I turn my attention to the navigation. It’s loaded with little icons representing all of the coalition vehicles. The raid and defense forces have already positioned themselves around the neighborhood, and we are just a few miles away.
I watch as Sergeant Adams’ convoy pulls off the highway. “Yup, there they go. A mile or so up the road and we’re there.” I shift my gaze to Thomas, who has a distant stare, his body sagging in the driver’s seat.
“Thomas, you awake, guy?” He snaps to attention like a teenager caught sleeping in class and quickly nods his head. “Sure doesn’t seem like it. You get okay sleep last night?”
I know he didn’t. I woke up several times throughout the night, as I often do, and I found him reading with a flashlight or just lying there, staring at the tent’s interior. Since the grisly scene at the checkpoint, he just hasn’t been the same. I haven’t been able to get him to talk either, which isn’t normal for him. He’ll usually at least open up to me.
“Slept like a baby, Sarge,” he lies.
“Alright, I’ll take your word for it.” I point toward a bushel of palms just outside our target neighborhood. “Park under those trees over there. Face that clearing.”
Thomas does as ordered while our other two Humvees station themselves a hundred yards on either side of us in their own defensive positions. The sun is shining brightly overhead, but the outstretched leaves of the palms will keep our vehicle well shaded. A crisp morning breeze funnels down through the turret hatch and teases my face.
Curious bystanders of all ages stand in the middle of the dirt roads that connect the neighborhood, watching infantry squads work. The neighborhood bustles with activity as the troops search homes for weapons, artillery rounds, roadside bombs and insurgents ready for a fight. We can't see much of it from our positions since half walls close off most of the neighborhood, with only a few roads leaving room for visibility. But we can hear American forces calling out orders loudly and an orchestra of Arabic chatter.
I radio Sergeant Adams to ensure his squad has taken up their own positions and then check in with the raid contingent’s leadership. Thomas has his head resting against the steering wheel, already fast asleep, and Navas’s hand is burrowing deep inside a bag of pork rinds.
Ensuring first that Navas can’t see me, I slip the envelope from my cargo pocket and quickly open it.
The first thing I notice—and it’s almost immediately—is her email at the very bottom of the letter. My cheeks hurt from the smile that owns my face. Looks like I’ll be spending a hell of a lot more time at the Comm Center.
Dear Devin,
To say that I was shocked to see a letter from you is an understatement. After the way you left things, I certainly didn’t expect you to respond, and I wasn’t at all prepared for your words. My head is telling me that I’m an idiot for continuing communication; it tells me that I should be angry and that you don’t deserve a second of my time. My heart, however … my heart remembers our friendship, and because of that, I want to believe that in that particular moment in time you really did think you were doing the right thing. Because I know you—at least I did—and the boy that I grew up with, the boy that I fell in love with, wouldn’t have ripped my heart out unless there wasn’t any other choice … at least that’s what I keep telling myself. But I can’t help but wonder if you realize now that you made a horrible decision … because I do think you made a horrible decision.
Oh my God, if she only knew that my heart has ached for her since the day I left. I’d give the world to change what I did. Horrible decision? Try the biggest regret of my fucking life. I won’t tell her about her dad’s talk with me though. I can never tell her that he’s the reason I disappeared without a trace.
And I’m not just saying that because I was the one left. I’m saying that because I know how much you meant to me—how much I loved you—and I know that I would’ve walked to the ends of the earth to make sure that we made it. But you didn’t give me that choice. You didn’t believe enough in my love for you, and as much as I want to forgive you, I can’t. Honestly, I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive you until I know what happened, but it sounds like you’ll take that to the grave.
So, you’re probably asking yourself why in the hell I’m taking the time to write you if I’m still upset with you and can’t forgive you. It’s because even though the scorned woman in me is still upset, the little girl that pushed you down on the playground would still very much like to get to know the friend that she lost.
Fuck, I’d give anything to be back in Tennessee making memories again. I want this girl. I’ve always wanted this girl. How the fuck am I gonna deal?
It’s also because the part of me that’s broken, the part I’m desperate to fix, was more than touched by your words. In fact, I’m incredibly grateful that you pushed the past aside and decided to respond to my letter, despite the fact that the tone of it was less than cordial and no one would’ve blamed you for simply wadding it up and tossing it away.
But I do want to thank you for sharing the story about you and your friend driving drunk. As much as I hate to hear about how much his life changed that night, I’m so very glad that you both survived. And the guilt that you’re holding onto from that night … let it go. Please let it go. The fact of the matter is that, yes, you could’ve caused harm to others, but you didn’t. You didn’t rip apart a family, or take someone’s life, and although I understand where your guilt comes from, I’m begging you to move past it. You’ve learned from your mistake and you used that to make yourself a better person. You should be proud of that. I know I am.
My focus drifts from the letter to the lump that’s formed in my throat. I swallow hard before continuing to read.
And I’m so sorry about your best friend. I can’t imagine how hard it was to lose him. I know it’s not exactly the same, but I feel like I can somewhat relate to that. I don’t think I told you in my first letter—actually, I know I didn’t because I haven’t told anyone—but I have this memory of waking up and seeing my dad for a couple of seconds right after the accident. If I close my eyes, I can remember everything so perfectly ...
