Ever After (21 page)

“Hang in there, Justin!” Joe was crying now. Joe, the big oaf who never took anything very seriously, was crying. “Don’t leave me! Please, Justin, don’t leave me!”

“Okay …” He ran his tongue over his lower lip. “Joe … buddy … pray.”

Joe nodded, his motions quick and jerky, frantic. “God!” He stared up at the sky. “God … help us! Please!”

Justin gave the slightest nod. He wanted to say something, but his mouth wouldn’t work. Maybe he just needed to rest a bit, work up the strength to get the words out. But wait. There was something in his hand. Not the hand Joe was holding, the other hand. He ran his fingertips over it and then he remembered. Emily’s picture. He still had Emily’s picture in his hand. With all his might he tried to lift it, and finally, barely, he did.

He couldn’t draw a full breath. The heaviness, the heat pulsing through him was too great.
God … let me see her. Please …
He tried once more, and this time he squinted against the bright blue sky.
Ah … there. Thank You, God …

He could see. He turned his head — and there she was.

His Emily. Smiling at him, willing him to be strong, to fight hard even now.
Emily, baby … I’m sorry.

“Justin!” Joe was crying harder. “Here, give it to me.” He took the photograph and held it up close. “She’s waiting for you, man. Don’t quit on me.”

Running feet came up from a couple directions and he could hear other voices.

“Too much blood loss …”

“There’s nothing to save …”

“Get him on a stretcher …”

“He’s still breathing … we have to try.”

The words and sentences blended together, but they told Justin what he already suspected. His legs were gone. Joe was lying across him, and that’s all that had kept him from bleeding to death. Just like Ace.

They were trying to move him now, but he didn’t want to go. Not until he could talk to Joe. He squinted, and black circles rolled around in his vision. “Joe …”

“I’m here, buddy.” His friend was kneeling beside him, Emily’s picture still upright in his hand, still stretched out close so Justin could see it. So he could savor it.

“Joe … tell her … I love her.”

“
You
tell her, Baker.” Joe dragged his free hand across his cheeks. His nose was runny, and his tears mixed with the blood on his face. “She’s your girl.”

Justin was out of air, out of strength. His life was draining away, so the only reason he could talk now was because God was giving him this time, this moment. He looked at the picture of Emily and then at Joe. “Be her friend … for me.” He winced, because the pain was worse, exploding through his body the way the bomb had exploded through their vehicle.

“Don’t!” Anger flashed in Joe’s eyes. “Don’t talk that way.”

At that moment, one of the medics came up and put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. He shook his head and gave Joe a couple hard pats. Joe seemed to understand what the guy meant, same as Justin did. There was no point. Justin had a minute left, maybe less. Too much damage, too much blood loss.

He felt dizzy, desperate to close his eyes and get back to the dream, the one where Emily was walking toward him, his beautiful bride. But he needed something from Joe. He forced himself to think, to concentrate. What was it?

Then it hit him. He needed Joe’s word. “Promise me … promise you’ll be her friend.” Because when this day was done, she’d need a friend in the worst way. He was sure of it.

Joe hung his head and sobbed. He still held out the picture of Emily, kept it positioned so Justin could see it. “No, God! Please!” Joe tightened the hold he had on Justin’s hand, and he lifted his chin. Lifted it just enough so their eyes could meet. Then he said the words that looked almost impossible for him to say. “I promise. Whatever you want.”

Relief flooded through Justin and his eyelids closed. The pain was unbearable, the heaviness and burning and heat that filled his body. But now there was a peace … a peace from God, one that passed all understanding. Joe would tell her. He’d be her friend, because he’d given his word.

Justin could feel himself falling, falling fast and far, away from the streets of Baghdad, away from the carnage of bodies and broken car pieces that lay strewn around him.
Once more, God … let me see her one more time. Please …

And then, with no strength left at all, he opened his eyes. He looked at Joe and felt the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly. “Thanks, man. Keep … keep praying.” What else? There was something else he wanted to say. He concentrated with all that remained in him. “Tell them I … I wanted to be here. Tell them to win … this thing.”

