Promises to Keep (11 page)

Laura
wasn’t stupid or irresponsible. She’d been careful about birth control every
time they were together, except for the first night. Of course alcohol, and the
novelty of the situation contributed to her slipping up and acting without
thinking.

Thus,
it was a shock to her, but not a complete surprise when the indicator dot on
the little white plastic stick turned blue about three weeks into their relationship—two
weeks after she'd missed her period.

Laura
was more than a bit angry with herself. She wanted to kick herself into next
week. How could she have forgotten protection? After growing up in that
God-awful trailer, she'd been certain she'd never want kids of her own.

But
sperm are sneaky little bastards and they only needed one chance—one
mistake—and those microscopic little emissions, change your whole world.

Motherhood
scared the shit out of Laura. Deep in the back of her mind she was afraid, a fear
that many women had, that she could turn into her own mother. She couldn't do
that to a child.

Now,
because of her idiotic recklessness, there was an innocent baby in the picture.
Neither Bob nor she was prepared for such a huge, life-changing responsibility.

What
was she going to do? Abortion was a lousy option. She hated the whole idea of
it, but did she have a choice? She could barely support or look after herself,
much less take care of a child.

Maybe
she could have the baby then put it up for adoption? Money, bills and
continuing to work would be a real problem. Medical care would do her in.
Perhaps there was a childless couple out there—nice people who wanted a baby
and could help her get by?

Laura
knew she was already prone to bouts of almost pathological self-blame and guilt.
A termination would no doubt put her overactive conscience into near suicidal
overload.

Adoption
was preferable to abortion, so was trying to raise a baby on her own without
money or resources. But could she give up a baby after carrying it inside of her
for nine months?

That
also seemed impossible.

Laura
considered telling Bob about the pregnancy.

This
was supposed to have been a fling. She certainly didn't mean to have any
lifelong ties, the kind brought about by having a child. Bob wasn't ready to be
a father. Hell, he was just a big kid himself.

Moreover,
he was shipping out soon. He shouldn't have to worry about her and a baby. Bob had
enough on his mind—like trying not to get killed in a war.

No,
it would be best not to burden Bob, although she had mixed feelings about
keeping the news from him. He had the right to know, but she also believed that
she'd be doing him a huge favor by letting him off the hook.

After
considerable internal debate, Laura decided to handle the situation on her own.

As
he was sitting at the end of the bar that night, like he did every night,
watching her with his devoted puppy dog eyes, she told him. Maybe it was her
hormones, or a simple moment of weakness, but she just couldn't keep it from
him.

Bob
wasn't angry or scared, and this surprised her. He sat up straight at the news,
barely able to keep still in his excitement. His eyes shined with pleasure and
his ear-to-ear grin surprised her even more.

He
proposed on the spot.

Bob
and Laura married a week later at the justice of the peace. Two of Bob's drunk
buddies were witnesses, confessing they'd gotten out of a mandatory sexual
harassment lecture to attend the event.

When
Bob slipped on her wedding ring, Laura officially became a Navy dependent.

A
few weeks later, he left for Iraq. A few weeks after that, he was dead.

Dead.

It
sounded so final because, well, it
was
.

By
the time the uniformed men showed up at her door to inform her that her husband
was dead, she’d adjusted to the idea of motherhood. In fact she was looking
forward to it.

Yet,
within hours of their arrival, she’d lost the baby in a mess of pain and blood.

Her
husband was gone and she had no part of him left—no baby of his—only fleeting
memories and a couple of pictures.

Now,
here she was, scared and alone. Hiding from one man, reading the letters from
another man, and feeling guilty as Hell about everything.

Why
should I feel guilty—just 'cause I enjoy writing to Jack? I'll probably never
even see him in person, anyway. Besides, don't I deserve to get on with my
life?

Yet,
Laura didn't feel deserving at all.

For that
brief time, Bob made her feel valued and loved. She felt ashamed that she never
fully reciprocated his feelings. Well, never with the same intensity that he'd
felt for her.

She
appreciated him and she genuinely cared about him, but they were poles apart,
in many ways. Laura felt so much more than eight years older than Bob.

He
was so sweet and so good to her—better than she ever felt she deserved. The
fact that she couldn't seem to muster the degree of devotion that he bestowed
upon her, only added to her self-reproach.

Of
course, her feelings toward her dead husband were at the top of her list of
reasons to feel bad about herself—and to feel guilty with a capital 'G.'

Laura
felt like crap about so many things in her life. Every time she read one of
Jack's letters or wrote back to him, she felt she was being unfaithful—that she
was a cheater.

Drawn
to Jack, Laura couldn't help herself. She didn't want to give him up.

