Abiding Hope: A Novel: Healing Ruby Book 4 Read online

  “Look, either give me the pills or don’t. But I don’t need a lecture right now.”

  He shrugged and reached for a bottle on the shelf behind him. “All right, then. Bromide for today.”

  He dropped the pills into my hand, which I could feel quivering as I held it out. I just had to make it through one more day. Just one more day.

  I swallowed the pills and headed out of the medical tent, running into Jabol as I crossed the grounds. We shook hands again. “Major, it is good to see you looking well,” Jabol said. “How old are you now? Should be about fifty, no?”

  “Thirty-two, actually,” I laughed. “Feels like fifty sometimes, though. Seems like I’ve been here forever.”

  We continued walking toward the center of camp where my men and our visitors were busy setting up for the party. Guys climbed trees to hang lanterns and colored streamers, and the women went about setting out all kinds of native food on large palm leaves.

  “I don’t want to seem ungrateful,” I said, “but this is too much, Jabol.”

  “No, my friend. After all you have done for my people, this is not enough. We will show you today what you mean to us.”

  Malaya approached us from a cluster of palm trees where she’d been directing the men hanging lanterns. Her flowered halter dress hugged her tiny waist, the bright colors showing off her tanned skin. She smiled at me, sending a flutter through my chest I had to ignore. Ruby.

  “Why are we hanging lanterns?” I asked. “It’s broad daylight.”

  “Do you not remember how we celebrate, Major?” she asked. My mind went to another celebration over a year ago, and I could see from the twinkle in her eyes, that was exactly her intent. “It will be long after dark before it is over.”

  Before I could respond, a caravan of official vehicles pulled into camp. A young Filipino boy in uniform jumped out of the lead sedan and opened the back passenger door. Miguel Herrera stepped out with a broad smile and a booming voice.

  “Ah, Major Doyle! It is so good to see you, my friend.” He extended his hand and I took it with great joy.

  “Señor Herrera, it is wonderful to see you as well,” I said. “I was afraid for your safety with all the fighting in Manila.”

  His smile fell to a hard line. “It will take a long time for the people of Manila to recover from the great evil of Japan. But Filipinos are a proud people, and our hearts are strong. We will rebuild our treasured city.” He turned to Malaya and embraced her. “Señorita, you are lovely as always. Are you taking care of the old man?”

  Malaya’s gaze flickered to mine. “When he will let me, Señor. He is a stubborn patient, as you know.”

  Herrera laughed as several others who’d been in the vehicles came up behind him. I recognized the three men and their wives from the covert meeting we’d had the previous fall, just before the Japanese had decimated my intelligence network in Manila.

  I shook each of their hands and welcomed them to our headquarters. The three couples, the Vegas, the Gasparis, and the Moyas had all been instrumental in gathering intelligence on Japanese troop movements through their various businesses in Manila, all coordinated by Malaya. The reunion was happy on the surface, but the absence of the friends we’d lost along the way brought a melancholy undercurrent to our conversation.

  The party began around noon. We filled our stomachs with food and our hearts with merriment. The band played while we danced. The men of the barrio and my soldiers shared stories of how they’d tricked the Japanese and snuck into and out of Manila undetected. And there were many kind gifts offered in my honor, including paintings and carvings.

  Late in the afternoon, two army jeeps arrived carrying four of the generals I’d been in communications with throughout the campaign to retake Luzon. I shook each of their hands and accepted their congratulations. Colonel Watson arrived shortly thereafter, bringing formal congratulations from MacArthur.

  By the time I’d greeted everyone properly and shown them around the camp, my body was trembling from fatigue. I had no intention of losing control now, so I called Bruno into the medical tent again to request a little more help.

  He furrowed his brow and studied me closely in the fading sunlight. “Major, this is no good.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “I can’t go around collapsing in front of all these generals now, can I? I swear, tomorrow I’ll rest and everything will be fine.”