“I will.” Tears streamed down Joe’s face, but he wasn’t shouting, wasn’t screaming for help. “I love you, man. Save me a spot up there, okay?”

Justin felt himself smile. “I will. You … and my family … and my guys at the center. And Emily.” His eyes found her picture. “I’ll save … a spot for her — ”

Deep inside him, he felt his heart struggle.
Beat … beat.
Long pause. Another beat. His pulse was slowing down, fading.
Emily … don’t be mad at me, baby.

Her face, her deep blue eyes, were the last thing he saw.

His thoughts blurred and his eyes closed, and in the flash of an instant, the darkness was filled with a million shining moments. He and Emily meeting for the first time at the public information office, and Vonda saying,
He wants to run the place one day
, and he was grinning at Emily and telling her,
Not yet. Not just yet
. And Vonda was shaking her head and clucking her tongue.
Looks like we got us a pair of smitten youngsters. Don’t fight it, Emily … don’t fight it.

And Emily was raising an eyebrow at him and asking,
Mr. Smooth, huh?
And they were walking along Puget Sound and their arms were touching and he was thinking he’d never felt like this in all his life. And suddenly he was on a soccer field, jerking his shirt from his body and bandaging up the girl’s leg, and Emily was looking in his eyes and saying,
You’re my hero, Justin. You’ll always be my hero
.

The scene changed and they were hiking in the hills east of Tacoma, and she was a few feet ahead of him and she tripped and fell into his arms, and she was begging him,
Just stay behind me, okay? You never know when I might need you to catch me
. And they were walking but the path became a pier and there was a cruise ship in the distance and a little old couple and the woman was saying,
Oh, dear, aren’t they the most adorable couple? Just like you and me at that age
.

And he was standing at the foot of the steps of her residence hall and Emily was crying. She was crying and he couldn’t make her stop, no matter what he said. And she was whispering,
Please … don’t go. Don’t leave me
. And he was running his hands down her back, her arms.
Baby … I’ll come back. I promise. Everything’s going to be okay.

And suddenly her arms were around his neck and he could feel her body against his, taste her tears in his lips, and through her tears she was saying,
Take me with you. Wherever you go … I wanna be there too
.

And he was reminding her that he would take her if he could, but in the meantime … in the meantime she would have his heart. She would always have his heart. And the picture changed again. He was sitting in his bunk at the barracks, looking at the scrapbook and being jolted awake and rushing to the car, to the caravan. And he was resting his head and picturing her, the way she would look when she walked down the aisle, his cherished bride …

Finally, the images faded, and all that remained was warmth. Warmth and light and a sense of hope and peace and perfection. And one lingering thought. He hadn’t kept his promise. Because he wasn’t going back at all, and so what was she going to think?
Don’t be mad, Emily … I love you … I’ll always love you.

The sadness faded along with her image as the reality set in.
I’ll save a place for you … save a place for you …
The light was golden now and beyond it a great city, shining and perfect. And he knew — he absolutely knew — that there would be no more tears, no more dying, no more destruction or devastation.

The pain was gone.

He could feel his legs again, strong and healthy, moving beneath him. He wasn’t going back, he was going somewhere better. The place he was created for, the place where he belonged. Where his family and Joe and the teens, where the Veterans and the schoolkids, and where Emily one day would join him.

He was going home.

N
INETEEN

C
arol Baker knew before she opened the door.

She heard the car outside and came to the entryway. And through the window in the door she watched the pair of uniformed soldiers get out and stop, their eyes fixed on her house. She saw them start up the walkway. Her mind raced. When was the last time they’d talked, the last time they’d heard from Justin? And what was the news yesterday?

Three soldiers killed in a roadside bomb.

Same as always, the story stopped her in her tracks. The soldiers remained unnamed pending notification of family —

There was a knock at the door, and she shook her head. No … not her family. The notification belonged somewhere else.

“Gary!” She shouted her husband’s name. He was in the back den, watching football highlights from the weekend games. How stupid they were! They should have been trying to call Justin. Because that was where he was stationed. Right there, where the roadside bomb struck. “Gary, please!”

