Dear Soldier Boy

by Maxwell Tibor

  The nurse rubbed his arm and told him he was going to be fine. “This part of the healing is as much mental as physical. You can’t let your spirits get down.” She was going off script. Pep talks, fantastic. He had that to look forward to for the foreseeable future. Please don’t let her start talking about her family, or pets, or anything outside this room. Just give the eye drops and go. He didn’t care about her life. He didn’t care about his own life, either.

  Another nurse came in. Matthew didn’t need to see to know that. The one that smelled like a funeral—roses and formaldehyde—was here. “Still not talking?”

  “No. It’s such a shame. You’re such a handsome man. Do you have someone waiting for you at home, Matthew? No wedding ring. Do you have a girlfriend? Who is waiting for you? Someone is waiting for you.”

  Matthew tried not to move but his body retaliated against the sentiment. He tensed, every muscle—the ones he had left—coiled until they were painfully tight. There was no one. No one. He was alone, the way he wanted to be. The way he deserved to be.

  “I’m sure he has several ladies wanting to nurse him back to health, right soldier? I don’t think he'll be hurting in that department.” Funeral smell laughed at her own joke.

  Just go! he screamed inside his head, but did not let the sound make it past his lips. The words burned in his belly.

  “His brother is here. He’ll be in in a second. He's just talking to Dr. Solomon. Lets see if he can get him talking. You want to talk to your brother?”

  Luke. Matthew’s breath caught in his chest. Go home, Luke. He didn’t want to see him, not now, not like this. His leg was still a gaping wound. He had a fungal infection, and until it cleared, they couldn't close the wound to create a stump. Why were they bothering? Just leave him already. He was done. He should have died last year. The last 12 months weren’t borrowed time, they were somebody else’s. He had stolen them, created an illusion of happiness, but now it was over. He was finally being punished.

  “Hey,” his brother’s voice called softly from the doorway. Matthew squeezed his lids together.

  “As I said before, he is still non-responsive, but the CT is clear. It does not appear to be physiological.”

  Matthew ground his teeth together. That was the polite way of saying he was crazy. He wasn’t fucking crazy; he was done. There was a difference. He would love to be detached from reality, but it was there, hanging over him, crushing down on him with its oppressive weight.

  “We have him scheduled for surgery tomorrow to close the wound. The infection has cleared. I hope he realizes how lucky he is. We don’t see many single limb amputations anymore. Landmines usually take off both legs. He's very lucky.”

  So lucky, he should send his brother out to buy him a lottery ticket, because clearly, he was on fire. They were talking about him the way parents speak to errant children—in front of them but not to them. The doctor didn’t even know his name. The nurses did, the one who stroked his head knew, but the doctor didn’t. He called him Mark. Oh, the sweet irony.

  Dr. Solomon thought he had lost his leg from a landmine. Idiot. Maybe the nurses should give him the speech Matthew heard hourly, then he would remember his injury was no accident. A grenade had been intentionally fired at him, not a landmine. Not that it mattered; his leg was gone either way. But get it right.

  “Thank you.” Luke’s voice was soft. Who was he thanking? The nurses who changed his catheter and wiped his ass, or the doctor who didn’t know his name?

  Luke sat beside him and reached for his hand, wrapping his long fingers around his. “Oh, Matty. God, I’m glad to see you. I was so worried. I’m so glad you’re OK.”

  Luke had a very generous definition of OK. What part of him looked OK? His brother squeezed his hand. “You’re going home soon. You should be safe to fly back to DC by the end of the month. You’re going to be OK, big brother. The rehab center is great. I read all about it on the flight over. They will fit you for a prosthetic as soon as your leg heals.”

  Inside, Matthew laughed. His leg would never heal. His stump might, but his leg wouldn’t, because that was in pieces on the side of the road in Afghanistan. How long did it take for the wild dogs to eat all the pieces? Did it fill their bellies? He hoped it did. Someone should benefit.

