Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1) by Barbara Bretton Page B
Authors: Barbara Bretton
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thing we need to do is get this young man comfortable.”
She draped his coat over the banister and balanced his hat on the first step.
“Take his feet,” ordered Dr. Bernstein. “I’m going to grab him under the arms. I’ll bear most of his weight, Catherine, but I’ll need your help.”
“Anything,” she said. “I’ll do anything.” Johnny’s boots were huge, and heavy, deeply scuffed around the toes and heels, and she found it difficult to get a good grip on his ankles. “Okay, Dr. B. Whenever, you’re ready.”
“On the count of three. One... two... three. That’s it... that’s it....” They maneuvered their human burden through the foyer and into the living room.
“The sofa by the window,” said Catherine, wincing as a pine needle stabbed the underside of her bare foot. “That’s closest to the radiator.”
Johnny moaned as they lowered him to the cushions, and Catherine felt as if a fist had grabbed her heart and was slowly squeezing it.
The doctor leaned over Johnny and began to undo the buttons on his overcoat.
“Don’t just stand there, Catherine,” Dr. Bernstein barked. “Let’s get this boy undressed.”
Her cheeks flamed despite the chill. Dr. Bernstein noticed. “You’re a sensible young woman, Catherine. Don’t go turning coy on me. I need your help.” He gestured at Johnny. “He needs your help.”
She took a deep breath then knelt next to the sofa. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons of his army-issue shirt as if she was wearing mittens. The doctor was unfastening the soldier’s trousers and she kept her gaze firmly fastened to the task before her. “Danza John,” read his dogtags. “O positive.” Her vision blurred as she tried to make out his birthdate and religion.
“Get a grip on yourself,” said Dr. Bernstein, his voice gruff but kind. “You’ll have plenty of time to cry later on.”
He was right. She knew he was right but she couldn’t help the tears. This couldn’t be happening. You simply didn’t fall asleep on your living-room sofa one minute and awake to find an unconscious soldier on your welcome mat the next. Johnny Danza was somewhere in Europe with her father, fighting the war.
She stripped off his shirt and grasped the hem of his undershirt. Her fingers brushed against his flat abdomen and she watched, mesmerized, as the taut muscles reacted to her touch.
“I’ll lift him,” said the doctor, gripping Johnny by the shoulders. “You prop him up with pillows.”
She nodded, smoothing the white undershirt over his stomach once again. He moaned again as the doctor repositioned him on the couch, and Catherine struggled to contain her tears. She wasn’t imagining this. Johnny wasn’t somewhere in Europe with her father; he was right here in Forest Hills. Dr. Bernstein cradled the man in his brawny arms while Catherine arranged those foolish, frilly chintz pillows behind his back for support.
“Get my bag from the hallway,” the doctor ordered. Catherine was back in an instant with the heavy black leather satchel.
“Take off his undershirt.”
She did as he requested. Then both he and Catherine gasped at the sight of Johnny’s bare chest. She felt her knees buckle beneath her, but Dr. Bernstein steadied her and she took a deep breath to calm herself.
“Shrapnel wounds. I haven’t seen anything like this since the last war. And look at that arm. Nasty infection setting in. Darn good thing the boy made it here or he wouldn’t’ve lasted the night in that storm.”
This is what it’s all about , she thought, staring at the ugly wounds zigzagging across his upper torso. This is what’s happening over there—to all of them . Dear God, forgive me ... I never knew ... I never imagined ... She’d been as foolish as her little sister, thinking of USO tours and war bonds, knitting scarves for brave young men to take into battle. How wrong she had been. How wrong they all had been.
She pushed an image of Douglas, torn and dying, from
She draped his coat over the banister and balanced his hat on the first step.
“Take his feet,” ordered Dr. Bernstein. “I’m going to grab him under the arms. I’ll bear most of his weight, Catherine, but I’ll need your help.”
“Anything,” she said. “I’ll do anything.” Johnny’s boots were huge, and heavy, deeply scuffed around the toes and heels, and she found it difficult to get a good grip on his ankles. “Okay, Dr. B. Whenever, you’re ready.”
“On the count of three. One... two... three. That’s it... that’s it....” They maneuvered their human burden through the foyer and into the living room.
“The sofa by the window,” said Catherine, wincing as a pine needle stabbed the underside of her bare foot. “That’s closest to the radiator.”
Johnny moaned as they lowered him to the cushions, and Catherine felt as if a fist had grabbed her heart and was slowly squeezing it.
The doctor leaned over Johnny and began to undo the buttons on his overcoat.
“Don’t just stand there, Catherine,” Dr. Bernstein barked. “Let’s get this boy undressed.”
Her cheeks flamed despite the chill. Dr. Bernstein noticed. “You’re a sensible young woman, Catherine. Don’t go turning coy on me. I need your help.” He gestured at Johnny. “He needs your help.”
She took a deep breath then knelt next to the sofa. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons of his army-issue shirt as if she was wearing mittens. The doctor was unfastening the soldier’s trousers and she kept her gaze firmly fastened to the task before her. “Danza John,” read his dogtags. “O positive.” Her vision blurred as she tried to make out his birthdate and religion.
“Get a grip on yourself,” said Dr. Bernstein, his voice gruff but kind. “You’ll have plenty of time to cry later on.”
He was right. She knew he was right but she couldn’t help the tears. This couldn’t be happening. You simply didn’t fall asleep on your living-room sofa one minute and awake to find an unconscious soldier on your welcome mat the next. Johnny Danza was somewhere in Europe with her father, fighting the war.
She stripped off his shirt and grasped the hem of his undershirt. Her fingers brushed against his flat abdomen and she watched, mesmerized, as the taut muscles reacted to her touch.
“I’ll lift him,” said the doctor, gripping Johnny by the shoulders. “You prop him up with pillows.”
She nodded, smoothing the white undershirt over his stomach once again. He moaned again as the doctor repositioned him on the couch, and Catherine struggled to contain her tears. She wasn’t imagining this. Johnny wasn’t somewhere in Europe with her father; he was right here in Forest Hills. Dr. Bernstein cradled the man in his brawny arms while Catherine arranged those foolish, frilly chintz pillows behind his back for support.
“Get my bag from the hallway,” the doctor ordered. Catherine was back in an instant with the heavy black leather satchel.
“Take off his undershirt.”
She did as he requested. Then both he and Catherine gasped at the sight of Johnny’s bare chest. She felt her knees buckle beneath her, but Dr. Bernstein steadied her and she took a deep breath to calm herself.
“Shrapnel wounds. I haven’t seen anything like this since the last war. And look at that arm. Nasty infection setting in. Darn good thing the boy made it here or he wouldn’t’ve lasted the night in that storm.”
This is what it’s all about , she thought, staring at the ugly wounds zigzagging across his upper torso. This is what’s happening over there—to all of them . Dear God, forgive me ... I never knew ... I never imagined ... She’d been as foolish as her little sister, thinking of USO tours and war bonds, knitting scarves for brave young men to take into battle. How wrong she had been. How wrong they all had been.
She pushed an image of Douglas, torn and dying, from
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