The Next To Last Mistake
Page 23
“I was wondering how long it will take to get there. To Syria. On the plane.”
He cocks his head to the side, settling onto his heels. “They tell us it’s about eighteen hours. But I’m not concerned about the time and distance. The worst part is the lack of accommodations on the plane.”
“Like what?” I ask, setting down my dishrag to join him on the family room floor.
“Like we’re traveling in a C-130, and it’s gonna suck. The webbed seats are made of canvas straps, and they slice across the back of your legs until they cut off the circulation. We’ll be crammed in like sardines, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder down the sides of the plane with cargo stacked in the middle. There’s nothing but a bucket for a bathroom, and it’s loud, with lots of vibration, especially on the propline. Plus, no in-flight movie or snacks.”
Of course, it’s easy to talk about the mechanics of it all as he explains about the plane. The preparations. The logistics. The execution. What’s difficult to talk about is what it’s going to be like once he’s gone.
He returns to his packing list, checking off items with a Sharpie as he crams them into the duffle. Protective gloves. Sunglasses. Helmet. Utility belt. Mag light. Night vision goggles. Canteen. Heavy coat. I try to picture him using all these things, living in a war-torn nation on the other side of the world, and I can’t even imagine what it will be like. Where will he sleep? What will he eat? What will he do every day?
I fold together several pairs of socks, rolling them as I’ve seen him do with the rest of his clothes. “What are you gonna do once you get there?” I ask.
He sets down the packing list, giving me his undivided attention. “What do you mean?”
“Like, what’s your job gonna be?”
He’s thoughtful for a moment, resting back on the palms of his hands. “It’s a pretty complicated thing,” he says. “But mostly I’ll be in charge of decoding the intel we pick up on secured channels from the enemy. Hopefully, we’ll prevent them from engaging in more attacks against the Syrian people. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to root out cells of terrorists living in villages so they can’t hurt anyone anymore.”
I try to envision what a Syrian village looks like. What the villagers look like. And also, what they’ll think of my dad.
“Are you scared?” I ask before I can stop myself. I don’t want him to say he is, but it would be foolish to think he isn’t.
He nods slowly, watching me, not wishing to give too much away. Clearly, the last thing he wants is for me to worry over him.
“Of what?” I prod.
“I worry mostly about making sure we do right by the Syrian people. Because most everyone over there is completely innocent. Lots of folks just trying to survive. Normal families living their lives. The tough part is figuring out who’s who, you know? I guess I’m afraid I might not always get it right, and my mistake might cost someone their life.” He pauses, reading the expression on my face. “It’s all gonna be fine, though, so don’t you go worrying your head about me.”
His deployment to Syria is a little bit like my move to Fayetteville. Having to figure out the people in order to survive. “So how do you win?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Win?”
“Yeah. Win. Win the war. If you’re gonna mess up, how do the good guys ever win?”
He must assume I’m speaking in broad generalities, not only about the war in Syria because he pushes his equipment to the side and crawls on his hands and knees over to where I’m sitting against the wall. He edges up to me, pulling me close, and in an instant, we’re back on the farm. I’m five years old again, Daddy’s little girl.
“There’s this saying in chess: ‘Victory goes to the player who makes the next to last mistake.’ It basically means during a game of chess you can make mistakes along the way and still come out ahead as long as you learn from those missteps and adjust accordingly. You don’t need to do things perfectly from the beginning to eventually get it right in the end. I’ve found over the years the theory applies to life as well. And I’m pretty sure it will be the same for war.”
I nod, considering the mistakes I’ve made in my own life, including the time I wasted worrying about fitting in here in Fayetteville. It makes me grateful for second chances, and I’m glad, as far as my new life is concerned, there’s still time to get things right.
There’s one mistake I’ve made, however, which might be a game ender. The years I squandered with Zander are gone, and there’s no guarantee I’ll ever have the chance to make things right between us. We may never get to explore being anything more than friends.
“Dad,” I say, staring at my hands, disbelieving of what I’m about to divulge. “I think I’m in love with Zander.”
He doesn’t chuckle to himself as I expect, and when I lift my chin, wary of his reaction, his expression is serious. Wistful even. “I know,” he says.
“No,” I continue, shaking my head, certain he can’t possibly understand. “I really love him. Like, love love. And I want to tell him when he comes to visit, but I’m scared of ruining our friendship.”
He nods thoughtfully. “That’s understandable,” he says.
We’re silent for several moments, and I’m flushed with embarrassment, unable to look him in the eye. I have no idea what compelled me to say something to him about Zander in the first place, and I don’t know what advice I expect him to give. I’m considering an exit strategy, perhaps running from the room, but before I can get off the floor he places his hand on top of mine and says, “Don’t ever be afraid to follow your heart, Tess. It’s served you well this far, with your new friends here and with Zander back in Iowa. Trust your feelings and whatever happens, at least you gave love a chance. It’s the best any of us can hope for.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulder and places a kiss on the top of my head.
“You think I should tell him?”
“I’ll be disappointed if you don’t,” he replies.
