I hope you didn’t have any more horrible dreams. DO NOT MISS THE PLANE. Matthew, I hope that was just anxiety and not some weird, awful premonition. Don’t do that to me. Let me tell you about one of my dreams. We are sitting at my table, having tea with all of my Barbies. Ken is sitting next to you because you have this “bromance” thing going on. Which, by the way, Malibu Barbie (her real name is Trixie, but I think that sounds a little slutty and I’m trying to help improve her image, so we are just going to refer to her as MB for now), anyway MB is not happy about the bromance. Ken and you have really been spending a little too much time together. First, you took him to the batting cage, which was okay, but then, the movies? I was even put off about that. Oh, back to my dream. So, we’re at our table having tea and crumpets (I don’t even know what crumpets are but in the dream that is what we are having), and I take a sip of my tea, and then you get down on your knees, and all of my Barbies gasp. I would too, but I just took a sip of tea, and despite all of my suggestions and innuendos, I am a certified lady (I have the certificate in my office in case you want to check it out). So, there you are, on your knees, and I take my cup, and place it gently on my saucer, and swallow (you know what goes here). And then poof, I wake up!
And by the way, speaking of waking up, I am very excited about page seventy and page two. Since you have delighted me with details of your strength, (which will be needed given my size ;)), I think you should take a look at pages forty-five, fifty-five, and sixty-five, as it comes (again) with a warning not to try unless you want to push your sexual limits, and I’m pretty sure we do, right?
Matthew, my feet are on fire, just like (well, if you were thinking something in the downtown area, that would not necessarily be good. Promise, that area is a-okay), my heart is on fire. Please come back soon, before I go up in flames.
With Love, Your Civilian Girl,
Vivian
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sixty-eight days. He was almost there, almost home. And he wasn’t coming back. Thank Christ. He was done. Done with freezing his ass off in the winter and being boiled alive in the summer. Done with being shot at. Done with shooting. Just done.
Matthew groaned as he stretched his hands above his head. His back was killing him. Vivian was right; he was an old man. Too old for this shit. The corners of his mouth pulled up when he thought of her. Only sixty-eight days.
He squinted over the red haze of the horizon. Almost time to head back to base. Today had been a good day, and by that, he meant no one had shot at them. The Taliban were the official enemy, but the makeshift soldiers of the Afghan National Army could be just as deadly, and unlike the Taliban, they were expected to stand shoulder to shoulder with the ANA, train them, help them, and pray every day that they wouldn’t turn on them. There was no way to verify their allegiance. The ANA had no loyalty to America or the coalition. They were held together in a tenuous truce because they had a common enemy. But there was no denying the animosity the Afghani soldiers felt towards their foreign trainers. Matthew felt it every day. He didn’t trust them anymore than they trusted him. He would train them to fight because that meant he could go home. The hope had been to leave the Afghan Army able to defend themselves, but that hadn’t happened. More than a decade later, they still weren’t ready, and they probably wouldn’t be. It didn’t help that their loyalty was split, or that they had something in common with the Taliban. After all, religion made for powerful ties.
Matthew opened his water and poured some over his head. The dust congealed in the lines of his face. He had more of those than when he came. But he was almost done, another day ticked off the calendar. They were done for the day. They would come back tomorrow to continue the lesson in futility. “OK boys, round um up.”
The Dari translator rattled off more words than Matthew had spoken. He always did. He was fairly certain his language specialist provided a commentary more often than he translated, but he didn’t care, because he was going home. Soon, this would be someone else’s problem.
Shots rang out in the distance. His head snapped up to see where the gunfire was coming from. “Fuck,” Matthew muttered under his breath. They had almost made it all day. Clearly, that was too much to ask. “Get down. Down. Go! Go! Go!” He jumped into the trench. “Anyone hit?”