If
she was totally honest, part of her guilt was because of the strength of her
feelings for Jack. Over the months they'd communicated with each other, he'd
been the one positive force in her life. She looked forward to his letters,
almost like a lifeline.

He'd
become far too important to her.

Laura
could relate to Jack and connect with him in a way she could never have had
with Bob.

Jack
had depth and maturity, traits that wasn't part of who Bob was. Sadness
squeezed her heart then, because she knew that if Bob had lived and grown
older, he would have grown into a similar depth and maturity.

With
Jack, Laura felt instantly how much they understood each other. Already they
were on the same level.

She
wanted and needed that in her life.

Each
new letter showed up with the return address of "FPO-AE." She knew
from being the wife of a deployed soldier that the initials stood for Armed
Forces Post Office Europe
—which was odd because Iraq was in the Middle
East, not Europe.

The
same return address was on the envelope of every letter that Bob had sent her,
even down to the unit numbers, because he and Jack had been in the same unit
together. This made her feel even worse, and even more unfaithful.

She
could hear her mother now, accusing her of "trading up."

As
guilty as she felt sometimes, Laura had gotten to the point where she looked
forward to each and every letter. Each one was precious, a treasure that she
read again and again.

She'd
begun picturing what he might look like and where he was
right now
. She
even dreamed about Jack.

He helped
fill a void in her life—loneliness, emptiness and a lack of purpose that felt
like an aching hole inside of her.

When
she wasn't at work, she found herself waiting at home, listening for the sound of
the letters as they slid through the mail slot.

She'd
hold off until she couldn't stand it anymore and then she'd run across the room
and flip through the pile of mail until she found that very special letter.
Then she'd tear it open and read it as fast as she could. She’d read it three
or four times, savoring every word.

After
that she’d put it down and pick it up again later, to read again much more
slowly.

Every
time she re-read one of Jack's letters, it was as if she was reading it for the
first time. She'd even thought up an imaginary voice to go with the words on
the pages. It was a manly mixture of John Wayne and Tom Selleck, which
confirmed to Laura that she'd probably spent too much time in front of the TV
as a small child.

His
latest letter was especially exciting.

Laura;

I'm
happy to say that things are winding up for us here. Replacements have finally
rolled in and we're going through the rather tedious process of turning over
all of our equipment and responsibilities to the new guys.

Of course,
they really aren't new guys in any sense, for many of them this is their
second, third or even fourth trip over here. I guess it's a sign that the war's
gone on too long when you meet a 22 year old that's on his third combat tour.

It's
been a hell of a rough few months, but I guess I don't have to tell you that.
Things have been pretty rough for you, as well. I'm so sorry that you've had to
go through your own stuff, too. I also hate that you've had to face it alone.

We've
had an extra difficult patch here recently—the natives have been restless.
Every time we turn around, somebody's shooting at somebody else. Bombs, called
IEDs, are the latest fun surprise for us—rockets, too.

The
rockets are usually homemade or leftovers from Saddam's army. The bastards have
gotten clever, though
—
I have to give them
that. They've got this system they figured out. It's a way to fire off rockets
at our base after they're long gone.

What
they do is put the rocket in a firing tube, like a long pipe. At the far end of
the pipe is a firing pin so that when the rocket drops down the tube, the tail
end hits that pin and it ignites the engine and off it goes. It's pretty
simple, but the clever bit is that they put the rocket just inside the mouth of
the pipe and then put the mouth of the tube with the rocket right there at the
end into a bowl of water that they freeze.

At
night, they sneak off into the brush outside of camp and put up the rocket
tubes with the rocket frozen to the opening, point them at our base and then
skedaddle. When the sun comes up, the ice melts and whoosh, off goes the rocket
while the bad guy is back home, safe in his bed.

I
can't tell you just how glad I am to be getting out of this shit hole. They say
whenever you go to a new assignment in the military, your favorite person in
the world is your replacement. Well, he's here now. I'm breaking him in and in
a few days, I'm on that freedom bird.

This
may be improper and I sincerely hope that you don't mind—but I want to drop in
on you when I get to the States. I won't have time to hear back from you since
I'll be gone before your response could reach me. I hope to see you sometime
soon.

I'd
like to spend a little time looking around the east coast since they'll be
dropping me off at Camp Lejeune. The Marines tell me it's only about a half
hour from where you live.

I
won't take up much of your time and it would be nice to put a face to the name.

Laura
frantically scanned the top of the page. It was dated several weeks ago. As
usual, the mail took forever to get to her from over there. Jack could be
walking up the front steps right at that very moment for all she knew.

Could
he?

She
jumped up and ran to the door, flinging it open, half expecting him to be just
standing there.

Nothing.
No one.

