Captured

by Jasinda Wilder

  “My purse. It’s by your feet,” I say. “Can I have it?”

  “Foot,” Derek mumbles. “Only got the one, now.”

  He hands me my purse, and I unzip an inner pocket. I withdraw the folded square of yellow paper. I hand it to him. My eyes lock on his. “I love you, Derek.”

  He fiddles with the corner of the paper, folding it, unfolding it. Then he looks out the window, watching a turkey vulture soar. After a long moment, he turns back to me. “Love you, Reagan.” My heart swells at the emotion in his eyes as he says that. “When the Huey went down, I got thrown free. Thought for sure I wasn’t gonna make it. My first thought was….” He pauses, then, “Ah, shit, got dust in my eyes. My first thought was you. That I’d broken my promise. To make it back. To come back. My other thought was, the sky up there, in those mountains. Same color as your eyes.”

  “Dust in your eyes, my ass,” I say with a laugh and a sniff.

  He wipes at his face. “Fine, fuck. I’m crying about it. Happy?”

  “That you’re back, yes. You’re alive. You’re coming home. Home, Derek. You’re home. You kept your promise.” I kiss him.

  Slow, but deep.

  Finally, he pulls away and stares down at the letter in his hands and unfolds it. I can read it sideways or upside down, because I’ve got it memorized. I rewrote that letter ten times before I could write it without crying all over it.

  * * *

  Derek,

  My sweet and amazing man. I was too weak and too scared to write this while you were still here. I knew if I wrote it, you’d be able to sense what I was feeling. I knew I’d lose it, and you’d get in more trouble. You had to go. I know that. I know you’ll never be able to tell me what you did over there, and I don’t think I want to know. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I love you.

  That I’m missing my heart while you’re gone.

  Every time a woman sends her lover off to war, she’s sending out her heart. She lives, left alone there at home, with a hole in her chest. It’s a big, gaping, numb wound. Yet it still hurts when you let yourself feel anything. I assume it’s the same in many ways to send a son, or a brother, or a best friend. But nothing can touch the pain of missing or losing or fearing for the life of the man you love, knowing he may not come home.

  Damn it. I’m avoiding the issue.

  There was something I should have told you. I was going to, but then the phone rang. The captain came and took you away from me, and I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t send it in a letter. I’m weak, you see. Selfish. Like you keeping it from Tom while he was dying. I think I understand now why you didn’t tell him. And I forgive you.

  I can only hope I’ll be able to hand this letter to you in person and watch you read it yourself.

  Let me write the words again: I love you.

  I must be the luckiest woman in the world to have found the love of a man like Tom. And then, again, the love of a man like you. I’m also the unluckiest woman, having sent both of you into combat. I lost Tom, and now I don’t know what your fate will be.

  For the second time, I commit my truth to a simple piece of paper.

  I’m pregnant.

  I have no way of knowing how you’ll react when you find out. Or what I’ll do. What we’ll do. I just don’t know. I just…I love you. And if you’re reading this, please, don’t be afraid. Having your baby is an honor, Derek. Having a part of you growing inside me is a privilege. Loving you is a privilege.

  I’m not going to sign this letter, either, because there’s no good way to end a letter like this.

  Except, maybe,

  I love you.

  * * *

  His hands shake as he reads the words, and when he gets to the end, he lays the paper on his knee, turns to look at me. His eyes slide down to my stomach.

  “I’m not showing yet,” I say. “I’m not very far along.”

  His expression is impossible to read. “But you…you’re sure?”

  I smile. Why do men always ask that? “Yes. I—I had blood work done.” Another long silence from him, in which he alternates between staring at me and at the letter, at my belly, out the window. “Say something, Derek.”

  “What? What do I say?”

  “Anything!” It comes out in a hysterical shriek, and then my voice drops to a whisper. “Are you happy? Angry? Are you—will you stay with me?” I can barely ask that question, so thick is my fear that he’s going to leave.

  “Stay?” He says the word slowly, as if he can’t fathom what it means. “Reagan, I love you. Where would I go?”

  “I don’t know.” My voice is small, high, taut. “Anywhere but here?”

