by Trish Doller
Charlie’s mom claps. “I applaud your industry, Harper, and for taking responsibility for your future.”
Harper blushes. “I, um—thanks.”
After breakfast, Jenny asks Harper to help her with the dishes, while Ellen asks me to go to the shop with her. “I want to show you something,” she says as I follow her down the stairs and through the bamboo Buddha curtain. She strips off her shirt, revealing a plain gray sports bra, and turns around so her back is to me. On her upper back, near her shoulder, is a Celtic cross with Charlie’s name woven into the knot design. Inked beneath are his birth and death dates.
Not knowing what else to say, I tell her it’s cool. I mean, it is cool—for a tattoo.
“I designed it myself.” She tugs her shirt back on. “I still have the stencil if you’d like one.”
Most of the Marines I know have tattoos. Ski has a massive back piece of a Marine field cross and the names of his friends who died in Iraq. Kevlar went out right after boot camp to get the Death Before Dishonor tattoo. Even Moss has a meat tag. It’s the inked equivalent of a dog tag so in case a Marine gets his legs blown off by a roadside bomb—because we keep one dog tag in our boot—his body can still be identified. I’ve never wanted a tattoo, but Ellen’s face wears a hopefulness that makes it impossible to refuse. “Yeah, sure.”
“Take off your shirt and sit.”
I do as she says and watch while she prepares, filling tiny plastic cups with ink and putting new needles in her tattoo machine. “Music?” she asks.
“Anything but that Sufi crap.”
She smiles and presses a remote control. The Clash spills through the speakers. Nice.
“Charlie used to say that, too. He’d say, ‘Mom, why can’t you listen to normal embarrassing music like Celine Dion or Journey or something?’” She drops her voice and she almost sounds like him. It makes me laugh. She rolls her stool up behind me. “I don’t know if this will hurt, but I suspect your pain threshold is high enough that it won’t.”
“Okay.”
The tattoo machine begins to buzz and when she touches it against my skin, the sensation is like someone pulling my arm hairs over and over. It’s not pleasant, but there are many things more painful than this.
“While we’re on the subject of my son,” Ellen says. “You apologized at the memorial service for not being able to save Charlie, but please, don’t do that ever again. Not to me, or anyone. My son died out of his time, but that doesn’t mean you have to carry a lifetime of guilt.” She pats my shoulder with a latex-gloved hand. “Release it. Let it go.”
I can’t say the guilt just goes away, but I do feel as if I’ve been given permission to stop playing the endless what if… game in my head.
“And while I have you trapped here under the needle—” Charlie’s mom doesn’t wait for me to say thank you. “The other thing you need to know is how much your mother loves you. Almost every time we spoke on the phone, she was on her way to the one store in town that sells the most comfortable socks or the warmest undershirts or your favorite candy.”
The tattoo machine goes silent as she loads the needles with more ink.
“I can’t tell you that losing my son didn’t unravel me,” she says. “But the last thing he told me before he was killed was that he loved me. It brings me comfort to remember that. Travis, there is no one in this world your mother loves more than you. Not your dad. Not your brother. You. If anything were to happen, she would be—”
“I know.”
“Be gentle with her.” Again, she pats my shoulder. “And thus endeth the lecture.”
She works in silence for a while, until Harper and Jenny come downstairs. Harper stands behind me for a moment or two, watching, then sits on a second stool, pulling it up in front of me until her knees are touching mine. “I like it.”
“Good.”
“Harper, I’d be delighted if you’d let me give you a tattoo,” Charlie’s mom says. “Whatever you want.”
“I appreciate the offer,” she says. “But one is enough for me.”
Wait. What? Harper has a tattoo?
“You have a tattoo?” I ask.
“Yep.”
I’ve seen her in a pair of shorts and a bikini top, so there aren’t many places she could have hidden ink—which kind of turns me on. As much, you know, as I can be when I’m being repeatedly jabbed with needles. “Why haven’t I seen it?”