  “You will have full mobility. You’re lucky you survived. I’m so glad you’re OK.” His voice hitched. Luke was crying. Matthew squeezed his eyes together harder, willing his brother to stop. “It will take a while, but you will get there. Nobody has more tenacity than you. You will get there in no time. You’re OK. You’re so lucky you survived that.”

  When would people stop telling him he was lucky? He wasn’t lucky to be alive because he didn’t want to be. He shouldn’t have made it.

  “I brought a picture of the baby. We named her after mom. She is beautiful, Matthew. I can’t wait for you to meet her. Steven has some time off in the Spring. I was thinking we could come out. Maybe go to Florida. Rent a house at the beach. You loved Florida as a kid. Remember, that was your favorite base. Or we could go to the Keys. It is up to you. Or you could come out to San Francisco. Steven and I talked about it. We want you to move in with us for a while, until you get back on your feet. It was his idea. You can stay as long as you want.”

  My foot, Matthew silently corrected. He could stay until he got back on his foot, one, singular, not feet. Hot pressure built behind his eyes. His baby brother was offering to take care of him because he was a cripple.

  “I know it seems insurmountable now, but prostheses have come so far. According to the literature from Fisher House, they just become part of you, and you can almost forget about them.”

  It wasn't about the leg, or his eye, or the burns! How could no one see that? Who the hell cared about a leg? He didn’t even want a prosthesis. He shouldn’t be here. Did they not understand that? This life didn’t belong to him. He should have died a year ago. They were talking at him about things that didn’t matter. He shouldn’t be here! Why could they not understand that?

  Matthew turned his head away from his brother. No more, he couldn’t listen anymore. Sleep, he needed the oblivion of sleep until a nurse came to give him his drops. They needed to stop trying to save the vision in his left eye. He didn’t need it. Just leave him alone.

  “I brought Grandma Kay’s ring, like you asked in your email. You might need to have it sized. Grandma was not a small woman.” There was a smile in Luke's voice.

  “No one has contacted Vivian. Do you want me to call her so she can come out? She'll want to be here, Matthew. She needs to know. I know you can hear me. You can ignore your doctors, but don’t ignore me. I’m trying to help you here. I love you. We love you. She loves you. You have so much to fight for. You’ve never been a coward, Matthew, don’t start now. Yes, this will be hard, but no one is better equipped to face it than you. Fight, Matthew. Damn it. You need to fight.”

  The pressure built behind his eyes. Just leave. His chest was too tight too breathe.

  “You can hear me, Matthew. I know you can. You can’t fool me. I'm leaving the ring. You wanted to marry her last month. You can’t tell me you've changed your mind. Are you scared she won’t want you anymore? She might not, but give her a chance. She deserves that. You deserve that. She might walk away, but you won’t know until you ask. Be brave. Be my fearless big brother.”

  Matthew heard the top drawer of the bedside table slide open. “What's this?” Luke was quiet as he examined something. “It looks like the Living Chess Game in Italy. Steven and I went last year. It was fun. Why do you have this? Do you want to go? Is that why you have it?” Luke rearranged the contents of his drawer, rifling through his pictures. “Is this Vivian? Shit, she is gorgeous. Wow. You said she was beautiful. You really weren’t kidding. Wow. Well done, you. You’re going to want to lock that one. Ah, I see. These are the picture with the puzzle pieces she was sending you. It's just missing the queen. Yep, that's what it is. She sent you a picture of a life size ch
ess game. She's saying it’s your move. Ha! I get it. How can you not have seen that? She was sending you a message the whole time. I like this girl. Don’t be an asshole. Marry this girl, or I will chop your other leg off.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Post Date Letter: November 28th

  Dear Luke,

  I’m sorry to be reaching out this way. My name is Vivian Castello. I had been corresponding with your brother Matthew for almost a year, and then he went silent. I’m not entirely sure why. I’ve been waiting over three months, and then November 27th came up, and I knew that was the date he was supposed to return. I had that date circled on every single one of my calendars. I had the entire week scheduled off from work. I’m sorry; that’s not important. But I couldn’t wait any longer. And I apologize for even asking, but I have to. I know they wouldn’t change his date. I don’t know why he stopped writing. I can only guess, but I’m not sure. I’m assuming there are two possibilities, and even if it’s the second one, the one where he chose not to write to me but is still alive, then that’s the one I want. That’s the one I need.

