The Music Trilogy (78 page)

IRAQ

CHAPTER 48

The night was pitch black with only a few stars and no moon. Aliyah showed Sam where the main gate was.

“There is a guard. How are we going to get out?”

“Stay behind me and don’t make a sound,” Sam said. Aliyah nodded and followed. Sam came up behind the man who was sitting on a chair half asleep and swiftly hit him with the butt of the gun. It knocked him out instantly. She caught him as he was fell. She didn’t want any sounds to warn the others. She silently thanked her trainers and the medical professionals who had shown her the intricacies of the human brain and knew the best place to hit the guard’s skull. Aliyah took her shoe off and smacked him in the face. It wasn’t so much that she wanted to hit him, rather it was the worse insult to a Middle Easterner one could do.

The two women hurried out of the compound and Aliyah took the lead. What little energy she had seemed to miraculously multiply. “Come, this way.”

“Right behind you.”

They walked for about an hour. They were cold and shivering. Sam was having a tough time, as her injuries were tearing a little more with every step she took.

“I will leave you here,” Aliyah said.

“What? You can’t leave now. How much farther is it?” Sam asked.

“My village in on the other side of that hill, and you only have a few kilometers to get to your hospital at the airport. You will make it, my friend, Allah the Merciful will help you.” Aliyah gave Sam good directions and then hugged the American woman. “I will never forget you. I thank you for giving me my life back, and I thank America for giving me my country back.”

“Thank you, Aliyah. I promise I will get the other women out of that hell hole.” They embraced one more time and Aliyah made her way up the hill toward her village.

After a couple of excruciating kilometers in the desert Sam managed to make it to the highway. She could see some of the lights coming from the airport where the CSH was installed and she thought she had never seen a more beautiful sight.
I’m going to make it!

Sam saw the gate of the CSH compound. It was maybe half a mile away.
Come on, Sam, you’ve come this far. You have to make it!
She coaxed herself on, but she wasn’t sure she would get to that damned fence. Her clothes were no more than rags, including the ones on her feet that were now almost nonexistent. Someone, at some point, had stolen her boots and socks. She had torn the sleeves from her t-shirt and wrapped them around her feet. It was the only protection they had. She was freezing, the desert cold piercing her skin and burrowing deep into her bones. The blood from her wounds was soaking what was left of her shirt and drying it to her skin. She also couldn’t feel her feet or legs anymore. And then her knees buckled and gave out. She fell hard to the ground and groaned in agony. She tried getting up but her body wasn’t cooperating. She looked at the gate. It was closer than the last time she saw it, but to Sam Boston seemed closer. She tried to get up again but collapsed. She couldn’t, her body was refusing her instructions. She started crawling. She covered a few inches, and then a few more. How far could she get doing this? She tried calling the guard in the shack next to the fence, but her voice failed her as well. She couldn’t make a sound. Suddenly there was a light in her face and fear stroked her heart and mind. Had they found her again? Would they kill her this time? She was sure they would, of that she had no doubt. She tried to get the weapon in the back of her pants but failed miserably as her hand could not reach it. She tried again and blacked out.

The guard from the gate had seen her from his shack. He called out, but the woman in the sand did not respond. He walked up carefully, flashed his light on her face and thought maybe she was American.

“Hey! Can you hear me?” No answer. He looked her over and noticed the welts on her back and legs, the bruising on her body, the crusted blood on her skin and clothes, and the scrapes on her arms. He grimaced, knowing that this woman had suffered unbearable pain. He also spied a small chain around her neck. He carefully pulled it away and the dog tags from under her shirt fell into his hands. He read the information: Baxter, Samantha. “Holy shit!” He exclaimed out loud. He knew exactly who she was. “Lieutenant, Lieutenant, can you hear me?”

“Mm, yes,” Sam whispered.

“You’re going to be okay, Ma’am.”

“Mm.”

“I promise.”

The soldier called it in, lifted her as gently as a small child, and carried her as fast as he could to the jeep approaching.

In just a few minutes she was in the hospital, a team immediately and efficiently working on her. They cut the rest of her clothes off, cleaned and treated the injuries and gave her intravenous fluids. Sam would stay in bed for a week until all her wounds were pretty much healed up. She told them about her ordeal and the women’s prison and the abominable conditions. The military was sent out. At the first sound of gunfire the guards deserted their posts and ran out into the desert. It didn’t take long to free all the women.

♫

VIRGINIA

CHAPTER 49

Max was sitting on the sofa in the little guest house off of his parents’ estate. It was quiet, comfortable and he had the place to himself. His feet were on the coffee table and he held a beer in his hand. He watched the moving images on the television. His eyes were on the screen, but his mind was projecting something different. He was seeing his own program, the one with the desert in the background, while a jeep traveled over berms and across the flat horizon of Iraq. Max smiled because people he loved were in the vehicle—Sam and his fellow Marines who had perished. He watched them from above, as if he were a bird, as they drove in the shimmering waves of the burning sand. The jeep made a large loop and gradually the circle became smaller and smaller, very much like a spiraling target. Suddenly Max jumped off the couch and started yelling at the screen.

“NO! STOP! Don’t go in the middle, go straight!”

The people and the vehicle kept moving, getting closing to the center.  

