Sharing Corrie

Chapter Twenty

Corrie pulled her chair closer to Christina, observing the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. They had been staying with the Howards for over a week and were still awaiting the arrival of the medicine for Christina's treatment. When Corrie spoke over the telephone with her mother, she had managed to convince Anita of the necessity of the treatment, and they had sent the money for the medicine overnight. Though Dr. Howard had requested that the medicine be expedited, it still had yet to arrive.

The days were fraught with worry as Corrie spent every moment by her sister's bedside, reading to her, comforting her. She scarcely left her side except during the night when she caught a few hours of fitful sleep. Hannah and Jack brought Corrie's meals to Christina's room and offered to take shifts sitting by the invalid, but Corrie refused to be parted from her as if her constant presence could stem the illness's tide.

Corrie's poetry journal sat open on her lap, already half-full with the words that had seemed to flow from her fingertips over the past few days. Her pen transcribed every emotion as it came--guilt, despair, hope, longing, wistfulness, pain. These scribbles were often her only source of strength throughout the day.

Today, the New York Times, dated June 26, 1917, took precedence over her poetry. Though Corrie had been trying to shield Christina from news of David and the war by insisting his letters remain in Irvington until her return, she knew she could not keep this news of the war from her sister, not when it affected her so directly.

Christina's eyes fluttered open, the pale green nearly translucent in the morning light that washed through the window. She squinted and turned to look at Corrie, a ghost of a smile on her pale lips.

"I have news of the war," Corrie murmured, keeping the newspaper enclosed in her lap.

Christina didn't need to see the pictures displayed on the front page; the news itself would be enough to disturb her peace.

At her words, Christina tried to sit up, wincing as she lifted herself onto her elbows. "What is it? David, is he alright? Has there been news?"

Corrie placed a placating hand on her arm. "No, no, nothing of David. It's news from the New York Times." Corrie sighed. She looked down at the article and began to read, "Today, 14,000 American infantry troops have landed in France at the port of Saint Nazaire under the command of General John J. Pershing. They are prepared to go into action alongside the Allies at the Western Front whenever called upon. Many more American troops are preparing to be shipped to the Western Front in the coming months." Corrie took a breath and glanced at her sister, refolding the newspaper in her lap.

Christina's eyes looked straight ahead, a haunting emptiness in the glassy green. "He's in France."

As one of the very first recruits, they both knew that David was now on the shores of France preparing for battle. Corrie watched as Christina processed the revelation; first her eyes widened in disbelief, and then they closed in a spasm of pain. Moments later, tears flooded her eyes and traced her pale, sunken cheeks. Her entire body shook as she wept, but not a sound escaped her lips. Corrie wrapped her sister in her arms, letting her head rest against her chest and her tears stain her blouse.

"David's in France," Christina murmured against her sister through a wracking cough.

"I know, I know," Corrie whispered into Christina's hair.

She wanted to weep with her sister, weep for the thousands of American lives that were now in peril, but though tears came to her eyes, she realized that if she wept, it would not be for the nameless boys in France, but for her sister. Selfishly, Corrie would sacrifice all of those soldiers for her sister's recovery.