  He eyed me like he knew better. Malaya entered the tent, her face an expression of concern. “What is going on?” she asked. “Are you not well?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, gritting my teeth. “Just a little tired.”

  “Then perhaps you should rest,” she said.

  “Perhaps you should mind your own business, Lieutenant,” I snapped.

  She stared at me, unflinching. I didn’t care what she thought at that moment, or Bruno for that matter. The pressure in my head was growing intense. “Look, my head’s killing me; my stomach’s in knots. Just give me something to get me through the next couple of hours.”

  Bruno grunted and handed me a couple of pills. Malaya shook her head as I swallowed them. “You are being foolish,” she said. “You are going to kill yourself, and I cannot watch.” She threw her hands up and walked out.

  ***

  The party lasted long into the night, just as Malaya had said it would. I did my best to enjoy it. After all, it had been years since there’d been anything to celebrate. I smiled at everyone, even joined in the dancing now and again. But I could feel my body shutting down. I convinced myself that once I could go to sleep, I could rest and recover. I had it all under control, because that was how I’d operated for four years in a place where surrender was worse than death. I wasn’t about to surrender now.

  The next morning, I awoke with another splitting headache and trembling limbs. But this was much worse. I could barely sit up, let alone stand. When Diego caught sight of me, he immediately sent for Bruno, and the two of them did their best to get me on my feet.

  The ground took a dip, and my legs shook uncontrollably. I fell into my friends’ arms, and they laid me back down. Then the strangest things began to happen all at once. It was almost as if I split into two people. One of me lay on the pallet convulsing as if I were having some sort of seizure, unable to communicate anything.

  The other me realized all this was happening, and seemed to be observing it from a distance. I wondered if this was some bizarre nervous breakdown, and I had the urge to laugh at myself. I was being ridiculous. I tried to tell them I just needed a moment to gather my wits.

  “He needs army hospital,” Bruno said.

  “I will drive,” Diego said. “Help me move him into the jeep.”

  Again I tried to tell them to give me a minute, but it came out in a garbled mess of syllables. They lifted me off the ground and loaded me into the back of a jeep. Malaya’s voice came at me as if through a tunnel, asking what was wrong. Then she was beside me, lifting my head into her lap.

  Diego started the jeep and we flew along the roads leading to Manila. I tried to process the sounds of honking and cursing as Diego dodged around the crowded streets. Malaya lowered her face near to mine, speaking softly to me the whole time.

  “Just stay calm, Major,” she said. “Everything will be all right.”

  I was shaking, my chest was tight, and everything about my body felt strangely detached. I seemed to float in and out of consciousness, because things moved in a disjointed fashion. I was in the jeep one moment, and in a hospital room a few moments later, with a doctor shining a bright light into my eyes. Then there was nothing but darkness.

  Chapter Six

  Ruby

  April 25, 1945

  Houston, Texas

  Wednesdays were one of my days off from the hospital, and now that I wasn’t studying every available free moment, I spent those mornings with Hope at the park down the street from the Sawyers’ house. I would push her on the swings for a while, then sit on a bench and watch h
er play in the sandbox with the other children at the park.

  It was such a different life than I’d had as a child. No feeding chickens or milking cows, no sweeping or mopping porches, no tending to vegetables. I wouldn’t change a thing about my childhood, but I was glad that Hope’s life might be different. She wouldn’t have to worry about where her next meal was coming from, or having to pick cotton until her fingers bled. After seeing so much heartache in my lifetime, I was determined to give my daughter a chance to just be a child. At least for the time being, anyway.

  On this particular Wednesday morning, I sat on the bench contemplating what lay ahead for our little family as I answered the latest letter I’d received from Mike. There had been a subtle change in his words, a shift from the playful tone we’d always shared to a more introspective nature.