One of his men answered in the negative. But then his eyes caught sweat glistening on bronzed skin. “Get down, Garcia! Get off the fucking road.” But it was too late. Garcia’s back arched as his body lunged forward. “Ah, shit!” To the other soldiers, he ordered,“Stay down!” More shots. “Where is it coming from?”
“The trees,” someone said.
His eyes darted over the flat expanse, searching. He tore his radio from his waist. “Any Comanche down there, I need support up the river.” Shit, they didn’t have time to wait. Bullets were coming down faster, in the telltale pop-pop-pop pattern.
Hurry up! We need support! Shit, they didn’t have time. They needed to fight their way out of this. No time like the present to put the ANA training and his teaching to the test. “Use the RPG,” he shouted to the translator. “Tell him to aim high, but not too high. He always shoots too high. Lower. Shoot lower at the trees. We need to try to get an L shape ambush going.”
Garcia tried to stand. His face contorted in a pained plea, begging for help, not to be left in the road to die. “Get down,” Matthew screamed. “Get the fuck down.” Garcia was in shock. He couldn’t hear anything Matt was saying. He was going to get himself killed. Stupid kid. He was only nineteen. “Get Down!”
Matthew jumped out of the trench. Before he could stop himself, he ran to Garcia and tackled him to the ground. The younger man screamed, and thrashed, and spit at him to get off him, but Matthew didn’t budge. “You’re going to be fine. We’re going to get you out of here. Just stay down.”
More shots. The blades of helicopters buzzed in the distance. “Almost home,” he whispered. “We’re almost there, buddy. Stay down. Stop fighting me. We’re going to be OK. We’re almost home.” He repeated the last words like a mantra, over and over, until Garcia stilled beneath him.
Billows of dust erupted on the side of the road as bombs fell in quick succession. The Comanche’s were there. Help was there. But they were too close. Oh fuck, they were too close.
Chapter Thirty-Three
[email protected] Sent 10/01/16
[email protected]
Dear Soldier Boy,
Boo! Guess who? I thought this would be the perfect time to write again, even though I haven’t heard from you. Given that my last email talked about necrophilia, I’m hoping that’s not why you haven’t written? Actually, I suppose with what I've seen on C-SPAN, it would be preferred that the reason for silence was because I grossed you out and you couldn’t bring yourself to write me again.
So here it goes, Matthew, I’m sorry. I don’t have a thing for necrophilia. I was just being silly about the idea of me being in a coma and you going so long without sex to find me unavailable. I suppose I could have given you some alternatives other than to have sex with my corpse of a body, but I was trying to be funny and obviously failed.
I’m sorry.
No more necrophilia jokes. I promise. Well maybe one more? Haha, just kidding no more.
And I really don’t sit around with any dolls. I do have the GI Joe doll, but he has been sitting on my desk since I bought him. I haven’t touched him. I promise.
It feels odd to write to you, since I haven’t heard from you, but I will anyway. I began our letters not sure if I would hear back, and then I did. So, I’m going to hope that I will this time, too. Maybe I shouldn’t joke in this letter? Maybe it would be better if I keep it serious and poetic?
No, I can’t, Matthew. I can’t. When I think about you, it makes me so happy, and my heart is dancing around inside my body. Not really, obviously, because that isn’t physically possible, but I do feel this incredible surge of happiness when you cross my mind. Which is every fre
aking day.
Since you haven’t written back, I’ve been reading all of your previous emails and letters to me. It makes me feel closer to you. I’ve got them all printed for our wedding book ;)
Just kidding I don’t have a wedding book, and I’m sorry for saying that part about my dream, and you getting on your knees, and everything. I was trying to be silly and funny, but I really don’t want you to feel some sort of weird pressure about engagement, and weddings, and all of that. I just want to see you and be with you. Really. So, despite my jokes, please know that I have no expectations. Other than sexual. Haha! (That parts not a joke though. ;) )
It’s October, and this year I’ll have to forgo couple costumes, but don’t think you’re getting out of that next year. No way. We will have to come up with something really amazing. Liz and her husband always have a huge (you know what I’m talking about) Halloween party and costumes are a big (again) deal.
