Catch the Wind: My Journey with Caroline

A day with Caroline never runs short on excitement, so part of me wants to say yes on the spot. But watching Caroline with her own mother makes me ache for Mom. I want to get home while there’s still time left with her before deployment.

I tell Caroline that staying the night sounds wonderful, but I have to move on in the morning. She protests, wanting to know where I could possibly need to go when she’d hoped I’d settle in Sackets Harbor for longer. Mrs. Livingston gently steps in, telling her not to pressure a guest who has somewhere else to be, and to make the most of whatever time is left instead. Her gaze lingers on me a moment, and I sense she suspects there’s more to my story than I’ve let on.

Warmly, Mrs. Abbott adds that I’ll always be welcome to visit. Thanking her, I slide my hand into my pocket and squeeze the compass, wondering if I really might find my way back here someday. That thought makes this goodbye a little easier, since it doesn’t have to be the last one.

Caroline’s small bedroom sits upstairs, looking out over the harbor. She hands me a spare nightgown with lovely embroidery, mentioning almost in passing that stitching is one of her favorite things to do. An idea strikes her while we change. We should swap hair ribbons so we’ll always remember each other. I agree, only then noticing a pale blue ribbon already tied in my own hair. I untie it and hand it over. She hands me a pale pink ribbon in return. I don’t know if it’ll make it back to the twenty-first century, but it’s worth a try.

Once we’re lying down in our nightgowns, everything I’ve seen since landing in 1812 keeps spinning through my head, and sleep feels far away. Caroline seems just as restless, shifting beside me until she admits she wishes I didn’t have to go. She says there are no girls her own age nearby, so having a new friend has meant more than I know.

I tell her I’ll miss her, too, and that I’ll never forget her. She asks if we’ll stay friends forever, and I promise we will. Propping herself up, she tells me how brave I must be to travel all alone, adding that she’ll think of me whenever she starts to feel sorry for herself about her papa being gone.

Part of me wants to tell her I’m not really alone, that plenty of people love and miss me, too, but there’s no explaining any of that here. Instead I remind myself that I already crossed 200 years on my own and pulled off things I never thought I could. Whatever courage that took, I can probably summon it again whenever I need to.