He was covered in blood—it was literally running in streams down his face. I kept watching his chest, trying to see if he was still breathing, but I couldn’t focus because I was fading in and out. I don’t remember much else, but it haunts me. I don’t sleep well because when I close my eyes at night that is what I see. Why do I see that though? I have so many memories of him, and yet that’s the one that always pops up. How do you do it? How do you close your eyes and not see your friend? Or maybe you do … maybe the memory of him bleeding out in your arms is what keeps you up at night. It probably sounds sadistic, but as much as I hope that you’re not haunted by those memories, I find it somewhat comforting to know that maybe I’m not in this alone.
The letter falls to my lap and my eyes close tightly. I think of Katie, fighting for consciousness in the passenger seat, watching her father die before her eyes, and I can’t help but feel more connected to her in that moment, having been through the same with Jax. I ache for her, too. I imagine her lying in bed some nights, the pillow collecting tears beneath that beautiful masterpiece of a face. In my mind, she’s clutching a silver frame, her father’s picture staring back at her. I have to take her pain away.
I don’t know how you do it; how you cope with everything that you’ve had to witness or do. Unless you’re like me and you aren’t really coping with it at all. My guess is that you’re living one day—one second—at a time, just getting by. That’s what I’ve been doing. But I want to change that. I want to stop existing. I want to live again, and your letter did that for me. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to very gently throw your words back at you.
Don’t treat your grief as I do. Don’t let it simmer until it’s boiling over the edge. Live your life, not just for yourself but also for your friends who have lost their lives. Take them with you wherever you go and do all the thi
ngs that they’ll never get to do.
I’ve read your letter several times now, and each time I get to the part where you think you’ve done more harm than good and I have to smile because you have absolutely no idea how much good you’ve actually done. I made a huge change in my life today, one that left me with a flicker of hope, and then I read your letter and that flicker exploded. I can’t explain it—I wish I could—but in the words of my father, “some things aren’t meant to be explained, they just are.”
So, I’m not going to think about it too much. I’m just going to be grateful that things happened the way they did, and I’m going to work toward making changes. I know it won’t be easy, but I want to forgive Mr. Drexler because I know that’s the only way I’ll move past all of this. Or maybe not forgive him … maybe that wasn’t the right word. How about make peace? That sounds better, don’t you think? I want to make peace within myself toward Andrew Drexler. I think I’ll work on myself first though. It seems appropriate that I get comfortable in my own skin again before I try making amends with anyone else.
Anyway, I’m sure you’re tired of hearing me babble on and on. I’ll bet when you wrote that you hoped you’d hear back from me, you probably weren’t expecting all of this, were you?
I really do hope that you’re doing well. And from the tiny snippet of your letter, it seems like you had a rough go of it in Pennsylvania, but I’d like to hear more about that … about your time there. How is your mom? I hope she’s managed to clean herself up, but I have a feeling you’re rolling your eyes right about now.
I’m so sorry to hear about your grandmother. I know how much she meant to you and how much you enjoyed spending your vacations there as a child. I bet it was nice getting to see her more after you moved though, wasn’t it?
Well, I could probably go on and on with any number of the questions running through my head, but right about now I’m thinking that baby steps are in order. I noticed your email address on the last letter you sent and I contemplated emailing this letter to you, but I didn’t want to do that. Seems silly, I know, but emailing you rather than writing felt like I was making a first move toward something—what that something is, I have no idea. I just know that I’m not ready to make any first moves, not when it comes to you. I will, however, put the ball in your court.
I hope to hear back from you.
Sincerely,
Katie
[email protected]
I’m taken aback for a moment when I realize that she just might be okay with the idea of opening her life back up to me. All I want is the chance to know her again, to learn about the new Katie, and the road she took to get here. I want her to learn about me too, and how different I’ve become. How much better I’ve become. Or have I?
I read it over three more times, and the smile that I’m sure is plastered on my face could light my way through the desert night. I haven’t felt this in a while, and it feels really damn good.
Six hours have passed since we took up our position and a whole lot of nothing has happened. Radio chatter from the hundreds of units involved in the mission act as ice picks buried in my eardrums. I’ve read the letter basically a hundred more times, and I still can’t wipe the big, goofy smile off my face.
I know that woman like the back of my hand, and when I’m reading her words, I can hear her saying them just as she would have back then, hand gestures and all. She’d put her hand on her hip and give me the cutest little I’m-trying-really-really-hard-to-look-pissed-off faces. I’d place my hand on her hip, just where the pelvis frames her ridiculously sexy stomach, and I’d slip my other hand to the small of her back, lightly running my fingers back and forth, effectively rendering her body useless. Or that’s how it used to be at least.
"Fuck! I'm so fuckin’ bored!" Navas whines. "Why have you been so quiet today, man? Both of you fuckers." I quickly fold up the letter and place it beside me, readjusting the bulge that’s developed.
“Well, Thomas is still passed the fuck out." Thomas's head is now lodged between the steering wheel and the door. “He's going to be hurting tomorrow…me, I'm just in my own little universe, man. This shit is mind numbing."
