Echoes

The days of summer rolled by easily, and for once Amadea didn't even miss the convent. She was too busy. She sewed, she read, she played catch with them, she scolded them, and dried their tears. She spoke German to those who wanted to and remembered it, and taught it to the others. And French. She told them it was a good thing to know. They thrived under her protection. And Rupert loved coming home on weekends.

“It's a shame she's a nun,” Marta said mournfully one Sunday at breakfast with Rupert, after Amadea had gone out with the boys. She was going to fish with them in the lake on his estate. They called it Lake Papa.

“I think so, too,” he said honestly. But he knew how determined she was to go back. They seldom talked about it, but she was loyal to her vocation, and he knew it.

“I forget sometimes,” Marta admitted.

“So do I.”

“Do you suppose you could ever change her mind?” she asked cautiously. The children spoke of it often. They wanted her to stay as long as they would.

“I doubt it. That's a very serious thing. And she was a nun for a long time. Six years. It wouldn't be right of me to try and dissuade her.” Marta had the impression he was saying it more to himself than to her.

“I think you should try.” He smiled, but didn't answer. There were times he thought so, too. But he didn't dare. He was afraid she would get angry at him and leave. Some things were taboo. And he respected her a great deal, even if he didn't like the path she had chosen. But he recognized her right to do that, whether he liked it or not. He had no idea how to even broach the subject with her. He knew by now how stubborn she could be, particularly if she believed in something. She was a woman with a strong mind, and once in a while, she reminded him of his wife, although they were very different. She had been a woman of strong opinions too.

Seeing Amadea with the children, and the odd family they had formed, sometimes made him miss having a wife. But this was in some ways the next best thing. They had had a wonderful summer with each other. And before the children went back to school, they went on a family excursion to Brighton. He pushed Amadea along the boardwalk in her wheelchair, while the children went wild, playing games, and going on the rides. She looked longingly at the beach. He couldn't push her on the sand.

“I wish I could walk sometimes,” she said wistfully, although she managed very well in the wheelchair, could get around at full speed, and had no trouble keeping up with the children. It tugged at his heart the way she said it.

“Maybe we should go back and see the doctor one of these days.” She hadn't seen him in three months. When she left the hospital, he had said there was nothing more he could do. The feeling would return in her legs, or not. And so far it hadn't. There had been no change or improvement, although she rarely if ever talked about it. And this was the first time he had heard her complain.

“I don't think there's anything he can do. I don't think about it most of the time. The children don't give me time to.” She turned to look at him then with a tender look in her eyes that always made him wish things were different when he saw it. “Thank you for bringing me here, Rupert, to take care of your kinders.

” She had never been as happy in her life, except in her early years in the convent. There was an irrepressible joy to every day. She loved being Mamadea, almost as much as she had loved being Sister Teresa. But she knew this would come to an end too. Many of them would go home, which was better for them in the end. They needed their parents. She and Rupert were only surrogates, although good ones. She thought Rupert was wonderful with them, and it always reminded her of how much he must miss his sons. There were photographs of them all over the house. Ian and James. And his wife Gwyneth. She had been Scottish.

“I don't know what we'd do without you,” Rupert said honestly as he sat down on a bench on the boardwalk, where they could see the children, and she rolled the wheelchair close to him. She looked relaxed and happy as her long blond hair flew in the breeze. She often wore it down like one of the children, and loved brushing the girls' hair, the way her mother had done for her and Daphne when they were little. It was odd how history repeated itself constantly, generation after generation. “I can't even remember what it was like before you came,” Rupert said, and looked distracted. And then he took the wind out of her with what he said next. “I'm leaving on a mission next Thursday.” He wasn't supposed to tell her, but he trusted her completely.

“You're not,” she said, as though denying it could make it not happen. But she knew from the look in his eyes that it would anyway.

“I am.” He didn't look enthused about it either. He loved being at home with her and the children on the weekends. But there was still a war to win.