The Blessing of Hope

"Is Daddy coming home soon?"

I balance my youngest daughter, Nancy, on my hip. Together, we stand at the window watching as the occasional car drives past in the dim light of the evening. In the background, the radio plays, a soft melody occasionally disrupted by the crackling of static.

My eldest, Patricia, sits on the floor behind me, her ragdoll bunny tucked into the crook of her arm. It was Patricia who spoke.

"Yes, sweetheart."

I hope.

Three years ago, my husband was deployed for the war. Nancy was only a baby. The three of us, Nancy, Patricia, and I, have been waiting for him to come home.

I haven't told them he's missing.

The letter arrived five months ago, and now lies at the back of my underwear draw, where neither of the girls can reach it. The moment I got that letter, the moment I read it, my expectancy of my husband arriving home morphed into something dangerous to set your heart on.

Hope.

My heart bleeds hope.

It pumps it around my body with every beat, the only thing keeping me smiling, the only thing keeping the doubts that lace the edges of my thoughts from overwhelming me entirely.

I know I'm foolish. I know it's stupid of me to let my heart jump at every door knock, at every phone ring. I know it's unreliable to spend my days waiting for the letter that tells me he's been found. But I also know that if I don't hope, I'll die.

Nancy squirms in my arms, and I place her on the ground instinctively. I know I need to get dinner on, but I can't help the last glance I throw over my shoulder at the street outside, hoping for a glimpse of the mailman.

A flash of dark green out of the corner of my eye sets my heart beating two time, but the hope swelling in my chest dies once I see it was only an umbrella caught by the wind.

I draw the curtain and turn away from the window. Nancy and Patricia follow me into the kitchen, the former finding a doll on the ground to play with and the latter shadowing me all the way to the stove.

"Can I help you tonight, Mummy?" Patricia asks.

"Sure, darling. I'm making soup." I say, tying an apron around my waist. I absent mindedly turn the wedding band on my finger. "But Mary Bunny has to sit on the bench. Can you please get me an onion from the pantry?"

Patricia places her doll on the bench behind me before running over to the pantry to get the onion, her feet slapping against the floorboards.

My thoughts drift back to the letter, and to the scenarios I've made up in my head that I've come to hope on so desperately. The idea of my husband knocking on the door, surprising us all. The idea of the mailman delivering a letter telling me he's been found, that he's coming home in a few days.

"Here Mummy."

Patricia passes me an onion, the papery outer layer crinkling between her stubby fingers.

"Thank you, darling. Next I need a potato and some carrots."

I pull a chopping board from the cupboard below me and a knife from its holder and begin to dice the onion. Then a knock sounds at the door.

I drop the onion and send the knife clattering against the benchtop. I compose myself on the way to the door, smoothing my hands over the apron. I pull the door open, a massive smile giving away the hope coursing through me.

"I've missed you..." I trail off at the sight of my elderly next-door neighbour, Hazel Stear.

"I missed you too?" She says slowly. Then she holds up a piece of paper in her hand. "I got your mail."

The hope returns twice-fold but dies even quicker once I see the bank logo on the envelope marking it as a bill.

"Thank you, Hazel. Sorry, but I thought you might've been...you know."

"Ah." Hazel says nodding. "I understand. But don't give up hope just yet, dear." She pats my cheek with an age-weathered hand before turning around and stepping over the hedge separating my house from hers.

I close the door, throwing the letter onto a tray beside it. I sigh.

 I'm tired of hoping. I'm tired of swimming in the sea of uncertainty I've been drowning in for three years. I'm so, so tired.

But for some reason, I can't stop hoping.

Patricia helps me finish dinner, and together the three of us sit around the dining table. I have to flick on the light above us, the sun having dipped well below the horizon by now. Nancy swings her legs beneath the table, happy and oblivious to my inner turmoil.

I can't get a grip on myself. I need to stop this, this immature childish hope that he'll come home.

Because if he doesn't, I know I'll shatter like a China pot dropped from a great height.

"Finished!" Patricia cries, letting her spoon clatter against her ceramic bowl.

"Me too!" Nancy adds, mimicking her sister and letting her spoon drop as well.

"Good job girls!" I give them a weary smile. "Go get your pyjamas, I'll come to bathe you in a minute."

They run off, giggling.

I collect up the plates and deposit them in the sink by the stove. Then I roll up my sleeves and walk down the hallway to the bathroom.

Inside the bathroom, Nancy sits on a stool, the back of her dress unbuttoned. Patricia stands behind her, carefully tugging Nancy's hair out of its tight braid. Their pyjamas lay in a heap in the middle of the room.

"Ow!" Nancy cries. "That hurt!"

"Sorry, Nancy, but if you didn't squirm so much, maybe I wouldn't pull it!" Patricia snaps.

