by Kelly Utt
“Don’t say that,“ Liam urges. “You were an excellent leader in the Air Force. You lead your team to great accomplishment.“
“Yeah, but that’s different than leading a civilian company. Very different. I wish Roddy could be in charge. He seems to have an aptitude for it.“
Liam leans his head back as far as he can on the jumpseat, then raises one arm and puts his hand on top of his head. “Who knows?” he ponders. “Maybe he can. We have time to figure all that out. It will be interesting to see what Roddy can accomplish while we’re gone. I think you did the right thing by letting him take the reins. It was a good move. He’s capable and he’ll do right by us.“
“I think so, too,” I confirm. “I know it will all work out. I guess I’m just feeling nostalgic.”
“I get that,” Liam says. “I probably would be too if I were in your position. Just take it one step at a time.”
I stop talking and start reading Tom Clancy as the cargo plane carries us east across the country. Liam has a book of his own and immerses himself in one of John Grisham‘s legal thrillers. I’m glad he and I like the same kinds of books. When we’re done with the ones we’re reading, we can swap them out and both enjoy each other‘s pick. I chuckled to myself as I think about how we should start a book club when we all get settled in Ithaca. I can see me, Liam, Roddy, Duke, Taye, and probably even the ladies drinking beer and talking about thrillers once a month at each other‘s houses. It would be a hoot. Too bad John Wendell isn’t around to join in. He’d get a big kick out of that.
Time passes fast on the ride and before we know it, we’re landing at Oceana, ready to pick up a team of America’s finest soldiers who will escort us mere mortals in and out of Syria. It’s surreal. If I weren’t here seeing it with my own eyes, I have a hard time believing it. We don’t get off the plane. When we come to a stop, we stay put while the aircraft is refueled and our additional passengers get themselves and their equipment loaded on board. Liam and I follow Kalia and Chester when they go back to introduce themselves to the SEALs. It gives me a chance to take in the salty Virginia Beach air from the open door to the cargo bay. It smells downright heavenly in all its sticky, humid goodness.
The SEAL team is headed up by a big blonde guy named Chief Petty Officer Tucker Eriksson. He looks like he spends much of his time in the gym pumping iron. He has a thick, blond beard and long hair. His hair doesn’t reach below his collar, but it’s long for military standards. I’ve heard that SEALs often keep more facial hair and long hair on their heads to help them blend in when they’re in-country doing a mission. I have a hard time believing that these guys blend in anywhere. Tucker could pass for an actual Viking. And the rest of the group is every bit as big as he is. They look like real-life superheroes. I’m surprised and delighted to see that the SEALs have a working dog with them. His name is Hutch and he’s a German Shepherd. He isn’t as dark as Lady. His coat is more of a warm, chestnut brown whereas hers tends towards dark brown and black. But he’s nearly as big as our girl, which is big, even for a German Shepherd. Hutch is just as amped up as the guys and seems ready for anything he may encounter.
I sure hope Roddy and Marjorie can get Lady out to Lake Tahoe to be with the boys. They want her there so badly and I think her presence would help them get through this difficult time in their lives. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer to the powers-that-be that they might help our girl reunite with the boys as soon as possible.
Shortly after the SEALs get loaded up, the chemical weapons expert‘s and the intelligence agent join us. The chemical weapons folks are both men. They look seasoned. They are both probably about my age, which gives me comfort. I want my chemical weapons experts to be experienced. It’s not the kind of job that can be taken lightly. One of them is muscular like Tucker and has red hair and pale skin. His name is Finn Reed. Finn looks a lot like my little Will. It’s interesting to see Finn here like this because I can envision my own baby boy looking much like him when he’s all grown up. The other chemical weapons guy has a wiry build and jet black hair. He has a thick accent. I can’t quite pinpoint what part of the world it’s from. Maybe Eastern Europe? Maybe Greece or Turkey. His accent gives me a moment of pause, even though I wish it didn’t. I’m certainly not one for racial profiling, but anyone with a foreign accent would cause me concern on this particular mission. His name is Draco Elias and he talks fast. I make a mental note to keep an eye on him. No one else seems concerned, however, so I move on. The intelligence agent is a pretty African-American lady who reminds me of my high school girlfriend. What are the odds that I would end up on a plane with two ladies who remind me of exes? I take it in stride though, careful not to stare too long. Her name is Frida Price and she looks just as prepared for what we’re about to face as the rest of us.
