The Unfinished Gift Read online

  All that was left of Shawn.

  He looked down at the cigar box sitting on the coffee table. He couldn’t just walk upstairs now, not unless it was the last time for the night; he’d never make it back down. And what if Patrick woke up before he did in the morning, came down to find this mess?

  No, a few more letters and he’d have sampled the entire stack. Painful as it was, he decided he had to read at least a few more. Then he’d put things back where they belonged and head up the stairs.

  September 6, 1943

  My darling Liz,

  Sorry to hear you lost your job at the bakery. But I have good news, I’ve been promoted to captain, which brings a decent pay raise. Should cover whatever money you’ve lost. I’ll let you decide if you need to find other work after you get my next check. I know you’ll do what’s best. I’m so proud of the way you’ve been handling things while I’m gone.

  I’ve noticed something in your last batch of letters, hinting at wanting to take Patrick to see my father (I think that’s where the hints are going). You know how I feel about this, but I can see you have no intention of dropping the idea altogether. So let’s stop hinting. Go ahead and write me a letter explaining exactly what you’re thinking. Being around life and death issues on a regular basis has a way of softening the heart.

  So much going on here, wish I could speak freely. Twelve more missions and that day will finally come. That means I’m past the halfway mark of 25. Then you’ll be in my arms again, my love. Just imagine. I do . . . all the time.

  All my love,

  Shawn

  Oct. 3, 1943

  My darling,

  Finally got your batch of letters (we wondered if the mail ship got sunk). You can’t imagine how precious they are to me. I hold each one like thousand dollar bills. When they come, I drop everything until I read them, or if the army delays me, I think of nothing else until I get back to them. I can think of no sadder sight on this earth than a soldier left standing empty-handed after mail call is through.

  Had an interesting thing happen on my last mission. The plane directly to our left carried one of those newsreel photographers taking movies of our flight. He definitely got an eyeful (got pounced twice by German fighters and the flak was so thick you could walk on it). The thing is, I’m sure my plane will be in that footage. How can it not be, we were right next to him? So be on the lookout at the theaters a few weeks from now. Tell Patrick if he sees a bunch of B-17s in the air to be looking for my plane, “Mama’s Kitchen.” Tell him that’s his daddy flying that thing. I miss you both so much.

  All my love,

  Shawn

  November 18, 1943

  Dear Liz,

  Sorry about ignoring your letter about my dad. You’re right, I did get it, read it several times, in fact. But I just wasn’t ready to respond. Here I’d given you the green light to make your case, then I chickened out. I am facing mortal danger in enemy skies on a regular basis, and I’m afraid to face my own heart and where it may lead on this thing.

  Well, your last appeal did get through. I’ve never thought about forgiveness quite that way before. That it’s a command from Christ, not a suggestion. And that my motivation needs to be the forgiveness I have received, not that the other party deserves it. I don’t deserve the mercy God has shown me, either. I guess I had been holding out, waiting for my dad to make the first move, and feeling justified until he did. But I know that day may never come, and I’m keeping Patrick from ever knowing his own grandfather because of my stubborn pride. I’ve asked God to forgive me, and now I’m asking you. One day, by God’s grace, I hope to be able to do the same with him. You have my permission to make contact with him. Have no idea what he’ll do or say, but I’ll pray.

  Love you so much,

  Shawn

  Collins set the letter down and sat back, shaking his head in quiet resignation to a reality he could no longer ignore. He had been all wrong about Shawn’s wife Elizabeth, totally wrong. The evidence was clear. She had been trying to bring him and Shawn together, not keep them apart. And now—with this letter—it was clear she had finally broken through.

  Collins noticed that he was finally near the bottom of the stack, only a couple more left to go. He looked again at the date of this last letter: “Nov. 18, 1943.” Just over a month ago, only four weeks before the car accident that took Elizabeth’s life. A sweeping sadness engulfed him now. Elizabeth never knew she had so little time left. And she had gone so early in life. At least he and Ida had shared a life together, an entire life. But then a sadder thought . . . at least for Collins. Shawn and his wife Elizabeth were already reunited.

  Collins was the one left alone.

  The tears started flowing once more. But he forced himself to read on; he was so near the end.

  Just two more letters.

  November 22, 1943

  Dear Liz,

  I am so cold as I write this. My hand is literally trembling. I write a little, breathe on my knuckles, write a little more. Remember how I used to be the one to keep you warm? You’d stick your freezing hands under my sweater—I’d jump at the shock? Couldn’t help you now.

  Another Thanksgiving apart. What will you and Patrick be doing, I wonder. I still remember last year . . . the smell of turkey throughout the apartment, your wonderful mashed potatoes, the stuffing and green beans, all smothered in gravy, Christmas music on the radio. Why do I torment myself this way? I’m facing a mess hall full of guys, none of whom wants to be here, standing in line as some guy slaps down a pile of Thanksgiving food, all flung together in a mush.