She heard footsteps in the hall. “Honey, what — ” His voice dropped off. Through the window in the door he must’ve seen what she’d seen. The army green, the shadowy figures of soldiers. His eyes met hers, but he didn’t say a word. She could see the blood draining from his face, but he was silent as he came to her, one slow step after another.

Her heart pounded so hard she expected it to give out on the spot. Because if her Justin was gone, then she would be gone. Even if her heart continued to beat for another forty years. “Not Justin …” She whispered the words and moved aside.

A second knock sounded, so loud it seemed to shake the house, shake her foundation, her core.
God … not Justin.

Gary swallowed — swallowed so hard she could hear him. Then he did what people do in a situation like this. He opened the door. And all she could think was that this was how it happened, how people were notified. This scene played out all the time, as long as war had been going on.

But she’d never pictured it happening to her. Imagining such a thing would’ve been to live in constant fear, hounded by it, hunted by it, suffocated by it. She never could’ve let Justin go if she’d thought for a minute that this was how it would end.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Gary opened the door, and the soldiers on the front step hung their heads. Hung them for what seemed like forever.

She wanted to scream …
What? Why are you here? And why so down? My Justin is the toughest soldier in Iraq. He isn’t dead. There’s no way he’s dead.

“Can … can we help you?” Gary sounded frozen, like he hadn’t had time to catch his breath. He held the door handle so tight his knuckles turned white.

The soldiers looked up, and one of them had tears in his eyes. She could hear Justin, five or six years old, running inside with a skinned knee … and she was getting a cloth, something to wash away the blood, and he was saying,
It’s okay, Mommy … soldiers don’t cry … soldiers don’t cry …

But they do. They did. Because he had cried at the airport when he said good-bye. Not hard or long, but the tears were there for both of them. All of them. That’s when she remembered Jill, their daughter. She was at an all-day dance camp. She wouldn’t be home until late that night. How were they going to tell her that her brother was gone?

Finally, one of the soldiers handed Gary a letter. “I’m sorry, sir. Your son … he was killed yesterday in Iraq. Victim of a roadside bomb.” He nodded to the letter. “The details are all there.”

With every hateful word, she felt her knees giving way. As they apologized one more time and turned around, she spun to Gary and collapsed in his arms. “No!” Her voice wasn’t the slightest bit familiar. It was a guttural scream, high-pitched and desperate. The sobs hit her, and she wailed like a crazy woman. “No, Gary! Not Justin! Never Justin!”

Gary held her, clung to her, almost as if he needed her support as much as she needed his. “God … we can’t do this. We beg You to hold us.” He sounded on the verge of collapse. “We have no ability to get through what lies ahead for us.” Desperate, cavernous sorrow overflowed his words. “Please, God … hold us.”

Carol wanted to shout that it was too late. God had already taken their son. But she couldn’t because she didn’t believe it. She exhaled and slowly, sadly, her world began to right itself. Screaming and yelling wouldn’t do anything now. Justin was gone, dead. Struck down doing what he felt so strongly about.

“We need … to read the letter.” Gary cradled the back of her head in his hand and kissed her forehead. Then he led her to the couch. He opened the envelope and read the first line out loud, the line every military family member dreaded reading. “We regret to inform you that your son, Lieutenant Justin Baker, was killed in action …”

He read the whole thing, the part about Justin’s courage and great attitude, the fact that he would be remembered as a role model for other soldiers, for all U.S. citizens, and then the details of that day. The caravan had been heading to the far side of Baghdad, intent on finding insurgents, when the car Justin was riding in hit a roadside bomb. One soldier in the car in front of them was killed. In Justin’s car, he and the driver had died.

His body would be shipped home within the week.

There were no real facts, nothing that gave them a glimpse of Justin’s final moments. When Gary finished reading, he folded the letter and set it on the sofa beside him. Then he pulled Carol into his arms and together, locked in the saddest embrace, they wept. The anger and shock were still there, but they had grown dim, overshadowed by a vast consuming sorrow that would never go away.

Not as long as either of them lived.

