I think back to what the scientist said. It’s the spring of 1945. Thanks to my endless history studies as a recruit, I know that Hitler killed himself five days ago, and American and Soviet troops have successfully taken Berlin. Japan is still fighting, but in only a few months America will drop the atom bombs that will finally end the war.
When I traveled to 1944, World War II seemed like it would never end. Mary’s friends were signing up to fight; her brother, Dean, and her crush, Lucas, had already fought overseas. Food was rationed, and everyone was on edge, waiting for bad news, fearing for loved ones. But a year has passed now, and the war is almost over. I feel the change even at this gate. Before, a guard would have inspected the back thoroughly, but now he just waves the driver through. “Get us some more Spam, will ya? Mess is almost out.”
“Sure thing.”
The truck starts moving again, and the wind picks up, rippling the canvas overhead. I know we’re on the long highway that stretches from Camp Hero to the downtown area of Montauk and I pull the sack away from my face to watch the low, scrubby trees pass by, light green with new leaves. The ocean is to my right, the waves breaking against the beach in rolls of white foam. Now and then we pass a small roadside stand selling fish or vegetables with hand-painted signs. As we get closer to town I see a few fishing shacks tucked into the dunes. Made from blue and gray weathered wood, they are sea tossed and crusted with salt, as if they sprang up from the ocean rather than made by men on land.
We reach the downtown, and it is exactly as I remember: a few low buildings, the general store with a sagging porch, one tall, brick, Tudor-style town hall.
The truck does not stop in the center of town; the driver must be headed to East Hampton, where the army picks up most of their supplies. I pull the sack off and crawl to the back end, waiting for the truck to start climbing the short hill that’s not far from the school. As soon as we reach it the truck slows, and I feel the driver shift down and then down again, the engine whining, the wheels churning under us. Bracing one hand against the bumper, I throw my body toward the side of the road. I roll and roll, stopping when I’m lying on my back, gasping for air. The cut on my leg burns, and I sit up, pulling stray pieces of grass from my shoulders. There are no other cars on the small highway, and the truck keeps going, quickly disappearing from sight.
I circle the pond that sits near the middle of town. It is only steps from the road, and the water reflects the few houses and trees that run alongside it. The day is bright and cool, the spring air sharp.
Soon I leave the main road and turn onto a narrower, more private street. The trees are thicker here, and I walk in the shade, watching the shadows of the leaves make interlocking patterns in the dirt. It’s not long before I see the house: two stories, white, a bright-red front door.
I climb up the steps and knock. My breath is short, and I bite my lip. It has been a year since I was last here. They might not even remember me.
“I’ll get it, Daddy!” I hear shouted from inside. There is a clomping sound as feet quickly hit wooden steps, and then the door is flung wide-open.
Mary Bentley, my great-great-aunt, only eighteen years old in 1945, freezes, one hand at her chest, the other still wrapped around the doorknob. “Lydia?” she whispers.
“Mary.” My voice breaks on the word. I take in her dark-red hair, a mirror of my own, her Bentley-green eyes, high cheekbones, and full mouth.
“Lydia!” This time she squeals it and flings herself at me. Her arms are tight around my neck, our cheeks pressed together. I hug her back. Beyond Mary’s head I see her mother, Harriet Bentley, emerging from the kitchen holding a dish towel. Dr. Bentley must be in his study; I smell his pipe, sandalwood and spice.
For the first time in a year, I feel like I have finally come home.
Chapter 18
Mary crosses her legs, and the blue shirtwaist dress she’s wearing falls across her knees. She is sitting on the cream-and-yellow stuffed couch in the den, and as she leans toward me the tea in her cup sloshes against the rim, threatening to spill over and onto her lap. “We didn’t think we’d see you again. I had completely given up on you, but then—”
She’s cut off by Mrs. Bentley, who comes into the room holding a tray of small cookies. “Real sugar and butter.” She smiles at me. The lines around her eyes are deeper than I remember, and her dark-red hair has a touch of gray at the temples. “Now that the fighting in Europe has ended, we’re getting some rations back.”
“Thanks.” I take one from the tray, realizing that I haven’t eaten—or slept—since I was hiding in the dark in the back of the banana truck. I swallow the butter cookie whole and reach for another. The chair I’m sitting in is old and soft and I sink back against it, trying not to close my eyes.
“Oh, you’re exhausted!” Mrs. Bentley sits in the chair adjacent to mine and looks at me with concern. “Your trip must have been grueling, Lydia. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap?”
Mary waves her hand dismissively. A drop of tea flings out of her cup and lands on the coffee table. “She