  I don’t know what happened. I’ve checked all the reports, and I’ve never seen his name, but maybe I missed something? Maybe his name was missing? I don’t know. But I couldn’t wait any longer.

  And again, I’m sorry for reaching out to you this way. I had hoped that the first time we communicated, whether in person or over the phone, would be on a happy note. Like maybe Face timing and seeing your daughter. Or something like that. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t even have mentioned her. But Matthew had told me about your baby and how excited he was for you and Steven.

  Again, I wouldn’t ever want to intrude, but there’s been so much on the news, and I saw his platoon was a part of…I’m sorry. I just need to know if he’s okay. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, I understand. I just need to know if he’s alive. I have to know. And I’m sorry. I’m assuming he figured out who I work for—who I worked for—and that’s why the communication stopped. I don’t blame him. I just need to know if his silence is real or not.

  Sincerely,

  Vivian Castello

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Post Date Letter: November 29th

  Dear Vivian,

  This is Luke Jenson, Matthew’s brother. Thank you for writing to me. Thank you for loving my brother. I know he loved you too. I have seen Matthew, and he is physically fine. That was what you were asking, wasn’t it, if he is alive? Yes, he is alive. I won’t comment on anything beyond that. Matthew is a very proud man and very private. I know you can appreciate that.

  A few months ago, he sent me a letter to send to you in the event of his death. I am sending it to you today because I think it explains a lot. After you wrote to me, I opened the letter from Matthew. I apologize for the invasion of your privacy, but I needed to know what Matthew was going through. Usually, I am the quiet one, but now, I am the only one talking. I don’t even know if he hears me. He has changed. I can’t explain.

  I had hoped we would meet in person. Matthew said he wanted you to come out and meet Dizzy. I have included a picture of her. We named her Delette Elizabeth after my mom, but Steven started calling her D’Lizzy before she was born. This somehow morphed into Dizzy, and unfortunately for her, it stuck. So now she will probably always be our Dizzy Girl.

  I think she looks just like Steven, but he sees me, especially in her eyes. They are pale blue just like mine, and Matthew’s.

  I’m sorry we never got to meet in person. I hope his letter gives you some closure. Take Care.

  Sincerely,

  Luke Jenson

  Dear Civilian Girl,

  My Sweet Vivian. I hope you never read this letter. My plan is to have Luke burn it as soon as I get home. But if you are reading this, I didn’t make it home. I’m so sorry, Civilian Girl, for not making it back to you. You know I did everything to come back to you. Please know that. I need you to know that. And I need you to know I love you. You are the love of my life. I completely and totally love you and will for the rest of my life, no matter how long or short that life turns out to be. I never told you because I wanted to look into your eyes the first time I told you. Remember, you are my first—my only—love.

  I thought I would have the rest of my life to tell you. I hope I do. I hope you never get this letter. I want to run marathons with you, and climb mountains with you, and hold your hand when you deliver our babies. I want a lifetime with you. I know I am being greedy. You have already given me a lifetime’s worth of joy. Your letters were everything to me. They got me through. They gave me hope. Thank you. Thank you for your love. I didn’t deserve it, but I appreciate it, and I cherish it the way I cherish you.

