by Natalie Hart
I start off confidently, but the steps seem steeper in this direction. I angle myself sideways but with each step I can feel my muscles fighting to stabilise my knees. There is no way to avoid looking down the path and the sight makes me dizzy. I rest every couple of steps. I thought the hard part was over.
People pass me on the way up the trail. Most of the time my eyes are fixed carefully on my feet, but the couple of times I look up I get sympathetic smiles. I think I hear one man say ‘brave move’ but by the time the comment registers in my tired brain he has already passed. At least no one seems to be passing me going in the same direction. I can’t be doing that badly.
About two thirds of the way down, I stumble. My ankle rolls and my body just keeps going. I realise I am falling but I can’t stop the momentum. After three steps, maybe four, the protruding ledge of a railway sleeper prevents me pitching forwards even further.
I am still for a moment, dazed. I tentatively flex my arms and legs to check that everything is working, but when I try to stand, pain darts through my ankle. I quickly sit back down on a step.
On the trail below, I see that two teenage boys have broken into a jog. They are barely out of breath when they reach me. I pick gravel out of my trembling hands.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” the first boy asks. “You really ate dirt there.” They both look about fifteen.
“I lost my footing,” I say, by way of explanation.
“We saw. But are you okay?”
“I think so.” My mouth is dry and I look for my water bottle, seeing that it fell a few metres further than I did.
“Here, take this,” says the second boy, handing me a bottle of water. He has a mop of blond hair that he pushes repeatedly off his face.
“Thank you.”
They wait awkwardly while I drink.
“Was it your first time up?” the first, dark-haired boy asks.
I lower the bottle and nod.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Well, you came down the front, so you’re either a total rookie or a pro.”
“What do you mean, came down the front?” I ask.
“Most people take the Barr Trail down the side.” He pushes his hair back again. “It’s a bit longer, three or four miles I think, but it has a bunch of switchbacks. Nowhere near as brutal.”
“Are you kidding me? So I went down here for nothing?” No wonder someone muttered “brave move”. I turn and look up the trail behind me. Now he’s said it, it seems obvious. Everyone is moving towards the top.
The boy shrugs.
“You don’t sound like you’re from around here, ma’am. It’s an easy mistake to make.”
I couldn’t feel more out of place. I try to stand and wince at the pain.
“How’s your foot?” asks the blond boy. “Do you want us to go back down with you?”
“Yeah, I think we should help you out,” the other says.
I want to protest and say I’m fine, but I realise that my stubbornness is not useful here.
“If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it,” I say.
The boys stand either side of me and I loop an arm across their shoulders. They are considerably taller than my five foot four inches, so with each hop I am suspended in mid-air before they lower me down.
Our progress is made even slower by the concerned questions of other hikers, asking what happened and if we need anything. My cheeks light up anew every time the boys explain that I’m “not from round here” and “didn’t know about the Barr Trail”. Everyone responds with knowing nods.
“So are you on vacation here or something?” asks the dark-haired boy.
“I live here,” I reply. The words still feel strange in my mouth. It has been a long time since I’ve really lived anywhere. No one said they lived in Iraq, even though we did. It was somewhere you worked rather than lived. “My husband’s in the army,” I add. Husband. How long has it been now? Eight months? Nine? Still new enough for the word to be strange.
“Is he American?”
“Yeah. We met in Iraq though,” I add, more for my benefit than theirs. “I used to work there.”
“Are you military too?” he asks, looking more interested.
“Civilian.”
“My dad’s army. He’s off to Iraq in a few weeks.”
“Oh cool, my husband too,” I say. Then I wonder if “cool” is an appropriate response. Not everyone loves it as much as I did.
By the time we reach the car park at the base of the Incline I am probably as red as I was when I reached the top. My good leg is shaking with fatigue and my ankle has become a throbbing ball of pain. I remove my arms from the shoulders of the boys and lean against the jeep with relief.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to wait?” asks the blond one, while the other wipes droplets of sweat from his face with his T-shirt.
“I’m sure,” I reply. “Thank you so much for your help though.”
“Not at all ma’am. It’s good to mix it up a bit. Happy to help.”
The boys say goodbye and head back towards the base of the Incline at a light jog. As soon as they round the corner of the path that takes them to the ascent, I try to get up into the Jeep.
I hoist myself up onto the driver’s seat and gasp at the pain that jolts up my leg. I raise my foot onto the dashboard to examine my ankle properly. It has begun to swell already and I loosen the laces to give the expanding flesh some room. I know that Adam keeps ice packs in the freezer, I just need to get back home.
When I was in Baghdad, I once sprained my ankle tripping down the stairs of our accommodation block. Anna was with me at the time and joined me in a heap on the floor, laughing hard. I was just about to go on R and R and I wasn’t impressed by the prospect of seeing everyone in the UK with a Tubigrip around my ankle.
“Just make up a good war story,” said Anna. “Say you were diving into a bomb shelter or something like that.”
“No chance. That would mean admitting to my family that we do actually get attacks here.”
I spent my entire visit home hobbling around with clenched teeth and hoping no one would notice.