I do some mental exercises to help me remember all these new names. If I can associate each name with something memorable about the person it belongs to, I’ll be able to learn them quicker.
Frida Price is easy because she’s so pretty, there must be a high price to date her. Then I can tack on Frida like free-da to free-the price. Someone should free the price so that she’ll become available to date. Silly, I know. But it works.
Kalia Hale is also easy because she’s so pretty, people would hale the plane like a cab to meet her. And Kalia, well, that name stands out without an association because it suits her so beautifully.
For loadmaster Barney McCombs, I imagine him as a big, purple dinosaur, eating McDonald’s and combing his hair in the cargo plane.
Chester Dawson is a bit more difficult, but I come up with a chest of drawers that holds memorabilia from the old TV show Dawson’s Creek. When I look at him and need to remember his name, I’ll imagine those drawers with the Dawson’s Creek stuff under his clothes.
I continue with each of the new names until I have them all firmly in mind enough that I’ll be able to address my colleagues properly the next time I speak with them. My mind enjoys being occupied with something productive. As the plane takes off for the next leg of our journey, I settle in on an empty row of jump seats for a much-needed nap and close my eyes. For this moment, in the here and now, things in my world aren’t so bad. Dare I say it. I’m feeling almost… happy.
Part III
Fade
9
Miles Away
I sleep hard as the cargo plane carrying our hand-picked special ops team glides over the Atlantic Ocean on its way to Afghanistan. The familiar scenery and the sense of defined purpose have me more relaxed than I’ve been in a long time. I’ve needed this. I immediately begin to dream of my lovely wife. I feel excited, like this is going to be a good dream. It feels secure and I don’t think it will turn in bad like has happened before.
A white picket fence stands in front of me. Cheerful flowers surround the gate which opens up to a cobblestone path. I’m completely drawn in. I lift the black hinge on the gate with a clank, then I open it, step through, and close it securely behind me. I hear the faint sound of high-pitched puppy woofing and a warm feeling washes over me. I remember that sound. It sounds like Lady. Baby Lady. She was the cutest ball of brown and black fur I’d ever seen, her big ears and long nose protruding from her round little head. I wonder if I’ll get to see this version of Lady again now in my dream.
At the end of the cobblestone path is the house. It isn’t a house we’ve lived in, yet it feels like mine and Ali’s style. It feels like it belongs to us. It’s certainly a house that we would live in. It’s a cottage, small and pared down as compared to the sprawling Ithaca home we own now. I get the feeling it’s big enough for everything we need. I can tell it’s filled with love and happiness.
The little cottage has a tin roof and a welcoming front porch. There’s a swing on the porch, hung from a rope which is attached to the ceiling. I can imagine Ali and me here, snuggled up together on the porch swing, listening to rain fall on the tin roof. The other side of the porch has a couple of wicker chairs with pl
ush cushions and a potting table that contains an array of gardening hand tools arranged neatly on a low shelf. There’s a fat, friendly cat sprawled out at the foot of one of the chairs. He’s white with rich gray patches placed artfully across his midsection and the tip of one ear. I feel like I know this cat, although I don’t think I’ve met him in real life. He reminds me of the cat at the Odyssey Center where I visited Joe back in Ithaca for hypnotherapy. The gray and white cat stands and walks over to greet me. He doesn’t seem bothered by the woofing coming from inside of the house or by the wind chimes that dangle gently and sway in the breeze, playing a soft melody of home.
The front door on the cottage is the kind Ali likes. It’s craftsman style with a row of square windows at the top. In fact, it looks almost exactly like the front door on our current house in Ithaca. It’s beginning to feel as if our Ithaca house shrank down to only the essential parts and I’m staring at what was left. I step up to the door and reach my hand out to touch the handle. It’s unlocked, so I press down firmly on the latch and open it wide.
