Searching for Tomorrow (Tomorrows)

by Kathryn McNeill Crane

  They will return him to me, but I have no way of knowing what mental or emotional state he will be in after reliving everything. While he is required to keep information from me, it won’t be the same with his superiors. He will have to remember everything that’s happened to him, but even more, he’ll have to report it. I can only pray that this will be a therapeutic release for him, possibly opening the doors to his becoming whole again. I will be contacting my friends at the Wounded Warrior Project for support and assistance, because there is no doubt in my mind that we will need it to get through the days ahead.

  My thoughts are racing in circles when my eyes land on the bedside clock. I’m startled to see that it’s almost time to go get the girls from school. The time that Tripp and I have spent seems but mere minutes, when in fact, it’s been almost six hours. While I hate to wake him, we have to talk about reintroducing him to our babies. Is it fair to let them have him for a couple of hours, only for him to leave again? Will Annie, the one who remembers him the most, understand what’s happening? Will she be able to deal with seeing him, and then losing him all over again? My heart is already missing him even though he’s still right beside me, so what will it do to her, to all three of them? My brain knows what needs to happen, but now I just have to convince the rest of me, and Tripp, that it’s the right thing to do.

  I look over, and my heart smiles at the sight of him. Our next separation will be temporary, and I will just have to keep reminding myself of that. If I remember correctly, one of his favorite ways for me to wake him up was by kissing him. Leaning over, I press my lips to his, and feel the beginnings of his smile. His eyes slowly open as his arms embrace me, and suddenly I find myself on my back with his body covering mine. As he deepens the kiss, he must see the questions on my face because he brings the kiss to a stop. “What’s wrong, Wrynn?” he asks in a sleepy voice.

  I let out a strangled laugh. “Nothing’s wrong. This is perfect.”

  “Why do I hear a ‘but’ in your voice?”

  “Because this is perfect, but it’s not just us we have to think of. While I watched you sleeping, my mind went in a million directions. The fact is that you’re not going to be here much longer. Once Randy and Marcus show up at our door, you’ll have to leave again. It’s temporary, I know, but you’re still going to be gone for a little while.” Deep breaths, Wrynn, deep breaths. “We have to think about Annie, and Bekah, and how your sudden appearance and sudden departure are going to affect them. I’m not as concerned about Maggie because she’s never had the chance to meet you.”

  “What are you trying to say, Wrynn? That I should’ve stayed dead, not come back to the only home I have? That I shouldn’t want to see my family?” His voice is sharp, and anger has replaced any softness in his features.

  “Baby, I would never think those things, much less say them. You belong here with us. I’ve dreamed of this moment every second that you were gone. But you don’t understand what it’s been like for us. Annie still has nightmares. Her last one was just night before last, and she came to me crying in the middle of the night. She was telling stories about you last night during their bath. Is it really fair to let her have just a few stolen moments with you, and then have her wondering when, or if you’re coming back this time?”

  Tripp rolls over onto his back, covering his face with his hands, and shakes his head in disbelief. “How could I be so stupid? I just wanted to see you, to feel you in my arms again. I didn’t even consider how my coming here before the debriefing might hurt you all over again. If I’d gone straight to Fort Benning—”

  I place my hand over his mouth to stop the rushed flow of his words. “Don’t ever think that it would be better for me to think you’re dead than to know you’re alive. For the first time since I got the news of your death, I can dream, I can hope, I can live again. You’ve given that back to me. You’ve given me you again. I told you. I’ve made a mess of things while you were gone. But right now, I need to call my mom and ask her to take the girls to her house for the evening. Look at the bright side. You and I can have more time together before you have to leave, and I will have time to prepare the girls before you get back.”

  I roll over to grab my cellphone from the table, and before I finish talking to my mom, Tripp has begun his strategically planned advance. Warm, soft lips travel slowly up my neck, and when they reach my ear, I hear a whisper. “Say ‘Goodbye Mom’.” And so, I do.

  Epilogue

  Tomorrow

  Three years later

  Memorial Day 2016

  As I stare out the kitchen window, I see the five most important people in my life. I would love to say that these last three years have been easy. That would be a lie, but I would go through every tear, every moment of anger, every ounce of fear, to be right where I am today… preparing for our Memorial Day picnic on Jones Knob.

  Three years ago, Tripp walked back into my life a broken, angry, bitter man. After placing the call to my mom, we had two more hours of uninterrupted time before he had to leave. To this day, a knock on the front door brings back the memory of Tripp being led away from me. Tiffany’s calls had been her way of warning me without actually telling me what was happening, and yes, Randy and Lori had been in town because they knew that wherever I was would be the first place that Tripp would go.

