After Melody and I reconnected, I found out my boot camp letter never made it to her. That one remains a mystery. The other four though, should have made it to her but never did due to circumstances out of our control. Maybe Melody would have felt differently about me now, had she read all those letters. She might have been scared off by the damaged person I would likely become after witnessing so much death and destruction. Those thoughts crossed my mind every time I sent another letter to her, butI needed to talk to somebody, even if it was just words on a piece of wrinkled paper. It made me feel like there was still life back home and a light at the end of the tunnel. I knew I might never see or meet up with Melody again, but if she had feelings for me all those years, as I did for her, maybe the letters were enough to let her know I was still out there somewhere, thinking of her.
That’s what I told myself and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, I’m not so sure that I want to open these four envelopes and face my protected, innermost feelings from a time when I didn’t know what the next minute held for me. Melody's head and back are resting against my torso with her legs between mine. My arms are wrapped around hers as I hold the first letter up to read:
* * *
Dear Melody,
* * *
I know it’s been a long time since that night at the party, and I realize you might not have wanted to receive the letter I sent from bootcamp, but now I’m in Afghanistan and I have a free minute to write home. Selfishly, I think I’m writing this letter partly for myself because I can clearly picture you sitting on a chair somewhere, carefully reading each of my words, taking them all in. That image alone gives me comfort. I know it sounds weird, but I can’t explain it any better. In truth, I don’t know if I should hope for a response and even if you do write back to me, onlyGod knows if the mail will ever reach me here.
Anyway, Eastern Afghanistan is where I’m currently stationed. We’ve been here just over a month now and I think my body is finally starting to acclimate to the heat. The sun is brutal here; it feels like a torch is being pointed at me, almost touching my skin, for twelve hours every day, but oddly enough, there’s so much dust, sand, and smog, it’s hard to actually see the ball of fire. Maybe that’s somewhat of a blessing, though.
We’re outside of a city that has been destroyed by explosives. We’re here to secure the area then continue moving forward to our next location. I can’t give many details, so you’ll have to use your imagination as far as my whereabouts. I’ll just say it’s not pretty. Half of the locals walking around the area we are in seem angry because they don’t want us here while the other half is hoping we can free them from the turmoil of war. We handout food and supplies to families in between the attacks, assuring them things will be okay, but I feel guilty because I’m not sure I believe my own words. So many of the buildings have already been flattened to the ground and we find people hiding under rubble, among the dead bodies. Fortunately, I’ve been lucky so far. I have a good team and we’re on top of everything. Our communications are strong, and we’re good on supplies.
Yesterday was probably the hardest day I’ve experienced here so far. There was an attack on one of the local street markets. A suicide bomber took out the entire outdoor display in less than three seconds. Bodies and body parts were flying everywhere, and I stood there stunned from the explosion and the sight of so much hate and destruction. It was shock—it held me frozen for what seemed like an entire minute when it was only a second. A limb fell from midair and landed at my feet. That’s how close I was—or how massive the explosion was. The limb was an arm, and the hand attached to it still had rings on the fingers. It was hard to digest that this arm belonged to a living, breathing human being just minutes earlier. The blood oozing from the arm spilled onto my boot. I knew I needed to move—to act quickly because there could be other bombers.aIt turned out, there was only one, but we spent the next few hours searching for bodies, trying to help those who were wounded, and clear away the ones who were dead.
It was the first attack we’ve witnessed here. I had never seen a dead body other than at a wake, so it was tough. I saw more yesterday than anyone should ever see in a lifetime. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to erase those images. Some of the people were buried alive beneath falling rubble and I wondered what their last thoughts were or even if they had time to have a last thought. I was supposed to be on a mission to save people, but I don’t feel like I did much saving yesterday.
Anyway, we’re getting our MRE’s (Meal-Ready-to-Eat) so I better go eat before we start moving again.
I hope college is treating you well and that I didn’t cause you distress with all the details in this letter.
I think about you a lot, maybe more than I should, but that smile of yours can get me through anything. So, whatever you’re doing right now, on the other side of the world, keep smiling for me.
—Brett
* * *
I drop the letter onto Melody’s lap, and she grabs my arms and ties them tightly around her chest. I never thought I’d be listening to my words while holding this woman in my arms. I didn’t think I was going to make it out of there alive, not after that first attack. “That was a brutal awakening. I didn’t think we would skate by without seeing the effects of combat and attacks, but no matter what I imagined or tried to prepare myself for, it didn’t come close to what I saw that day. It didn’t get easier after that andI didn’t become numb like I thought I would. I walked around in fear, stayed awake at night in fear and wondered if those days that felt like we were in Hell, were my life’s purpose. The training I had—it prepared me for all the physical strength I would need to survive, but there’s no training for luck, and luck is all we had most days.”
“Did you lose any of your men that day?”
