stammered, unsure of what to do or what was happening. She had never seen her patient cry before. 

        Mrs. McCaden looked up, her eyes glistening with tears. "Oh, hello, Aly." 

        "Oh, Mrs. McCaden," Aly sighed, cautiously edging forward. "What's... what's wrong?" She drifted closer towards Mrs. McCaden. Her gaze fixed upon the old sepia photograph clasped in Mrs. McCaden's hand-- the photograph depicted a handsome young man in a U.S.A. Army uniform, but not the modern Army uniform from this generation. The man in the photo wore an old Army uniform, one that Aly recognized as a World War II era uniform. 

        Suddenly, Aly's stomach dropped. Who was the man in the photo, and why was Mrs. McCaden crying? Was the man Mrs. McCaden's husband? Was he her brother? "Mrs. McCaden... that's your... that's your--" 

        "His name was William McCaden," Mrs. McCaden said, her voice breaking on the last two words. 

        Aly inhaled shortly. "Your husband? Mrs. McCaden, are you... are you a war widow?" She knelt in front of Mrs. McCaden, patting her back reassuringly. She didn't know Mrs. McCaden was a war widow. In fact, this was the first time Mrs. McCaden ever really opened up to her. "This man was your husband? And he died?" 

        Mrs. McCaden gazed forlornly into empty space. "He was not my husband. We never married. We were supposed to, but..." Mrs. McCaden breathed. "He died. Yes." More tears poured down Mrs. McCaden's cheeks. 

        Aly shot to her feet and flung her arms around Mrs. McCaden. "I-I never knew... I'm so sorry. It must've been awful for you." For a moment, Aly just stood there, holding a trembling Mrs. McCaden. "You never told me." 

        "I've never told anyone," Mrs. McCaden answered curtly. "He died in Nineteen Forty-Four at the age of twenty." 

        Aly's jaw dropped. She was twenty-one. She couldn't find the words to voice what she was feeling; what she was thinking. Instead, she knelt there, speechless, still holding Mrs. McCaden in her arms. 

        "He died just a few days after the landings in Normandy," Mrs. McCaden croaked. "I'm sure you've heard of the Normandy landings? D-Day? June Sixth?" 

        Aly nodded. "Y-Yes." 

        "He survived the landings on Omaha Beach, but..." Mrs. McCaden took a shaky breath. Another tear traced her wrinkled cheek.

        Aly tucked a strand of white hair behind Mrs. McCaden's ear affectionately. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. McCaden. I never knew. How come... how come you've never told anybody? Opening up, sharing how you feel-- it really helps, sometimes." 

        "I... I suppose I was afraid. Afraid of confronting the painful memories. The fears. The regrets. I... I was in a dark place for a long time after he died. He was... he was the love of my life." Mrs. McCaden sniffed, wiping away a tear. "He was the best thing that ever happened to me, Aly."