“Then I light a candle,” she said. “And I sit and eat with him . . . so he doesn’t have to dine alone. I . . . ” Tears leaked down her cheeks and she was unable to speak.
Mitchell quickly took over from his computer, fading in the pure, solitary notes of a lone trumpeter’s rendition of Amazing Grace, and as the music played, Ellie sat in her soundproof studio staring into nothing, tears sliding down her face.
Naked apart from undershorts, he leaned back against the motel room headboard and closed his eyes, listening to the clear notes of a trumpeter playing Amazing Grace. She remembered.
He wondered how long she’d waited before marrying, moving on.
He swigged back the last of his whisky. The room was too hot, thermostat not working. But he was used to the heat, used to dark, confined spaces. And the slight whisky buzz took the edge off the constant pain.
How long was it reasonable to wait, anyway? Fifteen years? Ten? Five? Forever? Death was easier. It gave you closure. But the never knowing, always wondering—that had to be the worst kind of curse, a damnation to limbo.
He opened his eyes. Across the room on the dresser was the box. The reason he’d come to Fort Orchard.
He’d wanted to give it to her today, on this day of all days. It meant a lot to him. But his flight had come in late so he’d checked into the motel, intending to look her up tomorrow.
Then he’d turned on the radio, heard her voice—smooth, husky. It reminded him of jazz, smoky bars, lounge singers and Scotch. And the more she spoke, the more convinced he became that it was her, Ellie James. He hadn’t known she hosted her own show.
He’d been unable to stop himself from calling, connecting with her, on this day.
Closing his eyes again he began to drift into blackness, and instantly he was slam back in that hell hole of a jungle, the smell of piss and vomit assailing his nostrils, the burn of pain. The scream of monkeys in the dark trees. His pulse jackhammered. Perspiration dampened his body. He began to see things in the morel room shadows. Then he forced an image into his mind—Ellie at nineteen. Her chestnut hair soft as silk. Her honey-brown eyes liquid and deep with mystery. Her body smooth and naked under his hands. His pulse calmed. His chest filled with warmth, goodness.
My dearest Ellie, I fell asleep with your head on my chest that last night we spent together, the night you promised yourself to me. It felt familiar, so warm, so right, and it scared the hell out of me. For a brief moment I didn’t want to leave. Maybe it was a premonition. But I didn’t want to lose you . . .
The studio door swung open.
“Ellie?” Mitchell’s eyes were wide with concern. “Are you alright—what happened in here?”
She removed her headset, reached for the box of tissues on the desk, blew her nose hard, then cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Mitch. I lost it for a moment. My fiancée went MIA almost fifteen years ago. That last caller . . . he . . . ” Something inside her crumpled and tears welled again. “I thought it was him. For a goddamn bizarre moment I thought he was alive, come home. After all this time. I can’t believe that just happened to me.”
Mitchell placed his hand on her shoulder, solid, calming. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
She shook her head. “It’s okay. I don’t like to talk about it, but it’s why I wanted to do this show tonight—I know how it feels. I was 19 when I got the news. He was a Navy SEAL, twenty-three years old when his chopper went down in a routine training accident in the Gulf of Aden. They found the bodies of eight SEALs. The other four were declared MIA. His name was Flynn Traeborn. We’d been dating since high school, but my parents never knew. My father was a minister—he had some weird ideas, so I kept it quiet. Flynn enlisted at 17, with the consent of his grandfather who was his guardian.” She inhaled deeply. “We were going to marry when he came back from that last deployment.”
“But he never did.”
She shook her head.
“That last caller asked if you were Ellie James.”
“My maiden name. I haven’t used it for seven years.” She laughed, attempting to shake off the eerie sensation that had overcome her. “Probably just some freak who Googled me. I’m not that hard to find.”
Mitchell did not return her smile. “Be careful, Ellie.”
Ellie stepped out into September darkness. It was cold, well past midnight and a thick Pacific northwest fog rolled in off the ocean. The distant cry of a ship’s horn sounded out at sea.