I turn on the engine and test my foot on the accelerator. Another jolt of pain causes spots to dance at the edge of my vision. There is no way I am able to drive.
Adam is at work. Even if I can get hold of him, it will be a thirty-minute drive for him to cross town and collect me. But who else can I call? Five months here and I still don’t have any proper friends. Our neighbours are nice enough, but I don’t have any of their numbers. There are the other army wives, the spouses of Adam’s colleagues, but they all treat me with caution. Theoretically I am one of them, but I am also part of the world their husbands inhabit.
“You chose to go there? You weren’t deployed?” one of them asked me the first time we met.
Another woman looked shocked. “I thought there weren’t any women when he went away,” she said and I shifted awkwardly, unsure how to react. “Perhaps it was better not to know,” she added quietly.
The worst incident was bumping into Ryan and his girlfriend in the supermarket on post. At first I struggled to place the familiar face and bright red hair picking out tomatoes. I realised too late that it was the woman Anna and I had spent a wine-fuelled evening Facebook-stalking in Baghdad, after it transpired that Ryan wasn’t as unattached as he had claimed. I turned to escape but in doing so bumped straight into him.
I saw a look of horror flash across his face. His girlfriend did too. She eyed me with suspicion as Ryan introduced us.
“So, wait, did you guys work together out there?” the redhead, Kelsey, asked.
“Uh, no. Not exactly,” Ryan stumbled.
I sat in the car park afterwards and emailed Anna about the run-in.
Oh my god! It was as if she suspected ME of having something with him. She clearly doesn’t trust the guy at all.
Anna shot back an email quickly that mainly contained expletives in capital letters. I was rel
ieved when Adam told me a couple of months later that Ryan had moved to North Carolina.
In the Jeep I continue to scroll through my phone looking for a name to jump out, but there is no one. A feeling of isolation hits me. I will have to call Adam. What would I do if he was deployed already? What will I do if something happens while he is gone?
I press dial and the phone goes straight to voicemail.
“Hey, hubby. I hope your day’s going okay. Sorry to have to call, but I rolled my ankle on the Incline and now I can’t get home. Could you come and give me a lift? I’m in the car park at the bottom. Love you. Bye.”
I hang up, wondering how long it will be before he gets the message. I shiver in my damp clothes. I reach for the hoodie that Adam has left on the back seat. It swamps me like a dress, but I immediately feel more comfortable. What I really want is a giant mug of tea, preferably the way my mum used to make it, with extra sugar. We drank a lot of tea the year dad died.
I decide to take off my trainer entirely and the surge of blood makes my ankle throb even more. I recline the seat as far as it will go and elevate my foot on the dashboard again – I know that’s what Adam would tell me to do. My father too. I remember lying on the sofa aged 10 as he balanced my foot on a cushion after a netball accident. Sometimes these memories come unannounced, closing their grip around me for a second and then drifting away as quickly as they came.
I lean back and close my eyes, willing Adam to arrive soon.
A hard knocking on the window jolts me awake. I sit up, disoriented, but the sharp pain in my ankle throws me back into my seat. I see Adam’s worried face inches from the window.
“Emma! Em! Unlock the door.”
I gather my thoughts and remember where I am, what has happened. I unlock the door and Adam swings it open. He leans in and wraps me in a hug. My nose is buried in his shoulder and I breathe in his comforting smell.
“Hey,” I say sheepishly when he draws back.
“God, you had me worried, Em,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really. I just rolled my ankle.”
“I know, but I could tell that you were putting on a brave face in the voicemail. And then you didn’t answer any of my calls. The traffic was a nightmare getting over here. I didn’t know what was going on.”
I look at my phone. I’ve been asleep for nearly an hour. There were eleven missed calls from Adam.
“Shit. Sorry,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “As long as you’re okay. Now, let’s have a look at that ankle.”
I take my foot off the dashboard and lower it into Adam’s large, cold hands. He gently rolls down my sock and carefully turns my ankle from side to side. He places his palm against the sole of my foot and tells me to push. I grimace.
“There’s a bunch of inflammation already, babe.”
I nod.
“It must be sore. Have you taken anything yet?”
“No, I didn’t have anything with me.”
“Okay, we’ll sort that out. Good job with elevating it.”
I smile.
“Thanks. I met this hot medic in Iraq once, taught me everything I know.”
He leans in and kisses me.
“Okay, let me get a cold-pack and some Advil,” he says. He disappears for a moment and returns with the kind of ice pack that freezes when you crack it.
“Prepared for everything,” I say.
“I wouldn’t be much of a medic if I didn’t carry an ice pack with me,” he replies. “Actually, let’s move you into my truck first.”
Adam slides a hand behind my back and I loop my arms around his neck. I turn sideways and, with his other arm, he scoops me up, manoeuvring me carefully out of the jeep. He lifts me easily, supporting me with one hand when he opens the passenger door of the truck. Once I am inside, he hands me painkiller tablets and a bottle of water. I lean in and kiss his head while he adjusts the ice pack on my ankle. There is a familiar smell of sweat and shampoo. However hard this transition to Colorado has been, I do not question for a moment the man I have done it for.