As the door opens, my senses are flooded with a myriad of good things. I can smell something delicious cooking in the kitchen. It smells like soup is simmering on the stove and bread is baking in the oven. There’s classical cello music playing in the background. I can’t be sure it’s not a recording, but I think it’s my Alessandra playing her instrument. The woofing puppy is happy to see me. She practically races into my arms. I look at her sweet, baby face and then I realize, to my astonishment, that it’s Lady. It takes me a minute to get my bearings, but it’s making sense now. This isn’t a memory of Lady. This puppy in front of me is the spirit Lady in another time and place. I’m taken aback because, for some reason, I never stopped to consider that pets would live multiple lives and return to earth with their families, just like people do. I guess it makes perfect sense. Seeing our lady as a different puppy makes me think I’m dreaming of a scene that takes place in the future. I find this fascinating. I wonder if it’s real.
I set New Lady down and follow the sound of the cello music. I walk through a cozy living area, around past the quaint kitchen, and into a back bedroom. It’s much smaller than the bedroom at our house now, but it feels essentially the same. I smile the biggest, broadest smile when I see her. My dear Alessandra is here. She looks different in the best possible way. She has grown old. And she looks just as beautiful as she did on the day I met her. Her hair is the pretty snow-white color. It’s still long. She has it tied up in a messy bun now, but I’ll bet it dances around her shoulders and elegant jawline once she lets it down just like it always has. Her skin is wrinkled and lines crease her face. She looks ever so slightly hunched over, but she’s still strong and fit. She’s grown softer, more physically vulnerable. None of that matters to me. She’s my love. Belonging to her is a privilege like no other. She still glows. She’s still the most radiant spirit I’ve ever known.
I stand in the doorway watching for several minutes before my wife notices me. It reminds me of the many other times I’ve stood watching her play her cello. I know how it works. She becomes immersed in her own world when she’s playing music. I don’t mind. I enjoy just listening to her play. It’s Lady who finally alerts her to my presence. Our little ball of fur and puppy energy scampers around Ali’s feet, then woofs in my direction.
When my wife sees me, her face lights up, her eyes and mouth creasing around the edges. She sets her cello down carefully on one side of her chair, then stands and walks over to embrace me. She raises her arms and wraps them around my neck, pulling me to her. She kisses my lips and I notice that I, too, have grown old. My skin is just as wrinkled as hers. As our lips join together, they feel different, yet the same.
I have imagined this day. Ali and I used to talk about growing old together. I remember the first time we talked about it, during our first trip out of town together. It was the Christmas time trip when we met each other’s families for the first time in Ithaca and Manhattan. We joked about it then, speculating about how many kids we would have and where life would take us. But there was serious conversation as well. I distinctly remember lying in bed in our hotel room as the snow fell outside and looking at my beautiful Alessandra while picturing us both old and gray, wrapped up together and loving each other just as much.
Ali doesn’t say anything yet in this dream. Instead, she begins tracing the lines of my shoulders and arms with her soft hands, then she reaches underneath my shirt and strokes my naked chest. Her touch feels like home. She looks deep into my eyes and arches her back the way she always does when she’s turned on. She wants me. She wants to make love to me. And I want to make love to her, too. We might look different on the outside, but when we close our eyes, we’re just us. George and Ali. It doesn’t matter whether we’re twenty-five or ninety-five. We’re two parts to the same whole. We belong together. Our love transcends these physical bodies.
Feverishly, we begin unzipping, unbuttoning, and peeling off each other‘s clothes. I can feel that we move a little more slowly, but that’s okay. As I unbutton Ali’s blouse, I move my hands up to feel her familiar perky breasts and her hard nipples. Her breasts are different now that she’s older, yet still the same. There’s more give in them. They don’t rise quite as high. After all, they’ve nursed babies and experienced the effects of gravity for decades. As I get her shirt off, I want to look at them. Her breasts are still beautiful to me. I smile from ear to ear as I lean into her bosom and move my head gently from side to side, my tongue sensually licking each of her nipples. I think again how she really does feel like home. I work my way down, pulling off my wife’s pants to expose her entire body in the nude. She’s radiant. I feel like the luckiest man in the world to have had her as my own for all these years. I move my mouth up and down every inch of her as she stands before me. Then, I take a step back and just look at her some more. She blushes, raising one hand to cover her mouth and putting the other one over her heart.
