Letters from War (17 page)

March 20, 2008

When James awoke, he wasn't sure where he was.

For a second, he thought he was still in Iraq. He was having a beer with Rodriguez, laughing about something, making fun of the guy. Good times.

His eyes took a while to focus and he saw a cuckoo clock. He realized he was in the family room of their house.

His last memory was of drinking beers with the guys outside at the keg party.

Uh-oh.

He tried to open his mouth and felt throbbing. His palm grazed his cheek and felt the mound, as if his mouth was full of tobacco.

This wasn't good.

He wasn't in Iraq and wasn't wearing his camo and wasn't remembering the last dozen hours of his life.

James sat up and felt the ocean swell against one side of this boat, then crash and roll over against the other side.

The problem was he wasn't in a boat but in his mom's house.

For a few minutes, he managed to try to focus. To remember. To start running all systems again.

But the memory chip was not working.

Standing up made things worse for a moment. He eventually walked into the kitchen. A coffee mug was resting next to the full pot of coffee.

On another counter was a bottle of water next to a bottle of aspirin.

He took the aspirin and water first, knowing they'd help a little. The only thing that was really going to help him was time. Time to flush the toxins out of his system. Time to survey the damage. Time to apologize to everyone he needed to apologize to.

He drained the bottle of water, then poured some coffee. Then he heard the shuffling coming from the hallway.

“Morning,” he said to his mother.

“I'd say good morning, but we already passed it,” Mom said with a look that resembled the one she wore
at his father's funeral. “Plus, there's nothing good about this morning.”

This wasn't going to be pretty.

“How did this happen?”

James had already finished a cup of coffee and was managing to get some semblance of gravity and motor skills working again.

“I think it involved a little too much alcohol.”

The joke didn't go over very well. He had already apologized to his mother several times.

“I don't know,” he said. “The night must've gotten out of hand.”

“You don't even remember what happened?”

“No.”

“There was a fight. You're lucky you weren't arrested. Instead they called me. I told Harvey he should've just thrown you in jail. But he didn't want to do that. Especially since you didn't instigate it. And since your buddies pretty much ended whatever was started.”

“Who? Carter? Lance?”

“I don't know and I don't care. I just want to know how this happened.”

“Mom, I already told you—”

“What have you been doing over there?”

“Over where?”

“Where do you think?” she said. “In Iraq.”

He shook his head and then rubbed his temple. The throbbing hadn't gone away. Her loud voice wasn't helping.

“Mom, I'm not a little boy anymore.”

“Are you getting into bad habits?”

“No.”

“Then what do you call this?”

“This isn't something I do on a daily basis, okay?”

“What's going on then?”

James could try to tell her but he didn't have the words to explain. He didn't have the words or the energy. It would be easier simply writing her a letter when the fog in his head cleared.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Don't give me that. As long as you're in this house, you need to explain things like this.”

“I won't be here for much longer.”

“You think Britt is going to put up with this? I haven't told her yet.”

“Like she hasn't seen me this way.”

“You two are getting married in three months. She's not going to want to marry and live with someone like that.”

“Someone like what?” James snapped back.

“The someone who got drunk last night.”

“You just—you don't get it.”

His mom stood at the table he was sitting at and slammed her hands against the top of a chair. “What
don't I get? You think this is the first time I've seen someone come home from a war?”

“Mom, come on.”

“No, don't give me that. You think I don't understand? I was married to your father. I know. I
understand,
James, so do not give me that.”

“Yeah, well, this isn't a habit.”

“But it might become one.”

“No, Mom. I said I'm sorry. Things got a little out of hand.”

“But why? What got out of hand?”

With anybody else, the conversation would have been long over. But this was Mom. He couldn't shout at her. It was hard enough to still be hungover in front of her.

“It's just—that things are so out of hand out there. It just comes naturally. That feeling. Here, things are so nice and tidy. And last night I just forgot for a while and let myself go.”

“You let yourself down,” Mom said.

“Yeah, that too.”

He felt her grip his hand. He couldn't believe the strength of that grip.

“You're stronger than that and we both know it.”

He nodded.

“A lot of guys are looking at you. They're looking up to you. You need to be strong. For them. Because they don't know any better. You do.”

Sometimes the past chooses to show up on your front porch.

Sometimes you have no choice in the matter.

The snapshot is of Beth and James on the day before he left for Afghanistan. He is so big and so adult. James dwarfs her with an arm around her. They both smile.

Little did either of us know.

Then again, Beth knew. Something about this departure was different. It was different from the feeling she had when he left for training or when he left for Iraq.

She wonders now, looking at the photo and thinking back, if God perhaps nudged her. Or if a mother somehow knows.

The photo came out of the blue.

It came in the mail with a note. From her niece Dee, whose family lives in Asheville but who is currently attending college out in Colorado.

I found this on my digital camera and wasn't sure if you had it. I hope it was okay to send it. Thinking about and praying for you guys. Love, Dee

Hope it was okay.

This might be the last picture she has of the two of them.

To send or convey adequate thanks to her niece would be utterly impossible.

“What's that?”

The voice surprises her. Emily is there looking tanned and curious. Beth gives her the picture and the note.

“Such a great picture,” Emily says. “He should've tried to go into the NFL instead of the army.”

Beth notices a suitcase by the door. “Is it time?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to stay for dinner?”

“Like you haven't seen enough of me?”

“One more meal won't hurt.”

“I have plans. But thanks.”

Emily gives her the picture back.

“You know, Mom, nobody needs to take our picture. I'm not going off to war like he did.”

“I know.”

“Maybe, but you sure don't
look
like you know.”

“I'm sorry.”

“We already talked about this.”

“We did?” Beth asks.

“Well, we talked about it enough. I'm not going far away. Knoxville is only two hours away.”

“I know.”

“You sure? Sometimes I think you forget.”

“Want me to drive you back up there?”

Emily shakes her head. She's so grown-up, so mature, so self-aware.

You blink and they're grown-up.

“Okay. Just give me a call when you get there.”

“I will. Unless, of course, I pick up that crazy hitchhiker with the gun.”

There are things she can say, things she probably should say, but instead Beth simply gives her daughter a hug.

Moments after Emily is gone, Beth finds the letter. The envelope was only sealed once and hasn't been opened. She holds it and wonders if it's time.

Yes, sometimes the past shows up unannounced.

Then again, sometimes the past remains tucked away, ignored and neglected.

Sometimes you do have a choice but simply refuse to make it.