by Ashley Pullo
I thought I saw you today. I actually ran after a man walking down Broadway just because he was the same height as you. When I finally reached him, I hugged him from behind. The dude FREAKED, and then he callously turned around and yelled at me!
On a suckier note, there’s a Christmas Party tonight at some fancy apartment in Columbus Circle. Molly invited me, hoping it would cheer me up, but there is no cheer without you.
All I want for Christmas is you.
Love always,
Ta femme
The next letter is decorated with tiny hearts and stars and smells like coffee.
December 20, 2002
My sexy warrior,
You left a t-shirt at Mom and Dad’s and it hasn’t been washed! It’s a Christmas miracle!!
In other news, I miss you.
I hear your laughter with every funny thought.
I see your crooked grin when I close my eyes.
I smell your skin on my unwashed sheets.
I taste your sweetness in a drizzle of honey.
BUT I CANNOT FUCKING TOUCH YOU! I need to feel you. Touch you. Feel you. Touch you . . .
“Yo Parker, are you crying?” Fisher asks. I jump up and quickly fold the letter from Natalie and put it away in my footlocker. Fisher is standing in the door spinning a basketball on his middle finger and shaking his head.
“I’m crying because you suck as point guard,” I say hastily.
“Yep, just what I thought. You’re a pussy, Parker!”
“Are we playing hoops or having a tea party?” I ask as I shove past him and walk silently to the basketball court. I need a distraction.
2002-12-25
0500 hours
“Fisher? Are you okay, man?” I shake his shoulder and he continues to groan. “Fisher?”
“It’s my stomach – I think last night’s chow is fucking me up.” Fisher brings his knees to his chest and winces.
After our 88-74 win over the Army, we enjoyed a nice spread of lobster and sirloin. The current problem being – Fisher is a good ol’ Texas boy that devoured six steaks last night before calling it quits.
“What do you need? I can stop by the canteen after my shift,” I offer.
“Nah man, I’m going to try and sleep it off.” Fisher curls into a ball and holds his stomach.
“Merry Christmas, bro.”
The base is eerily quiet this morning. I stop by the mess hall and grab a blueberry muffin and some orange juice before heading to my tiny office to finish up the Kandahar shipment. The office is empty except for one of the administrative secretaries, Michelle. She’s playing a Christmas CD and looking at a photo album.
“Hey Michelle, Merry Christmas! Whatcha got there?” I ask as I pull up a chair next to her desk.
“Merry Christmas, Lieutenant. This is a wonderful present my family made for me. It has pictures from different Christmases over the years and a few cards from friends. Here is my daughter and son last Christmas Eve . . . we got them a puppy . . . and this,” she points to a photo, “is that puppy now!” I laugh at the photo of a dog the size of a pony.
“Your children are adorable. They must be so proud of their mother.”
“I suppose, although I’m sure they would rather have me home making them pancakes and hot cocoa.” She sighs.
“Michelle, does it get any easier? The homesickness, I mean.”
Michelle pulls out a picture of her and a young man sitting on Santa’s lap and smiles sadly. “I’m sorry to say that it only gets harder. So my advice is to take what you can get and hold on to it.”
I think about Natalie’s last letter.
“Your family really loves you. It’s pretty cool that you got to share these memories with them today, thousands of miles apart,” I say as I stand with my muffin and juice. She gives me a little wink and turns up the volume to Nat King Cole.
“Merry Christmas, Lieutenant! Think about the past if it helps.”
I nod politely and then head to my little corner of creams and ointments. The problem is, Nat and I don’t have much of a past . . . we only have the future.
1200 hours
“Fisher, how ya feeling?” I drop some boxes on the floor and several envelopes on Fisher’s bed. “I picked up your post, even though they gave me an extremely hard time. Assholes.”
“Thanks man. I’m better, just got the shits.” Fisher sits up and rummages through his mail.
“Awesome. I’ll catch you later.” I grab my boxes from the floor and walk to the courtyard by the canteen. Courtyard isn’t really the correct description as it’s basically a cement slab and a picnic table, but it’s one of my favorite spots on the entire base.
The first box is from Judy and Dave. Inside I find two jumbo bags of Starburst, an electronic toothbrush and a vintage Gameboy with Tetris. The Christmas card is a snowy scene of Central Park. And just like Judy said, inside the card I find a photo of Nat in the 7th grade with a horrible haircut and a really ugly sweater. There’s also a couple photos of us that Dave took at dinner. It seems like an eternity ago, but it was only last week.
In one photo, Natalie is smiling devilishly with an arched eyebrow. My arm is around her but my head is tilted back in laughter. I try to remember what she said to make me laugh like that, but the details are irrelevant. Everything she does and says simply makes me happy. The other picture of us is in front of the Christmas tree. I’m looking at the camera with a goofy grin and Nat’s in my arms staring up at me. Her profile is magical – the light reflecting off her beautiful face is proof enough that she’s my bright little star.
I move on to the next box from Aunt Patty. She bought me a digital camera with 2.0 megapixels – fuck yeah! I also find Mom’s old PDR from med school with an inscription on the inside cover.
