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Remember Me

By Maureen Lang

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Chapter One
Washington, D.C., 1917
Josef swung his legs over the edge of the bed, jolts of pain stopping him abruptly. He couldn’t guess why moving his feet should hurt his head. Carefully grabbing a nearby chair, he leaned on it and struggled to stand.
He’d make it to the bathroom today.
It must be fewer than a dozen steps across the single-room flat. He pulled in a breath as he pushed the chair, then hobbled behind it. It might take fifteen minutes and every ounce of his strength, but he’d make it.
“Hey, what’s this? What are you doing?”
Annoyed rather than relieved to see prospective help, Josef eyed the man entering the room. Hank, lean and middle-aged, tossed aside the bundle he carried in his arms.
“I’m going to the bathroom.”
Josef gave the chair another push, letting it take much of his weight.
“The bedpan—”
“—is over there.” In a forgetful moment Josef pointed with his head. Ice and heat shot through his forehead. He took another step, and sweat poked from above his upper lip.
“All right, all right,” said Hank. “Then let me help you.”
“Just stay out of the way.” Josef took another step, every inch like walking through a tunnel of needles.
The older man stayed put, vaguely surprising Josef. Hank had been hovering like an overpaid nanny since Josef woke up a day ago. He’d awakened in this room where everything was wood: ceiling, floors, walls, headboard, kitchen table and chairs. Each had a different finish, but Josef was in no mood to care about the decorating, or lack thereof. The pounding in his head alternated with lightning slicing his forehead. And through the pain, Josef had been concentrating on remembering—everything . . . anything . . . something.
Nothing came, absolutely nothing. Not even his name.
Between fits of vomiting and dizziness, Josef had questioned the man who cared for him well but gave no answers. He’d told Josef his name and given his own name as Hank. That was all he’d say, except that Josef shouldn’t trouble himself with memories.
Not trouble himself? Didn’t the man realize how troubling it was not knowing one’s own name or a single day of the past? He looked back and saw nothing but emptiness to call upon. He wondered what kind of past he must have if this man thought it would trouble him to start remembering.
But those frustrations weren’t long on his mind now. Hope touched him for the first time since he’d gained consciousness. He’d made it to the bathroom.
He cared for his needs, then turned to the chair he used as a crutch. Hank stood by, as if ready to act. Josef started the long return. Ten paces, nine, eight, all the way across the room.
For the first time, the pillow felt soft.
“Good. That was very good, Josef. You’re on the mend now.”
Josef looked at the man who was so obviously pleased. It was hard to know how to feel about him. He was a nice enough fellow, but a stranger so far as Josef knew.
“Yes,” Josef said, “I’m on the mend. Maybe now you’ll answer some of my questions.”
Instead of showing an interest in doing so, the man stooped to pick up the package he’d cast aside. He opened the bundle, holding up a pair of denim pants and a blue work shirt. Plain, sturdy clothes like Hank’s, for a working man.
“I thought you might be up and around soon,” Hank said, “so I brought these for you. You can try them later for fit.”
“You had to buy clothes for me? Where are mine?”
Hank folded the pants and placed them at the foot of the bed. “Gone. All gone.”
“How could I lose all my clothes? In a fire?”
Hank shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”
Josef swallowed a fit of frustration aimed directly at his tight-lipped caretaker.
“Will you sit?” Josef’s voice sounded steadier than he expected, with his insides roiling.
Hank turned the chair Josef had used and sat facing the bed. He didn’t look Josef in the eye.
“My name is Josef,” he began, staring at the older man. “That’s all you’ve told me. I’ve tried to remember, but I can’t. You’re going to have to fill me in. Now.”
The man slowly shook his head, but Josef didn’t give up.