“So, how far did you get?” he asks, gesturing back towards the Incline with his chin as he climbs into the driver’s seat.
“To the top,” I tell him.
“Wait, what? You carried on with your ankle like that? Or did you fall on the Barr trail?”
“Um, neither,” I say. “I fell on the way down, but at the front.”
“But why were you… Oh, wait, Emma… you went down the front?”
“I didn’t know there was another way!” I protest.
“Didn’t you see that no one else was going down?”
“Obviously not! I wasn’t trying to do the more difficult thing on purpose.”
He smirks. “Wouldn’t be the first time if you were.”
I try to give him a light thump on the arm but he dodges.
“Easy, tiger. But seriously, Em, that’s pretty impressive. No wonder your ankle gave way – going down those steps would be brutal.”
He starts up the engine.
“I’ve gotta say though, I’m really glad you’re getting out and making the most of Colorado. All that time writing those damn job applications… You need to take it easy sometimes too.”
I nod, even though I know that until I have some kind of purpose here I will never truly relax.
“Are we going to leave the Jeep here?” I ask.
“I’ll ask Dave to give me a ride back later,” Adam says.
“The new guy at work? The one you knew from before?”
He nods. Adam has been talking about Dave and his wife a lot recently. Dave is the new team sergeant, or the “team daddy” as Adam refers to him. Adam worked with Dave after he’d just come out of the Special Forces Qualifying Course and it sounded like he’d been a real mentor figure. Adam expressed a mix of relief and excitement when he told me Dave was joining the team. Now I know how close they are to deployment, I understand why.
“Actually, you’ll get to meet him this week – there’s a pre-deployment briefing for spouses Wednesday morning,” Adam says.
I lean forwards to adjust the ice pack, distracted.
“A what?”
“A pre-deployment briefing. Usually it’s just the wives. They come in for a talk about what to expect, how to prepare, that sort of thing. But I think they’re having us guys there too this time, so you won’t have to suffer through it alone.”
“But I can miss the briefing, right? I mean, I know what it’s like in Iraq.”
Adam takes a hand off the steering wheel and rubs it round the back of his neck.
“Sorry, babe. It’s kinda compulsory.”
“Compulsory? But I’m not in the army. They can’t make anything compulsory for me.”
Adam looks at me and realises he isn’t helping his case. He changes tack.
“They talk about some important stuff that you should know. What happens if I get injured or something.”
I try to ignore the “something” that he is referring to, although it has hovered at the edge of my mind ever since I found out he was going back.
“I’d really appreciate it if you come and it’ll give you the chance to meet more of the wives.”
“Okay,” I say. “Okay, I’ll come.” I stare out of the window and now we sit in silence. I am learning to shift my identity here, but it feels wrong. I need more. I know he senses it too.
5
Iraq has invaded our home.
It is the images that flash into our living room, with close-ups of stomping military boots. It is the burning metal wreckages that used to be cars. It is the grieving women who beat faces streaked with tears.
Iraq has invaded our kitchen. It is the fridge full of the foods he will miss when he leaves. It is the faded cover of an old Time magazine on the counter with the face of General Petraeus and the question How much longer? It is a photo in a newspaper of a coffin draped in a flag.
Iraq has invaded our bathroom. It i
s the long hot showers he takes while he still has privacy. It is the almost empty tube of toothpaste that he is eking out until he leaves. It is the hair from the fresh buzz cut that didn’t quite wash down the sink.
Iraq has invaded our bedroom. It is the dust-coloured boots and desert camo uniform in the wardrobe. It is the heavy box of gear that is waiting to be shipped. It is the piles of unidentifiable equipment that I trip over on the bedroom floor.
Iraq has invaded our bed. It is the cool space next to me when he leaves early for work. It is the way I explore his body, mapping it into my mind for when he is gone. It is the unexpected desire to conceive.
Iraq has invaded our conversations. It is the casual queries that cannot be answered. It is the plans we cannot make. It is the envy I do not put into words.
Iraq has invaded. The space between us has been occupied.
6
After I met Adam in Baghdad, the war rolled on. It rumbled forwards with the steady determination of an armoured vehicle, crushing the country beneath its heavy tracks. Nothing could divert it from its course.
Life in the International Zone continued. Days and weeks and months melted into one. We lived Groundhog Day over and over. The same routine, the same work, the same interviews with Iraqis. The faces behind the stories changed, but everyone wanted the same thing – to get out.
We found ways to mark the passing of time in the compound. Anna sometimes joked that we should scratch a tally of days into the wall, but I reminded her that was what prisoners did. Unlike most people in the country – Iraqis and international military alike – Anna and I could leave at any time. We chose to be there.
There were better ways to mark the time, anyway. Mondays were when Mexican food was served in the chow hall. On Tuesday there was a step aerobics class. On Wednesday our manager would bring cookies into the office to celebrate getting through half the week. On Thursday evenings we set up a projector in the office to watch some grainy pirated movie. And Fridays, of course, were for the pool.
As the war rolled on, I tried not to think of Adam.