Waving Good-Bye

There's a little thrift store I like to go to on an obscure street in my neighborhood. I sometimes find neat little trinkets, old historic photographs, ornate jewelry. I'm good friends with some of the workers, like Jillian.

"Hi, Jill!" I call cheerfully as I enter the doors.

"Hey, Ali!" she answers fom the back room, appearing a moment later with a smile.

"Have anything new that's particularly interesting?" I ask. I start browsing the first shelf, admiring a small cat figurine with a bobble-head.

Jill laughs. "Not since last Tuesday. Except for some notebooks, I suppose."

"I need a notebook actually, I love to make lists! Where are they?"

Jill points toward the back, and I start looking at the notebooks on the stand. A black moleskin one with a faint heart engraved on the cover catches my eye, and I take it to the front counter.

"You're leaving already?" Jill asks incredulously.

"I've got to go, unfortunately. I have some errands to run. Thank you, Jill."

I need to start budgeting. I'm on the low income side of the spectrum, working in a retail store down the street from the vintage thrift store. With the notebook under my arm, I enter the break room before my shift, pencil in hand. No time like the present to start my budgeting list.

I turn to the inner front cover, where it has space for me to write my own name. But, staring hard at the line on the page, I recognize faded pencil marks – letters, a name, already on the page. It's barely visible.

"Frederick Jameson," I read under my breath. Under the line, barely decipherable, are the words: To my dearest love.

The words are so faded that I can't blame the thrift shop for missing them. But my curiosity now is overwhelming, so I turn to the first lined page.

My dearest Frederick,

This notebook is dedicated to you. May it be as eternal as our love.

Until the day you return to me, my love.

A small smile crosses my face. I glance at the clock, then close the notebook with a sigh. I'll have to wait until after my shift to see if there are more sweet words here for Frederick Jameson.

My love,

You were sent to fight in the war just over a week ago. San Francisco just isn't the same without you. Not a day goes by that I don't think about your last words to me.

Already I can feel my resolve solidifying. We are unable to have children, and you are away serving our country – I feel that I must do the same. You will already know from my letter that I have spoken to recruiters for the Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service and been enlisted. I travel to New York City in a week. My new temporary address will have been included.

I know you only want to protect me and defend our country. But I hope you are pleased by my decision.

What I haven't told you, and won't until you return, is what I plan on doing with the earned income. When you come home, and it is safe to travel once again, we are going to see the world, you and I.

Until then, my heart.

I have been scouring the entire notebook for the last two days, looking for traces of other writing from this mysterious Frederick's lover. There isn't much in the notebook; however, I can't help but wonder how Frederick Jameson could have donated such a sentimental piece, unless he hadn't ever found it in the first place.

I've always been a hopeless romantic, and I feel obligated to find him and return it to him.

After some brief Internet searches, I've found that WAVES was the women's Naval Reserve branch during World War II, dating this notebook back almost 70 years. I wonder where this couple is now, and I wonder how I could ever hope to find them.

"Frederick Jameson" doesn't turn out many leads, and adding "veteran" to the search doesn't improve it much. But I do see a fine-lined reference to a Saint Patrick's Nursing Home, and his approximate age would fit such a query. So that's where I go next.

"And are you related to Mr. Jameson, Miss Ali?" the receptionist asks.

"I am not."

"How do you know him?" At my blank face, she adds apologetically, "Sorry for the questions. We are required to ask whenever a visitor comes in."

"Well, I – I don't," I stammer, suddenly worried that she won't let me in to see him. "Long story short, I found this notebook dedicated to him." I show her the delicate heart engraving on the cover. "It seems to be from a significant other back during World War II. I just thought he might like to have it back."

The receptionist looks at the notebook for a moment, then at me. She slowly picks up her phone and presses a button. "Yes, Sarah? It's Lily from reception. It would appear that Frederick Jameson has a visitor with something to return to him."

As Sarah leads me away from the reception desk, I smile back at Lily. "Thank you."