“I love you so, Georgie,” she says, happy tears in her eyes.
Ali usually calls me Dr. Hartmann, playfully, when she’s turned on. But something about this scene is different. We’re savoring it more. It’s not that we aren’t playful, because we are. But there seems to be more of a gravity to this, for some reason I can’t explain. This experience feels like something special. Like I’m being given a privilege by being allowed to experience it.
“Oh, my most beautiful Alessandra,“ I say. “Time has only made you more stunning, my love.“
I step closer to her again, leaving my clothing on the floor as I do. Completely naked now, just like my wife, I wrap my hands around her waist and let my fingers spread down around her buttocks. I pull her to me, my swollen manhood up against her. I kiss my wife deeply as I slowly guide her backward to the bed. We make love on top of the covers, slow and tender. It feels like heaven right here on earth. I stroke rhythmically and we grind together until we both explode in a burst of pure ecstasy and love, our softer bodies wriggling with the same delight as they did the very first time when we were young twentysomethings. The physical connection between us continues to amaze me. I’m so very grateful to know what true love is like. I’m aware that not everyone gets to have this. I promise myself to never take it for granted.
I know this is still a dream, but it feels real. It’s positive and good. I’m still relatively confident it’s not going to change into a bad dream. It’s all good. Every last bit of it. As I roll over in bed and hold my wife, I decide to take it all in. I want to experience every piece of sensory input I’m encountering. I prompt myself to pay attention to my senses, one by one, the same way Joe instructed me to do during our hypnosis session on the dock the other day.
I begin with touch since that’s what stands out most at the moment. I run my fingers over Ali’s shoulder and her arm, careful to feel where her skin is wrinkled. It feels smooth and well-loved, despite the creases and sagginess. It reminds me of an old leather couch that’s broken in just rig
ht at all the right places to make it comfortable. Using my other hand, I move my fingers over the top of the quilt that’s covering us. I run along its small stitches and fine detail. The circular pattern of the stitching feels almost like a language, as if a message could be communicated. I think about all the work it took to make this quilt, whether done by hand or by machine. Either way, a lot of energy was expended to create this quilt so Ali and I could lie under it now, warm and cozy. Next, I move my hand to the sheets. They’re cool and smooth under my fingers. I can tell they’re made out of cotton and I again consider the work necessary to pick the cotton from the field where it had grown out of the earth and then to shape it into the sheet I feel here before me. I marvel and delight in the simple pleasure of considering where things came from. I feel alive. I’m fascinated by everything around me.
I turn my attention to the sounds I hear. A kitchen timer goes off in the background with a simple chime. “Should we get that?“ I ask my wife. “We don’t want the bread to burn.“
“Not yet,” she replies, smiling. “I always end up letting it brown a few minutes beyond when the timer goes off anyway. Right now, I want to stay here and enjoy every moment with you.“ Satisfied, I pull her close and agree the bread can wait.
I continue to listen. I hear the sound of our puppy, chewing on a rawhide bone as she lays on the floor beside our bed. She clanks the bone around and it makes a loud sound on the hardwood. I don’t mind the noise. In fact, I’m grateful that we have a puppy here who is happily chewing. She needs to chew to alleviate some of the soreness of her gums as her baby teeth prepare to fall out and her new adult teeth come in. I’m glad there’s a solution as simple as giving her a rawhide bone to gnaw on. I also hear the hum of a washing machine in the background. It’s quiet and I have to listen closely to pick it up, but I do. I think about how nice it is that we can wash our clothes in the washing machine. It’s a modern convenience that I suppose I’ve taken for granted. For some reason, I feel grateful for everything right now. It’s like I have a new lease on life and every little thing seems wonderful.