Harper laughs. “Because I haven’t shown it to you yet.”
“Can I see it later?”
“I’m not going to talk about this right now.” Her face goes pink, so her tattoo must be in a really good spot. “Forget about it.”
Behind me, Charlie’s mom chuckles as she draws the ink lines on my back. Just forget about it? Not when my imagination is taking me to many interesting body parts. “Is it a turtle?” I ask.
“Good guess,” Harper says. “But no.”
“Chinese symbol?”
She scrunches her nose. “Ew.”
“Does it have something to do with Charley Harper?”
“Possibly,” she says, but she fights a smile that tells me it does.
“Nice choice,” Ellen tells her over my shoulder. “I love tattoos that have some originality behind them. Don’t get me wrong, my bread and butter comes from tramp stamps and tribal bands, but there is nothing better than doing a custom piece or a design that took some reflection.”
“What is it?” I ask Harper. I googled Charley Harper once. His style was a little cartoonish and he specialized in nature. Especially birds.
“You’ll find out when you find out.”
When Ellen finishes, she swabs the blood and ink off my skin, then hands me a mirror so I can see the reflection. As far as tattoos go, it’s a good one. “Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”
She tapes a bandage over it and after I pull my shirt back on, she gives me a hug. “Thank you for offering up your skin just to humor me,” she says. “You might find a tattoo a much easier way than guilt to carry Charlie with you.”
Chapter 16
It’s still early when we return to the hotel. There’s a message on my phone from Kevlar, inviting us to a motel out at the beach where most of the Marines from Kilo are staying. There’s talk of kiteboarding and darts at some English pub. It’s a guaranteed good time, and I’m ready for that.
“We can go, if you want,” Harper says.
Except now—I don’t know. I guess I’d rather spend time with her than hang out with a group of guys I’ll see again in a couple of weeks. I know what kind of shit I’ll get from Kevlar about this, but I don’t care. I reach for her waist, drawing her in until her hips rest against mine. “I want to see your tattoo.”
Her hand curls around the back of my neck and pulls my face down. She feathers kisses on my forehead, my cheeks, along my jawline, the spot just below my ear—her lips so fleeting my brain can barely register them before they’ve moved on. Shivers race up and down my spine like electricity. I could power the city. The state. The whole fucking world.
Harper sighs and touches her forehead to mine. “Travis?”
“Yeah?”
“I, um…” Her voice is a whisper. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Okay.” I want her so much right now it hurts, but I don’t want to be an asshole. So I swallow my frustration and kiss her forehead. “It’s okay.”
“I guess I’m a little… scared.”
“Of what?”
“Everything,” she says. “That it will be awkward and weird. Or I’ll do it wrong. But mostly—well, mostly that I can’t compare to Paige. She’s beautiful and…” Harper glances down at her chest. “She has big boobs and—”
“There is no comparison,” I interrupt. “Everything about you is better.”
“You didn’t think so in middle school.”
“I was fourteen,” I say. “I was thinking with the wrong head back then. As opposed to, you know, now. When I only think with the wrong
head sometimes.”
She laughs. A good sign.
“And, okay, to be completely honest?” I say. “I’m kinda nervous myself.”
Her eyes go wide. “Really?”
Sex with Harper is going to be complicated. She’s a happily-ever-after girl and I can’t make that kind of promise when I’m only nineteen and owe the Marine Corps three more years of active duty. Anything could happen. She could dump me for some smart guy in her biology class at college and that Dear John letter wouldn’t be nearly so easy to shake off. Or I could step on an IED on my next deployment and she—see, I’m thinking way too much about this.
But here’s the thing: the strings are already attached.
“Yeah, well, it’s my first time with you and I want to get it right.” It sounds like a line. Like I’m trying to get in her pants. Which I am, but not the way it seems. Harper’s skepticism registers in the hitch of her brows and it makes me laugh. “Okay, that sounded lame, but”—I drop my voice low because I have to admit something that kind of scares me—“I don’t want to mess this up.”