Beer before liquor, never sicker.
Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear.
Aunt Patty also sent a tin of cranberry oatmeal cookies. They taste a little stale, but I manage to throw a few back.
The last package is from Natalie. I want to rip it open but I also don’t want the excitement to disappear. It’s the same feeling I’d get on Christmas morning as a kid – tearing through present after present of Transformers and Nerf guns only to realize that true pleasure is defined by what’s to come.
I slowly slice open the twenty layers of tape with my knife. I dig through the sheets of pink tissue paper and pull out a large, folded paper. I quickly look around to make sure no one’s looking or hovering over me because I’m pretty sure I know what this is . . . yep! The poster of Mario Lopez that used to be hanging in Nat’s old bedroom is now in my possession.
“Jesus Nat, what am I going to do with you?” I say out loud.
I open her handmade Christmas card with a crayon drawing of us completely naked in Santa hats.
Santa baby,
Mario really wanted to see Afghanistan . . . and he misses your junk.
Come home to me.
XO
Nat
1400 hours
Label, scan, pack. Place the lotion in the basket. Label, scan, pack. It places the lotion in the basket.
Break time. I take my laptop and retreat to my closet of supplies and silence. There must be fifty emails from friends and family and even one from Best Buy wishing me a Merry Christmas, but I scroll through them until I reach the one that matters.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Holy shit!
Showoff! I send you a crummy poster and you get me DIAMONDS? From Tiffany’s?
The earrings are gorgeous! I can’t stop looking at them. In fact, I’m going to keep them in the little blue box so I can open it over and over and experience that amazing feeling as many times as I want.
Do you know what I would do to you right now? Do you have any idea? I would be your dirty slut, Zach Parker. Whatever you wanted, as many times as you needed it – and then I would feed you gelato with my fingers.
C
hloe says “hi!”
You know that little spot between your nuts and asshole? Lick, lick, lick.
Shit, Mom is standing over my shoulder. She wants to know if you got her package? Speaking of package . . . I miss yours.
I love you, Zach Parker. Merry Christmas!!
Her email is from last night. We have eight hours, 6,000 miles and two continents between us. If I close my eyes, I can see her radiant smile. I can smell her lavender shampoo. I can hear her explosive laughter. I can taste her peppermint tongue . . .
But, I can’t fucking touch her. I can’t feel her. I can’t hold her. Je n’ai pas rien.
1815 hours
“You up for chow, Fisher?” I ask while playing Tetris on my bunk.
Fisher jumps out of bed and puts on his shoes. “Homey, I’m always ready for chow.” He digs in our Rubbermaid dresser and tosses a present on my lap. “I wanted to get something special for the dumbfuck in my life. Open it!” He sarcastically squeals and claps his hands.
I remove a cardboard box from a plastic bag and shake my head. “A fake Rolex? It will look divine with my black boots.” I reach in the bottom drawer of the Rubbermaid dresser and throw Fisher a very similar plastic bag. “Merry Christmas, motherfucker.”
Fisher opens an identical box and laughs. “A Faux-lex? And all I wanted for Christmas was a Red Ryder BB gun,” he whines as he slides the shiny gold watch around his wrist. “Now we’re like watch buddies! C’mon, let’s get some ham and sweet potatoes.”
“You know what? There’s something I need to do. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Shit, Parker, I thought we had a no whacking-off policy in our bunk?” He jokes.
I wave him off as he puts a sock on the outside door handle before joining some more guys in the hall. “Parker needs some private time.” Idiot.
I sit down at the small desk built for a teenager and begin to write the first of many letters. It’s kind of surreal actually. Love letters are from a bygone era – from desperate men relaying the brutal honesty of war to anyone that would read it. But I believe letters from war are insurance, documenting their love and life as if it were their last. And there’s always a last letter, either upon the safe return of a changed man, or to be packed away in a box of memories.
Whatever my destiny, Natalie deserves my love letters. And my last letter will need to be epic.
December 25, 2002
Ma femme,
My first night on base, I looked to the sky and claimed the brightest star. I made her mine and gave her a name. Natalie winked at me. Natalie laughed with me, and Natalie reminded me that stars are always present.
Sometimes the night is too dark. Other times, the heavens are filled with ominous clouds. The daylight likes to play tricks on a wanderer’s eye – the blinding sun demanding all the attention.
But stars are relentless. Constant. Endless. Truthful.
Natalie is my beacon calling me home.
Do not be sad, ma femme. I will come home to you.
Love,
Zacharie
2002-12-28
1130 hours
Label, scan, pack. Label, scan, pack.
“Yo, Parker.” Fisher knocks on the glass window outside my monotonous mountain of never-ending doom. “Hoops! Champ-ions,” he chants.
“Dude, you have like the easiest schedule on base. I’ll be there in an hour – go practice your sorry ass layup.”
Fisher spins the basketball on his middle finger until it comes crashing down on all my boxes. “Oh, fuck,” he sputters.
“Jesus, Fisher, you idiot. Get out!” As soon as Fisher leaves, I sneak back to my sanctuary.