"Yeah, man, it’s gonna be the death of me. Two more weeks of this and you're gonna have to pull the barrel outta my mouth," Navas says with a laugh.
"I know, I almost wish something would happen just to break up the boredom." I immediately feel unclean. The words ring in my ears as the thought of a Humvee blown to smithereens owns my thoughts. "I mean, within reason."
"I know what you mean, man. I wouldn't mind putting a couple rounds into some unlucky insurgent," Navas says. "Fuck, is that sick or what? I think I need a vacation."
"You and me both, brother." I check my watch and it's as if the second hand has stalled, moving ever so slowly around the watch face. "Six more fucking hours." I throw my head back against the headrest, tilting my eyes toward the window.
The noise from the neighborhood has died down, which tells me the squads have moved on to the next block of homes. Iraqi civilians have now gathered in packs, conversing in the street with agitated looks on their faces. Some peer out toward us before turning back to the others and pointing.
I let out a loud sigh, my palms squeezed tightly to my sides. I need to get the fuck out of this Humvee. Just then I feel movement and turn around to see Navas out of the turret and crouched just behind me, smiling. His perfectly white teeth glow against his tan skin, and as always, it gets me to smile too. "What?" I ask.
"What’s eating you, pumpkin?" His smile grows impossibly wider, and he slaps the back of his fingers against my arm. "Spill it, man."
"It's nothing." I pretend to play with the navigation. “Really, I’m just tired.”
“Dude, I’m the only one awake. Talk to me.” I try my best to stealthily slide an elbow over the envelope lying beside me, but I’m too late.
“Oh shit, man! Katie?” he asks, the smile returning to his face. I slip the letter into the envelope and shove it in the side door compartment. I can feel Navas’s smile burning a hole through the back of my head, but I refuse to turn around.
“What’d she have to say? Was she cool?” He pokes a saliva-soaked finger into my ear and I pull my head away quickly, scrunching my nose and throwing a wild punch that he easily maneuvers..
“Cocksucker, you know I fucking hate wet willies.”
“I know, that’s why I do it!” He chuckles, causing Thomas and Mike to both stir in their sleep. “So … was she cool?”
I take a moment to think, tugging at the frayed edges of my sleeve. "Well, let’s just say we won’t be doing The Amazing Race together anytime soon.”
We both laugh, and just as I'm about to continue, a gunshot fires in the distance, echoing toward our position. Another one pops off and then another, and clusters of civilians run feverishly back toward their houses.
More shots ring out and Mike is awake and nervously looking around, but Thomas somehow remains sleeping.
"Thomas, wake the fuck up!" I nudge him in his side, but he doesn't move. "Thomas, wake your fucking ass up now!" I hiss, and he finally wakes, startled and confused.
"There's some shit going down. I need you to pull it together." Thomas nods his head in affirmation, though he still isn't fully there. I direct my attention back to Navas.
"You see anything up there?" While I wait for him to respond, I peer out the windshield opposite the neighborhood toward the field stretching a mile into the horizon. Palm groves and large boulders are scattered across it, making it hard to spot enemy movement.
"I don't see anything. Nothing through the binos. Nothing in the field or adjacent neighborhood, but there’s a lot of cover that way,” Navas yells down through the hatch. “You think it's a sniper?"
"That's what it sounded like to me. Who the fuck are they shooting at though?" Two more rounds pop off. I notice movement in the neighborhood, but I can’t make out what’s going on.
As I'm about to have Thomas d
rive toward the houses, a mob of civilians—at least ten to fifteen—exit the neighborhood and make their way to our position. They're frantically pointing toward the field and then back at the street. A woman slips between the mob carrying something in her arms. It looks like a little sack of potatoes covered in a light blue shawl. A deep red quickly overwhelms the blue. Fuck.
The group nearly reaches our position when another shot rings out. It hits nothing, but most of the men and women go scrambling for cover. The woman with the bloody shawl doesn't even flinch but continues shuffling forward. She weeps relentlessly.
"Mike, let's go!" I say as I exit the Humvee, and he quickly follows suit. The woman meets us behind the cover of my open door and maneuvers one hand around to pull back the shawl. My stomach tightens and I feel vomit working its way to the surface. I also feel an insuppressible rage as I stare into the lifeless, doll-like eyes of a young girl, no more than five years old.
Blood pours from an entry wound in her chest. My heart lurches beneath my rib cage, and I instantly want to kill every last one of these desecrators of innocence. I want to make them suffer. I want them to wish that their Allah would rip the life from their bodies because the pain is just too unbearable.
"Navas, call the fucking medics! Get them over here now!" I yell, my voice breaking.
I grab a blanket from the trunk and lay it on the ground behind our Humvee. Mike is trying to talk to the woman, but his words are interrupted by her screams. I meet them back by the door and gently take the girl from the woman's arms and into my own.
One more round tears through the leg of a civilian clinging to the outer wall, blocked partially by a palm. He wails in pain. Mike ducks and pulls the woman in closer to us. We move in unison back behind the Humvee for better cover.
A Lover's Lament Page 13