  “Why? Why would I leave? You’re carrying my—my child.”

  I can only shrug. I try to blink and keep breathing. My eyes burn, stinging from tears I’ve held in since the day he left. “I don’t—don’t know—” The words aren’t even audible. Breathless sobs are stuck in my throat. My shoulders shake.

  I unbuckle my seatbelt, lean forward, breathe, keep trying to hold it in, but I can’t. I can’t. I come apart. Derek unbuckles and reaches for me, pulls me to him. I crawl onto his lap, and I bawl. The Texas fall heat blazes, and a long wind blows. A sparrow wings past, trilling. I keep sobbing, and sobbing.

  He just holds me, cradles me against his chest. “I’m here, Ree. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I love you. I’m here.”

  He repeats this, I’m here, I love you, I’m not going anywhere, over and over again, and eventually I hear it, believe it. Feel it, deep inside. He’s not leaving. That was my worst fear—that he’d find out I was pregnant and not want me anymore. That he’d be scared and bolt. He’s a better man than that, and I knew it, but the fear remained. It was an easier fear to hold on to than the terror of imagining that he wouldn’t come back, like Tom.

  Eventually, I manage to calm down. I sit up, but Derek doesn’t let me go. He wipes his fingers beneath my eyes, smearing salt on my cheeks. He slides his finger over my ear, brushing my hair out of my face. “Ree, listen. I don’t even know what I’m feeling. So many things. I’m crazy fucking scared, mostly. I’m not—I’m not father material. Shit, I’m not even boyfriend material. Before I went back over there, I was messed up. But now? Baby, I don’t even know which way is up. I’m a goddamn cripple. One fucking leg. What am I gonna do? I can’t help you on the farm. It’s gonna be months before I can even walk on my own. You have a baby, and I’ll be waking you up screaming just as much as the kid will.”

  “We.” It comes out strong.

  “What?”

  I run my hand over his scalp, over the inch-long blond fuzz. Again and again, relishing the feel of him really, really here with me. “We are having a baby. Not me. We. And you are father material. You’re husband material. You’re my material. That’s all I know. You’re missing a leg. All right. You’ve got PTSD, and nightmares. Okay. You need physical therapy, psychological and emotional therapy. Fine. Shit, so do I. But you know what? We can do it. Just…stay with me. Okay? I don’t mean just physically staying, as in not leaving, I mean…I mean you have to believe in yourself. In me. And in us.”

  “Of course I believe in you, it’s just—”

  “Do you?” I cut in. “Do you really? Because that means believing in my ability to love you and be your girlfriend or your lover or your wife or whatever it is we are or could be. You have to believe that I can and will love you, and be there for you, and be what you need, no matter how scary things get.”

  “Oh.” He breathes in slowly, as if inhaling the scent of my hair. “That…that might be a little harder. I believe in you. I do. But I’m not sure what else I believe. If I’m being honest, I’m not sure if I—”

  “Derek.” I take his face in my hands. “All I’m asking is that you give me all of you. Just give me you, one day at a time.”

  He lets out a shaky breath. “That I can do.”

  “That’s all I’m asking.”

  He nods, and I climb back i
nto the driver’s seat, get us going again, homeward. The silence is less tense now. Eventually, we start talking. He asks questions about being pregnant, and I answer them. It’s funny, actually. He knows nothing about pregnancy. So I fill him in. Morning sickness, which is starting to get pretty bad. The first ultrasound scheduled for twelve weeks is not too far away now. Then we can find out the gender if we want.

  I can tell he’s trying to figure out how to ask a particular question, so I answer it for him, save him the trouble. “And yes, we can have all the sex we want. It won’t hurt me, and won’t hurt the baby.” I grin at him, taking his hand.

  He glances at me, and the look of relief on his face makes me laugh out loud.

  CHAPTER 21

  DEREK

  The first month is fucking hard. Reagan is back to trying to work the farm on her own again, and that makes me feel impotent. I do finally, after the first week of trying on my own, head down to Houston and find the physical therapist. Turns out the therapy is exactly what I need. She pushes me. Hard. Makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something. Gives me something to work for.