  Dear Mike,

  I was so sorry to read about the loss of the men in your squadron. I know all too well the weight of losing people close to you and the doubt of wondering what you could have done differently. You’re a good man, with a kind, brave heart, and I’m certain you did everything you could to save them. I suppose all we can do is be thankful your plane was not shot down as well.

  Throughout my time in the Philippines, I wondered how a loving God could allow so much suffering to take place. I’ve prayed continuously for an end to this nightmare of a war, but so far God has not granted that prayer. Still, I cling to the lessons of my father and uncle, who showed me what true faith is. No matter what evils are in the world, we serve a just, loving, all-powerful God. And somehow, in some unfathomable way, all of this is part of His plan for our good and His glory. Whenever I doubt that, all I have to do is look into the eyes of my daughter and know that sometimes, exquisite beauty is born from the most painful ashes.

  I’ve been thinking about our last conversation before you shipped out, and all the kindness you’ve shown me. God gave me a great blessing when He brought you into my life. (Though I have to admit, I didn’t think so at the time!) You’ve been a rock and a place of sanctuary when my heart was broken. As the time passes, and this war drags on, and no word comes of what happened to Matthew or Henry, I find myself facing an uncertain future. I’m so thankful to have a friend I can count on. There’s still so much you do not know about me. But maybe, when the war is over, and you can return home, we can finally say all the things that need to be said.

  I think of you every day and pray for your safety. The verses below kept me going during some of my worst experiences. I hope they’ll offer you comfort and encouragement as well.

  With Christ’s love,

  Grace

  “One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to enquire in his temple.

  For in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion: in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me; he shall set me up upon a rock.

  And now shall mine head be lifted up above mine enemies round about me: therefore will I offer in his tabernacle sacrifices of joy; I will sing, yea, I will sing praises unto the Lord.” ~Psalm 27:4-6

  I read over the letter once more, and sealed it in an envelope. As I addressed it to Mike, I wondered how long it would be before he actually received it. Weeks, at least. Maybe longer. Sometimes his letters arrived in bunches, sometimes out of order, sometimes several over the course of a couple of days. I imagined he received mine in much the same way.

  I called Hope over to me, and she brought her most adorable pleading expression along. “Momma, can I play more?”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. If you want to get a book at the library, we have to go now. Grandma will have dinner ready soon.”

  She looked over her shoulder at the kids still enjoying the sandbox, before dropping her shoulders and taking my hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

  We walked around the corner and up the street a block to the library, where I turned in the previous week’s adventures. Pat the Bunny and Caps for Sale would all return to their shelves for us to pick up again a few weeks down the road. Hope was nothing if not a creature of habit, and she loved to hear the same stories over and over. We’d read The Velveteen Rabbit so many times, I practically had it memorized.

  We headed to the children’s area, where Hope went straight to the sections for the books she wanted. “Momma, can we get Rabbit Hill this time?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And The Little House?”

  “Yes, sweetie. Whatever books you want.” I lifted them from the shelves, knowing exactly where to find them. “That’s two, so find one more.”

  She stood there thoughtfully looking around. “Can I have the one with the bull who doesn’t wanna fight?”

  “The Story of Ferdinand?”

  She nodded and pointed to the section where I’d find it. We took the books to the front desk and checked out. As we left, I dropped my letter into the mailbox out front. Hope could never wait to get home before wanting a book, so I handed her Rabbit Hill to hug tightly to her chest as she hopped down the sidewalk beside me.

  ***

  I’d just put Hope down for a nap that afternoon when there was a knock at the door. As usual, it sent my heart to racing. When I came out of our bedroom door, I met Jillian at the top of the stairs with the same tense expression on her face that I was sure was on mine. We descended the stairs together to find Mrs. Sawyer at the front door with a scrawny young man in a Western Union uniform. “Is there a Mrs. Grace Doyle at this residence?” he asked.

  My heart thundered so loudly, I couldn’t hear Mrs. Sawyer’s answer. She put a hand on my back and gently pulled me beside her. The young man stretched out his hand, holding in it a small envelope. I took it, searching his face for some clue as to what news lay inside. But his face was blank.

  “Th-thank you,” I said.

  I stepped backward, my knees buckling, and Mrs. Sawyer closed the door. She and Jillian escorted me to the sofa, where I sat and tried to catch my breath. A telegram about Mike would be addressed to his parents. Henry’s would go to Mother. This could only be about Matthew. Would the army be so cruel as to inform me of his death twice?

  “Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Sawyer asked from beside me. Her hand circled my back. “Would you like some water?”

  I shook my head.

  “You want one of us to open it?”

  “N-no, ma’am. I’ll be all right.” I should’ve been able to handle this better. The news couldn’t be worse than I’d already received. Perhaps it was actually good news. That thought propelled me forward, and I tore the envelope open along its edge. With shaking hands, I pulled out the folded paper and read the message.

  THE WAR DEPARTMENT REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND, MAJOR DOYLE, MATTHEW, HAS FALLEN ILL WHILE SERVING IN THE LUZON PROVINCE OF THE PHILIPPINES. HE WILL BE RETURNED TO THE UNITED STATES FOR TREATMENT. FURTHER DETAILS TO FOLLOW.

  I stared at the telegram, at first unable to comprehend it. I handed it to Mrs. Sawyer and she read it as well, her eyes widening. “Oh, Grace,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Is he…that means he’s alive, right?” I searched her face for help in understanding.

  “I think so,” she said.

  “Let me see,” Jillian said, holding out her hand. She read the telegram and nodded. “I think you’re right. This has to mean he’s alive.”

  I couldn’t dare to believe it just yet. “It could be a mistake. It could be someone else, and they just think it’s Matthew. Or they looked up someone else’s next of kin and somehow got my name instead.”

  “I don’t think so, dear,” Mrs. Sawyer said. “It clearly states the telegram is about Matthew Doyle.”

  “But he wasn’t a major,” I said. “He was a captain. And they already gave me a telegram just like this, except it said he was dead, that he was killed on Mindanao on May 5 of 1942. I mean, I didn’t want to believe it. I forced myself to believe h
e was alive, but…”

  My babbling trailed off with my thoughts. Could he really be alive? And coming home? I had to stand, but when I pushed up from the sofa, my head swam, and I sank back down.

  “Jillian, get her some water,” Mrs. Sawyer said.

  I dropped my head into my hands, tears streaming down my face. He was alive. Matthew was alive!

  Chapter Seven

  Matthew

  April 25, 1945

  Manila, Philippines

  The first few days in the hospital after my breakdown were fuzzy and disorienting. At first, I couldn’t move much: my entire body had gone numb. No matter what my brain commanded my body to do, I couldn’t seem to focus my nerves on any particular limb to move it.

  Gradually, my thoughts became more coherent. I could control things again, a little at a time. After four days, I could sit up and feed myself. After six, I was up and walking. But my sense of self, of who I was at the center of my being, had been shaken severely.

  Diego and Bruno visited me daily, but I soon ordered them to return to headquarters and get back to work. Malaya also visited, but was not deterred by my repeated requests for her to leave. Instead, she showed up each day at noon, helped me with eating my lunch until I was able to feed myself, and then, once I was able, walked with me around the hospital grounds.

  On the eighth day, we ventured out into the city. The dead bodies no longer littered the streets, but the signs of near annihilation were everywhere. Crumbling buildings, debris, craters in both the ground and the sides of buildings—I’d never seen anything like it.

  “I would never have imagined this kind of destruction was possible,” I said. “I mean, I guess I could have imagined it, but that men would actually do this? It’s unreal.”

  Malaya walked beside me, taking it all in. I wondered how it must feel to see this done to your homeland, to have your people slaughtered. How did you even begin to rebuild? “We should go back now,” she said after a while. “I don’t want to see anymore.”