Chapter 30
Unexpected Visitor
Tuesday, July 16
Alice and I are halfway through the last geometry assignment in preparation for my summer school final exam. I’ve finally grasped the concept of quadratic equations, but the verdict’s still out on whether my recent understanding is a testament to Alice’s teaching abilities or my dogged perseverance. She confirms I’ve solved question number nine correctly, and I admit to myself it’s probably a healthy combination of both.
We’re alone as she watches over my shoulder at the kitchen table. Mom and Ashley are grocery shopping at the PX, and the house is silent, save for the scribbling of my pencil against the paper. We spend most of our days together—when she isn’t working at the donut shop, babysitting her brother, or out with Marcus. Even still, I tag along with them on many of their dates, the third wheel of a surprisingly genial trike. If they’re annoyed by my presence, they don’t show it, although I do feel their pity that I should find myself so woefully unattached.
To that end, I’ve been working on another assignment almost as important as my final exam prep: a packing list for the beach. In a little over two weeks I’ll pick up Zander from the Fayetteville airport, and along with Mom, Ashley, and her best friend Jillian, we’ll head to Wrightsville Beach. As excited as I am about finally seeing the ocean, I must admit to myself I’m far more excited at the prospect of being back together with Zander after so many months apart. He is, after all, the macaroni to my cheese. Knowing this, however, doesn’t keep me from lying awake at night worrying things between us might be different. Our conversations might be awkward and strained instead of easy and fluid like they’ve always been.
And, of course, there’s the matter of my heart. I worry I won’t find the words or the courage to tell him exactly how I feel.
Obsessing over Zander might be part of the reason I’m struggling with the proof for problem ten. Alice leans in to examine my error, but the doorbell rings before she finishes reading through the question.
The interruption, probably a neighbor looking for Ashley or a UPS delivery, is a welcome, viable excuse for stretching my legs. I’m hoping it’s the waterproof phone case I ordered from Amazon, but nothing can prepare me for what I find instead.
For an instant, I think it’s Dad, standing on the porch in his dress blues. My mind struggles to put the pieces of what I’m seeing together. The uniform. The unknown soldier. The thinly veiled dread behind his carefully composed façade.
“Miss Tess Goodwin?” the soldier asks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Is your mother here?”
Seconds pass, both of us standing together in the doorway as I try to remember, but my mind’s gone blank. There’s someone else in the house, but it’s Alice in the kitchen, not my mom.
I shake my head.
“Oh,” he says, the corner of his eye twitching beneath the brow. “Well then, the Secretary of the Army regrets to inform you that your father, Sergeant Greg Goodwin, was killed in action yesterday in the Aleppo province of Syria, the casualty of a convoy bombing. There is an ongoing investigation. Once the investigation is complete, you will have full access to the report. On the behalf of the Secretary of Defense, I extend to you and your family my deepest sympathy in your great loss.”
He goes on, but I’m no longer listening. I’m falling, both literally and figuratively. As I crumple to the floor the soldier catches me, his hands under my arms, returning me to my feet. I’m aware of the firmness of his grasp, the husky scent of his aftershave, the bile rising in my throat.
…killed in action yesterday.
“No,” I whisper.
Not my father. Not my dad. He promised he would be safe.
He’s only been gone two weeks.
“Tess?” Somewhere far in the distance, someone is calling my name. I hope for an instant it’s Dad, sneaking in through the back door, playing a horrible prank. But then I hear it again and remember Alice.
“We need to get her to the couch,” the soldier says to her as I’m being shuffled across the room. I’m aware, as they ease me onto the cushion, there’s another soldier present, handing me water in a glass from my own kitchen. I reach to take it, involuntarily, my hand palsied with tremors.
How long have they been here?
“Any idea where Mrs. Goodwin is or when she’ll be back?” the soldier asks Alice as if I’m not even in the room.
“She’s at the PX,” she tells them. “I’m sure she’ll be home soon.”
Hours later, Alice is still by my side on the couch, idly rubbing my back with her hand as my mother speaks in hushed whispers with the chaplain in the kitchen. I’ve cried myself out, twice, and am barely holding it together now as Ashley lies beside me with her head in my lap, shuddering into a crumpled wad of tissue.
We sit in strained silence, and I can’t stop thinking of Dad as the farmer he truly was, not the soldier the Army will remember him as. My gallant, thoughtful, magnanimous father, dressed not in sand colored camo, but in overalls quilted by the residue of a thousand memories: of grass stains and birthing fluids, tractor grease and mud. My father, who encouraged me to follow my heart by his example, reassuring me through life’s greatest challenges I was on the right path. Who, more than any other person, shaped me into the person I’ve become. Into the person I will always be.
Tears begin anew, although I’d been certain there were no more left to shed. My body spasms, overpowered by the vast injustice of it all as I bury my head in my hands and weep. Alice pulls me close, pressing my body against her own while I try to make sense of the senseless. How will I ever survive without my dad? What type of world will it be without him in it?
Certainly not any world I want to be a part of.