Feeling
sheepish and rather silly, she went back inside. Of course, he wouldn't be on
her doorstep just as she was reading his letter. Crap like that only happened
in tearjerker movies with beautiful background music.

Laura
sat down and carefully read the rest of Jack's letter.

I’m
coming home.

As
she read the last line over and over again, she wondered. What were the
chances? Surely, Jack would be going to California to see his family first—he
didn’t live
here
. Nevertheless, maybe…just maybe, he'd really come to see
her.

I
won't take up much of your time and it would be nice to put a face to the name.

Her
front door fascinated her, drawing her eyes. With shallow breaths, Laura
listened for a knock. It was so stupid.

Breathless
with anticipation, she felt like a little kid on Christmas Eve, waiting for her
chance to see Santa Claus.

But
Jack didn’t come.

Sunroof
open and windows down, with wind blowing in on his face, Jack cruised up
highway 17 at a brisk 65 miles an hour—in a blissful trance of pleasure.

This
was
heaven.

Hell,
even compared to LA, it was a joy. Jack was used to the bumper-to-bumper
traffic that often crawled along 405 in a gigantic worm that twisted from
Signal Hill to the Fernando Valley.

Driving
a Hoopty had been nothing like this, either. No dust or sand, no relentless
heat, no bombs, fire or snipers to fear—no death at every turn.

He’d
remembered his promise to his medic, but the war had continued in its
inexorable way. Jack had sometimes wondered if Wynn ever existed at all
—
or
anything else outside of Iraq, for that matter.

Luckily,
all things end, thank God.

I’m
home.

Jack
had never been to North Carolina before. He'd signed up to go overseas with the
Marines and had shipped out, never getting a chance to look around. Straight
from Camp Pendleton, he’d gone from California to Fallujah.

He'd
volunteered to join a unit already out in the field. When all was said and
done, he chose not to return to California, but to come back with the Marine’s to
their home base, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.

Now
that he'd returned to the States, Jack finally had the opportunity to spend
some vacation time, exploring and enjoying himself. He was beyond thrilled.

‘On
the Fly’ surgery, firefights, and the seemingly endless stream of hurt and
frightened young men and women that went on forever—for Jack, all of that shit was
gone.

The paradise
of living in his own free, prosperous and safe country made his
life during
the war
feel like some half-forgotten dream. Right now, it was as if he'd
always been home, and he'd always be home.

Jack
still carried Wynn's ring as part of his dog tags. It was a commitment he’d
made to his corpsman, and he was determined to follow it through before he
could even think about returning to California.

That
promise had become a burden. The ring couldn't weigh much more than a quarter
of an ounce, yet at times, to Jack it felt like an anvil that pulled him down
and bent his back under its weight.

In
sweet, poignant moments however, it only reminded him of Laura.

Those
times Jack loved that damn ring. It was his pathetic excuse to finally meet her.
He longed to do so for months. Man, he was dying to see her.

It
wasn't as if he wanted to get rid of the ring. He’d made a vow and somehow that
had taken on as much significance, as a knight’s pursuit of the Holy Grail.

It
was as if some deeply old-fashioned sense of duty had awakened somewhere inside
of him.

His
friends back home
—
especially the guys he’d surfed with as a teenager
—
would
laugh at him. Back then, they thought of nothing more than surfing and the
occasional piece of tail.

Sucker.
Moron. Why don't you pawn that thing and get us a case of Anchor Steam. That'd
be righteous.

Righteous,
he
thought.
What a stupid way to use a potentially powerful word.

Jack
felt anything but
'righteous.'

He’d
outgrown that phase of his life once he went to college. He realized that he
couldn't surf his way into medical school and being a doctor was his life's
dream. He'd thought he'd matured into a serious medical student and an even
more serious doctor, but his time in Iraq showed him exactly what serious was.

Now,
here he was, northbound on 17 from Lejeune to New Bern, North Carolina.

Laura
Wynn’s address was punched into the GPS perched on the dash of his brand new,
cherry red Jeep Cherokee. He was on his way to meet a woman that he’d never
seen, someone he now considered more than a friend.

Laura
haunted his thoughts. He believed that she helped him keep his sanity while
he’d been trapped in Hell. She breathed life into a world where he was
surrounded by death. Laura gave him something to look forward to—something to
smile about and hope for.

Thoughts
of her swimming in the ocean, or walking along a summer beach filled his mind.

Her
address was easy to get, it was on the upper left hand corner of every letter
he'd received. All of those letters were treasured memories, carefully packed
away in his duffel bag. They meant the world to him.

She
meant the world to him.

Her
husband, Bob, had beat him home
—
he'd beat them all home by six months.
He'd been in the ground for a while now.

The
tears had been shed, the family had come and gone, the folded flag handed over,
and the flowers long faded, wilted and picked up by some underpaid
groundskeeper.