  As you can see I have included your business card. Allow me to tell you a story of irony, and bad timing, and a stupid soldier. A few months after I received your first letter, I was out on patrol. By all accounts, it was a pretty crappy day, but I could not help but smile because I kept thinking about you. I thought about the story you told me, about hitting on a soldier and slipping your business card into his pocket. You said he totally ignored you, and I thought, what an idiot. What a complete and utter moron. A beautiful woman gives you her number, you call her. I was so grateful that this stupid soldier didn’t give you the time of day. And I thought, if it had been me, I would have bought you a cup of coffee and then another, every day for the rest of our lives.

  I got back to the firebase. I laid down on my cot, and I remembered my dress uniform was folded under my bed. I shouldn’t have had it, but I was called back directly from Washington. I thought about you touching this man, brushing against him to put your business card in his pocket, and I was jealous that he got to feel you. Maybe even smell you. And I could not believe that any red-blooded man would have ignored you. He was a clearly an idiot. I’m an idiot and even I would have spoken to you. There is no way I would have not spoken to you and fallen in love with you directly on the spot. I pulled out my jacket and I reached into the pocket to see where you would have touched him, this nameless faceless idiot man.

  And it was there. Your card was there. I am that idiot. Your idiot. Your self-absorbed, unworthy, oblivious, idiot soldier. I didn’t even see you. I was so sucked under by the shit storm that was my existence, that I didn’t even see you. I hate myself for it. I cheated myself out of an opportunity to hear your voice and see your smile in real life.

  The theme of our relationship really was bad timing and missed opportunities. Any other day, I would have seen you, Civilian Girl. Any other day.

  I am telling you this now for two reasons. Well, three actually, the third being that I can’t tell you in person. That is my plan, or was, if you are reading this. But the first reason is to tell you that I know you are a civilian contractor. I know you work for JCI Logistics. I know they are the ones who have the biggest maintenance and operational support contract for Afghanistan. I know they provide all the maintenance for all the vehicles. I know they cut corners, and that personnel-carriers broke down because of them. I know soldiers were stranded and left vulnerable because of them, and I know that soldiers died. I even know all of their names. All seventeen men. I can tell you their names. I won’t ever forget them.

  I promised you I would never look you up, and I never did, but I found out anyway. I know, and I have known for a while. I knew before I loved you. Actually, no, I didn’t. I think I loved you from the beginning, and I was just too stupid to see it. I am a stupid man, but yet, you loved me. And God, how I love you.

  The second reason I need to tell you is to explain why I didn’t see you that day. I was stateside for a meeting. It was the second worst day of my life. The first was the “incident”. That is what our government called it. I call it a massacre and my colossal fuck up. I need you to know that I did not know this part until it was too late. We were too far gone. I couldn’t tell you, but even if I could, I don’t think I would have been able to bring myself to do it. I couldn’t lose you.
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  Remember when I got the letter from Mark, and I lost it, and talked about guilt and atonement? You didn’t understand and I couldn’t explain. But he said something about knowing what had happened and not even knowing who you are, or who your brother was. Remember, I asked you about your brother? I needed to know his name. That is when I knew. That is when the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. I cried. I don’t remember ever crying before, not as an adult. I must have as a kid, but I don’t remember. But I cried. It was real. All the soldiers, all the names, they were real, they were loved, and I could not ignore it anymore or pretend it was an incident. I cried for them, and I cried for you and a selfish part of me that I hate.

  The day I saw you, I had just been told there would be no formal investigation. I would not face any disciplinary action. I got off scot-free. It was like it had never happened. Seventeen people were gone, and nobody was being held accountable because nobody was allowed to talk about it. That is why I didn’t see you. I was too despondent to see anything past my own guilt. I wanted to be punished. I needed it. The families needed it. But they will never know because of money, and politics, and contracts.

  That is what I meant about atonement. I felt like I was finally being punished by losing you. It was incoherent and rambling, but that is what I meant.

  I never wanted to tell you the last part, but you have to know for any of it to make sense, and because you deserve to know who I am. Before I go on, please know I’m sorry. It is not enough, but it is all I have.