"Here girls, let Mummy." I say, shooing Patricia away from Nancy's hair before a full argument could break out.

I finish untying Nancy's hair, then slide their pyjamas to the side with my foot so that I can reach the bath faucet. Hot water streams out of the tap, and I turn on the cold as well so that it isn't too hot.

"Mummy, can you help me unbutton my dress?" Patricia asks.

"Of course, sweetheart. Turn around."

I undo her buttons, letting the dress slip off her shoulders to the floor. Then I help Nancy shimmy out of her own dress, placing both the dresses into the washing basket by the door.

"Can I get in now?" Nancy says, bouncing on the balls of her bare feet.

I lean over the side of the tub to see how full it is.

"Yes, I think it's full enough."

I shut off the water whilst Nancy and Patricia lower themselves into the tub.

"Do you want your ducks?" I ask the two of them.

"Yes please Mummy!" They say in unison.

I retrieve the ducks from the wicker basket on a shelf above the bath. The girls both squeal with delight when I give it to them.

I let them play, sinking back into my own mind, my own thoughts. Then I play the same game I've played with myself for years, trying to reason with myself and eradicate the stupid hope that grips tight around my chest like a vice.

And always, always, failing.

Once their fingers are wrinkled and their skin is clean, I drag Nancy and Patricia from the bathtub and dress them, tucking them into bed after they've brushed their teeth and Patricia has gotten Mary Bunny back from the kitchen.

"Goodnight, sweetheart." I say, kissing Nancy on the forehead.

"Goodnight, Mummy."

"Goodnight, darling." I say, kissing Patricia on the forehead.

"Goodnight, Mummy."

Then I flick off the light and close their door.

I return to the kitchen, running the sink with water and begin to scrub the dishes.

I'm overcome with the urge to cry. I think about all the stories of soldiers returning from war to wives and children, each and every one of them declared heroes. Albeit they come back changed by the horrors of war, they still come back.

They still come home.

And why, why, why am I stuck in this loop of hoping and despairing.

Why do I have to wait?

Why can't my soldier come home?

For a second time that evening, a knock sounds at the door.

This one urgent.

I fight hard to keep my hopes at bay, but why else would someone be at the door at - I check the clock - eight-fifteen at night?

I can make out a silhouette through the frosted glass of the door. It stands tall and rigid, the posture of someone disciplined.

The posture of a soldier.

I open the door.

...Or the posture of an army postman.

"Mrs. John Cohen?" The postman asks.

"Yes?" I reply.

"A telegram from the twenty-eighth battalion, General de Vere."

My heartbeat is loud in my ears.

"Th-thank you." I take the telegram from his outstretched hand.

The postman nods, inclining his head in a bow. Then he turns on his heel, mounting his bicycle and disappearing down the street.

I close the door behind me.

I slip a shaking finger under the envelope flap.

I take out the telegram, slowly.

Soldier John Cohen has been killed in captivity on the eighteenth of May, nineteen forty-four.

For a moment I am numb.

I read it again and again. Then I walk, as if in a stupor, to my room. I close the door with a soft click.

My legs give out beneath me. I collapse to the floor, gasping for air. The telegram slips from my hand, landing a few feet away. I crawl toward it, crumpling it in my fist. I clutch it to my chest a sob slipping out from between my lips. An ache so terrible I can hardly think spreads over me, starting in my chest and blossoming outward to the tips of my fingers, the tips of my toes. Tears spill over my cheeks. They flow into my mouth, and they taste salty. I reach for a pillow, shoving it to my face and screaming into it. I scream until my throat is raw, until the tears flow silently. I fall to my side, curling up on the rough carpet.

I didn't think I could hurt so much. I didn't think I could cry so many tears. I didn't think I could scream with such anguish.

I didn't think John would die.

What am I meant to tell the girls? How on earth does one tell their children that Daddy is never coming back? Ever?

…

Grief renders one numb to the passing of time. The hours of the night slip away into nothingness. I wonder how the moon can still climb through the sky, marking the passage of time, when for myself time stopped long ago.

I think I've known for a long time that he was gone. I just couldn't face the pain of saying it aloud.

And I've gotten angry at myself so many times for hoping.

I find it strange, hoping. It isn't quite an emotion, isn't quite an action. More of a state of mind, a state in which the rational part of yourself surrenders to the irrational. Almost as if your soul itself knows you cannot bear the brunt of reality. And it can be comforting, that blind protection from pain. But the biggest flaw of hoping is that when the reality and pain is shoved in your face, that hope disappears, as though it was steady ground that crumbled, leaving you flailing and lost. Drowning.

But only now do I realise the blessing of that ignorance.

For I have never felt worse than I do now.

Only now do I realise the blessing of hope.