Her little eyelashes flutter softly and Anne is overcome with love. Her little baby daughter Rose has finally fallen asleep after a long day visiting with her grandmother Lizzie. The day was broiling and the sidewalks had rippled with heat. It was May in LA and Anne and Rose, who was just under 18 months old were living in a small two-bedroom ranch house in the Echo Park neighborhood. The tract housing was said to be an architectural wonder. It was just blind luck Anne had been able to move into one of the small new homes just after Rose had been born. Her father-in-law Bobby had some contacts in the Los Angeles area architectural firms and had called in some favors. So Anne, with three month old Rose in tow, had packed up her small one bedroom bungalow in Boyle Heights and moved into Echo Park.

There had been a certain amount of sadness as she’d spent her last night in Boyle Heights. It was after all where she and Jack had spent their brief young marriage before she’d been left bereft, alone and pregnant. Her chest still filled with heat and pressure every time she remembered the day they came to tell her that her husband had been killed in action during one of the last weeks of the Korean War. There had been talk and murmurings. There was a letter in a cold white envelope, men with sad and stoic faces. The battle of Porkchop Hill. Their company had been overrun. It had been a valiant effort. They had been locked in hand-to-hand combat well into that July night and under a flurry of Monsoon rain.

 The loss of that hill had turned the tide with the Korean Armistice Agreement being signed just three weeks later effectively ending hostilities. Jack had barely had time to serve. That’s what she kept thinking. He’d wanted so badly to serve his country before settling into and accepting the American Dream he’d sought in beautiful California. And in reality his time had been a blip, an instant. And a lifetime with her and Rose snuffed out before it had even begun.

Now she was alone with a little girl who would never know her father. In a place far away from her family. Her father back in New York, her Aunt Lizzie too, who had helped her move and would stay on while she got settled. Her father-in-law Bobby had yet to come to California with his wife. Anne understood he had lost something too. His only son.

She was a single mother. Working part time at an ad agency in downtown L.A. Another ‘helping hand’ from her In-Laws. She rode a desk a few hours each day answering phones, typing up messages and making coffee. Little Rose sat with her, quietly in her little playpen with her dolls and books. Such a quiet child with wide and curious blue eyes – like her father’s.

Just recently she heard the construction of a huge amusement park had finished in Anaheim. It was supposed to be the most spectacular place on earth! The happiest place on earth as it as being advertised.  Maybe she’d take Rose when she was a bit older. Before the novelty park closed like so many things did nowadays. 

Anne walked silently into the small checkered kitchen with its white Formica table and orange flower print curtains. She poured herself some golden iced tea and settled on the back steps under the shade of a drooping Palm. The glass slider was cracked so she could hear Rose when she awoke. Anne welcomed the calm.

After a minute or so Anne saw Chesterton, the mail carrier, walking jauntily up the walk carrying a small parcel. They greeted each other informally. Anne and Chesterton talked often of back home. He too came from New York, Bronx, and was a transplant like herself. He winked at her and smiled under his thin little mustache. His white cap sitting far back on his head. “Anne-girl.” He greeted her. “A package love, from back home.” He smiled and wiped his slick forehead with a rainbow-colored handkerchief.

Anne’s spirits lifted. A letter or gift for Rose from her father no doubt. Joe had come to Los Angeles the day after Rose’s birth and stayed for a few days. It had been so wonderful having him near. His very presence calmed her anxiety. And he was so wonderful with the baby. Cradling her small body to his chest and making funny faces at her. How complete it all felt. She’d even broached the topic of his coming to stay with her and baby. Her father however shook his head. New York was his home. His and her mother’s. As if somehow, after all this time, her mother would reappear.

Anne did not ask again, just basked in this idyllic setting for as long as she could. Watching her father watch Rose.

Smiling her thanks to Chesterton and offering him a lemon bar fresh from the fridge she took the parcel into the kitchen. There was indeed a letter from her father and with it a small wrapped package in soft lavender tissue paper. She opened the letter first and saw her father’s small precise script. It was brief.

“Dearest Anne,

I pray for you and my Granddaughter Rose daily and say a rosary for you both each night. The days are short here and I find myself sitting in your spot on the living room sofa remembering when you were small and inquisitive. A gentle weight by my side, always asking questions.

I hope to see you both for the Holidays, Christmas in the California heat sure beats the drifts of ice here! Perhaps Uncle Bobby will come as well. I know you long to introduce him to his Granddaughter.

I have enclosed something for you I feel certain you will be happy about. I cannot truly explain how it came to me and I’m sorry I kept this treasure from you. It was a piece of her, of your mother, I needed a bit longer by my side. But I want you to have it for yourself, that seems right to me. And perhaps for Rose as well.

This treasure embodies so much what I loved about your mother. And so much that kept me from her as well. As you can probably guess the photo of the girl could only be your mother. The line of the jaw and the set of the eyes. The unruly curls you shared with her. Who the young man is I do not know. Your mother, dear Anne, was such an enigma. I had a feeling her life before you and I was not a happy one.

So here it is, the locket you asked me about those years ago. Do write again and tell me about little Rose. Perhaps when she is older Christmas in New York! Ah, remember the blizzard of 47’?

All my love,

Father”

Anne slowly unwrapped the tissue and held the warm smooth locket in her palm. She had a sudden vision of it hanging around mother’s neck, her soft curls framing it, her fingers always worrying at it as if to ensure it was there still. Now it was here. Anne carefully opened the locket, the clasp feeling loose. The picture was the same. The dark eyes fathomless. The young man’s smile tentative, endearing. It was long minutes before Anne finally replaced the locket in the tissue and went to wake Rose who was stirring sleepily in her crib under the window in the sun.

Next Chapter: Lyllian, Seattle, 2017