  I am praying this will be our last Thanksgiving apart. It could be. It’s what I live for—seeing you again, holding you in my arms. Tell Patrick how proud I am of him for taking such good care of you.

  All my love,

  Shawn

  December 6, 1943

  My Darling Liz,

  Thank you so much for sending that new picture of you and Patrick. My heart skipped a beat when it fell out of the envelope. You don’t know how precious it is to get a fresh glimpse of your face again. Could you even be more beautiful than before? And Patrick, he looks like he’s grown 2 or 3 inches, standing there next to you.

  John Talbot, a new pilot bunking with us, was looking over my shoulder and said, “Is THAT your wife?” He had that same dazed look so many men would get when we’d walk around together (and it was all I could do to keep myself from decking them). But I just said, “Can you believe I have this waiting for me back home?” How did I ever wind up with you? You are so out of my league.

  I’ve included twenty-two dollars with this letter. Buy yourself and Patrick something nice for Christmas (I got it from a wealthy English gentleman, after I stopped to change his flat tire . . . wouldn’t take no for an answer). It must be meant for you.

  Merry Christmas and all my love,

  Shawn

  P.S. Looking forward to hearing all about your big adventure with my father.

  Collins gently laid the last letter back in the shoe box and sat up straight.

  The date on it was December 6; Shawn had written it just a few weeks ago. And considering how long it took military mail to reach home, Elizabeth must have read this just a day or two before the car accident that ended her life. She would not be waiting for Shawn when he got home, and Shawn would not be coming home. She was gone; now Shawn was gone. His Ida, gone. And here he was in this chair, this room, this house, the least worthy of them all to be spared.

  What purpose could God have in that?

  His head turned slowly toward the bottle of whiskey. He reached for it with an unsteady hand, determined not to drink from the bottle. He set it in front of him, then reached for the shot glass sitting on its side. But he knocked it over trying to right it, and it slammed to the floor. It didn’t shatter but made such a noise that it startled him.

  After a few hushed minutes, it became clear Patrick had not been aroused. Collins released the pent-up air in his lungs an
d carefully poured. He had to keep the mouth of the bottle several inches away from the glass, to keep them from clinking together, his hand was shaking so. The whiskey went down in a single shot, and it warmed his insides, the only warmth he felt.

  All his comfortable routines had been shattered the day Patrick arrived, but now he realized it was not only his present life that had been overturned, but his past and his future as well. His memories, just moments ago arrayed like statues on a well-manicured lawn, were now broken in pieces. Not a single one intact. He’d had it all wrong from the beginning.

  About everything.

  Elizabeth did not hate him, though now for the life of him he could not understand why. She had not tried to keep Shawn away, probably never had. She had been trying to push them back together, just like Ida would have wanted. And she succeeded, at least in part. Shawn had given her permission to visit. That had to be the “big adventure” Shawn spoke of in the “P.S.” of this last letter. Elizabeth was planning to visit him, and to bring Patrick.

  His heart sank as he thought on it. He knew how he’d have responded. His hatred and prejudice would have been right there at the surface. And he’d likely not have kept a civil tongue, maybe even run them both off with a broom or a stick. And Ida would have been watching from heaven, and so would God. And Collins might have put his mortal soul in peril by the whole exchange.

  Tears started to fall again from his face, directly onto the table, his head bowed so low. What a waste of a man he had become. What a total waste of a man.

  “Elizabeth,” he said aloud. “Was a mercy you never got your chance to visit. I’d have ruined it for us all.”

  After composing himself a bit, he decided to put things back the way they were and head up to bed. He wasn’t sure he could sleep but was exhausted enough to try. He put the letters back in the shoe box exactly as he’d found them. But really, who was left to know any better?

  He started to slide the box back into the corner when his eyes fell on the telegram. He picked it up, trying to decide what to do with it. Better in the box, he thought, than lying around in the open for Patrick to find.

  He reopened the box and was just about to put the telegram in when two other papers caught his eye. They were wedged up against the side of the box beside a hairbrush, folded in thirds. Collins lifted them out and noticed they were larger than Shawn’s letters but looked to be letters for sure, on two different kinds of stationery.

  He sat back on the chair, holding them both, and picked one to read and set the other on his lap. As soon as he unfolded the pages, his hands began to tremble.

  It was Ida’s handwriting.

  A bit shaky, the way she wrote near the end, but it was unmistakably her writing. At the top of the letter, he was startled as he read the words “Dear Elizabeth.”

  It was a letter from Ida to Shawn’s wife.

  Dear Elizabeth,

  Thank you so much for your visits of late. I’m sorry we have to be so sneaky, but I couldn’t take the chance that Ian would find out. He’s just not ready for something like that, but I know my time is short, and I can’t wait around for his heart to change. I know God understands and will forgive me going against his wishes.

