Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

matter how clearly he painted the picture, we couldn’t imagine. Like my brothers, he was scarred inside and out. But at least he was meeting my eyes now. He was trusting me again. I would go as slowly as he needed me to go.

He finished his second bowl, and the bread was long gone.

“How about we call it a day? We can come back tomorrow—you looked like you enjoyed the soup.”

He smiled, slow but with a hint of confidence. “Yeah. It’s pretty good. Tomorrow is fine with me.”

I met Max almost every day, sometimes alone, sometimes with Ian. It was always at the Senator out of habit, and the waitresses started leaving a booth open for us. Until he changed his order, they automatically brought Max two bowls of soup every time. I wondered if they were doing it because they knew he was a veteran. That he’d offered his life for theirs. I hoped so.

Max had good days and bad ones. On the good ones, he talked on and on. On the bad ones he basically stared into his hands. The ashtray was almost always alarmingly full. The first time I tried to nudge him out of a daze, he looked at me like he didn’t recognize me at all, then he’d simply left the restaurant. It reminded me of Jimmy’s terse exit from our family dinner, though Max hadn’t seemed angry, just confused. I learned not to press him when he was in one of his moods. But over time, he became more and more willing to talk, and the bad days were fewer in between.

At the end of one of our lunches, when it was just the two of us there, Max asked about my brothers. He sagged a little bit, hearing about Liam and Mark.

“It’s Jimmy I’m really worried about though,” I said, filling him in on all that had happened.

“Jimmy’s a fighter,” he said. “He’ll pull through.”

“How are you adjusting to being back? In your head, I mean.”

After his first night at home, Hannah had called me, letting me know about his strange behaviour. She’d assured me he would recover, and I loved her for believing it. But no one knew what would happen with any of our brothers.

“I’m trying.” He stubbed out his ever-present cigarette. “When I was in Newfoundland, then for a little while in Hong Kong, Hannah would write to me all the time, telling me stories about her kids. Used to break my heart, knowing I was missing so much of their childhood. Then, after we were in the camp, the letters stopped, and I started to accept that I might never see them again. I promised myself that if I ever did make it back, I’d be better than what I was. I’d be a better brother and uncle, and I’d be a better son.” He nodded. “I’m trying. I’m trying to live.”

But our conversations about family never went further than that. He still hadn’t brought up Richie, and I was hesitant to ask. I didn’t want to ruin the fragile bond we’d established.

One day, when he was telling Ian and me about working in the mines, I noticed him rubbing his wrists.

“What are you thinking right now?” I asked.

He lifted his hands, turning them so he could see his palms, then the backs. “I was thinking how strange it is not to have shackles on my wrists anymore. How unfamiliar I am with the concept of freedom. Freedom was something I took for granted all my life. I promise you, I never will again. No more barbed wire or ropes or chains. No more biting down on every single thing I want to say, knowing I was risking my life by saying it.” He paused. “No more wishing that someone would either rescue me or kill me.”

I’d never get used to this, I realized. The pain they’d inflicted on him, the way they’d reduced him in so many ways. “You never should have had to go through any of that. None of you should. Someone needs to make it up to you somehow.”

“Not possible,” Max said.

Ian nodded. “There’ll be a compensation package, I imagine.”

Max smiled. “There you go, Moll. Your next research project.”

It was an innocent suggestion, but I felt Ian stiffen beside me. The past few weeks had been full of many intensely personal moments for Max. He’d told us almost everything about his experience in Hong Kong and Japan, but once in a while a comment or memory would slip out that made it clear we’d always been close. Nothing romantic was ever hinted at, just a very deep, lifelong friendship. Sometimes I wondered how much Ian noticed, and what he was thinking, but he never said anything.

The end of the year was drawing near. With everything else going on, December had snuck up on us, and our wedding would be here before we knew it. Ian had booked the church for Christmas Day, my mother had helped me sew my dress, and Hannah had agreed to be my maid of honour. Everything was ready to go.

Our interviews with Max were drawing to a close, which had to happen eventually, but I’d chosen to ignore that. I could have talked with him forever. One day, when Ian couldn’t come, I decided to do something special for Max, as a thank-you. I called ahead and asked the Senator to serve him a dessert I had made myself. When the waitress brought it to the table, she set the plate in front of Max, and he stared in amazement.

“Is that rugelach?” he asked. “That’s not on the menu.”

The waitress smiled, in on the surprise. “Your girlfriend made them. She said you loved them as kids.”

My face burned, but Max didn’t correct the waitress. Instead, he reached for one. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything, Max,” I replied.

Our eyes met, and neither of us looked away. It was impossible not to know what he was thinking about, because I was thinking