  The weird thing is, Reagan and I haven’t had sex yet. I’m not sure of myself, I guess. Not sure of her desire for me as I am now. That sucks. The doubt comes from me, though, and I know it. I know she loves me, and I think she’s starting to get frustrated. But, for some reason, until I can walk on my own with no crutches—shit, I’d even settle for a cane—I don’t think I want to make love to her.

  She’s going crazy trying to keep everything running, and I feel increasingly useless as I watch her get up at five and bust her ass till dark, on top of taking care of Tommy as well as my sorry ass.

  Lying in bed, late one night, I watch the moon and a million stars twinkling in the sky out the bedroom window. I can’t sleep. Nightmares keep getting me as soon as I close my eyes. So I put on my leg and a pair of shorts. Using the crutches, I hobble carefully down the stairs, outside, to the dock. I take off my leg and set it aside. I dangle my foot in the warm water and lie back and watch the stars, watch the moon move across the infinite sky.

  I don’t hear her until she’s padding up behind me on the dock. She sits sideways to me, pulls at me, and I sink backward and lay my head on her lap. Crazy, beautiful woman that she is, she’s in nothing but a T-shirt.

  “Derek?” My name is a question, and is all the emphasis she needs. She’s referring to everything.

  “Can’t sleep. Keep having bad dreams. The crash. That other guy, what happened to his—his face.” I close my eyes and shudder, pushing the image away.

  Her fingers slide through my hair. She traces my nose. My eyes, cheek, chin. Lips. “What else? You know what I’m asking.”

  “I feel useless. It’s hard to feel like…like a man, when I can’t do a damned thing to help you. You’re drowning out there, Reagan. You can’t do it all, and I can’t help you. Maybe I’ll be able to someday. But I can’t, not right now.” I stare up at her, into her pale blue eyes. “And that helplessness, it makes me feel like…like, what good am I?”

  She runs her hand down my chest, up and down my sternum. “You haven’t so much as touched me since you’ve been back.” She looks away, out at the water, green ripples in the silver starlight, moonlight. “Is it me? I’m starting to show, I guess. It might be hard for you be attracted to me as I get bigger.”

  “Ree. God, no. You’re more beautiful than ever.”

  “Then why? It’s been a month, and—I need you, Derek. I need to feel close to you.” She presses her lips together, looks up, struggling. “I am drowning. It’s so hard, doing it all. And I know you hate feeling useless. I don’t know what to do. I’m trying to be strong, but I’m not. The more pregnant I get, the harder it will be. And then when I have the baby, it’ll be…it’ll be impossible. And the only thing that’s getting me through it is that I love you, and I know you love me. You’re going to therapy, and you’ve come really far. You can move around almost on your own, and god, Derek, that’s just amazing. I’m so proud of you. But…Jesus, how do I say this without sounding needy? I need to feel close to you. It’s not just…I don’t just want to have sex with you. I do. But I need to feel you. I need to know you’re…here. With me. That you’re mine. That I’m yours. I need to feel like a woman, and not just…Reagan. The woman working a farm. The mother. The whatever else I am. I know it’s hard for you, harder than I could ever imagine. But all you have to do is show me—show me you want me, and that you need me, too.”

  So I touch her. I reach up, caress her face. Placing my elbows beneath me, I lift up and kiss her.

  And Jesus, that kiss, it sucks all the fear right out of me. Her words ring in my head. All you have to do is show me….

  But then, as we lose ourselves in the kiss, she starts to cry. I try to ask her what’s wrong, but she shakes her head and pulls me back into the kiss. She lays me down on the wood of the dock and moves to straddle me. She’s kissing me, crying. It’s confusing, the tears mixed with the fervor of her need. She runs her hands on my chest and grinds into me, kisses, cries, lets our mouths fall apart, and sighs, moving on me.

  “Derek, I need—please. Touch me. Put your hands on me. Make me feel. I need to feel.”