She gives me that tiny bit-lip smile that always knocks me out, and I know I’ve said the right thing.
“But”—I shoot her a grin—“if you want to wait, I’ll live. Of course, my balls will probably shrivel up and fall off, but don’t feel bad about that or anything.”
Harper gives me a little punch in the gut, then circles her arms around my neck. Her lower lip grazes mine and, just before she kisses me, she tells me to shut up.
The wooden floorboards of the porch creak in the quiet darkness as I carry Harper’s bag to the front door. We stand there a moment in the dim yellow glow of the porch light, a couple of idiots grinning at each other because things are different now. For one thing, I don’t have the specter of my hookup with Paige lurking over my shoulder. For another, the memorial service is behind me.
Also, I’ve seen Harper’s tattoo.
But it’s not only that. On the drive home we played Slug Bug, punching each other every time we saw a VW Beetle. Tried Guinness-flavored ice cream. And stopped to eat at this pirate adventure dinner theater place in Orlando, where we watched a Broadway-style swashbuckler show about a princess taken hostage by pirates. It was goofy to a degree that should have been embarrassing, but it wasn’t. It was fun.
Normal.
I don’t know if my life will ever be completely normal again, but something like normal is a good start.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I say. “And, you know, just being there.”
“What can I say?” She gives me a smart-ass little grin as she shrugs. “I kinda like you.”
“Kinda?” I wrap my arms around her, my lips next to her ear. “I call shenanigans.”
She turns her face toward me so I can kiss her, and we’re making out when the door opens. Her dad is on the other side of the screen. He runs his hand through his bed-head hair and squints sleepily at the light. “You’re home.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does this public display of affection with my daughter on my front porch mean I’m stuck with you now?” he asks, opening the screen door for Harper.
I’m not sure if I should laugh, so I hold back. “I’m afraid so.”
He chuckles and shakes my hand. “Thanks for bringing her home in one piece. Now go home and don’t come back until the sun has been up for at least several hours.”
When I get to my own house, my mom is curled up in the corner of the family room couch, watching her favorite old black-and-white movie.
I sit down beside her and she offers me her bowl of popcorn. I take a handful and clear my throat. “I, um—think I forgot to thank you for everything you sent me while I was in Afghanistan.”
“I turned it into a game, trying to find the best and most useful things,” she says. “I had so much fun.”
I shovel in the popcorn and talk with my mouth full. “Next time, send more porn.”
“Travis!”
“I’m kidding,” I say. “But you know what would have been awesome? Tuna. I’d have killed for a tuna fish sandwich.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I didn’t want to come off as ungrateful, especially since I sucked at keeping in touch.”
Her face goes serious. “I’m not going to pretend my feelings weren’t hurt, but I’d have sent you anything you wanted. You’re my son, Travis, and I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
We sit in silence for a few moments while the princess in the movie gets a haircut so no one in Rome will recognize her.
“I was a jerk about Dad and I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s not really my business. And I’ve got your back whatever you decide.”
“I filed the papers.”
“I can’t say that makes me sad,” I say. “But are you going to be okay?”
“Now?” She smiles at me. “Absolutely.”
Chapter 17
Charlie,
I know you can’t read this, but I’ve been seeing a therapist and she thought I should write about you. Instead, I thought it might be easier to write to you. Maybe we’re both wrong, and either way I feel kind of stupid writing to a dead person, but I figured I’d give it a try.
I’ve been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, but just talking to a therapist doesn’t make it magically disappear. I mean, it’s good to unload some of the stuff I’ve been carrying around in my head, but I still have nightmares. I still wake up in the middle of the night, sweaty and scared, and have to remind myself it’s not real. The thing is, she tells me that the nightmares may never go away. That it could take years to stop reacting to loud noises or scanning the ground for IEDs. And even though I haven’t seen you in a while, I’ll probably never stop mistaking strangers in crowds for you. It sucks, but I’m learning to deal.