She drew her coat close, moisture misting her hair and face as she made for her car.
Inside her vehicle she sat, waiting for it to warm, cell phone clutched in her hand, along with the piece of paper on which she’d written the last caller’s number.
Be careful, Ellie.
Mitchell was right—she needed to think of security. Late night radio shows got their fair share of crackpot callers, Friday nights especially. And hosts got their share of stalkers.
She fingered the piece of paper, remembering why she’d wanted the late Friday slot in the first place. When Flynn first went MIA, Friday nights were the worst. She’d so desperately wanted to connect she’d called a talk show herself. She knew how it felt to have others out there, listening, feeling their own kinds of loneliness. And she’d wanted to give back, to be there for someone else.
She dialled the number.
It rang four times.
“Hello?”
She killed the call, shaking, all the old emotions suddenly rearing up like a tsunami—the last night she’d spent with Flynn, sleeping in his arms. He’d proposed to her that night. Then a week later she was told he was MIA.
Just gone.
She’d waited, unable to believe her Flynn had gone down with the others. She’d started seeing Flynn’s features in the faces of others, on the subway, walking down the road. Thinking it was him, she’d sometimes run after the person, before stopping herself. Her mind had started playing conspiracy theory tricks. Navy SEALs operated in shadows—perhaps he was on some covert op, and he’d come home soon. But he never did come home.
How do you remember, Ellie James?
Jesus. What was she doing here? That voice was not Flynn. She swore, again, tossed her phone onto passenger seat, and put her car in gear. But as she drove, wipers clacking, wet autumn leaves plastering a road as shiny wet as black oil, she knew, deep down, something had changed.
Upstairs Ellie opened the door to Jessica’s room. Her daughter was asleep. Ellie tiptoed in, kissed her head lightly. But Jessica stirred and sat up. Light from the porch light outside made shadows from trees blowing in the wind move on the walls and across her daughter’s face. The porch light was always on—there was once a time Ellie didn’t want Flynn to arrive to a house in darkness. She’d thought somehow a light would guide his way back to her. Old habits died hard.
“What happened mom?” Jessica said groggily. “You didn’t sign off properly, you didn’t tell your listeners that it was me on the trumpet.”
Ellie seated herself carefully on the edge of the bed. Rain was coming down harder, ticking against the windows. The heavy wet branches of a conifer scraped on the roof as wind gusted.
“I’m sorry Jess. I—” Why hide it? “I got emotional. After listening to all those stories, I . . . ”
“You thought of dad?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I thought of your dad.” She stroked her daughter’s hair. It was soft and dark like Flynn’s. “Sometimes . . . just sometimes, I wonder if he could still be out there. He’d be so proud of you.”
Wind rattled at the windows, and a fog horn called in the distance, the sound haunting, so alone.
He woke in gray silence. Confusion pressed down. Fear drummed. Sweat dampened his torso. He moved his head on the pillow. The shapes of the motel room came into focus. He heard rain. He was stateside. Pacific Northwest.
Jesus.
He got up, crossed the room, leaned his hands hard on the dresser, his head bent into his chest. He waited for the pain to
ease in his leg.
He showered, dressed, and found himself outside Ellie James’s house, the box tucked under his arm. It was a nice bungalow, block up from the ocean. Rain dripped from a giant maple at the bottom of the driveway. Leaves as big as his hands, orange and brown, rotted on the lawn. His breath misted white on the chill air and cloud socked low over the distant mountains.
The name on her mailbox read ‘Winters’. Only one vehicle in the carport. Would Mr. Winters be home? Gone to work?
He tensed, almost ducking back into the shadows of a spruce hedge as the front door swung open. A young teen wearing a knitted toque skittered down the porch stairs, a school backpack slung over her shoulder. She waved to a window upstairs then disappeared down a path round the side of the house.
His gaze sifted to the upstairs window. He saw her shape. Then a drape dropped back. He stood immobile under the branches of the maple tree, water dripping down the back of his neck.
He couldn’t do this.