  My hands slide up under her shirt, over her spine. I feel my chest open, my heart—cracked, bleeding, unsure, and dry—and then I drink in the feel of her, drink in her need, soak up the way she writhes on me and whispers my name as I let my palms glide on her flesh. A slide and a tug, and her shirt is off, and she’s pushing at my shorts, taking me in hand. She puts one hand to the dock, lifts up, and I palm her breasts. Her face is wet, and she still has tears sliding down her cheeks, not wiping them away, just watching me, staring down at me from between the curtains of her hair. She lifts her hips, guides me in. Sinks down around me. Breathes out, an almost-sob that becomes a whole-body shudder, eyes wide and lips trembling.

  This isn’t bliss or pleasure or ecstasy. No. This is reunion. Finding each other once again. It’s me finding myself within her. A realignment of our souls.

  Gasps float on the night air. Whispers of each other’s names, pleas to God, pleas to not stop, don’t ever stop.

  I love you. I love you so much. She says it, I say it, we both say it.

  * * *

  Another month passes. I can walk unaided now, but not far. I’ve got a cane—a cheap one from Walgreens. We find comfort in each other after that night on the dock. It gets me around.

  What also gets me through is the memory of the twelve-week ultrasound. My god. Sitting in that room, in the dim light, hearing the distorted thump-thump…thumpthump of a heartbeat, a life. Seeing the head and the limbs, the sheer reality of a child. It made it real. So very real.

  I’m a father.

  I spend a lot of time with Tommy. I’m stuck inside for much of the time, so I’ve taken over a lot of the care of him. He was curious about my leg, and a little afraid of it at first. Didn’t know what it was or how he was supposed to feel about it. As the weeks passed, though, he learned to accept it as just a part of me.

  Ida is around, making sure I don’t fuck up anything, and she gives me pointers on the basics of raising children. Who knew there was so much to think about? She and Hank have been a godsend. They come over every day to help out and lend support. From the odd look I get from Hank, I think he figures I’m doing a halfway decent job of getting my shit together.

  I’ve been thinking a lot, too—about three things in particular. What am I going to do once I’ve regained full mobility? What are we going to do about the farm? And Reagan. Is being here and loving her enough? I ponder and ruminate. I work out hard to build muscle, learn to walk without a cane, although I think I’ll always feel more stable using one. I can jog on a treadmill by using the handrails. Yet, despite all this progress, I continue to think, and think some more.

  Finally, another month later, I make a few decisions. At least, I decide how to best decide. Reagan is showing now, a bit of a bump to he
r belly. I love it, just fucking love it. Every time I’m near her, I run my palms over her, picturing the little peanut inside, growing and developing. I still have moments when I doubt I’ll ever be even a halfway decent dad, but I’m gonna try. I’m going to do my best.

  I sit on the front porch, Reagan’s cell phone in my hand, and a scrap of paper with a phone number on it in the other. Finally, I begin dialing.

  It rings, once, twice, three times. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Hunter? This is Derek.”

  “Derek? Holy hell. Good to hear from you. How are you?”

  “I guess you heard?”

  He hesitates. “Yeah. I heard. You holdin’ up?”

  “Eh. Some ways, yes, some ways no.” I swallow my pride. “I could actually use your help.”

  “My help?” He seems surprised. “Derek, brother. Anything. Say the word.”

  “Can you make it down here for a bit? You and Rania and the little ones?”

  “I think so. I can take a week or so off. I’ll work something out. Where are you?”

  I hesitate again. He’s probably heard scuttlebutt, but he deserves to hear it from me. “With Reagan Barrett. Outside Houston.”

  “Heard about…heard you and her had—”

  Here comes the part that’ll have him on his ass. “Fallen in love,” I interrupt. “Which is part of why I need your help.”

  “Fallen in…good lord, son.” He laughs. “You really did? You?”

  “Came back different, Hunt. The first time around, I mean. After they yanked me out of that shithole.”

  That sobers him up. “I know. Trust me, brother, I know.” I hear a child crying in the background, and I hear his voice address the kid, his voice muffled. “I’ll be there in one second, sweetie. Daddy’s on the phone. Yeah, look, it’s fine, see? Daddy fixed it.” His voice returns to normal volume. “Sorry about that. Okay, so what’s the address?”