Nurse Kathy Rose is running away. She can't bear to live in the same neighborhood on the south side of Boston where she and her husband both grew up. Bill was dead, killed in a German POW camp after the Battle of the Bulge. So she packs up her bags...
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August, 1945
"Operator? This is Mrs. Dorothy Rose of 651 East Third Street, I would like to place a call to Dr. Matthew March of 145 Vale, number 761... no, thank you. I'll hold."
The laughter of little girls drifted through the open window as they skipped over hopscotch boxes down the sidewalk. Men were shouting at a radio where they sat on a stoop, listening to the Red Sox lose to the Yankees once again. For a moment, it was almost as though nothing had changed.
"Hello, Matthew. How are you? Well, we are doing alright, I suppose."
Her mother's voice dropped, but Kathleen could still hear her in the kitchen. Aunt Frances was tapping her fingers loudly on the table, a nervous habit.
"Honestly, we are still concerned. She isn't eating. She's skinny as a rail and she hasn't moved from her seat by the parlor window for three days... she has been listening to radio programs, that '20,000 Leagues Under the Sea' production they just did and crime mysteries. And she's been reading a Dick Tracy novel, a few dime store romances. But mostly, she just stares out at the street."
Her mother cleared her throat as her voice wavered with emotion. A staunch Irish Catholic who had survived the Depression after her husband died of influenza, Dorothy Rose was a force to be reckoned with. Despite the heavy cloud she was under, Kathleen felt a twinge of panic at the sound. It took a lot to rattle her mother. Even more to rattle Aunt Frances who was tapping ever louder on the table.
"Francie, will you stop that?" Dorothy hissed at her younger sister. "Yes, Matthew. She seemed to be doing better last month after the initial shock. She's been working hard at the military hospital in the burn unit with the boys sent back from combat. She was holding up well. But then, after Japan surrendered, she just... stopped."
"Catatonic," Aunt Frances hissed. "Catatonic is the word, Dorothy. Tell him."
"Yes, of course, we'll keep you informed. Tomorrow? We would appreciate it, thank you. We'll see you then. Good bye."
The front door opened. Kathleen hadn't realized that it was already three o'clock. Alice tip toed into the parlor, her saddle shoes barely making a sound on the hardwood. Kathleen did not turn as Alice flipped on the radio and sat in the chair beside her, her school books thudding down at her feet.
"It's our favorite drama," her little cousin said, her voice lilting with hope. Alice sat forward in her seat and rested a hand on the arm rest of Kathleen's chair. "I can't wait to see if they catch the German spy before he can escape this episode."
Kathleen's lips curved in the semblance of a smile, her teeth remaining hidden, dull gaze fixed on the simmering street.
"How..." Kathleen's voice cracked from disuse. She swallowed dryly.
"Do you want some water?"
"No. Thank you. How was your summer course today?"
"Very good! We finished up organic chemistry and now we are onto the next rousing set of seminars," Alice said, excited to hear her cousin's voice for the first time in days.