I shake my head. “No, none of us were in the market thankfully, but whether it was one of us or another innocent human being, no one deserves to go out that way.”
“What did you do after you finished cleaning up from the attack?” she asks. No one has asked me this question before because no one knows about that attack.
“We marched forward toward our next destination. We received communications on expected threats, but a lot of times, we didn’t know how, or where the damage would be. We didn’t even know the difference between the good guys and the bad guys sometimes. They would try to fool us. I never knew what to think, so I had watched for unusual twitches and eye movements. I learned their behaviors and tried to seek out the danger before they had an opportunity to pounce on us.”
“They don’t report those kinds of updates on the news,” Melody says.
“The public shouldn’t have to bear witness to a lot of what we saw. Your imagination is enough.”
“Are all of your letters to me like this one?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking down at my hands. “I needed to tell someone.”
“I would have written back. I would have sent you care packages. I would have sent smiles. I would have been waiting for you the minute you got back. If you think I’m not angry that I didn’t receive those letters, Brett, you’re wrong. It eats away at me all the time, knowing I could have been there—knowing I would have jumped through hoops of fire to be there for you. All I can say is, I’m here now, and I hope it’s never too late to talk to me or ask for a smile.”
I kiss Melody’s forehead. “I shouldn’t have written all that stuff in the letters. You didn’t sign up for that kind of truth. I did. Maybe there’s a better reason you didn’t get those than Ace being a bastard.”
“Yes, you should have,” she corrects me. “I’m glad you did.”
“If you wrote back, I would have fallen in love with you right there and then. I would have thought about you morning, noon, and night, more than I already was. I would have gotten distracted and it could have ended badly.”
“You know, I thought about you all the time too. My parents told me you had gotten deployed, which made me watch the news eve
ry night, scared to hear something happened to U.S. troops. I never knew anyone who enlisted, you were the only one, and the more I learned, the scarier it became. You were over there fighting to stay alive and to help others do the same, and there were people here who had no clue what was really going on.”
“I think the reporting was skewed a bit too. There was more happening than even the press knew.”
“Well, if there was one thing I could change, at the very least, it would be that I was waiting there for you when you got home safely.”
The thought brings a smile to my face. “Oh yeah? What would you have done?” I ask.
She twists around to face me, wrapping her legs and arms around me from the front. “I would have searched through the crowd of Marines, waiting to see your face amongst the rest of the Marines. It would have been like one of those movie scenes where there isn’t talking, just cinematic, uplifting music. The second I spotted you, I would have run like hell to you. I would have thrown my arms around you and kissed you like I knew of all the times I might have lost you. I wouldn’t have let you go, Brett.”
“I can almost see that moving playing in my mind. You would have been running toward me, the most beautiful face in the crowd, in slow motion. I would have lifted you up and spun you around as your hair wrapped around my neck, and then I would have looked you into your stunning green eyes to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, and that it was really you. I would have told you I loved you and asked you to marry me right then and there.”Melody kisses me sweetly, folding her arms around the back of my head. “And yet, here we are: in love, married, with a second child on the way. I don’t know, Sergeant Pearson … it looks like we might have made it after all.”
“I love you so damn much, Mel,” I say.
“I love you even more than that,” she says. “All parts of you—the secrets, stories, and the memories.”
28
A Year Later
A year of therapy. A son, Quinn, who has fire-engine red hair like his mom and a great giggle, a sassy ten-year-old who might or might not have a boyfriend (still up for debate), and the most incredible wife in the world. Some might say I’m doing pretty damn well.
It looks that way from the outside.
Those people don’t know that I read my old letters every single night before I go to bed so I can revisit the war in my dreams to do over what I did in another lifetime. I’m positive I’m not okay, but that’s only one part of my life. The other parts make up the difference. Melody knows the pain I sleep with, and for some reason, she continues to love me through it day after day.
Even days like today.
A car accident at a four-way intersection in the middle of our suburban town plays out in front of us from three cars back. I blink, and the collision consists of an armed vehicle and a U.S. hummer. I jump out of the truck to help the innocent.
I help the drunk instead.
The innocent is rushed away in an ambulance.
I screwed up again.
The scene is being cleared up, and I tell Melody to take the kids home. She doesn’t ask any questions; she just does as I ask after kissing me on the cheek.
I’ve been sitting here on the curb of the intersection, trying to understand how I saw something completely different than what happened. How did I get things so wrong? Why was someone drunk in the morning?
I open the box full of memories because it is supposed to heal me, but I don’t know how long this healing process takes or how many people will be affected by it. The therapist says we can’t put a time limit on mental healing, but I wonder if he says that as a milder way of saying “never.” I’m not a stranger to what wars have done to men and women in the past. The battered souls live among us with faces made of bravery and courage, hiding the pain buried so deeply inside.
