A man, his back to me, knelt before a wooden cross. As I approached, he rose. He wore worn out khakis, one sleeve of his tunic hung lifeless, empty. As I looked closer, he was more of boy than a man.

He did not ask. He stated.

"You've come for her,” he said in English. I suppose I expected French.

No movement, frozen in place, I finally managed a nod.

"How did you know?" I whispered, barely able to speak.

"Someone has already come for the all the rest."

He gestured at the dozen or so grave markers surrounding us and pointed in the general direction of a wooden cross set off by itself. His back once again to me, he resumed his duties. Weeding, I supposed.

I looked in the direction he pointed, her direction. The reason I had come so far. I'd waited five years; I'd agonized. To come or not to come. I hesitated. To see her, to know with every certainty. She wasn't missing, wasn't coming home. She was gone. I needed another moment.

"You're British?" I asked.

Without turning, he replied, "And you are American."

My accent and my dress had assuredly given me away.

"Did you know them?"

He stopped. It was his turn to hesitate.

"Yes, they were my brothers."

"Is that why you haven't gone home?"

"I am home." He stooped again and resumed his work.

I had a question I needed to ask. Maybe he had. Maybe.

"Did..." I started to say.

"Did I know her?" he finished my thought.

He straightened but did not turn.

I nodded and I held my breath.

"Yes,” he replied.

Tears burned my eyes. Words failed.

He turned to face me. His eyes met mine. "She wasn't alone. Isn't that what you want to know? It's what they all wanted to know."

And if she was in pain, if she suffered. How could the world, my world, our world have come to this? Moreover, how did we get here, she and I? What happened to the girls we once were?

"She was your sister?"

I shook my head and closed my eyes. Tears ran down my cheeks.

"No."

I felt the ring around my left ring finger and thought of my children.

"She's been waiting for you," the boy said, pointing.

I was certain he was wrong. She wouldn't wait for me. I'd left her, let her down. She'd come here because of me. She laid there because of me. Because of my cowardice. Because of who I refused to be.

I looked at the small bouquet of flowers in my hand. I'd bought them in the village before making the trek. A small, nearly invisible token. I made my way slowly to where she laid. As I walked, looked at the names etched into the wooden grave markers. Frederick, Leslie, Thomas, William, Roland, Edward, and many more; lost boys, members of generation set to rest on a French hillside.

I'd stopped walking. I looked down at the cross in front of me. All that remained of her, except my memories, lay six feet beneath my feet.

Helen Cole 15/1/1918 American

It was true, all of it. She wasn't missing. She wasn't coming back. I set the flowers down in haste. I had to get away. I moved quickly through the grave markers toward the gate.

"Miss?" the boy's voice called out behind me. I wanted to run, but I stopped.

"She died trying to save me. Covered me right up so the bullets hit her and not me."

Died. Bullets.

I felt the warmth of the sun on my face tried to imagine the beautiful, strong, vibrant girl I'd loved so much but not so well. Try as I might, I couldn’t picture her face.

“I never…We never-” he corrected himself, as he once again gestured at the wooden crosses around him, “we never met anyone more courageous, Miss.”

I nodded. Yes, that was Helen. Always so courageous, too courageous.

“Thank you. I’ll let you get back to your work,” I said. I extended my left arm toward his.

He clinched my fingers in his.

“Audrey. I’m Audrey,” I said.

“I’m Hilary, Miss, but they call me Hills. Nice to meet you. I’m happy someone finally came for her.”

When I got back to the village, I passed by the flower seller’s stand.

“Mademoiselle, did you find who you were looking for?” he asked in French.

“Yes, I did. The young man helped me.”

“A man?”

“Yes, more of a boy. British. Said his name was Hilary. He tends the cemetery.”

The man looked at me oddly and shook his head.

“No one British remains here. And no one tends that cemetery.”

There had to be an explanation. The flower seller had to be wrong. I’d touched the boy, shook his hand. I went back to the cemetery the next day. Only the silence of the dead greeted me. Once again I walked among the crosses and read the names. One by one. When I got to the third row on the far left, I stopped suddenly.

Etched into the wooden grave marker were the words “Pte Hilary Ashton Jones 19/1/1918 British”.

“But they call me Hills…”

I woke with a start. For a moment, I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t think. It had been so real - the warmth of the sun, the lilac and lavender scent of the flowers, the boy’s hand in mine. I lay in a restless silence. My own heartbeat banged in my ears. In the distance, I heard the tick-tock of a clock and the sound of her rhythmic, peaceful breathing next to me. I sighed and looked around me. Moonlight flooded in through sheer curtains lighting up the small bedroom. I was home; she was home; she was safe.