But he had to. Not for himself. But for someone he could never forget.
I imagine coming home to you, Ellie. I imagine what you’ll look like. How your arms will feel as you fling them around me. I imagine the smell and shape of your body under my hands. I want you to know that I love you . . . .
Maybe giving her the box of letters would rock her suburban life, just a little. For a while. But he was a SEAL. He’d made a vow to a fellow serviceman, a brother in arms.
A friend whose letters to Ellie had kept them both alive for fourteen years.
But it was something deeper that held him back, something he wasn’t fully able to articulate to himself—he felt like Ellie belonged to him, too. For years he’d ached to see her, touch her even. Part of him wanted her to know that indirectly, she had brought him home, even though Flynn never made it.
As he stood there, wavering, the front door on the porch opened suddenly.
It was her.
Staring right at him.
Time hung, stretched taut, like an elastic band. She stepped out, wrapping her arms over her stomach. Wind gusted, flipping chestnut strands across her face as she crossed the porch towards him. He saw she had a cell phone clutched in one hand.
He began to advance slowly across the lawn. Her eyes flicked past him and he could see her doing the math—no car.
Adrenaline spiked through Ellie. It was him, Max, the caller. Had to be.
He was tall, maybe 6’ 3”, dark-blonde military buzz cut, powerful jaw, high-cheekbones—dangerous looking. Under his calf-length black coat his shoulders were broad. And in spite of limp, his stride was slow, purposeful.
Her gaze went to the box under his arm. Fear whispered.
“What do you want?” she called out.
“I just need a minute of your time.” He came up the porch stairs as he spoke, the sound of his boots heavy on old wood. Up close Ellie could see the color of his eyes; intense, very dark blue. His face was scarred. His knuckles, too. A fighter, a broken one. She judged him to be in his late thirties, although it was hard to tell. His coat hung open to reveal a black T-shirt stretched taut over muscled pecs.
The small hairs at the nape of her neck began to tingle. She wrapped her arms tighter around her stomach.
“You’re Max,” she said quietly.
“Maddox McDonough,” he said. “Max for short.” A wry smile curved his lips. “Or Mad Dog. But that was another time, another place.” His eyes went to the ring on her finger.
Her spine straightened and her fingers tightened around the cell phone clutched at her waist, her thumb hovering near the keypad.
“I shouldn’t have called the show. I’m sorry if I upset you, Ellie.”
“You’ve got one minute to tell me what you want before I call the cops.”
He inhaled slowly, something tightening in his features. It took several beats before he spoke.
“I was with Lieutenant Flynn Traeborn when he died.”
Blood drained from her face.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her eyes locked defiantly onto his. “You’re lying,” she whispered. “You’re some sick fuck who’s come to mess with my head. Get off my porch before I call 9-1-1.”
“I came to give you these.” He held out the box to her. It was covered in deep purple fabric, embossed with the pattern of leaves.
Ellie swallowed, afraid of hearing more, of knowing what was in that box. She needed to believe Flynn could still come back. She needed to keep loving him. Her entire life was predicated on that. She thought of Jessica. Of telling her that her father had died.
“Please—” she said, feeling desperate.
“They’re letters, Ellie. From Flynn.”
Max saw the sudden stillness in her hands, how she fought to keep her spine straight, how she refused to look at the box. Time hung.
Wind licked again at her hair. For an instant she looked proud, then her eyes turned bright and he watched as her features slowly collapsed. She took a step back, her shoulders rolling inward, as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She grasped for the doorknob behind her, seeking balance, and she looked up at him with those honey brown eyes, liquid and deep with mystery. Max felt he was stepping through time and reality.
“When . . . where?” Her voice caught. “What happened to him?”
“May I come in, Ellie?”
They sat in her small living room, a fire crackling in a black cast iron stove. The coppery glow of flames shimmered on her hair and the color reminded Max of Autumn in the deciduous forests back home.