“Don’t tell me again that you’re waiting for me to get stronger. I’m strong enough. What’s my full name? Who are you to me? What do I do for a living? How come nobody else comes to this place? I’ve been awake at least a full twenty-four hours, and the only face I’ve seen is yours. Don’t I have any friends? Neighbors? It seems to me when somebody’s sick, friends and family show up.” He gently touched his bandaged forehead. “And if I can remember how to function—talk and eat and use the bathroom—how come I don’t remember anything else?”
Hank ran an age-spotted hand through his light-colored hair. His hair seemed surprisingly thick for someone who was obviously past fifty. Apart from the gray, his hair was exactly the color Josef had seen when he looked into the bathroom mirror. The man sighed heavily. At last he leaned forward, meeting Josef’s gaze. “I haven’t meant to make it harder. I only wanted you to rest. Do you see that?”
Slowly, mindful now that any movement brought pain, Josef nodded. “But I can’t rest while I have so many questions.”
“Yes, I see that now. We will talk. Do you want something to drink? Milk? Tea?”
“Just answers.”
“You know that your name is Josef; that much is familiar, isn’t it?”
“I . . . don’t know. Nothing’s familiar.”
Hank nodded. “All right. Then I will tell you what should be familiar, starting with your mother.” Hank sat back, and a smile softened his face. As some wrinkles stretched out around his mouth and the lines around his eyes deepened, somehow he looked younger. He still showed a hint of the good looks that must have once been his. “Your mother was born in Baden--Württemberg. That’s in Germany. You speak German, Josef. Do you recall that? Can you say anything to me in German?”
Josef searched for a word in anything but English. “No.”
That didn’t seem to ruffle the man. “You were born here in America, Josef, but your mother spoke German to you, even as she taught you English. I suppose your American friends helped you learn to speak. She always spoke with an accent, but you don’t have one, even though you went to German schools. Do you remember your mother, Josef?”
Josef concentrated, waiting for an image to appear. None did.
Hank continued. “She was fair. Hair. Skin. Her eyes were blue, like yours. I always remember her smiling. She was happy, and everyone wanted to be around her.” He sighed again. “She was happier still when you were born. That I wish you could remember, Josef. How she loved you.”
“Do you have a photograph?”
“A picture? Yes . . . yes, I have pictures.”
He crossed to the bureau in the corner. The cheap dresser was like the rest of the furniture, notched here and there as if weathered by more than a few moves. Without the rich patina of fine furniture, it reflected the simple wear and tear of life with someone who apparently didn’t pay much attention to detail. From one of its drawers, Hank retrieved a small, black box and opened the lid.
“This is your mother, Josef. See for yourself how beautiful she was.”
Josef stared at the picture. Light hair was obvious in the gray tones of the image, with eyes that indeed looked like they might have been blue. Cheeks and lips were of darker shading. Arched brows, high cheekbones, well-formed mouth, small nose—a beauty. But the girl pictured was a beautiful stranger to him, and far too young for this to be a recent picture. He handed it back, curious about what other photos might be in that box.
Hank handed Josef another picture. “This is you, not long after you were born.” It was a full shot of the same woman with a child in her arms. She smiled merrily and wore a dark gown with puffed sleeves, tight at the waist, accentuating the curve of her slight figure. The gown flared at the floor, with something like sequins or jewels winking light at the camera. Her hair was loosely tied atop her pretty face, her light eyes joyous and youthful. She looked tenderly at the baby she held.
“And this is you when you were a year old.”
A chubby infant laughed into the camera with two straight baby teeth and a hint of a dimple just above the left corner of his mouth.
“Here is my favorite. You were three.”
A blond haired boy sat astride a pony, trying hard to resemble a fearless cowboy on a herd drive.
“Where is my mother now?”
“She’s passed now, oh, some time ago. In heaven.”
Josef wondered if he should feel grief. “How old was I when she died?”
No answer came right away. Just when Josef was about to repeat the question, Hank looked up from the picture. “You were eight.”
“How did she die?”
“She got sick, and then she died.”
“Can I see the rest of those?”