She slept curled up to one side, facing away from me, one leg always outside the covers. As I brushed a blond lock of hair out of her eyes, she stirred slightly then fell back into a restful slumber. My Helen, my beautiful Helen. I burrowed beneath the covers and turned toward her. I ran my hand down her arm. Those damn men’s pajamas she insisted upon wearing.

“Nightgowns always end up around my neck,” she’d whispered loudly the day she bought them without apology in the men’s department of The Broadway downtown. My mind had wandered and I’d felt my face flush. She looked at me with eye brows raised, in typical Helen fashion, then linked her arm through mine.

“You’ll like these just as well,” she said leaning in close so only I could hear. I must have turned an even deeper shade of crimson. She pulled me nearer and laughed, louder than was polite, as she often did. I wondered how we would ever be able to keep our secret.

She was wrong, though. I didn’t like them, the men’s pajamas. I missed feeling her skin on mine. I stretched my body out next to hers and wrapped my arms around her. I buried my face in her hair. Lilacs and lavender. As I kissed her neck, she nestled deeper in my arms.

“Audrey? What is it?”

“Nothing,” I shook my head.

She rolled toward me. I closed my eyes and felt her hand on my cheek.

“Please don’t go,” I croaked, nearly unable to speak.

“Go where?” she asked. “Darling?”

“But what if they send you?”

“Who? The Times?”

I nodded.

“Where would they send me?”

“France. The War.”

“I write about society luncheons, the latest fashions. I daresay I’d be the last person they’d ship off to Europe,” she said a bit too ruefully.

“So, if they asked, you’d go?”

“They aren’t going to ask. No newspaper in its right mind would send a woman to cover a war. Audrey, where is this coming from? It’s the middle of the night.”

A tear ran down my cheek. The dream had seemed real, too real.

“You were dead. I saw your grave, marked with a wooden cross.” The words tumbled out of me.

“What? Where?”

“In France, I think. It was after The War. I was married. I had children. You were dead, Helen.” I could feel my panic returning.

“A dream? You had a dream?”

“Yes,” I said as I nodded.

She rolled me into her arms and squeezed me tightly. My head rested on her chest.

“This is my dream, Audrey, being here with you. Remember in school? When we talked about how we wanted to live? Two modern women in Los Angeles. With careers. And each other. Our families may be against us and we may have to keep secrets from everyone, but this is our life. Together.”

I sighed.

“I love you, Helen.”

“I love you, too. Now go back to sleep.”

I turned onto my side away from her. I knew it wasn’t the side she liked to sleep on, but I asked her anyway.

“Will you put your arms around me until I fall asleep?”

“Of course, Darling. Of course.”

A blue striped pajama arm draped around me and pulled me close. I pushed up her sleeve so I could feel her smooth skin on mine.

“I still don’t like these,” I said.

“Then take them off of me,” she muttered sleepily.

My eyes fluttered, then shut, as I felt her chest rise and fall rhythmically behind me.

Yes, Helen, this is my dream, too, I thought as I drifted off once again.

“Mama…” A hand tugged my finger. “Mama…”

I opened my eyes. Georgie. I felt behind me. Yes. I turned. Blue striped pajamas. She was still there. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“What is it, Sweetheart?” I whispered. The room was bathed in moonlight.

“Mama, I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you and Daddy?”

Daddy?

My heart stopped. I turned again and looked closer at the person sleeping next to me. It grunted and snored and pulled the covers over its dark head. The slight figure with blond curls was gone. Tears burned my eyes. I’d been dreaming.

“Please, Mama,” the small boy before me whined and pulled my hand more insistently.

I made room for him and gathered him onto the bed with me. I buried my face into his sandy locks and kissed his head.

“Mama, there was a bear. And it was so big. It was going to hurt you and Daddy,” Georgie explained.

“Blast it, Audrey,” a voice came from the figure behind me. “I have to work tomorrow. Take him into his own room.”

I shook my head and carried Georgie down the hall to his room.

“Mama, stay with me,” he pleaded, still shaken from his dream.

“Of course, Darling. Of course,” I said as I laid down beside him.

Soon he snored slightly, so much like his father. And not enough like… I tried to push the thought from my mind.

“Oh, Helen, where are you?” I thought. I hadn’t heard from her in years, of her in months. It was her wish, demand. I had no choice but to obey. Because I’d made my choice, she made hers.

I smoothed Georgie’s hair. The sky grew lighter. I felt the baby move. Three months to go. She, for I was certain it was a girl, would be born in the Spring. I longed to name her Helen, but George would never let me. He had never liked her.

