Catch the Wind: My Journey with Caroline

The rainstorm catches us halfway back to Caroline’s house. We yank our wool shawls over our heads, but they barely help. Mud cakes our shoes and skirt hems by the time we burst into the kitchen. Mrs. Livingston orders the muddy shoes left by the door and sends us straight upstairs to change and take a nap. She looks directly at me when she suggests the nap.

Upstairs in Caroline’s little bedroom, we strip off our wet stockings and dresses. Caroline hangs everything to dry on pegs on the wall and then hands me a dry dress. Then, she spreads blankets into a pallet on the floor for herself while she insists I should take the beautiful four-poster bed.

I climb under her embroidered spread while she curls up on the floor. Caroline’s breathing slows and evens out quickly, but sleep won’t come for me. Too many thoughts are crowding in, and one keeps repeating on a loop: now is the time to go.

I pull on my original dress. I figure I won’t be wearing it much longer, so it’s okay that it’s wet. Miraculously, I managed to keep the letter dry through the storm. I unfold it and leave it on the table by the bed, where Caroline is sure to find it.

With Mrs. Livingston moving around the kitchen downstairs, I duck into the parlor instead, where seashell treasures, tiny model ships, and an embroidered fireplace screen catch my eye. There’s clearly so much about 1812 I still don’t know. Maybe I’ll come back someday, I think, and pull out the compass. Dizziness takes hold, and when I open my eyes again, I’m back at the pond, already missing Caroline.

It feels good to be home. Mom, Dad, and the twins are already out in the backyard, and Mom calls out to ask if I’m feeling better. Sasha grabs at my sparkly t-shirt, begging for a game of soccer. I promise I’ll play soon, even though I’m not quite ready to face Mom or a crazy soccer game yet. I ask if I can go inside first, and Dad eyes me thoughtfully and says yes without asking a single question.

Inside my bedroom, I dig out a pen and an old journal. I tear a blank page free from the back of the journal and start to write:

I fill the page with all of my feelings and fears about her leaving. Getting it all out feels like a weight lifting from my shoulders. Near the end, I make sure to add that none of this means I’m not proud she joined the navy, because I am proud of her. And I always will be.

After signing my name, I tuck the letter into my desk drawer, planning to hand it to Mom in person before she leaves. The thought of her opening it up right after her ship has left the dock makes me smile.

Then I head back downstairs. A ridiculous game of family soccer, it turns out, sounds like exactly what I need.