Free Stella Bain by Anita Shreve

forward to take them to Tillman’s office. They follow the junior officer, Stella leading, Dr. Bridge behind.
    Albion Tillman, an overweight man in his forties, a man who sports a curved gray mustache and many medals, stands when they enter. Dr. Bridge thanks him for seeing them.
    “What’s this all about, then?” the officer asks when they are seated and introductions made. “I don’t think you mentioned that Miss Bain would be in uniform still.” He turns to Stella. “Are you returning to France soon?”
    “No, sir, I am not. I put it on because I thought that if we encountered anyone else here, I might be taken more seriously.”
    Though he is amiable enough with Dr. Bridge, Tillman has a stern visage. Stella worries that the high-ranking officer might say that her being in uniform is unethical. Perhaps there is even a regulation concerning the matter. She finds she is holding her breath.
    “Yes, quite right,” Tillman says. “Some of the men here see a civilian woman and assume she’s one of the bereaved who’ve come to ask for our help. And you would be surprised at how much the men who have seen action dislike civilians.”
    “I am sorry to have come under false pretenses,” Stella says.
    “Have you had any luck?” Tillman asks, looking at both of them.
    “I’m afraid not,” Dr. Bridge answers as Stella lowers her head, embarrassed by her odd search and dismayed by the results.
    “To lose one’s memory must be as painful as losing a limb,” Tillman says. “More, I should imagine. Are you sure that you will find the person you are looking for here?”
    “It is not a certainty.”
    The room is smaller than Stella imagined. The combination of a high ceiling and the closeness of the walls makes her feel as though she were caught in a box, and a musty one at that. Or perhaps it is Tillman’s bulk that causes the chamber to lose its scale. The smell of wet wool is pervasive.
    “Any sight or sound that helps us is worth following up,” Dr. Bridge comments.
    “Yes, just so,” agrees Tillman, who seems as puzzled as he was before Dr. Bridge’s explanation. “I imagine you want to keep this particular meeting as brief as possible. I wish you luck, Miss Bain, in your difficult endeavor. We should all pray for a swift end to this terrible war.” And with that, Tillman abruptly stands again, dismissing them both.
     
    Stella’s steps are slow as they leave the rear admiral’s office with the escort, who has waited for them. The junior officer must think the meeting amazingly brief. Or perhaps such pro forma interviews are common. The escort leaves them at the reception desk.
    “I think we should like to sit a minute,” Dr. Bridge explains to the woman in the cubicle. “We have received difficult news today.”
    “Of course,” the Wren says, glancing at Stella.
    Noticing the heavier foot traffic inside the hall, Dr. Bridge guides Stella to a bench similar to the one they were on before. “I’ll wait with you until you are ready to go.”
    “Thank you,” she says.
    “Are you all right?” he asks.
    “Yes.” She pauses. “No. Nothing is normal. How can it be? I don’t yet know who I am. I may discover, when I know my identity, that I’m not a good person at all. I fear that I’m not. I seek my identity, and yet I’m afraid of it. But I’m more afraid of never knowing.”
    Stella speculates about how the two of them look to the hallway full of uniformed men and women: a civilian man, well dressed but perhaps betraying his eagerness to leave the building, and a woman in a pristine VAD uniform with her shoulders slumped and her eyes seeming to look more inward than outward.
    “Actually, I’m ready to go now,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper.
    “Are you sure?” Dr. Bridge asks.
    “Yes, quite sure.”
     
    The two repeat the exercise several times in the early weeks of 1917. On each occasion, Dr. Bridge telephones Albion Tillman in advance to make the request.