  Thankfully, the Army was able to wrap up its business quickly, and Tripp was gone less than two weeks before he came home for good. Because the last day of class had arrived, his first stop when he returned was the school where the girls were. Having had time to prepare them for their father’s return, they knew that he was coming home, but not when to expect him. As the final bell of the school year rang, Tripp stood beneath the flag of our country that he had so valiantly served, held my hands, and waited for his first glimpse of his three girls. As Annie walked out the doors, her eyes searched until she saw me, but the second she noticed her dad standing beside me, she dropped her lunchbox and ran as fast as her little legs could carry her. When she was a couple feet from him, Tripp dropped to his knees and she hurled her body into his waiting arms. It was impossible tell who cried the hardest, my big, strong man or my brave, sweet girl. All I know is that the sight of those two as they clung to each other healed one more fracture in my heart.

  Only moments later, Bekah made her way in-between the two of them, and reintroduced herself to the man she had only vague memories of. By the time my mom, dad, and Liam made it to us with Maggie, the Tidwell family was a sobbing, snotty mess. The look on Tripp’s face as he met his youngest daughter brought tears to every person who witnessed the introduction, and within an hour’s time, the whole community knew that one of their own had returned from the dead.

  While the details are still sketchy, I’ve found out through his nightmares that the helicopter pilot and two of the six soldiers died at the scene of the explosion. Tripp and the other three men were held as hostages somewhere in the jungles of South America, in hopes that they could be exchanged for prisoners held by the United States. One of the men died that first week from injuries received when the helicopter exploded. The other three endured untold abuse every time our government refused to negotiate a handover.

  These men were always on the alert, and looking for a way to escape. When the opportunity presented itself, they ran as fast as they could with nothing but the clothes on their backs, a stolen machete, and the will and determination to live. Even though none of them knows the exact amount of time, all three estimate they traveled by foot and by boat for over three months before finally reaching American soil. Rarely a week goes by that Tripp doesn’t talk to these two men, as they try to encourage each other through the depression and struggles they face.

  It’s no surprise that Tripp was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but every single day, he seems to recover just a little more of his old self. Loud noises are not quite as distressing, and the children’s chatter isn’t as irritating. I still long for the night that his dreams don�
��t wake him, and I pray that that particular future is not so far away.

  The Wounded Warrior Project has been a Godsend in so many ways. They’ve helped us work to find just the right counselors and therapists, not only for Tripp, but also for the girls and me. We receive constant encouragement, and the best part is the knowledge that help is just a phone call away.

  WWP has also helped us cut through all the red tape with the government. Because Tripp had been legally declared dead, we had to jump through so many hoops to prove that he was actually alive. Until that finally happened, he truly had no rights or recourse, because technically, at least on paper, he was dead.

  This leads me to Mother Tidwell. My decision to tell Tripp the truth about his mother was hard but necessary. I needed him to understand that her behavior wasn't his fault, but it was she who was responsible for all the conflict. She was detached, bitter, and focused only on the money. When Tripp and I paid her a visit after he was home for good, her reaction was strange to say the least. During our short, and I mean SHORT, time with her, her behavior was erratic and her speech was slurred. She simply refused to believe that Tripp was alive, and swore that we were playing a trick on her. She seemed terrified that a ghost was in her house, and literally fled outside to her car. As we followed her down the winding mountain roads, we witnessed her car hitting a tree when she blacked out at the wheel. When the hospital admitted her, we discovered that she had Alzheimer’s disease. Her doctor seemed surprised that we didn’t know this, because he had diagnosed her over twenty years ago. Because we weren’t familiar with the disease, we Googled it, and learned that, while each person is affected differently, most patients symptomatically progress over the course of several decades. This certainly explained some of her odd behavior over the years, but to this day, I still struggle over her inability to love the most lovable of people, namely Tripp and our daughters.

  As far as the trust, Tripp was still legally dead the day he turned thirty, and our biggest concern was getting that declaration overturned. Once it happened, it took a simple appearance before a judge and the trust reverted to Tripp. He then turned around and sought medical treatment for the woman he’d always known as his mother, and I am happy to say that she is now comfortably ensconced in a top of the line nursing facility where her behavior and the disease’s progression are constantly monitored. I will admit that forgiving her for all her years of hatred was difficult, but I still owed her my gratitude for pushing Tripp out of her life, and straight into my arms. Tripp, on the other hand, decided that he’d spent enough energy over the years letting her actions bother him, and he had much better things to do with his time.

  I am now using my college degree to teach, but not just any students. When Tripp came home to stay, Annie attached herself to him and refused to let go. As summer break was ending, she made herself physically sick because she was so worried she would go to school one day, and then when she got home, her dad would be gone again. After many conversations with each other and her counselor, Tripp and I decided that all our lives would be easier and richer if we homeschooled the kids. While I know that that isn’t right for every family, for our family, it was the perfect decision.

  The pitter-patter of little feet tears me from my random musings, and I turn around just in time to gather a squirming Maggie in my arms. “Momma, Momma, is it time to go yet? I’m bored.”

  I lift a brow at her, and don’t say a word. She knows there are consequences for saying that.

  “Oops. I didn’t mean that. Sorry.”