A lot of things have changed since you’ve been gone. My parents split and my dad moved back to Green Bay. That’s what my mom tells me, anyway. I don’t talk to him, he doesn’t talk to me, and that seems to work for both of us. Mom sold the house and got a smaller place. She spends most of her time collecting supplies for Afghan kids, but she’s been up to see your mom and Jenny a couple of times.
Speaking of your mom, I went to see her like I promised. You were right about her. She’s kind of weird, but in a good way. You’d have laughed your ass off when Kevlar found out she’s a lesbian. By the way, Kevlar finally got laid, but you really don’t want to know those details.
Remember how I joked about doing the recon course? Turns out, Kevlar went instead and he’s with First Recon out of Pendleton now. Ever since Afghanistan he’s been living from adrenaline rush to adrenaline rush, so I hope this works for him. The last time we talked, which has been a while, he claimed to have a seriously hot girlfriend but won’t show me any pictures, so I call shenanigans. She’s probably a whale.
Anyway, I ended up being sent to bomb dog school. At first I was against it because it means going out on more patrols when we go back to Afghanistan, but dude… this is probably the coolest thing I’ve ever done. My dog is a black Lab named Bodhi, which your mom says is a Sanskrit word that means “awakening” and claims it’s a sign that he is the right dog for me. I’m not sure that’s true, but I like him a lot. Bodhi is finishing up some training while I’m on leave, so I won’t see him again until the airport. I’m not saying I want to go back to that shithole of a country, but I’m looking forward to working with my dog again.
Right now, I’m in Maine visiting my new girlfriend, Harper. I’m not sure how this whole long-distance thing is going to work, but she says she’ll be here when I get back. I have to believe, though, because that’s the kind of girl she is. You’d really like her and I know she’d like you, too.
Maybe you know all this stuff already. Maybe you’re hanging with the Buddha, watching us try to figure out how life is supposed to work without you. But if you don’t know, it’s not easy. Sometimes it fe
els like I’ve left the water running or forgot to lock the door, and then I remember and it sucks all over again. Maybe someday we’ll see each other again, Charlie. For real, I mean. Until then, save me a seat, okay?
~Solo
Acknowledgments
Thanks to…
The 3rd Battalion 6th Marines, whose experiences in Afghanistan shaped this book. And to Clint Van Winkle, whose book Soft Spots: A Marine’s Memoir of Combat and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was enormously inspiring.
Maximilian and Didie Uriarte for letting me ask the questions and the members of Terminal Lance (especially MoMo) for answering.
SSgt. Zachary Strelke, LCpl. Ceejay Maxwell, Cpl. Ben Harris, LCpl. Ben Lyons, Sgt. Alex Piasecki, Cpl. Cliff “Ski” Kralewski, Sgt. Jeremy Goldman, LCpl. Jared Perumal, Tony Rash, and US Army Master Sgt. Jarrod Griffith for going above and beyond. And all the thanks in the world is not enough for LCpl. David Backhaus.
Bloggers Danielle Benedetti, Carla Black, Chelsea Swiggett, Adele Walsh, and Gail Yates for being my personal cheerleading squad. You are all totally awesome.
Mahnoor Yahwar for helping me navigate Islamic customs, letting me borrow one of your kissing stories, and being a wonderful friend. (You have dibs.)
Josh Berk, Tara Kelly, Miranda Kenneally, Amy Spalding, Cheryl Macari, and the crew of Barnes & Noble 2711 in Fort Myers, Florida, for support, advice, critiques, and—the best part—the friendships.
Suzanne Young for everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
My agent, Kate Schafer Testerman, who believed in me—and Travis. I wouldn’t have wanted to make this journey with anyone else.
Michelle Nagler at Bloomsbury for taking a chance on an uncommon protagonist, and Victoria Wells Arms for pushing when I didn’t always want to be pushed. It was always in the right direction and ultimately led to a better book, and I’m so grateful for that.