Break time. Closet. Chair. Laptop. Emails.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Dropping the Ball
Zachy Wacky Poo,
You know what this country needs, besides a legitimate hockey team? Boxing Day. How is a girl supposed to buy a fabulous spring wardrobe when the only things left on the shelves are gloves and ugly sweaters?
I had to stop by work today because my clients fired their NYE caterers. Seriously, does it matter what the food tastes like? Just keep the champagne flowing and the slutty girls blowing . . . party success. Speaking of crazy parties, I think I’m going to host one in the apartment for New Year’s. I need to be surrounded by people and mindless distractions.
If I haven’t told you, I miss you. You should be here kissing me when the ball drops. You should be here cuddling with me on the couch when Season 2 of The Bachelor starts. You should be here with me to build an anatomically correct snowman.
I understand that you can’t, but it still sucks.
I love you, Zach Parker.
Come home to me soon.
XO Natalie
I quickly check the time stamp on her email and write her back.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: RE: Dropping the Ball
Natalie, my sexy, snarky siren,
I want nothing more than to cuddle with you on the couch and watch the most repulsive show in television history. It’s the thing I dream about most.
The Rangers are fucking fantastic, do not doubt US hockey.
Party? Yes, go for it – invite everyone you know. My survival depends on your happiness so plea|
“Lieutenant Parker? Sir?”
I hear Michelle’s voice outside the closet so I hastily shut down my computer and pretend to organize boxes. She opens the door and I smile.
“Hi Michelle, what’s up?” I say as nonchalantly as possible.
She looks past my shoulder to the chair, so I move from the closet and shut the door.
“Oh, um, you have a phone call. Captain Thomas is waiting for you in his office,” she says.
Fuck.
“Thank you,” I think I say. Everything is a complete blur as I follow Michelle through the medical unit. Captain Thomas is standing in front of his office, and as I approach him, his stern expression changes to compassion. He places a hand on my shoulder and smiles.
“Lieutenant, I’m very sorry. Please feel free to use my office for privacy.” He ushers me in and then shuts the door behind me. I look around at the sparsely decorated room and pick up the waiting receiver.
“Lt. Parker,” I say nervously.
“Zach, she’s gone. Claire is gone,” my father sobs into the phone. I cannot, I will not listen to him cry. Our pain is different.
“Thank you for letting me know. Goodbye.”
“Zach! I—” he howls as I place the receiver down on the desk. I walk slowly out of the office and nod at Michelle – she’s the only person on base that knew about Mom. Captain Thomas looks confused as he places a hand on my shoulder.
“Lieutenant, would you like to see a counselor? Major Jackson of the Army is an expert with grief therapy.”
“No thank you. May I go to my barracks?” I ask.
“Yes. And Lt., consider making an appointment with Dr. Jackson,” he offers.
“Okay, thank you. I’ll be in tomorrow to finish up the shipment.” I walk back to my office dazed and bewildered. I knew this moment would come – I’ve actually prepared myself for her death for the past year.
It’s early morning on the East Coast, so I grab my jacket and laptop and head back to my bunk to start the necessary round of emails.
To: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Claire Dumas Parker
Mom found her salvation.
-Zach
2003-1-3
1600 hours
“Lieutenant Parker, congratulations! You hold the record for the most mail in one day! Is it your birthday or something?”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” I shake my head and shrug my shoulders, not fully sure of how to react to the questioning. The officer on duty hands me a stack o
f cards and letters and a single package with Natalie’s handwriting. I smile awkwardly and back out the door.
Once I’m settled in my favorite spot near the canteen, I gaze up at the dozens of stars flickering in the night’s sky. Stars have always amazed me, not in the physical sense – they simply remind me that there’s always more.
I open a few condolence cards but they’re all the same, the same underlying message – that I should have been home for her funeral. People don’t get it. They don’t understand that the easiest things are not always the right ones – it’s accepting the difficult tasks that make things right.
I open Natalie’s letter last. Her letters will always be my last – my insurance.
December 30, 2002
My dearest friend,
Dr. Claire Dumas Parker died peacefully in her home at the age of sixty-three- years old plus or minus one. She was the epitome of feminine strength and courage, and her accomplishments will forever be remembered. She is survived by her tennis-playing husband, Raymond Parker of Greenwich, Connecticut, and her handsome, evil-genius son, Zacharie Dumas Parker of Kabul, Afghanistan. *Obviously, this is my interpretation.
Zach, you are so amazing. So selfless, so loving, so . . . bad at lying.
It took me a few minutes to actually put my finger on it, but when I saw the large photo of you and Claire with identical crooked smiles, it all became very clear.
From the room full of pink flowers and “Ma Vie en Rose” playing in the background, there was absolutely no way in hell Raymond Parker arranged that funeral service.
That’s when I decided to ask Jack.
Your trusted attorney sold you out! Granted, I can be extremely charming, so it was rather easy to get all the details.
This is what I know:
Sometime in the month of September – for fun, let’s pretend it was the day we met on the train – your loyal attorney paid a visit to your house. During this visit, funeral arrangements were made, as well as the inception of the most creative coup in the history of “what the fucks?” Did I mention you’re brilliant?