Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

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Only when the doctor told me about her, I knew — woman's intuition again, Jerry — I knew she was in love with you. IT was after that I saw you in your room, Jerry. For one moment the shadowed world seemed brighter. That was when you asked me to help you, to stay with you and help you. I was about to speak and say I would always stay with you but you said, "I'd be lost without you, you know. You're my only hope — Ingrid." Ingrid. You thought I was Ingrid. My heart was breaking then. I was trying to understand. And I knew — I knew that whatever happened, the only thing that really mattered was your getting well. If Ingrid could help you, where I couldn't, then I wanted it that way. You seemed to improve after that. You came to know who I was. But you didn't really know, Jerry. The closeness, the love, the romance— the things that had been our whole life — they were gone. The doctors tried to explain it to me then— it was an amnesia— a forgetting — not of the mind, but of the heart. Intellectually, you knew I was your wife. But emotionally, I meant nothing in your life at all. Through all that terrible time, when I was so worried about you, and about our marriage, too, Jerry, I tried not to lose faith. But the day came when I learned about the offer that had come to you, to go to London and work in the hospital there. The doctors said that you wanted to go, that you wanted to do something to help the world, in what time you had. And they said that since the Army Medical Corps here wouldn't take you because of your illness, this was your only chance. I knew you wanted to go. And I thought perhaps it would be best that way. Perhaps over there, your heart would find itself. Then I learned about Ingrid. She also had been offered a post in the hospital in London. The two of you would be there together, working. It was almost too much, Jerry, to think of that. There was something final about it — as if what we had known had ended forever. Ingrid had won your love, the love of this new you, this stranger who was my husband. In my mind I was saying, I have lost him, lost him to a golden-haired goddess who serves the sick. That dawn you left, Ingrid was with you. I didn't go down to watch the plane take off. I didn't want to say goodbye. Yet I knew the moment, the exact second, when the plane lifted its wings from the earth, carrying you out of my life. There was still Bun and me and our old friend Penny, who is so much like a mother. I still had them. And I kept telling myself that somehow we could make a life here. That maybe someday — I tried to hope, Jerry. The funny part was, I couldn't hate Ingrid. I was glad if she could give you help, could make your life easier. I knew there wasn't much time. Over and over, I asked the doctors if there was any hope a cure could be found, but they would shake their heads and turn away. And then I got a letter from Ingrid. Ingrid demanding that I give you up, that I grant you your freedom, so that you could marry her. Telling me she was the only one who could help you and that it would be for your good. I should have been horrified at that, Jerry. And instead, I was elated. You see, I had believed that Ingrid had won. I had thought it was all decided. The letter changed everything. I knew it wasn't all settled, as far as you and she were concerned. I knew because if the two of you had talked it all over and made up your minds to ask me for your freedom — it would have been you who wrote, you who asked me. What it meant, Jerry, was that there was a chance you didn't love her, that you hadn't forgotten me entirely. It was a new hope. In that letter, I saw Ingrid for what she is — a young woman in love, battling as all women will with every weapon she knows to win the man she wants. I felt closer to you, Jerry. Maybe that was wrong — I didn't know. But there was a warmth in my heart I couldn't have stopped if I'd wanted to. I know you've never been in the apartment here in New York where I've been since you went away. And yet you do seem to be here. I can almost see you, sitting in the big chair in the living room. Or standing in the hall, the way you used to back in Penrith when you would come in, calling out, "Nobody love me enough to come and kiss me?" This morning, when I woke up, I felt gay, Jerry, and I didn't know why. This morning — what an eternity ago it seems! But I do know I was happy, I felt almost like singing. For the life of me, I couldn't understand it. But I found out tonight. Tonight when you called, Jerry. Telephoned over three thousand miles of ocean, to talk to me. Hearing your voice again. Hearing you say you had special governmental permission to call, asking me to get the doctors to send over certain medicines needed in the hospital there. THERE were other things you said, things that meant more. That the serum was working wonders, and now there was a real chance that soon, you'd be well. That you were thinking of me, remembering me. That you counted the days until — you might see me again. How much those words meant! That was my special reason for writing tonight. Because now there is hope in my heart, now there is a chance you and I might be together again. It may never happen, Jerry. The troubles facing us are still so great — they may win out against our love. But at least now I dare to pray that someday we can start out again to climb our high hill to happiness. Jerry — I'm crying. That's silly, but I don't care. Because somehow I'm certain it's going to work out like the dream in my heart. You know — a woman's intuition — Always — and always — Ann RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR