And hour passes and the calls stop, but now it’s the doorbell. I don’t want it to be the doorbell. It can’t be. It’s not. Please, God, tell me I’m hearing things. Maybe it’s just Jennifer. She’s supposed to be at the hospital, or maybe her shift is over. I don’t even know what time it is right now. I haven’t touched my phone. I’m too scared. My gut is telling me something bad happened. Maybe it’s all in my head, but why won’t the doorbell stop ringing?
“Mrs. Anderson,” I hear. It’s the first time I’ve been called that and it feels foreign. I feel like I don’t deserve the title after only being married for a couple of weeks before Kemper left. Kemper. Where is he?
I drop my feet from the bed, pull the covers off and wrap them around me as I make my way toward the door. I know I should look outside of the blinds first to see who’s out there, but if I see who it is, I might not open the door. The doorknob turns to ice under my hand and it feels harder to twist than normal. Nausea swims through me and I consider releasing the doorknob and running back to my bed.
Whoever is there is knocking now and the severity of the knock startles me into finally opening the door, leaving the storm door closed between me and a Marine I don’t recognize. Why is his hat in his hand? I know why his hat is in his hand. I want to tell him he has the wrong house. I want to tell him not to say what I think he’s going to say. Hot tears fall one by one from my eyes and I drop to my knees, hysterical and shaking. “Please, open the door, ma’am. We need to have a word with you.”
A word? How can you tell me my husband, my best friend, is dead in one word? Is that even possible? Just say it. Just let me be. Let me mourn the life I wanted more than anything—life without abuse and pain. I was supposed to have that with Kemper. Now I’ll forever be stuck with a life of pain. And I won’t have Kemper. I need him.
I need this to be a nightmare.
I need to wake up.
“Please, go away.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CURRENT DAY
KEMPER
WE’VE BEEN DRIVING in a convoy through the center of a small town, scoping out the people walking down the streets, but now we’re coming up on small arms fire. I can already hear what sounds like little pebbles pinging up against the vehicle and I know shit is about to go down.
Our convoy speeds up, rushing through the center of town as a rocket whizzes by us, hitting a barrel parallel to us on the side of the street. The thing explodes and now I know it isn’t a rocket. It’s a fucking IED (improvised explosive device). All I hear is silence and a high-pitched ringing.
Shock consumes me as I look around. Jeffries is next to me and he has that look in his eyes. It’s Rex all over again. It looks like his leg has been blown off with the door and I imagine the right side of his body is missing too. I look out in front of us, trying to see the condition of the guys in the vehicle ahead, but all I see is that the back of the vehicle is blown to pieces.
How am I okay? As I look down to assess my own damage, I instantly feel everything as if each nerve comes back to life, one by one. Crap. This isn’t good. There’s a lot of blood from the shrapnel I caught in my arm. I need to get out of here, and I need to see if Jeffries is okay. I reach over, now hyper-aware of each and every ounce of pain searing through my right arm. I grab his flack jacket and pull him toward me. “Jeffries!” His eyes open a bit, but I think I’m losing him. There’s too much blood around him.
There’s a whole lot of chaos in the street; locals are fighting with the combatants and shit is flying everywhere. Ammo is being dispersed like rain. This is bad. A static call over the radio tells us there are four combatants in sight.
I kick my door open and crouch down to avoid the flying metal as I tear over to the right side of my vehicle, finding what I was afraid of. I don’t know how much of his body was blown off, but he isn’t getting out himself. I pull him up and over my shoulders, ignoring my own agony. Turning around, I head toward the back of the convoy when I see the corpsman running toward us. I pick up my speed to meet up with him, handing Jeffries over. “Thanks, man,” I tell Doc. As soon as I’m free, I head back toward the fight, but Doc grabs my left arm and I turn to see what the problem is. “Man, you need to be looked at and patched up. Your arm...it’s not good. It’s really not good, dude.”
“I’m fine,” I shout. “Just take care of Jeffries. I have to get back over there.”
“You are not fine, Anderson. Seriously, I need to check your arm out.”
“I’ll be fine,” I shout again, running off this time. I hear him yelling for me, but I have a job to do and I’m going to do it.
As I approach my vehicle, I find a good spot to take cover, giving me a clear view of who’s attacking. Ignoring the pain, I slide my rifle up on my shoulder, thankful for the adrenaline pumping through me to help to numb my arm. I aim at the first combatant, and let out a long breath. Double tap. That’s one. I move over to the next asshole who just watched the first guy go down, and aim. Double tap. That’s two.
I search for the other two who have now smartened up and run. One of them climbs into the window of a building, giving me no time to aim as carefully, so I just shoot. Fuck aiming. I keep shooting until I hear a groan and I see him drop.
That’s three.
My heart is pounding, knowing I’ve just gotten three kills in sixty seconds, giving me the motivation to find the fourth and get this done with.
I continue moving along a nearby wall as things start to quiet down and people begin to scatter. Looking in every direction, I desperately try to locate the last guy, but I don’t see him anywhere. Fuck—I have to find him.
I run in and out of several small buildings before I finally see the guy crouched in the nook of one of the blown up markets. It’s just him and me, our eyes locked. I hate this moment, wondering what the hell is going through his head. Is someone making him do this? Has he been so mind-fucked that this is what he thinks is right? Does he have a family? Whose kid am I about to kill?
His hand is clutched around his weapon and his finger is moving in toward the trigger. It’s him or me, so I pull my rifle back up, knowing I have no time to aim with this one either. Double tap. I miss. I fucking miss! I run toward him as he makes his way to his feet and points his weapon at me. I run faster, ignoring the blood coating my right hand, and aim again.
I guess you don’t always get a gut feeling telling you that you’re walking into a bad situation—a deadly situation. Sometimes it just takes you by surprise. Maybe it’s better that way. If I knew what I was going to wake up to this morning, it wouldn’t have helped me. Nothing can help me right now.
As I’ve learned over the past several years, when a Marine proves his worth, more is asked of him. Being asked to do these things is an honor. After the dozen specialized missions I’ve been asked to assist with on this tour, I figured, what’s one more? We’ve been lucky so far since there hasn’t been much action, not as much as in previous tours, anyway.
Until today. Until right this second. I don’t know who’s going to win this one…
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CURRENT DAY
DAPHNE
“MRS. ANDERSON, WE DON’T normally deliver this type of news in person, but we’ve attempted to reach you via phone throughout the day. I’ve worked with your husband in the past and his name came across our list today.” I stare into the man’s eyes, looking for compassion or sympathy—something other than the blank look he’s currently giving me. His eyes are dark and he doesn’t blink. I can’t read him. Am I supposed to wait for him to speak or should I be asking questions?
I don’t know if I can get out the one question I should be asking. Is he alive? There’s a hole in my heart and it’s growing by the second as I continue to stare up at this man dressed in blue.
I try to swallow, but I feel like choking. “Is he—?” I can’t do it. I can’t say it.
“Your husband has been injured and is being transported to Germany as we speak. I d
on’t have the details, but the Family Readiness Office will have them for you. Please answer the phone the next time it rings. As I said, we don’t normally make house calls for the injured.” His voice lowers to a more natural tone. “I’m doing Kemp a favor.”
“Thank you,” I croak.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, under his breath.
I somehow manage to hold my composure until I close the door, but now that I’m alone, I fall. I fall hard to the ground, pulling my knees into the fetal position. I don’t want to feel everything that’s about to register in my head. Kemper’s injured. He’s alive, but he’s hurt. He’s in pain and I have no idea how much. It has to be bad if he’s being transferred to Germany. What if he lost a limb, or worse? Oh God, Kemper.
I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the wall without closing my eyes to even blink, but the phone rings again. This time I pull myself up from the ground, nearly tripping to grab it. “Anderson residence,” I struggle to say. Can my heart pound any harder? It’s thumping so hard it hurts. My hand is shaking and my stomach is cramping, forcing me to the couch, while I wait for someone to speak.
“Mrs. Anderson?” a man says.
“Yes,” I cry.
“We’re calling to inform you that your husband, Staff Sergeant Kemper Anderson, has been injured in Afghanistan and is currently en route to Germany. He has sustained injuries to his right arm. Your husband has lost a lot of blood, but we’re hoping he’ll pull through.”
No. God no. Please. “I need to see him. Can I go be with him?”
“Mrs. Anderson, that is for you to decide. It’s not a decision I can help you with. However, we like to recommend families stay put until more information becomes available.” How am I supposed to just wait here, knowing that Kemper is hurt and could even die? He said, “We’re hoping he’ll pull through.” That means he might not. “I’m sorry to deliver this type of news to you, ma’am. On behalf of the Marine Corps, please accept my deepest condolences. If you need anything, support or assistance, call us back here at the FRO.”
“Thank you,” I manage to say before ending the call.
I don’t know what time it is, but I run out of the house and bang on Jennifer’s door. I bang for several minutes, but she’s not home. She must still be at work. I need her. I run back into the house and grab my cell phone, not even knowing how to dial a phone number right now. I just stare at the display.
When I finally figure out how to search for Jennifer’s number, I call her. The phone rings a half dozen times before her voicemail picks up. Where are you? I need you. I hang up and search my mind—who else can I call?
I swallow hard and type in the numbers I haven’t dialed since I arrived here. The number isn’t even stored in my phone anymore, but it’s stored in my head. A fresh start meant leaving everything behind me. Everything.
I cup my phone between both of my hands, trying to hold myself steady while I wait for the call to connect. A couple of rings play loudly in my ear before I hear Mom’s voice. “Hello?” It’s been a while since we’ve talked, but I don’t know who else to call.
“Hi,” I say, which I realize is almost inaudible. I say it again in case she didn’t actually hear me because if she did hear me, she chose not to respond. “It’s Daph—.”
“I know who this is,” she says with an angered lilt in her voice. “You haven’t called in months.” I haven’t thought to. My mind has been elsewhere.
“Kemper’s been hurt. They’re transferring him to Germany. Mom, I’m scared.”
“Well, what did you expect? He’s a Marine. He goes on deployments. They don’t go over there for a picnic, Daphne. You’re foolish if you thought that.”
“I had no one else to call, and I realize now I would have been better off not calling anyone,” I say, and hang up the phone.
It’s less than a second before my phone rings again. It’s Mom, but I don’t pick it up. I don’t want a damn lecture right now. She is completely heartless. People don’t change. Why do I have to keep reminding myself of this?
Now that I’m desperate for more information, I flick the TV on and search for a news station. The breaking news ticker describing the ambush now says there were six American casualties.
I’ve been sitting on the floor in front of the TV for three hours. There hasn’t been any new information. The same words scroll across the bottom of the screen over and over. Over and over. Over and over.
A knock on my door startles me out of my haze and I run to see who’s there. I know no one is telling me Kemper’s dead since they just told me he’s alive. Maybe they’re delivering the news twice? He can’t be dead. He just can’t. He’s not dead. He’s not. Please, Kemper. Please, please, please, don’t leave me.
Verging on hyperventilation, I look out the window and see—no—oh God. I keep the chain locked across the door and open it the inch the chain allows me to. “Go away,” I cry. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. You hear me? Leave!”
“I heard about Kemper. There was talk at the Chow Hall. Is it true?”
“Why do you care, Trent? Get the hell away from my house. How do you even know where I live? Go away!” I slam the door, locking the deadbolt.
His voice booms through the door, “Come out here so we can talk. I won’t come in.” He doesn’t ask. He tells me what to do, just like he always did. I ignore him and wait for him to leave, but his voice continues to seep through the crack in the door jam.
“He’ll get good care in Germany.”
“If he even makes it to Germany,” I yell back at him, still sitting on the inside of the door with my hands over my ears.
“Daphne, talk to me. I won’t come near you; just talk to me.” I don’t think he’ll leave unless I talk to him.
“No, go away!” I look out the window again and see the bottom of Trent’s legs. Past him into the shadows from the streetlights, I also see kids riding by on their bikes without a care in the world. The mothers behind them are smiling and chatting with one another and I can’t figure out why I’m the only one living in fear, or so it seems. Kemper promised me I’d fit in here, and maybe I have for the past few months, but right now, I don’t feel like I belong here at all. I feel alone and lost. Even Jennifer knows how to keep her calm during these situations, but I don’t know how to compose myself right now. I’m scared to death.
“He’ll make it,” Trent says through the door. I can see him pushing his toe into the gravel on the doorstep. “Daphne,” he pauses, “I fucked up. Bad. You should have had me arrested. You should have left me weeks after you met me, not years. I cheated on you at least a half dozen times and I was horrible to you.” I should feel something towards him after that statement—surprise, shock, anger—but the only thing I feel is fear, fear for Kemper. I can’t lose him. “I took you for granted and I wasn’t just a bad boyfriend, I was a shitty excuse for a human being. I’m not going to ask you to forgive me, but I want you to know, I’m trying to become a better person. It’s why I’m here.” I want to say I believe him. I want to say there’s honesty in his tone, but would I even know what that sounds like? Maybe he’s not the greatest liar, but I’m not sure there was a time he was ever telling the truth.
Why are these doors so damn thin? I don’t want to hear him anymore. I want him to go away. “You were horrible,” I tell him. I’m not letting him off the hook after a measly apology. I’ll never give him that much satisfaction.
“I’m getting help.” He needs it. “I need discipline and a career path. That’s why I’m here.” How did this end up being about him?
“Trent, I’m really happy you’re finding a way to make yourself a better person, but with all due respect, I don’t give a shit what you’re doing at this point. My husband might be on his deathbed, and the last thing I care about right now is you making amends with your conscience.”
“I’ll show you the person I plan to become.”
I lift my hand, admiring the ring Kemper put on
my finger, knowing that even if, God forbid, this man I love more than my own life doesn’t come home to me, he will always be my one and only. “Don’t bother,” I shout through the door.
“Daphne?” I hear Jennifer’s questioning voice from outside now, too. I force myself up to my feet and open the door slightly, seeing her looking at Trent as if he were some kind of rabid animal, which wouldn’t be that far off. Now she’s looking at me questioningly. “What’s going on here? What is he doing in front of your door?”
“I’m wondering that myself,” I say.
Jennifer recoils a bit as her face scrunches with confusion. “Daph, he shouldn’t be here,” she says, walking into her house, as if I were the one who invited him over. I didn’t. I’m not sure what she’s thinking right now, but I’m going on the assumption that this doesn’t look good from her perspective.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, Daphne. Do you want me to explain it to her?” Explain what, the fact that you’re basically crying to me through my front door?
“No, I think you’ve done enough. Just Leave!”
“Such is life,” he says, turning and jogging down the front steps toward his Camaro.
As soon as he’s out of sight, I let myself into Jennifer’s house. “What was with the look you just gave me?” I ask.
“Daphne, for God’s sake. How could you?” she responds. “Do I even want to know how he knows where you live? You told me you were not making conversation with him. If that was true, why is he here?”
“I didn’t give him my address, and I don’t know why he’s here,” I respond with the same hostility.
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