  After I give her a little squeeze, I turn back to the sink to hide my smile. “Well, actually Miss Maggie, I’m kinda happy you’re bored. You see, I need some help, and it’s the sort of help only a big, strong six-year old can give me.” When she huffs a big sigh, I have to choke back a laugh. “See that small cooler beside the fridge? It’s hungry for some water. You think you can handle putting the water in it?”

  While she fills the cooler, I load the backpack with our sandwiches, chips, apples, and napkins. When the food and drinks are ready to go, I send her out back to tell everyone to get in the van so that we can leave. After grabbing the backpack and bag of blankets, I bend to lift the cooler, and find myself lifted instead. Strong arms pull me up and gather me close. Those lips, oh those lips, find that spot on my neck, and press a line of kisses up to my ear. Then those beautiful lips growl words in my ear. “Babe, cooler’s mine. You know better.” This girl knows better than to argue with her man, so I ‘let’ him carry it out for me.

  Music, laughter, and stories of our ‘courting’ days fill the van as we ride to Jones Knob. Since Tripp’s return, we’ve made a habit of these picnics as we try to remind ourselves of all the many ways that we’ve been blessed. We think it’s important that the kids understand that bad things do happen to good people, and it’s how you deal with and learn from those situations that either builds you up or tears you down.

  Once we reach the parking area, the girls head straight for the meadow to chase butterflies. While Tripp unloads our picnic supplies, I reach into the backseat for something very important. When Tripp returned to me three years ago on that Wednesday of Memorial Day week, the town of Highlands didn’t have the monopoly on fireworks. Tripp and I also created some of our own, and in his tradition of leaving me gifts that keep on giving, I suppose I should introduce Channing Kennedy Tidwell IV. He was born on February 11, 2014, and with his white-blond hair and yellow-green eyes, he is the spitting image of his dad. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Instead of struggling to hold his squirming body in my arms, I carefully stand him on his feet, and watch in wonder as he heads straight for his sisters. The sound of their laughter and their squeals of joy once again mix with the music of the birds, and the song of life that fills the air brings a smile to my heart. I look over to my other half, my soul mate, the love that completes me, and I whisper my prayer of thanks and gratitude. I vow to never take one more moment for granted, but to enjoy each day that I’ve been given with my family. My searching is over, so I walk over to Tripp, and embrace my tomorrow.

  The End

  Note from the author:

  Highlands, NC is a real town, and most of the businesses mentioned exist there. If you were so inclined, you could trace Tripp and Wrynn’s trail from Bridal Veil Falls to Dry Falls, and all the way to the top of Jones Knob. As far as I know, Mother Tidwell does not exist. At least we can hope so. The panic attacks described in this book are based solely on my own personal experience. If you’ve never had one, be thankful. They are as scary as they sound.

  Wounded Warrior Project (http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/) is committed to serving wounded veterans of this generation that bear both the visible and invisible wounds of wars from burns and amputations, traumatic brain injuries and paralysis, to combat stress, post-traumatic stress disorder and depression. Continuity and consistency of care are important components of their recovery and these components were threatened by the government's inaction. Every day the shutdown continued, it diverted attention from important areas of veterans care that require our immediate focus and attention including access to mental health care, the now increased backlog of claims and other issues of long-term care. (This information was taken from the website.)

  Locks of Love (http://www.locksoflove.org/) is a public non-profit organization that provides hairpieces to financially disadvantaged children in the United States and Canada under age 21 suffering from long-term medical hair loss from any diagnosis. We meet a unique need for children by using donated hair to create the highest quality hair prosthetics. Most of the children helped by Locks of Love have lost their hair due to a medical condition called alopecia areata, which has no known cause or cure. The prostheses we provide help to restore their self-esteem and their confidence, enabling them to face the world and their peers. Our mission is to return a sense of self, confidence, and normalcy to children suffering from hair loss by utilizing donated ponytails to provide the
highest quality hair prosthetics to financially disadvantaged children. The children receive hair prostheses free of charge or on a sliding scale, based on financial need. (This information was taken from the website)

  In doing research, I found tons of information about the U.S. Army, and spoke with two gentlemen whose wisdom and knowledge show up in these pages. If the information is correct, Marcus Craig and Randy Underwood get all of the credit. In the event the information is wrong, I promise you that’s entirely all my fault. At times, I stretched things just to fit the story line, and in no way, shape, or form should this deviation be considered disrespect for the military. I am thankful for each and every person who has answered the call to defend and protect this great nation, and please know that I pray for you and your families daily.

  Ava Smith and Jane Barron helped me with Mr. Jasper’s Scottish. Again, any errors made there were made by me. I was told it needed to be Americanized a little bit, so I’m pretty certain I probably messed it up. Regardless, a Scottish brogue is so freaking dreamy, so even if it’s wrong, it still sounds good in my head. Thanks ladies for helping a stranger!

  Gosh, don’t you just hate those author acknowledgements that just won’t stop! It is said that it takes a village to raise a child. Let me tell you something. It takes a village to raise an Indie author. This has been one of the most exciting and scary journeys that I have ever been on, but I wouldn’t change one thing.