Hank hesitated but handed the box to Josef, who flipped through the items inside, hoping something would trigger a memory or give him at least a feeling of familiarity. Nothing did.
“This looks like you.” Josef held up a picture of a cheerful trio in front of a cage at the zoo.
“By the lions. We could hear that lion roar clear across the park.”
“You’re with my mother and me. Who are you to me, Hank? Who were you to my mother?”
Hank looked at the picture but did not answer. His hand trembled as he took it from Josef to look at it closely, as if he wanted a better view of the memory.
Wondering if more pictures might hold the answers this man clearly did not wish to give, Josef glanced through the box again. He found nothing remotely recent. “There aren’t any photographs in here from after my mother died, are there, Hank?”
He shook his head, taking back the box and placing the photograph from the zoo on top.
“Hank? Are you going to tell me?”
Perhaps in an effort to control—or conceal—his uneasiness, Hank slowly returned the box to the bureau. He pushed the drawer shut without turning back. “She was your mother, Josef. I hope you remember her someday. It would be a great loss to you if you didn’t.”
“And you, Hank? Who are you?”
“I am your father.”
#
On a Farm Near Culpeper, Virginia
Lissa Parker stared at the solemn faces of her mother and father. The only sound was the chime of the old grandfather clock marking the hour in the front hall. One. Two. Three o’clock. The large farmhouse had been home to four generations of Parkers. The original house had survived the American Revolution but burned some years later. It had been replaced by a brick dwelling that had survived another war. Both Northern and Southern soldiers had billeted in all the homes nestled among the trees and hills of the Piedmont, depending on who controlled the section at the moment.
It was impossible to tell what her parents were thinking about the announcement she’d just made. She expected her father to be pleased. Her mother? Well, it was always hard to tell how she would react.
“Somebody should say something. Aunt Bobbie?” Lissa turned to her father’s sister, who sat on the chair Lissa’s father had made for his mother, back when he fancied himself a woodworking craftsman and made large pieces of furniture. Now he only created cedar chests and small toys. Aunt Bobbie was the only one who’d known about Lissa’s plans, and she’d had a week to digest them. Now she tried to smile, but Lissa guessed it took effort.
“Well, Lissa,” she began, with the slight lisp that gave her speech an added charm. “None of us could stop you, even if we wanted to. You’re twenty-three years old.”
“Yes, of course, but I was hoping for approval and support. What about you, Father? Aren’t you pleased?”
Frank Parker rubbed his hands on his knees, as if emerging from a shock-induced coma. “Liss, we’re all supposed to follow where we’re led. Your mother and I are surprised that you think your leading is to a battlefield. With only daughters, we thought we would be spared that worry.”
“Nearly every generation of Parkers has gone to war for America, Father. Don’t you want me to carry on the tradition?”
Her mother’s lips pursed. “Oh, Lissa, don’t be ridiculous. This has nothing to do with Parker tradition.”
Lissa turned back to her father, her best hope for approval. “But it does. It’s true. I can’t be a soldier like you were, Father, but at least I’ll be supporting the soldiers. And I won’t be on a battlefield. I’ll be behind the lines.”
Aunt Bobbie stood to her full, albeit meager, height of five feet, then crossed the room to take a place beside Lissa. She patted Lissa’s hand. “You must understand your parents’ point of view, Liss. Since Chelsea, they have a right to be a little protective, haven’t they?”
Lissa took a deep breath. This was an argument she’d prepared for. “No, I don’t see it that way at all.”
Her mother gasped.
Lissa met her mother’s hurt surprise. “You’ve done all you can, you and Father, to raise your children. You’ve taught us our faith, our loyalties, our manners, our work ethic. As I see it, you’ve done your job. Now it’s our turn to make decisions. Cassie chose, and now she’s engaged to William. As for Chelsea, you did all you could.”