  How I hoped I could see Patrick in person, but the hospital won’t allow it. But I cherish the picture you brought of him. I look at it often. You can’t imagine how much like Shawn he looks. I have asked one of the nurses a favor, and she assures me she will oblige. When my time comes, I explained this picture must be returned to you without Ian’s knowledge. He’ll have enough to worry about without trying to handle this (that we’ve been visiting).

  There is only one prayer I pray every day, that God would reveal himself to my husband before he dies, and that my husband would come to know him the way I have these past few months. I know that would be enough to melt his cold heart and restore his relationship with you all.

  I have you to thank, Elizabeth, for the change in my heart. Before you shared the gospel with me, I must admit, though I’ve believed in God all these years, I dreaded the thought of my final hour and what fate might await me. Ian always said I’d go straight to heaven, but he’s only judging the outside. God knows the sins of my heart, and I was sure great suffering awaited me the moment this illness took its final stroke.

  But I did as you said and began to read the Bible, starting with the Gospels. I had never read the Bible in all my life.

  But I saw my Savior as I read, unfolding within the pages, and marveled at his words and deeds. And it has changed me completely. Jesus is so real to me now, and now I can’t wait to see him face to face. I read the verses in Paul’s epistles that you gave me and, combined with the Gospels, I now understand what you meant about Jesus dying for my sins on the cross, once for all. Something happened in my heart as I read, and I knew it was all true.

  Then for the first time, maybe in my life, I talked to Jesus without formal words or recited prayers. And a peace and joy came over me like I’ve never known. Right then, I knew I had no reason to fear my death. I lay here now, my body racked with pain, life ebbing away, and totally unconcerned about it all. All I know is joy and serenity.

  The only thing on earth that troubles me is the brokenness in my family. But I have prayed and asked God to please sort it all out after I’m gone, and I have peace that he will.

  I feel inside I don’t have many days left, but please know, because of you these days will be spent so much better. You keep praying too, and I know one day God will do something to make a way for our family to be whole again.

  With much love,

  Ida

  Collins was stunned.

  He read the letter again, slowly. By the end of the second reading, he felt totally sober. But he was so conflicted inside. Just reading something Ida had written that he’d never seen, pages that her hands had handled, warmed his heart and beckoned fond memories. But realizing the letter told of a secret betrayal and a total disregard for his wishes aroused his anger. Yet he knew Ida did these things only because he had been so stubborn—when it was now clear Elizabeth was not the enemy he’d made her out to be.

  He felt more ashamed than angry.

  The ache inside was painful and wholly unfamiliar. He looked around the room, as though some path might open up to him, a place he could run to and hide from the pain. He looked down at the second letter. Clearly not written by Ida. He let Ida’s letter fall to the table and picked up the other. He read the first few words, just the date and the greeting. It took a few moments for their significance to sink in. He read them again.

  “Oh no,” he said aloud.

  He read the greeting and especially the date again. But what else could it be? There were two pages. He quickly flipped to the second page to read the ending, and his fears were confirmed.

  It said: “With all my love, Liz.”

  It was a letter addressed to Shawn and written by Elizabeth . . . on the very day she died.

  Shawn had never seen it. No one ever had, for it had never been sent.

  Dec. 18, 1943

  My dearest Shawn,

  Your last letter was so wonderful. You can’t imagine what it does to my day when the mail includes something from you. Every day I quickly rummage through whatever comes in, looking for only one thing. And when it comes . . . to know I’m holding something you wrote just for me. Something your fingers have touched.

  Well, today is the big day. With your blessing now, I’m going to ride across town and pop in on your father for a visit. I don’t mind saying, I couldn’t be more nervous about this. I know you’ve told me not to get my hopes up, but I can’t help it. Something has got to give on this thing, and I know it grieves God that our family is so torn apart. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make an end to all this strife.

  Perhaps today will just be a beginning. I’m not expecting your father to throw his arms around me and give me a big kiss on the cheek. In fact, I’m bringing Patrick with me but not telling him wher
e we’re going, just in case it doesn’t go well. I’ll leave him in the car until I see how your father responds. Hopefully, he’ll at least invite us in, and I can begin to chip away at the dividing wall between us. But I don’t think I’m going to be the primary instrument of peace.

  I don’t know how, but when I pray, I get the sense that Patrick is going to factor in on this somehow. He looks so much like you and yet he is so innocent (not that you are so guilty . . . you know what I mean).

  Wouldn’t it be an amazing thing, though, if by this Christmas this long-standing feud would finally be over? That for the first time in Patrick’s young life he’d actually get a present from his grandfather? It doesn’t have to be a big one, just anything. And then 1944 would usher in a new beginning. The war would end, and you’d come home, and we’d all be together again.

  I can just see your face as you read this, scrunching up in disbelief at my naiveté and optimism. Then you’d break into a smile as a glimmer of hope broke through that what I said could possibly come true (and then that smile would quickly return to a frown as you thought of the right words to say that would balance me out).

  Well, don’t balance me out this time, my love. Hope with me. I don’t know what God is going to do, but I’m confident his wisdom and power will make a way. He is famous for “making roadways in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.”