This year, I’m going as Little Red Riding Hood, but unfortunately, I’ll just have to have my little wolf doll stuck in my basket, since you won’t be there to play along with me.
Kind of like now, it’s just me typing out into the interwebs, hoping to hear back from you. Matthew, I know I shouldn’t type about what’s going on, but it’s bad. Really bad. I’ve almost given up watching C-SPAN. I battle myself from covering my ears so I can’t hear what is being said, and closing my eyes so that I can’t see what’s happening. I want to be ignorant, pretend like it isn’t real and that it’s some scary, horrible movie I’m watching, and that the reality of the situation is fake. That you aren’t really there. I almost want to pretend that you aren’t real, just so that you wouldn’t be there.
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that, but I won’t delete it because I want you to know how scared and worried I am about you. I’m so worried.
I just came back. Duke and I ran ten miles. Ten Matthew. Can you believe that? I can. I had to get out. I had to run. We ran the entire mall eight times. I just kept circling and passing by every single monument. Each time I got to the Lincoln Memorial, I teared up. I’m not a crier, Matthew. But every time I got to it, I stopped, and I sat down on the steps and cried. Every single time. The image of you kissing me in front of the Lincoln Memorial was there in my mind, and it was like a picture that was fading. Every time I got to the steps, the picture got lighter and lighter. Duke would nudge my elbow, and force me to get up and keep going. And I did. I’d start running again. I passed by the reflection pool, and God, how I reflected. On everything. On us. On our letters. And on you, and where you are, and what you are going through, and then I’d hit the Lincoln Memorial again, and the tears would start falling. I’m sure I looked like a crazy woman. Which makes sense, because I am crazy. I’m going crazy thinking about you and not hearing from you.
Please email back if you can,. even if it’s just a word. Something. Anything. I’ve got to know if you’re okay. I have to know. I need to know.
With Love, Your Civilian Girl,
Vivian
Chapter Thirty-Four
Matthew opened his mouth to speak, but the only thing that came out was a moan. Where am I? What happened? Where is Garcia? Tell them to abort. They are too close.
It was happening again. Not again. Not again. Don’t let it happen again.
No, this was just his dream. The words would not come out because he was dreaming. That’s why his eyes wouldn’t open. But it was so loud, like the blades of a helicopter buzzing. Yes, a helicopter. He was in a helicopter. He couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe? He screamed, but only a gurgled sound came out. His lungs burned. He needed air. He was drowning, but not in water. What was it? Was it the sand? Yes, it must be the sand, that's why his feet burned. He needed to cut off his feet. Cut them off, and then he would wake up. Almost over. Almost home.
He was on the ground now. The helicopter landed. No, keep going! Take me home! His feet still burned. And his face. Why did his face burn? Why couldn’t he see? Open your eyes! he screamed at himself. It was time to wake up. He was moving. Someone was moving him.
Someone touched his arm. Vivian? Was he already home? Yes, he was home and dreaming. Wake up and see her. Wake up!
“Matthew, I’m the Chaplain. You are at the hospital. You’re at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center. You’re in safe hands. We’re praying for you.”
No. No. No! he screamed, but nothing came out. Wake up you mother fucker. Wake up. Vivian!
“He is agitated. He’s in pain. Give him another shot of morphine.”
No, no drugs. I want to wake up. But he was being pulled under. Darker…warmer…black…nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Five
[email protected] Sent 11/01/16
[email protected]
Dear Matthew,
I did it. Today, I changed the calendar in my kitchen from October to November. I’ve been waiting to do this for so long. A while ago, I even purchased a bottle of champagne so that I could celebrate with some bubbles. I’m not an alcoholic drinking in the morning or something. I bought some orange juice, too, so I could make mimosas. A big pitcher of them. I was going to sit in my kitchen drinking my mimosas and staring at my calendar.