Her mother stood, and Lissa followed on her heels. Adelia Parker was tall and thin, with dark hair always pulled back to a neat bun. Her face was narrow, and Lissa had grown to wonder if that was why she smiled so rarely. There just wasn’t enough room.
“The fact that she died is nobody’s fault, Mama. She’s with the Lord. What more could any of us have done?”
Lissa’s father stood, too, and put his hands on Lissa’s shoulders. He was a big man, compared to his petite sister. Though Lissa was small-boned like her mother, she was tall like her father. “Stop houndin’ your mother, Liss. You make it sound like we’ve grieved long enough. It was the Lord’s doing, you say. Well, we believe that, too, but you don’t stop missing your child, grieving that she won’t get to do all the things we hoped for her, no matter how much time goes by. It’s been less than a year.”
Aunt Bobbie approached. “But this isn’t really about Chelsea, is it? We were talking about Lissa and her decision to join the Red Cross and head overseas.”
Lissa’s mother turned and Lissa faced her as her father’s hands dropped to his side. She squared her shoulders, prepared to meet her mother’s objections.
“Do you have any idea what it will be like?” Her mother’s voice was shrill, the way it sounded when she was tired or worried. “If you think it’ll be some romantic, heroic jaunt, you’ll be disappointed. The papers tell how they don’t have proper supplies, proper care, proper food. That war has devastated Europe these past two years, Lissa. And you want to join in?”
Lissa had a ready retort about having seen the same newspapers. That was part of the reason she felt compelled to go, precisely because of the great need. But she choked back a hasty reply. Instead, she went the route she’d rehearsed. “Mama, why should I stay here, in the comfort of my own home, when our country has just declared war? Because I’m a girl? Why should this family be spared from the war because I have no brothers? Do you think Grandma wanted Father to go when we fought the Spanish? Do you think Grandpa’s mother wanted to see her sons fight for the Union, against other Virginians, in the War Between the States? All the way back to the battle for Independence, nearly every one of the mothers in our family had to watch children go off to war for the good of this country—until now.”
She paused, only because she was afraid her mother had stopped listening, but when her mother looked at her, Lissa started again. “I’m not going to the battlefield, Mama. I’m going to support the soldiers, to bandage their wounds and try to ease their suffering as best someone can.” She turned back to her father. “Isn’t that what the Parkers stand for?”
He put a hand on one of her shoulders, and the promise of a smile touched his face. “Lissa, you make me proud ever’ day. Your words are Parker, through and through. And maybe I’m a selfish Parker, selfish to think we’ve lost enough, your mama and me, with Chelsea. Once somethin’ bad happens, you know you’re not immune. We don’t want to lose you, too.”
“Oh, Father, why should you lose me? I’m in the hands of God, you know.”
Lissa welcomed his laugh. She watched her father find her mother’s gaze and hold it steady. “Is this the way it should be, Addie? Our own Lissy Rose should remind us of our faith, the faith God gave her through us?”
Her father drew Lissa into his arms, and with his long reach pulled his wife into the embrace. Lissa saw her mother’s face soften, even as her eyes swelled with tears.
“Well,” her mother said unsteadily, “I could remind you of all the responsibilities you have here, like working with Dr. Sherman, and the children who need you at the school. How will they get along without the best nurse in the county? Besides that, how will Aunt Bobbie carry on all those meetings you hold with the Daughters?”
From beyond their huddle Lissa heard her Aunt Bobbie guffaw. “Oh look out; she’s pulling out the big guns now, Liss! Not even a member, and she’s worried about the Daughters of the American Revolution.”
“I think Aunt Bobbie will manage to take care of the group,” Lissa quipped, enjoying her parents’ embrace. She knew they weren’t exactly supporting her decision, but she could ease their worry or at least put it off. “I won’t go until after Cassie’s wedding. I’ll still be home for the next few months.”
Her mother pulled back and raised a brow. “What about Penny? Have you told her yet?”
Lissa smiled broadly. “She’s coming with me.”

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