“I don’t know why your father let you go to that college. And in Los Angeles of all places. Women like that, like that Helen,” he spat her name. “They are what is wrong with society today. Mark my words, Audrey, they want the vote and, once they get that, they’ll want my job and for equal pay.”

“What she truly wanted was your wife…” I had never said the words. I dared never admitted it to George. In the dream, I’d had the courage. I’d chosen her. I’d chosen Helen.

I needed to see Eleanor. I knew I wasn’t supposed to. She’d told me never to come again. Helen forbade her to speak to me. Besides, George wouldn’t stand for it. But George wouldn’t have to know. And just this once, this one time, maybe Eleanor would disobey her sister.

But how? I wasn’t welcome at her house, the Cole’s. Nothing associated with Helen was. When Helen told them, she was banished. Marriage and children aside, I was blamed and banished as well. No, I couldn’t go there. But I could go to Eleanor’s school! It promised to be a cold, damp day, but I could bundle Georgie up and we could wait outside the school until it let out. The high school was well across town, but we could take the streetcar. Georgie would see it as an adventure. If everything went according to plan, I would be home in time to make dinner and George would never have to know.

I woke early counting the hours until I would get some news of Helen. I felt like Georgie at Christmas. I pushed George out the door for work a few minutes early and hurriedly began my morning chores. I was sweeping the floors when I heard a knock on the front door. I leaned the broom against the mantle and dusted my hands off on my apron. I hoped it would be Mrs. Montgomery from next door needing to borrow some milk or an egg and not Mrs. McKay from across the street who would want to talk for hours.

I unlatched the door and pulled it open. A woman stood with her back to me. She was tall, thin, hat-less, blond hair in disarray. I immediately recognized the winter coat. My heart leapt into my throat.

“Helen…?” I could barely manage a whisper.

The woman turned to face me.

“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said. “I know I shouldn’t have come. I waited around the corner until I saw him leave.” She fidgeted and adjusted her glasses awkwardly.

“I was- It’s ok. I was planning…” I looked in her eyes and stopped. Suddenly my legs weakened and my knees threatened to buckle beneath me.

“Helen? Something’s happened to Helen?” I felt my hands begin to shake.

She nodded. I held the door open so she could come in. She looked at me as she stepped past. Her eyes dropped to my stomach.

“You’re having another baby.” It was a statement, not a question. I nodded.

I felt her look around the modest living room and sensed a growing anger. This is what I’d left her sister for - a husband she had to avoid, a small living room in a small house, a toddler’s toys, and the baby growing inside me.

This was why Helen left, why she’d gone to Europe. It was before The War began. She was going to write, be a journalist. Then in the blink of an eye, a war raged across Europe and in her quest to get close to the front, where women weren’t allowed to go, Helen borrowed an ambulance. It was supposed to be one trip, she’d told Eleanor who’d told me, but once Helen saw the plight of the wounded all around her, she bought an old truck, outfitted it as an ambulance, and joined the war. Three years she’d been in harm’s way. Three years. And now?

Eleanor refused to sit and stood silent, frozen in place.

“Eleanor, tell me. Tell me!”

“Mama, what’s wrong?” Georgie tugged on my skirt.

“Georgie, I need you to go into your room now.” He hesitated. “Now!” I turned him around and pushed him toward the hall. Once again I faced Eleanor.

She’d pulled two letters out of her coat pocket. She held one out to me. I expected to see Helen’s sloppy disjointed handwriting, but the writing on the envelope was beautiful, elegant. The letter was addressed to Eleanor Ann Cole and sent to an address with which I wasn’t familiar. My eyes questioned hers.

“Audrey, I can’t,” she said. “I won’t be able to… I just can’t say it…”

My hands shook as I opened the envelope. It contained one sheet of plain white paper folded in half. I took a breath and began to read.

20 January 1918

Amiens, France

Dear Eleanor,

It is with deepest regret and sorrow that I write this letter to give you news of your sister, Helen…

I couldn’t read. Couldn’t stand. Couldn’t sit. Couldn’t think.

“Eleanor, what does this say?” I whispered.

“Read it. You need to read it.”

I began again.

“It is with deepest regret and sorrow that I write this letter to give you news of your sister, Helen. On the night of 14 January, Helen was helping to transport wounded from aid stations near the front to clearing stations and field hospitals. Unfortunately, she and a group of stretcher bearers and orderlies unexpectedly came directly under enemy fire. They dove in a shell hole for protection, but one man fell behind. Your sister went back for him. According to this man, Helen shielded him from certain death. In saving him, she was severely wounded, but managed to lead the men from the aid station to the nearest field hospital. To a man, they credit your sister with their lives.