My calendar? What is wrong with me? Isn’t that crazy? No, it’s not actually. I was looking forward to the big “moment” of changing from October to November. Because, after all this time, I would get to stare at the circled date of the 27th. I would see it every day without peeking underneath the page. There would be no reason for me to touch my calendar as I was making coffee in the morning and dinner later at night. I wouldn’t have to look underneath anymore. It was finally going to happen.
You. You were going to happen. It’s been three months since I’ve heard from you. Ninety days, twenty-two and a half- half weeks. I added half to that because that is real. But I’m feeling so much like you are not. Like I made all of this up. Like I catfished myself or something. That I was having this epic romance with this amazing, creative, hilarious, intelligent, sexy man, and it was all me. By myself. Alone. And afraid. I’m so afraid. What we had made my life. You are my life. With you, I felt whole. I felt complete.
I’m a half right now. A half of a person. I’m empty. I’m trying to be strong and hoping that the reason you can’t email is because you are hiding out somewhere. I’m hoping you have no access to the internet, or a phone, or anything. Just that you are hidden and safe. That’s all I want, Matthew. I just need to know that you are safe.
If for some reason, any reason, I don’t care, whatever it is, if you have just chosen to not write me back, that’s okay. Just please tell me that you have the capability to do so. I need to know.
I’m freaking Duke out. We just got back. I didn’t think it was possible. I really didn’t, but we ran twenty miles today. I don’t think I ever would have thought that I could run twenty miles, but I did. We did. Right now, Duke has crashed on the floor next to me. I promised him on the last lap that I would give him a break tomorrow. That I wouldn’t run. That I wouldn’t need to run because I felt like I was going to hear back from you. I felt like I would.
That you were just out there and, for some reason, couldn’t write me, but tomorrow you would. You would make it happen. No matter what. You would come back to me.
I’m sorry, I said it was okay if you didn’t want to be with me, and it is (not really), but I really need you to let me know if you are out there. Wherever that is…please just say something.
With Love, Your Civilian Girl,
Vivian
Chapter Thirty-Six
The nurse was talking again. They never stopped talking. Matthew kept his eyes shut but nothing would stop her. Every day, she talked. All day, every time she came into the room, it was the same speech, well-rehearsed. She gave it in every room, at every bed, just changing the relevant parts.
“You’re safe, Matthew. You have been in an accident. You’re in the hospital in Germany. We’re taking care of you.
You’re going to be ok.” She recited her speech before she pried his lids open and dropped medication into his left eye. Every hour, she came in. Same speech, same drops, around the clock.
Then she would leave, and he would sleep, only to be woken an hour later. All day, every day. How many days had it been? He'd lost track. There was no delineation between day and night, just an endless cycle of eye drops, and platitudes, and assurances. Why the hell did they feel the need to tell him every hour what had happened? He remembered. He knew exactly what had happened. His leg had taken a hit, not his God-damned head. He had been hit by a grenade from an Afghani soldier, one who he'd trained, the scrawny asshole with the bad aim. Turned out, his aim wasn’t too bad when he was honest about his target.
He was dead though, the scrawny insurgent. Matthew couldn’t remember which nurse told him that. One of them did, probably the one with the Southern accent who stroked his face when she spoke. She wanted him to know they got him. Because that was supposed to make a difference to him how? The asshole got Matthew first. If they were keeping score, that had to count for something. And he took off Matthew’s left leg above the knee. Must be some extra points for that. And the blind left eye, and the burns, what about those? What was the score for him after all those were added together?
He wanted to tell the nurse to just go away, but that would mean speaking, and he wasn’t going to do that. So, his eyes remained closed until he was alone, and then he opened them and counted the pinprick-sized holes in the ceiling tiles with his remaining good eye. Counting the holes like he counted the steps at Ranger School, and the way he counted the days...with…
Dear Soldier Boy Page 12