Minutes became an hour, and still they sat there, weeping for the son they would never hold again, never laugh with or share a meal with. Finally, as the numbness and panic faded, memories mixed with Carol’s tears. Because Justin had been born to be a soldier. When other kindergarten boys played baseball or ran cement trucks through the dirt, Justin wanted nothing more than a child-sized army uniform.

Carol leaned back against the sofa. Her sobs were quieter now, but they were constant. So many tears, more than she knew she could cry. And a million memories. “Remember … that Christmas when he was six?” she looked straight ahead, seeing the room as it had been at Christmastime sixteen years earlier. “He opened that uniform and he couldn’t wait to put it on.”

“ ‘I’m gonna be a Ranger one day, Daddy!’ That’s what he told me.” Gary’s voice held a smile leftover from that day.“ ‘I’m gonna fight the bad guys.’ ”

When his playmates came over, Justin would give them one of his green plastic guns and they’d play war games. His fascination never waned, not through junior high or high school. Not as he kept his commitment to ROTC through college, and not after he enlisted.

She turned and looked at her husband. “There was never any life for him other than the military.”

“No.” Gary squeezed his eyes shut.

Carol put her hand on his shoulder. Her husband, the man who had been Justin’s closest friend. What was he thinking? That Justin had just written to them the other day, or that he’d sounded so upbeat, so alive? How could they even consider planning a funeral for their sunshine boy, the son who had been everything to them?

Gary looked at her, and the tears came harder. “He would’ve been … the best commander.” He tightened his hands into fists and pressed them hard against his knees.“God knows he would’ve been the best.”

Her husband was right. How could God need Justin more in heaven than the world needed him right here? Than
they
needed him. And suddenly she gasped. Because only then did it hit her. “Emily.”

Gary hung his head, and his tears became sobs, sobs that came from a bottomless ocean of grief that would never, ever go away. When he finally regained control, he looked up. “We have to tell her. In person, Carol. Today.”

She tried to speak, but she couldn’t. Suddenly twenty-two years fell away and Justin was minutes old, cradled in Gary’s arms. And her husband was looking at her with those same teary eyes. Where had the years gone? Each one dropping off like so many summer days. Through it all, nothing could’ve prepared them for this.

He was right. Emily needed to know. She closed her eyes, but the tears came anyway. Streams of them. Poor Emily. Carol let the sobs come, let them wash over her reminding her that the nightmare was real. Way too real. She brought her hand to her face. How would she find the strength even to move? Once a long time ago, she’d heard a talk by Elisabeth Elliot, the famous wife of Jim Elliot, the murdered missionary. One thing she’d said had stuck all these years.
Sometimes, life is so hard you can only do the next thing. Whatever that is, just do the next thing. God will meet you there.

No matter how hard it would be, telling Emily was the next thing. Carol stood, and it took every bit of her energy to walk across the room and into the kitchen. She needed her purse. Gary followed, but before she found the bag, she spotted Buster at the back door. At his feet, crumpled in a ball, was Justin’s sweatshirt. She stared at the dog, just stared at him. Because the longer she looked, the more she didn’t see the sweatshirt, but Justin. Age fifteen, and sixteen, and seventeen — sitting outside on the patio petting Buster or brushing him or hooking up his leash for a walk.

As if the dog somehow knew, he began to whine, whimpering and pawing at the door. Gary exchanged a look with her. A look that said every step, everything they had to do that day and the next and the day after that, would be all but impossible.

He went to the door, opened it, and crouched down. “It’s okay, Buster. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t, because Buster would never see his master walk through the door again. Carol ached for the sadness inside her. The tears would never stop, because it would take forever to cry the river of sorrow raging inside her. Gary led Buster back to his doghouse and tucked Justin’s sweatshirt in close beside him. “There, Buster. Go to sleep.”

Carol watched, unable to move, unable to do anything but breathe and cry and wish with every breath that she had one more chance, one more time to hug her child and look at him and marvel over the boy she’d raised. The soldier, the friend, the son. The hero.

Gary grabbed his car keys and his wallet. “Let’s go.”

She nodded. It was time to do the next thing. Now she could only pray that Elisabeth Elliot was right, that somehow they’d survive the coming hours.

Because God Himself would meet them there.