Chapter 31
Goodbyes
Wednesday, July 31
After Dad died there were dozens of phone calls. Closed door meetings. Visits from strangers and friends alike. There was uncertainty. And then there was a resolution.
There was never any question about whether the three of us would return to Iowa, since, according to Mom, Fayetteville held nothing for us. She decided, however, under the Army’s counsel, to wait for Dad’s body to be returned stateside before leaving post. It would be easier, they told her, for everyone involved. In the space between knowing and leaving, we spoke with counselors and met with chaplains, but more than anything else we supported each other. This was especially true on the day I thoughtlessly drove past the Division Headquarters billboard and saw the fatality counter had been reset. Mom found me hours later still parked on the side of the road just beyond the wretched sign.
Dad arrived the following week, and the Army held a small ceremony for him at the main post chapel by the parade grounds. There were soldiers from non-deployed units in attendance as well as other wives and personnel. There was Alice, who lingered nearby with a small but loyal troupe from school. And of course, there was Zander, who surprised me by showing up unexpectedly after changing the date of his flight so he could stand bravely by my side as Mom was presented with my dad’s posthumous awards: his Purple Heart, his Congressional Medal of Honor, and his Bronze Star for acts of valor in combat. As it turned out, after his convoy was attacked, Dad was shot in the back trying to drag a fellow soldier out of the line of fire. Unfortunately, this confirmation of his bravery proved to be of little comfort.
Of all the people in attendance, though, Ashely was the one who ultimately got me through the day. After an emotional prayer from the chaplain, my attention fell to her, staring at the casket, her eyes bleary and bloodshot like my own. In that moment, I caught a glimpse of my father in them, right there, a part of her physical makeup as well as her heart, and I realized he would always be a part of me as well.
Now, as I sit in silence beside Zander on the floor of my empty bedroom, my twin bed, desk, and dresser already loaded onto the moving van, I find myself staring blankly at the new, purple-striped carry-on purchased for the beach which will now travel in the opposite direction back to Iowa.
My door creaks open, startling me from my thoughts as Mom pokes her head into the room. “You guys ready?”
I nod once.
“Okay. We’re leaving in half an hour.”
As she closes the door behind her I choke back what I want to say, which is I am not at all ready to leave. Surprisingly, Mom’s decision to return to Iowa didn’t carry the relief I’d hoped it would. Instead of alleviating some of the pain, it only intensified it. Because despite everything, I’ve made a life for myself here in Fayetteville. Developed friendships. Put down roots. And as I gaze out the window to watch the neighbor boys biking down the street, I admit to myself that what upsets me most about going home is leaving behind the final memories of my dad.
There’s a good chance once I leave Fayetteville, I’m never coming back. I’ll forget the smell of his starched uniforms. The way the short hairs bristled on the back of his head beneath the line of his beret. The black shoe polish stains at the base of his fingernails.
As fresh tears cascade down my cheeks, I find myself crying against Zander’s shoulder not only for the loss of my dad but for the loss of everyone I’m leaving behind. Friends I never knew I needed before I met them. Leaving Iowa, I assumed Zander and I would eventually cross paths again. We’d visit one another and maybe attend college at the same university the way we’d always planned. But Summer, Alice, and Leonetta? There’s a chance I’ll never see them again.
Although my tears should be reserved solely for my dad, I can’t keep my grief over him from spilling into their fonts as well in a giant tidal wave of loss. So many future memories devoid of their presence.
I’m a sniveling, blotchy mess as my door creeks open for the second time. I expect Ashley, who’s taken to crying herself to sleep at the foot of my bed ever
y night, but instead, Alice slips wordlessly into the room. And behind her, Leonetta follows.
I cannot speak. I do not rise to greet them. The sight of Leonetta is too much. Instead, she and Alice drop to the floor, wrapping me in their embrace.
“You’re supposed to be in Jamaica,” I sniffle after my latest round of tears subsides.
Leonetta shakes her head. “No. I’m supposed to be here. With you. I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. I can’t believe I almost missed saying goodbye.”
Her presence is as baffling as it is a relief. “How’d you find out I was leaving?” I ask.
She shares a conspiratorial glance with Alice which expresses an unspoken gratitude. “Alice called my dad who called my mom who insisted I change the date of my returning flight so I could get here in time to see you before you left. That turned out to be much harder than it was for Zander, though. I’m so sorry I didn’t make it back in time for your dad’s ceremony.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, taking her hand in mine. “I’m glad you’re here now.”
As we sit, lined up together against the wall, I’m reminded of three other women: The Fates— Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. But unlike the Fates who had the ability to shape destinies, I’m acutely aware I’ve had absolutely no control of my destiny over the past year. Every moving piece across the chessboard of my life was decided by chance, not choice. The sale of our farm. Our move to Fayetteville. The new friends I found. My father’s death. It all happened to me, not because of me.
The part I love most about chess is the control. The power you have to plan ahead, influencing the outcome of the game by successfully predicting what moves come next. Life, I am finding, isn’t that way at all. There’s no planning. No predicting. Only adjusting to whatever’s thrown your way in the hopes of making the next to last mistake.