A Pledge of Silence (38 page)

Dr. Garber nudged a box of tissues forward and waited for her to regain her composure. He said, “Your life turned into a nightmare in the worse sense of the word. Listen to me carefully now: this is vital for you to understand. When you live in a nightmare, you react as if in a nightmare. I’ve seen it a hundred times—soldiers broken down, then beating themselves up later over things that happened in the heat of battle. Frames of reference change. Horrors occur. What you did can’t be undone, but I can help you understand why it happened, and change your reaction to the memory of it. You are guilt-ridden and anxious, and, believe it or not, that’s a good sign.”

Margie startled. “What I’m feeling is good?”

“Yes. We can work with it. I’d be far more disturbed if you showed no reaction at all.” He closed her folder. “I want to bring Wade in, but before I do, I’d like to teach you a technique you can practice at home to help you relax.”

Asking her to lean back and close her eyes, he led her through a series of mind-clearing and deep-breathing exercises. His voice flowed over her, smooth and slow. First she felt herself sinking downward, and then she began floating. His voice seemed to come from far away.

“In this meditative state, your mind is more receptive to my suggestions … Let yourself relax … Sink deeper into the relaxation … deeper … and deeper. How do you feel? It’s okay to answer me.”

“Like I’m floating.”

“That’s good. When you feel like you’re floating, imagine yourself as you’d like to be. Tell me how you’d like to be.”

“I’d like to be strong.”

“Then say to yourself, ‘I’m strong.’ Repeat it. Feel it. Believe it. Picture yourself as a strong, confident woman. Practice this relaxation every day. When you’re awake reinforce the message. Say ‘I’m strong.’ Think it. Repeat it. Live it.”

Margie lay with her eyes closed for what seemed for a long time, her breathing slow and deep, her thoughts focused, “I’m strong. I’m strong.” Could she stay in this comfortable state forever? Dr. Garber’s voice intruded into to her reverie.

“I’m going to count to three. When I say ‘three,’ you will open your eyes. You will feel calm and restored, like you just woke up from a good night’s sleep. One … Two … Three.”

She opened her eyes and stretched, feeling a serenity she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

“How do you feel?”

“Wonderful.”

“Yes. Practice this technique at home every day. The relaxed state will get easier to evoke the more often you do it. I’d like to see you three times a week for a while. We have lots to talk about. One more bit of homework. I’d like you to reflect on this thought:
An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior.
Think about what it means. How does is apply to you?”

Margie repeated the thought in her head:
An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior.
Too much had happened too fast and she couldn’t comprehend it.

“You made good progress today,” the doctor said. “Many of my patients take months to get to your starting point.”

Back home, she didn’t feel like she had made any progress at all. The relief she hoped would come by confessing the rape and Max’s murder didn’t materialize. She couldn’t evoke the relaxed state she’d experienced in the doctor’s office, and anxiety still overwhelmed her, sending her scurrying to the bedroom with her cigarettes until the worst of the episode passed. She obsessed about Abe, Royce and Helen, feeling an overwhelming desire to connect with them; because she couldn’t, guilt brought on crying jags. One afternoon, while Barbara Ann napped, she crept up the stairs to the attic to look for her army duffle bag, which she found tucked under the eaves.

Unfastening the hook from the grommets released smells that brought back memories of the months on Bataan, and the thousands of injured and dying soldiers lying under the open sky.
Was it a bad dream?
She took out a pile of wrinkled uniforms, unearthing a packet of letters and some snapshots Evelyn took during those early, untroubled weeks in Manila. She thumbed through the pictures.
We had some good times
.

A small box contained a few pieces of jewelry. Abe’s silver pilot’s ring had tarnished; thoughtfully, she polished the blue stone on the sleeve of her shirt. What if …? She put the ring down gently, those dreams dashed long ago.

She clipped on the pearl earrings Royce gave her and admired herself in a dusty mirror. She tried to bring back the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on her skin.
You’re more beautiful than I ever dreamed possible.

Wade came into the attic. Involved in her memories, she jumped at the intrusion.