“Our helo took enemy fire off the northwest coast of Africa—”
“I was told it was a training accident, Gulf of Aden,” she interrupted. The box rested on her lap, her hands pressing down flat onto the lid. Her knuckles were white with tension. Max focused on the smooth gold band around her left finger and his stomach tightened. Part of him was glad Flynn hadn’t made it home to see that his fiancée was married. It would’ve killed him.
“Our assignment was classified, Ellie,” he said quietly. “It will likely remain classified. I shouldn’t even be telling you this,” he paused. “But I made a vow to Flynn. I’m going to tell you just enough to honor that vow.”
Her eyes held his, her features pale, tight. “They lied to me,” she said.
“For security reasons. You can’t talk about any of this. I’ll have to deny it.”
“Go on,” she said quietly.
“Flynn and I were the only ones to survive the crash into the ocean. We were captured almost immediately—”
“They said four SEALs went MIA.”
“Correct—four bodies were unaccounted for. But to my knowledge, Flynn and I were the only two left floating alive in the Atlantic. We were picked up by enemy craft, taken ashore.”
“What enemy?”
He held her eyes. “Ellie, I’m telling you what I can.”
Her lips pressed into a tight line as she struggled with the information and Max had to tamp down a raw and sudden urge to get up, sit beside her. Hold, comfort her. Feel that chestnut hair against his cheek.
Your hair is like silk, Ellie. I can feel in now, between my fingers when I think of that last night we had together—it changed everything for me, you know, that night . . .
He inhaled deeply. “For the next thirteen years or so, we were marched from one equatorial jungle camp to another, handed over from one team to another, forgotten, rotting in captivity.”
Ellie didn’t move, but a small muscle began to quiver along the left side of her lip.
“Then we got a break, we managed to escape.” He searched for words that would convey only the basics. “We spent maybe six, seven months in the jungle, hiding at first, then trying to move towards the border. We got sick, survived on what we could. We ran into rebels and Flynn took a machete swipe for me, across his thigh.” Max swallowed. “It was the beginning of the end. Got infected. The infection started to spread—stuff breeds like a nightmare in equatorial moisture and heat.
”
Max looked down at his scarred hands, memories like vultures circling.
“We got to the border. It was marked by a river. Big brown mother fu . . . river in flood,” he corrected himself. “Halfway across we took fire from rebels along the banks. We stayed in the water until dark, drifting down current.
Max rubbed his knees, Ellie’s silence making him uncomfortable. “Flynn . . . went down shortly before dawn. I dived, brought him back up, performed CPR in the water, and he came round. But after another hour or so, I lost him. He died in my arms, Ellie.”
She made a small sound and he couldn’t meet her eyes.
“The current took him right out of my hands in the dark dawn hours.”
“Maybe he didn’t die. Maybe he came around again, and—”
“He died in my arms, Ellie.” Max hesitated, fighting the emotion that burned hot and unbidden into his chest.
“Before he went, he made me vow I would make it home, and find you. He made me promise I would tell you what happened.” Again, another surge of emotion assailed him. He paused, gathering himself. Flames cracked, popped in the beats of silence.
“He wanted you to know that he tried to come back for you, that he loved you, right to the very end. Flynn wanted me to tell you that he survived as long as he did, because he knew you were waiting for him.”
Her face was sheet white. Her whole top lip quivered against her control now, and her eyes glistened.
“But you came back.”
“I wouldn’t have made it without that promise to him. I wouldn’t be here today, Ellie, without you, without Flynn’s love for you.”
She stared at him, silver trails tracking silently down her cheeks, and there was anger in her brown eyes, deep anger. At him.
He glanced again at her ring. She noticed him looking and her hand moved reflexively atop the box. Unspoken words shimmered into the air between them, hovering, like something alive.
You’re married, Ellie. You have at least one child. Flynn would have come back to that.
“It took me a while to get to Fort Orchard,” he said. “There was debriefing, hospitalization, discharge. And those.” He nodded at the box sitting unopened in her lap. “Flynn’s letters to you. I needed time to get them down.”
SEAL of My Dreams Page 41