I was the nurse working when your sister was brought to the field hospital. I promise you, we, the doctors, nurses, and myself, did everything we could to save her. Sadly, her injuries were too severe and the trauma too great. She died on the evening on 15 January, 2018.”

There was more, but I’d read enough. Helen, my sweet, beautiful Helen, was dead. There was so much I needed to say, so much I needed to tell her.

“I dreamed about her last night,” I said. “I…”

I woke in a darkened room. I shivered and pulled the bed clothes around me. I could hear voices, a man’s and a woman’s, outside the closed door. I lay back against my pillow. Something had happened. I’d been with Eleanor. I’d been reading a letter. Helen. I couldn’t breathe. Tears burned my eyes. Helen was dead.

Someone knocked quietly on the door. I wiped the tears off my cheeks and tried to sit up. My abdomen hurt. I felt for the baby. Where was the baby? What had happened to the baby? My body shook and I struggled to breathe. I tried to climb out of bed but I couldn’t. My body wouldn’t let me.

I heard another knock and a sliver of light appeared.

“Darling? Are you awake? Can I come in?”

The voice was so familiar. I recognized it immediately.

“Helen?” I said tentatively. I shook off the remnants of what must have been a horrible dream.

“Yes, Darling. I have someone that wants to meet you.”

The door opened and the room flooded with light. Helen entered carrying a small pink bundle. I sank back on the bed. Relief washed over me. I’d been dreaming again.

“I had the baby?” I asked. I didn’t remember going into labor or giving birth.

“She’s beautiful, Audrey. She looks just like you.”

She placed the baby in my arms and kissed me gently on the lips. Gingerly, I pulled the blanket away from the baby’s face. I felt her kick in my arms as she cried out in protest. A tiny fist found its way out of the blanket and punched at the air.

“She definitely has your spirit, Helen,” I laughed. I looked from Helen to the baby and back again. This was my dream – to be with the woman I loved and raise our child. Tears sprang from my eyes and ran down my cheeks.

“Darling, why are you crying?” Helen asked as she reached in her pocket for a handkerchief.

I shook my head and smiled through the tears. “I love you, Helen.”

“I love you, too,” she said as she rose and took the baby from my arms.

“What are we going to call her?”

“We’ll talk about that later. You need to rest, Audrey.”

With one hand she tucked the bed clothes around me and gave me a lingering kiss on the lips. I sunk back on the pillow and watched her walk out the door before falling into an exhausted sleep.

“Mama! I want to see my mama!” Georgie’s cries pierced the silence.

“Shush, your mother is sleeping now!” George’s voice.

“Mama!!” Georgie’s cries became more insistent.

“Dammit, get him out of here!” George commanded. Georgie’s cries faded into the distance.

“Helen?” I said, but my voice was so weak.

I sat up. The room spun. I felt sick to my stomach. I tried to stand. My feet were bare; the floor was cold. I wobbled and nearly fell. I managed to take a few steps and reached the door. I clutched the door knob to regain my balance.

“Helen?” I tried to call again. Still my voice failed me. I opened the door. The room beyond was bright compared to the dark behind me. I recognized George who was talking to a man. A woman in a bloody apron lingered nearby. I could see their mouths moving but I couldn’t understand what they were saying.

“Helen? Where’s Helen?” I was confused. She’d been there just a few moments before. “Where’s the baby?”

The ringing in my ears grew louder and the room darkened suddenly. A man caught me and carried me to the bedroom.

“Helen…” I felt myself murmur.

“Who’s Helen?” A woman asked. “Is that the baby? Mr. Herman, is she talking about the baby?”

“Someone needs to tell her,” another voice said.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Herman. Your baby, Helen, has died. She came too soon.”

Helen was dead. The baby was dead. The room went black. Maybe I was dead.

A bright light awakened me. I put my hand up to my eyes to shield them. I felt a warmth, like the sun on a surprising early spring day. Gingerly, I opened my eyes. Beyond my hand that I still held to my forehead as a shield, I saw the cerulean blue sky and brilliant green of budding leaves.

“So, Sleeping Beauty, you decided to wake up and do some studying?” Helen’s voice. I moved my hand slightly to the left and saw her looking down at me with her usual lopsided grin.

