“Fine.” Folding my coat over the back of the sofa, I drop my purse on the floor and sink into the cushions. I won’t take off my shoes—I’m supposed to meet Hunter at Claro for lunch. If I stay here much longer, I’ll be late.
My mother smiles, once again resetting her expression like she’s ready for her next take. It’s hard to stay upset with her for too long. To the outside world, her life seems easy, full of money, fame, beauty, and success, but in many ways, my mother’s life has been a lonely, lost existence—the life of a fatherless little girl who flits between men like a hummingbird sipping what nectar she can find even as the flowers of her youth die off.
“Mac and I were thinking it might be lovely if you got married in Edinburgh.”
“Scotland?” I ask, not understanding the significance of the random suggestion.
“No, dear. Indiana. Where your grandmother grew up.”
“Indiana?” I gasp, my patience lasting not even halfway into one sentence.
“Yes,” she says, raising her manicured hand, seemingly annoyed with my interruption. I wave for her to finish her cockamamie idea. It’s better to say no after she’s put it all on the line. “It would be a stunning modern peg for the film. The church in town where Mother and Father were married is lovely. We went there when you were little—when my grandmother passed. I have fond memories from my childhood as well. I tried to get your father to marry me there, but he insisted on Bali.”
“It’s a romantic idea, but I’m sure Hunter will want to be married close to home.” Or far away, or anywhere but Indiana, I think but do not say. “And I’m not sure I want to be a part of this film. You know how I feel about being on camera.” I’m barely used to the idea of getting married. I’m not about to have it recorded for all mankind to see.
“Well, you have to be in the film, dear. I already promised Mac you’d participate. And I think you’re wrong about Hunter. When he asked for my help to get your grandmother’s ring, I brought up the idea. He seemed very interested. Said that a small, off-the-beaten-path kind of a wedding would be perfect for the two of you.”
My mouth hangs open as I try to process all the information downloading at a turtle’s pace. Oh, my dear, sweet Hunter. He wanted to make everything easier in my life but often seemed to stray just enough away from my original vision that it became out of focus and unrecognizable. My watch buzzes, and I know from the staccato beat it’s my boyfriend . . . no . . . my fiancé. He must be on his way to the restaurant already.
“I have to go.” I tie my scarf, then slip on my coat and throw my purse over my shoulder. The dazzling late-morning sun reflects off the snow-covered landscape of Central Park and cascades through the windows.
I learned a long time ago that my mother, well-meaning as she is, will find any opportunity to make important moments in my life about her. Like how she insisted on singing “Dust in the Wind” at Dean’s funeral and wore a black gown with a black veil to catch the attention of all the paparazzi clicking away with zoom lenses along the perimeter of the cemetery. Usually, I don’t mind. But going over my head to make decisions about my wedding in order to impress a man is a bit much for me. I need to step back—to breathe. And I need to get the facts from Hunter.
“Yes, well—say hello to Hunter for me. Tell him ‘Brava!’ and that I can’t wait to see the tapes. You’ll make a beautiful bride.”
“Will do,” I say, waving and hustling toward the front door, more out of a desire to escape than the worry of being late. “Feel better soon, Mom!”
“Thank you, my love!” she yells out from her seat as I reach the front door. When I close it behind me, I’m fairly certain I hear her shout, “I’ll have Mac call you.”
The door clicks closed, and I wish I could close the conversation about Mac Dorman as easily. But I know it’s not possible. Instead, one of three things will happen:
My mom and Mac will break up as quickly as they got together, and this whole documentary idea will evaporate along with their relationship.
I will have to wade through family drama by standing up to my mom, as well as likely standing up to all my siblings who will undoubtedly take her side.
Or the most likely outcome of all—I will get married in Edinburgh, Indiana.
CHAPTER 2
Vivian
Monday, April 26, 1943
Camp Atterbury
The sun sits low in the eastern sky. I fight off a shiver as the chilled morning air hits my bare calves. I wish I had one intact pair of nylons to make a good impression on my first day and to protect my feet from the inevitable blisters. As I walk down the dirt path toward the front gates of Camp Atterbury, a fine spattering of mud collects on the black leather of my new heels. Well, new to me. My friend Mary found them in the charity bin at the USO and put them aside for me. I should feel guilty about taking something meant for the poor, but with Mom still locked away and Dad’s broken foot, we’re closer to poor than we’ve ever been.
If I were singing in a real club in Chicago or even Indianapolis, I’d make more than a dollar a weekend. And then I’d have enough money to pay for Mom’s doctors, and Dad could cut down on his hours at the factory, and Aria could have a normal childhood full of bobby socks and school dances.
Stop it, Vivian, I chastise myself. There’s no room in my life for fantasy or big dreams. I’m nineteen, almost twenty, and I’m the only hope of keeping my family together. Mother lost herself in her sphere of dreams and fantasy, and look where that got her—locked away in Mount Mercy Sanitarium. So instead of voice lessons with experienced teachers and trips to the city for auditions, I got my secretarial training from Marian College and applied for a real job at Camp Atterbury.
After two interviews with the help of Mary who introduced me to Charlie, the handsome married officer I dance with at the USO most Friday nights, one typing test, and a few toothy smiles, I got the job working the switchboard at the front office for Camp Atterbury. I say front office, but I don’t even know where the office is located, never having stepped foot on base.
The bus dropped me off on the side of the road in front of the buildings protected by not only a fence but the front gate I’m approaching, a guardhouse, and a sign with large lettering that says:
MAIN ENTRANCE
CAMP ATTERBURY
INTERNMENT CAMP
I shiver, not only from the cold but from a sudden dread that runs through me at the sight of the gates, white posts with chain-link and barbed wire. This is a camp for prisoners of war captured in the European theater. And this is where I’m going to work.
Every part of my body tells me to turn around and leave. I suppose it’s more necessity than courage that keeps me moving toward the front gate. Around the perimeter stand impressive lookout towers as tall as the bank in downtown Edinburgh. I can see uniformed men inside, milling about with big rifles slung over their arms. They’re watching me watch them. I swallow and square my shoulders to look more professional.
My tweed suit coat and tailored skirt are a bit tattered but nice enough for a desk job; at least that’s what Mary said. I smooth my hair, my fingers getting tangled and the wind and moisture in the air making it a mess.