Jack
and his little mission seemed like an afterthought in the grand scheme of
things. He was the one loud guy who sings along with the choir and doesn't
realize when the song's over. In the end, he lets out one final note after
everybody stops and it hangs there in the air—awkwardly.

Like
musical chairs, the music hadn’t stopped yet. It would soon. Very soon.

Then
I’ll finally see her.

His
pulse kicked up at the thought.

Jack's
GPS beeped and told him to get off at the next exit in a flat, mechanical
voice. Just for shits and giggles, he'd once selected "German" on the
language program and drove around trying to make sense of the gutturally
pronounced directions. In the end he got lost, so he’d turned it back to
regular American English.

Right
then, it sounded flat. It reminded him of the emotionless "from a grateful
nation," the casualty officer always said at funerals, as he handed the
flag over to the widow, parent or the kids.

He'd
been to more than one military funeral in the last few weeks, but he was truly
glad that he'd missed Wynn's, thank God. He just
—
well, it was all said
and done anyway
—
so why dwell on it?

The
highway raised up and the ground underneath fell away. The GPS readout told
Jack that he was crossing the Neuse River and the exit was just up ahead.

He
was surprised at how wide and blue the river was.

In
California, any muddy trickle that had water for any part of the year was
called a river. The Neuse had to be miles across. Jack could smell fresh salt
air as it poured in through his open window. The breeze caressed his face and whipped
his short, brown hair back and forth.

The
map showed that the river ran into the sound. By the smell of it, there had to
be just as much seawater as fresh in the Neuse.

God,
I love that smell.

The
exit was right in the middle of the bridge. Jack had to slam on the breaks to
make it. He downshifted as he pulled the tight spiral turn that looped around
and into town.

New
Bern was a cluster of historical looking buildings perched right in the middle
of a peninsula formed by two rivers. A small drawbridge lined with art deco
streetlights took him over the second river, a smaller one. The sign on the
drawbridge keeper's house read, "Trent River Bridge."

At
the first light, Jack checked his GPS again. Straight up Front Street then turn
left.

For
a long while, he’d been thinking about what Laura would look like. Blonde?
Brunette? Long hair or short? What about her figure? What would her voice sound
like? Slow and mellow he bet, with a soft southern lilt.

Those
details didn’t really matter. He’d fallen for who she was beneath the
surface—her mind, her heart and soul. Still, he’d spent
a lot
of time
imagining her face… and her figure.

Laura
was the widow of a young man he had sent off to his death, and Jack couldn’t
get her out of his mind. It was wrong on so many levels. It was seriously
fucked up.

He
had no idea of what he'd say to her
—
not in person, anyway. They'd
written but never talked. Jack wondered briefly why he'd never tried to call
her on one of the satellite phones over in the morale tent, but deep inside he
knew why.

Guilt
was what kept him from calling her.

Sure,
many times he'd started the long walk across the firebase to the phones. The
dust that poured over his feet and swirled up in his face reminded him of the
day that Bob died. Then that awful, stomach-churning feeling of failed
responsibility grew inside of him and got heavier and heavier with every step.

In
the winter, when it rained in Fallujah, that ubiquitous powdery dust became the
stickiest mud he'd ever seen. It had the consistency of paper Mache. It built
up on his boots as he walked through it, until it felt like he had cinder
blocks strapped to his feet.

His
guilt was like that.

With
every step he took towards the phone tent, the uncomfortable feelings got
heavier and heavier until he couldn't take another step.

Jack
never made it anywhere near halfway. He'd stop, stand for a minute or two
looking at the night sky and then he'd slowly turn and make the long walk back
to his tent.

Letters
were easier for him to deal with. They gave Jack some distance. He could think
about what he was saying
—
he was very careful, lest he stupidly say
something that might be inappropriate or upsetting to her.

On
the phone, especially with the static of the jury-rigged lines and connections
in Iraq, it would be just too easy to mess things up or cause a serious
misunderstanding. She meant way too much to him to risk losing her and her
letters which had become so vital to his sanity.

Over
the months Laura had been in his life—some of the toughest time he'd ever
faced—he realized that he needed her.

Nope,
he decided that it was letters only until he had a chance to talk to her
face-to-face and in person. He wanted to see how she reacted to what he said.

He
had feelings for her from her letters, but he still had his promise to Bob to
keep. He fully intended to keep his promise with as much diplomacy and
gentleness as he could muster.

The
nagging electronic voice of the GPS told him that he was, "arriving,
destination on right."

Jack
pulled over to the curb and turned off the engine.

He
sat there for a minute and gathered his courage before opening the door. The
ring was in his pocket, the afternoon sun was still bright and the sky was
California blue.

I’m
finally here.