For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was. I must have been lost in a vivid dream. I shook away the sleepiness and remembered the “Study Picnic” as Helen had called it. When the day dawned warm and promising, we decided to spend the afternoon studying outside. We carried our satchels full of books and a blanket from our dormitory until we found the perfect spot. I commenced studying for my Latin midterm; Helen pulled out a copy of Voltaire’s Candide in French. The boredom of the Latin, the warmth of the sun, and too little sleep as I prepared for my midterm exams was too much for me and I recalled feeling myself dozing off.

“Why aren’t you studying? At least I was getting some rest,” I replied.

“I am studying. I’m studying you. Do you know how many freckles you have?”

I felt myself blush. My freckles. I had always hated them, but Helen loved them from the beginning. I put my hand over my face.

“Too many. Shouldn’t you be studying French?”

“Ah, Le Français. Mais non. It’s awful, really, Audrey. When am I ever going to use it here in Los Angeles? Your freckles are far more intriguing than Voltaire.”

She pulled my hand away from my face and studied my face intently, like a scientist who had just discovered a new species of insect.

“Stop, Helen. Someone will see.”

“What will they see? Me looking at you? You’re beautiful, Audrey. No one would ever blame me, but if you’d rather me not,” she said with a laugh as she dramatically looked away from me.

A moment later her gaze settled back upon me; she couldn’t look away for long.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I said. Her smile and raised eyebrows made me wish I could pull her toward me and into my arms.

“Like this?” she asked as she crossed her eyes.

I couldn’t help but laugh which made her laugh. She laid down next to me as she giggled uncontrollably. Finally, she raised herself up on both elbows and looked over at me, suddenly serious.

“I love you, Audrey.”

I swallowed and held her gaze. I knew the moment I had seen her the previous August that I would love her, not as a sister or a best friend. I knew with the greatest certainty that I would love Helen Cole as a lover would. And now, with her words hanging in the air above us, I realized my dream had come true.

“Helen, I love you, too.”

We laid back down in the early spring sunshine. I wished I could lay in her arms, but that was only for private moments behind closed doors. I settled for the feel of her arm next to mine and, in that luxurious moment, I fell back to sleep.

A fog envelopes me. Like a late June morning on Coronado Island. It is neither warm nor cold, though I shiver. I pull my blanket tighter around me. I cannot see; I cannot hear. I suppose it is my choice. I will not see; I will not hear.

“Mrs. Herman.” A pause. “Mrs. Herman?” a voice says, always twice, like an echo. I hear her the first time and refuse to speak, refuse to open my eyes. A tap on my shoulder. I tug on my blanket. It will protect me.

“Your husband and son are visiting today. Don’t you want to get gussied up for them?”

I don’t have a husband or son, nor a daughter for that matter. They don’t mention her anymore. They have learned. They used to call her Helen. My daughter, Helen.

“You must to come to terms with your daughter, Helen,” they said.

It couldn’t have been her name because he wouldn’t have given her that name. Helen. He despised her.

Once upon a time, I threw a picture frame, cut myself with the glass. There are no pictures here, no frames, no glass. I have so little left, except the fog. There is always the fog.

“Come, now, Mrs. Herman. We need to get you dressed. Let go of the blanket.”

I am strong, stronger than them. I will not let go.

“You don’t want your family to see you like this.”

I don’t have a family.

“…so sorry, Mr. Herman. She simply refuses to make any progress. Mired in the past, she is.”

I’ve heard them say it. And his response always the same – “Perhaps next month will be different.”

How many months has he said that? I would have lost count by now had I been counting. Someday he will stop coming, stop bringing Georgie here. I have no idea how old he would be now.

“Mrs. Herman, your husband and son are coming all the way here just to see you. Don’t you want to see them?”

I recede further into the fog. If I go far enough, I won’t be able to hear her or any of the others. I pull the blanket closer and imagine her arms around me.

“Please forgive me, Helen. Please forgive me.” They are the only words I say.

“Poor dear. It wasn’t your fault, Mrs. Herman.”

Once, I lashed out when they said that. I jumped out of my chair, let the blanket fall.

“It was my fault. I killed her. I KILLED HER!” I yelled at the top of my voice.

Then the fog thickened. I couldn’t move, could hardly think. I tried to imagine her face, but I couldn’t.

I don’t lash out anymore.

In the distance, the door clicks and a latch slides into place. I am alone once again. Her face comes to me through the fog. She smiles, then walks away. She beckons me to follow her. We always end up in the same place. A boy nods, gives a mock left-handed salute. She leads me through the sea of wooden crosses before disappearing. “Helen Cole, 15/1/1918” I read over and over again.

“It’s my fault. My cowardice killed you, Helen. Please forgive me.”

I know she won’t; I know she can’t. I beg anyway.