He surveyed the contents of the duffel strewn on the floor. “What’s all this?”

“I’m sorting through it. Some of these things shouldn’t be in the attic. Like this.” She held up the mahogany ring he carved for her while a prisoner of war.

“You kept it?”

“Of course I did. It’s a work of art.” She slipped it on her ring finger, wondering what to do with it. She loved the source, but not the association.

She held up a fountain pen and read the inscription: “To Helen, Happy Birthday, Love, Mabel. “We should have sent this back to Mabel months ago. Do you think it’s too late?”

Worry lines creased Wade’s forehead. “Are you sure you should be doing this?”

“I’m okay with it.” She opened the four small leather cases holding her medals: the Philippine Defense Medal for defense of the Philippines against the Japanese; the Presidential Unit Citation for extraordinary heroism against an armed enemy; the American Pacific Campaign Medal with a Foreign Service clasp; and the Bronze Star with two oak-leaf clusters. She picked up the latter, the fourth highest combat medal awarded by the military, and read the inscription on the back—
Heroic or Meritorious Achievement, Marjorie Olivia Bauer.

Looking over her shoulder, Wade said, “We should have these mounted and framed.”

“No, I was no hero.”

She stuffed the uniforms into the now-empty duffle and gave it to him. “You can throw these out.”

“The duffle too?”

“Yes. It smells moldy, like a dirty tent.”

She found a pretty hatbox, its surface printed with spring flowers. Removing the hat, she replaced it with her medals, letters, and mementoes of her friends, then carried it to her bedroom, where she added the stacks of letters she and Mama had saved.

Wade held out a large envelope.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Pictures of the war Kodak sent me. Do you want to see them?”

“Of the war? Not yet. Maybe some other day.”

He lifted the lid of the hatbox and dropped them inside.

Searching through her drawer, she found a blue ribbon to tie the hatbox shut, then put it in the cedar chest and closed the lid, feeling like she had completed an important task.

Her sense of accomplishment was short-lived, however. That night, Dr. Garber appeared in her dream, saying, “You may have to face some things you don’t want to.” She woke up in a sweat.

Getting out of bed quietly, she padded downstairs. In the kitchen, she poured a glass of wine and sat in the dark, contemplating what the psychiatrist had told her:
An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior.
She mulled over the years of hunger and fear, the surreal aura of the liberation, the physical pain of the rape, and its mental devastation—
when you live in a nightmare, you react as if in a nightmare.

She envisioned Max covered with blood and begging for mercy. A snippet of one of Reverend Markel’s sermons based on a verse from the gospel of Matthew came to mind.
But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.

Muddled in mind and drained of spirit, she struggled to reconcile her rational mind with her religious conscience. She prayed, “Please, Lord, accept my love, and forgive my horrible sins. Please help me understand what has happened to me and lead me to the path to become whole again. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

Later that day, Mama thumbed through
Good Housekeeping
magazine, concentrating on appliance advertisements. Her oven hadn’t heated evenly for several months. “Have you seen this, Margie? The new Frigidaire stove has a burner that recesses for slow-cooking soups and stews. What will they think of next?”

Margie looked at the ad. “It’s electric. I didn’t think you liked electric stoves.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never cooked on one.” She looked up at the ceiling. “I think I hear Barbara Ann.”

Margie climbed the stairs to the nursery, where Barbara Ann lay on her back in the crib, playing with her toes. Margie cooed, “How long have you been awake? It’s past your lunchtime. You must be hungry.” She changed the baby’s diaper while Barbara Ann’s little legs kicked wildly, making an unpleasant job extra difficult.

Barbara Ann seldom cried anymore. Margie often found her awake in her crib, entertaining herself for long stretches with her toys or her toes. “She’s a different sort of child,” Mama said. Where Margie had been a happy baby, and Frank stubborn and impatient, Barbara Ann displayed a serious temperament.

Margie ran a finger under a double chin. “Can you smile for me? Come on, you can do it.” Or not, she thought. As Barbara Ann stared unblinkingly at her, Margie had to look away.