The nursing home isn't large, but the hallways Sarah takes me down all look the same, and I don't know how they manage to navigate their way to where they're going. Somehow, we arrive at door 804. "Frederick's right in here. Just press the button on the wall if you need anything else," Sarah tells me in a quiet, friendly voice. I nod and carefully enter the room.

An old, wrinkled man is in the bed against the wall. The room is bare, no flowers or balloons. Not even friendly cards on the nightstand. He is sitting up, facing away from me.

Softly, I ask, "Are you Frederick Jameson?"

He starts, not turning around for several seconds. When our eyes meet, my heart shivers unpleasantly at the lonely sadness swimming in his. "Yes, I am. Who… Who are you?"

"I'm Ali. I'm sorry to come in unannounced…"

"How can I help you, Ali?" He sounds tired.

"It's sort of a long story, and I'm not sure if you're who I'm looking for…"

At his gesture, I sit and tell him about finding the notebook in the thrift store, about seeing the writing inside of it, about the mysterious woman who'd joined WAVES with no other leads except for his name. As I speak, his eyes become wide, suddenly intense.

"Yes, I fought in the war," he confirms impatiently. "Please, let me see the book."

Handing him the notebook, I anxiously watch him. He flips to the inside cover and quickly brings out reading glasses, staring hard at the name. The color drains from his face, and for a moment I'm scared that it's upset him. But then he lets out a choked noise and smiles, tears springing to his brown eyes.

He casts those unexpectedly bright eyes on me. "My darling fiancée, Edith. I would recognize her handwriting anywhere, even after all these years." He looks back down at the book. "Everything back then was so disorganized and hectic… One day her letters just stopped coming. She had been sick, terribly sick, but no one knew what had happened to her. I didn't know who to ask. They didn't pay as much attention to those who were still serving stateside like her."

I sit with him while he flips through the scarce entries in the book, and still while he flips through them a second time, letting out choked sobs occasionally. At his apparent change in behavior, I feel tears in my own eyes as well. The inner romantic in me, coming out once again.

As much as I want to let him dwell over her writings, his own questions in his eyes, my curiosity becomes too much for me. "I hate to be nosy, but I have to ask. What were your last words to Edith?"

A wistful smile works into his expression. "I told her that we would marry as soon as I returned. That I would always come back to her, and that was a promise."

For a long time, we sit in silence. He seems to be lost in memories, and I let him stay there. Eventually, he looks a little confused. "She… I never knew she was saving money for us." With great effort, he lays back on the bed, and his eyes travel downwards. I follow his gaze to realize for the first time, with a pang of sorrow, that both of his legs are gone.

Suddenly, I know what he's thinking and what to say in response. "She would want you to."

He looks at me, lips trembling. "She wanted us to travel together."

My voice is soft as I answer, "It's different now. She would want you to have your legs back."

Gratefully, he blinks and glances lovingly at the notebook. "I still have her identification numbers. I can finally make it all worth her while."

After he agrees to give me a call before getting his prosthetic legs, I leave him in peace to reminisce about Edith, finally at peace once again.

The call comes unexpectedly, but I recognize Frederick's voice right away.

"I'm getting my new legs today," he informs me.

"Congratulations! When are you – "

"There's something I want you to have. In return for what you've given me and my dear Edith."

"Oh, no, Frederick, I – "

"No, Ali. I'm old now, and I'll be joining Edith soon enough. She would want you to have this, too."

In a few days, I'm staring at the five thousand dollar check he's mailed to me with fresh tears in my eyes. The other fifteen thousand went to his new legs.

In three years, I'm attending his funeral. Even in the casket, a smile remains on his face, images and memories of Edith undoubtedly behind his eyes in his final moments. I return the smile, trying to keep myself from crying. I don't say much in front of the small crowd, but I know that it's enough to honor him and his service.

The five thousand dollars isn't much for the VA medical center I donate to. But the reuniting of Frederick and Edith's memory is, and forever will be, priceless to me.