If I close my eyes, I can feel the sand scuff beneath my boots, and I smell the rotting flesh float through the thick air, smoke filled air. There’s dirt on my hands, and they feel like they haven’t been washed in a month. Maybe someone is coming up behind me for a surprise attack. Perhaps the accident was a distraction to punish me for all I’ve done in the past. I shouldn’t just sit here. I should keep moving. It’s the only way to survive.
I stand up from the curb and walk for over an hour until I reach the hospital. I want to check on the innocent man from the accident.
I don’t know his name.
The registration desk can’t help me.
They tell me to take a seat.
So, I sit, and I stare at the wall until Melody comes to get me. Somehow she knew where I would go, but I’m not sure how.
Now I’m in my kitchen, drinking a glass of water so that I can flush the thoughts from my mind.
“Brett,” Melody says. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
I’m not okay. I shouldn’t be okay. I killed people. I squeeze the glass in my hand until it breaks, feeling the shards slice across my palm. It was an accident.
I look up at the terror in Melody’s eyes. “I didn’t mean—”
She remains calm, though I can see the thoughts running through her beautiful eyes. She leaps at me with a towel and takes the glass carefully from my hand, then wraps the towel around the laceration. “We need to get you to the hospital.”
“I should have just stayed there. I’m being punished.”
“Brett, don’t talk like that.”
“I didn’t mean to break the glass.”
“I know. It was an accident,” she says.
“What about the kids?”
“I’m going to go put them in the car and take them to my mom’s. Sit down on this stool until I come back for you,” she says, pulling the stool out from beneath the kitchen island.”
“It’s okay.”
I watch Melody escort the kids out of the house, doing all she can so they don’t see their wreck of a father sitting in the kitchen with blood pooling out of his hand. “What’s wrong with Dad?” Parker asks.
“He just needs a couple of stitches. You know how Dad’s a big baby when it comes to blood, right?” Melody says.
“Yeah, he’s the biggest baby I’ve ever met,” Parker replies.
Melody is stronger than me.
I need her more than she needs me.
She’s my hero—the real kind of hero.
Melody races back inside and wraps her hands around the towel. “Ready?”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“For what?”
“Today.”
Melody places her hand on my cheek. “It’s just another day. There’s always tomorrow.”
“It’s never going to stop,” I tell her.
“And if it doesn’t … I will get really good at picking you up when you fall.”
“How are you so strong?” I ask her, standing from the stool.
“Eh, I pushed out a ten-pounder. You can take the blame for that, okay?”
“You did that like a champ,” I say.
“Okay, let’s get moving before you lose any more blood.”
“I love you,” I remind her.
“You know I love you, Brett, and you might not think so, but this is the longest you’ve gone without one of these flashbacks. I call it progress even though you’re beating yourself up right now.”
She’s right about how long it’s been. It’s the longest I’ve gone. I’ve kept track. It’s been six months. “I’m trying my best.”
Mrs. Quinn took the kids from the car and blew me a kiss as Melody thanked her with a hug. She has Quinn waving at us as we back out of the driveway. I wave with my good hand and mouth the words: I love you, to both of the kids.
It’s a helpless feeling, being out of control, just like it was, in the middle of a war. “We’re going to get there, you know,” Melody says. “To a point where you can see through the darkness.”
“I hope so.”
“Everything takes time, especially the hard parts in life—the ones worth working toward and never giving up
on.”
I’ve let my guard down. I’ve let her in entirely. I hide nothing. She knows the raw wounds inside of me and the way my heart beats for her. She lets the bad times go with the wind and holds onto the good times like old, treasured photos. She smiles when things are shitty and laughs when I get mad, which kills the anger and fixes everything. I never knew I needed someone so much until I realized she had been there all along, waiting for our time to be right.
“My mom will keep the kids tonight. I think there’s a bottle of bourbon with our names on it.”
“You mean, the one with our actual names on it?” I ask.
“That one,” Melody says. “The one that says: Melody and Brett—drink this one night after you’ve had a bad day, a day that should be brushed under the carpet.”
“He always knew it was you and me.”
“He also knew we’d enjoy those bottles of bourbon he left behind,” I say.
When we have a bad day, we stay up late and open one of Harold’s custom bottles of bourbon. We sit on the kitchen floor, facing each other and we talk about ridiculous topics that make us laugh like idiots. Sometimes, we make unrealistic plans for the future, and other times, we act out the dramatic scenes featuring the two of us getting together after being apart for a long time. The bad days are hard, but the bourbon nights we share, keep us going, and magically erase what should be forgotten.
Epilogue
Three Years Later
I know what you want to hear … The PTSD is gone. I don’t experience any more flashbacks. The horrors from the war are fading into the background like a distant memory and I don’t have moments where the world might think I’ve lost my mind, but that isn’t real life, not in my book anyway.
Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3) Page 21