Dr. Garber continued to reinforce the message that a person beaten down by hunger and fear did not function normally, and that that, in itself, was normal behavior.

“I understand, but all my life I’ve been taught to love my enemies.”

“It’s a tall order. We mortals are a fallible bunch even in the best of times. God gave us prayer. Have you prayed for forgiveness?”

“Every night.”

“Then find it in your heart to forgive your weakened self … as you would a burdened friend.”

Margie nodded, seeing a glimmer of light.

“Today, if you don’t mind, let’s reflect on your years in the Philippines. Did anything good come from it?”

“I guess, in retrospect, I’m not totally sorry for the experience. I served my country proudly. I helped hundreds of soldiers when they needed it, lying cut up and shot up in the jungle and in those horrible tunnels. I don’t think I did anything to deserve those medals they awarded me, just my duty and what I had to do to survive. Some good things did come from it. I met some brave, selfless people, like Helen. She was at Camp John Hay. Did your nephew mention her? Helen Doyle? She hated it there. She wanted to go to Europe so she could serve closer to the front. And Gracie. She got shot in the shoulder when we evacuated to Corregidor from Bataan. They gave her two chances to leave, but she wouldn’t go. She said she was in for the duration. There were others, lots of others—like Royce, a doctor I fell in love with, and Wade.”

She went to the office window and watched people coming and going on the street for a while. “Truthfully, I mostly think about being so hungry my stomach felt like it was eating itself. I try to push it out of my mind, but it always comes back.”

“Don’t fight it,” Dr. Garber said. “It’s important you not bury your sufferings. And you did suffer, terribly, but now it’s as much a part of your history as your accomplishments. Turning misfortune into triumph is a way to conquer it.”

“I can’t begin to imagine how I would do that.”

“It’s a problem you’ll have to solve at some point. You’re a young woman with years and years still ahead of you. I want you to think about what you’d like to do with your life. What would bring meaning to it? When contemplating that, consider your sufferings as well as your accomplishments. Both are a part of who you are and what you have to offer.”

During the summer of 1947, Margie and Mama harvested bushels of sweet corn, cucumbers, beans, beets, squash, peas, and cantaloupe. Sweet potatoes and the second crop of broccoli and cabbage had yet to mature. They canned and preserved everything they could, filling the pantry with mason jars of tomatoes, peaches, and applesauce. The cellar began to overflow with bags and baskets of produce. And the garden kept producing.

Margie had been seeing Dr. Garber once a week for more than 18 months; she felt his message had become repetitive. Against Wade’s advice, she decided to discontinue therapy.

She arrived at the psychiatrist’s office feeling jumpy, wishing she’d taken the coward’s way out and just telephoned. He didn’t greet her immediately, as he usually did. She waited in a huff, pacing the reception area while checking her watch—30 minutes, 60 minutes. Just as she’d made up her mind to leave, the office door opened. Out stepped the elderly woman she had seen on her first visit, the one with the shaky husband. Dr. Garber helped the woman into a waiting cab and paid the driver.

Striding back into the office, he said, “Come in, Margie. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Mrs. Bender’s husband died last night. A lovely couple. They were together for 62 years.”

She settled in the easy chair, feeling contrite. “I’m sorry. What’s going to happen to her?”

“She has a son in town and many friends. Mr. Bender owned the drug store on Main Street years ago. You may remember him.”

“Mr. Bender. Of course I do. He gave me lollipops when I was a kid.”

Dr. Garber opened her file. “Now, how about you?”

She told him about wanting to discontinue therapy, the anxiety and disturbing visions rare now. When she felt anxious, she was able to calm herself with the techniques he had taught her. She thanked him for helping to put her past into perspective, but she no longer felt obsessed with it, or threatened by it.

Tenting his fingers, he sat back in his chair. “You’ve come a long way, Margie, but you have more work to do. You still carry around a lot of tension, which in itself not a bad thing, if directed toward a worthy object. Have you given that any more thought?”

“I don’t have time to do anything more. I work part-time at the Red Cross and have a large garden. Barbara Ann keeps me trotting, too.”