“NO!” He yelled, still watching them from above. “No, please don’t,” he now whimpered. “Please guys, please… there’s a mine…”

The jeep rolled into the center. Max lifted his arms as if to protect himself, and then it happened. He cringed, screamed and dropped his beer. As the bottle shattered the vehicle exploded. He fell on the floor and watched in horror as the bodies of the people he loved blew up into pieces over the desert.

“No,” he whispered. “Please, no.”

Max looked at the screen. All he could see was the ludicrous shell of the upside down jeep and smoldering swatches of uniforms strewn in a circle around the wreck.

Max slumped against the sofa and held his knee to his face. His body was racked with spasms as he cried and drank from the bottle of alcohol he had stashed under the coffee table. “Why?” He moaned. “Why did they have to die? Why did I survive? I should have died with them. They were my brothers, I should have protected them. And Sam! Oh, my lovely, beautiful Sam. What kind of man am I? My parents taught me how to treat a woman, to be a gentleman. You were such a lady, you were my lady. I wanted to marry you, live together and forever in a beautiful house, have 2.5 kids, a dog and a cat. I wanted to be the air that you breathe, to make glorious love to you until we melted into one single being. But no, I wasn’t there to protect you, and I killed both of our dreams. Tell me, my love, how am I supposed to live without you? Maybe if I die, we’ll both be together—you and my brothers who spilled their blood in the sand. I should be with all of you.”

Max’s leg was healing nicely, but his heart was shattered and his soul was empty. Although he had the best professionals for his medical issues, including specialists for his nightmares, mood swings, drinking and suicidal tendencies, his greatest ally was his mother. Davina knew he had PTSD and was always careful before speaking. She knew a wrong word or phrase could spark a tantrum or more drinking, and she was fighting to push him forward, not to let him slump back into the past. She found the best counseling available and helped her son as best she could through his rough times. His nightmares became hers and his agony seemed just as deep and painful to her. How she wished there was a magic wand to waive the misery away and replace it with joy. Max was grateful to his mother, and he knew how much she loved him and how diligently she fought for him. He also knew how much she was suffering because of him, and he wished he was in a position to just yell out that his PTSD was over.

Max tried to help himself as well. He learned about post-traumatic stress disorder and its history, fascinated by the different names the condition had been given, dating back to ancient times where even Homer mentioned the ‘illness’ in the Iliad.

Davina knocked on the door. “May I come in?”

“Yeah, Mom, sure.”

Davina tried not to ask the proverbial ‘how are you?’ She noticed a book in Max’s hands. “What are you reading?”

“Would you believe stuff relating to PTSD.”

Davina was thrilled and grateful that Max had acknowledged his problems and was trying to help himself. “That sounds interesting.”

“Do you know they used to call it ‘Nostalgia’ in the seventeenth century during the Napoleonic wars?
You think!
”

Davina laughed. She could tell Max was in a good mood. She sat in the chair across from her son “One of my favorites is
‘Maladie du Pays’
, basically homesick.”

“Yeah, I can see that, but ‘Soldier’s Heart’ has to be my favorite.

“That’s almost pretty. Definitely kind.”

“Yeah, but not detailed enough. ‘Shell Shock’, however, makes perfect sense to me,” Max said. Davina thought about how many times shells had dropped around her son, how much that particular noise would stay carved in his brain, and how often would he hear those sounds in his mind. “And of course
‘Estar Roto’
. That’s me. I’m broken,” he said, and his eyes became dark.

“You know, Max, you only think you’re broken. Your leg is healing nicely and…”

“And my heart is broken, my mind is broken, even my soul is broken!” Max interrupted, his voice getting louder by the second, “and I’ll never be able to put the pieces back together again…”

“Stop it!” Davina screamed. She didn’t mean to shout back and now she decided she would gamble, it was time. “What you’ve been through is horrific. No one should have to endure what you and others have, but you’re in a better place than you think you are,” Davina said firmly.

“How the fuck do you figure? I’ve lost the love of my life—something you don’t usually even find in a war; my brothers are dead, and I should be with them. I have nightmares all the time, even when I’m not asleep, and what do you even call those—‘daymares’ or ‘awakemares’? I see Sam’s beautiful green eye and it’s surrounded by camouflage paint, and I don’t see any other part of her face, just the one eye, as if that’s the only thing left of her exploded body. And I see the others too. Their faces pop up in television screens, in windows, in a glass I’m drinking from. And all in slow motion, probably to make sure I get every morbid detail, like when they’re getting shot. I watch as a piece of their body explodes like a big crimson rose bursting out of their chest, and then disintegrates into a pool of red liquid around them. I feel them sitting next to me in the car, laughing, full of life. Then they just vanish, the only thing left a smell of death in the air. Or sometimes Sam stares at me from the other side of my bed, smiling, reaching out to my face, and then doing the same fucking disappearing act! Damn it, Mom, don’t you get it? I just shouldn’t be alive. I should have perished back in the sandbox with them.”

“Oh, I get it. But you’re being a little selfish.” Davina’s blood was started to boil, not from what Max was saying, but because of the pain he was going through, physically and psychologically, and most especially at her impotence at not being able to help more. She was, however, in complete control of the moment and she knew Max would lash back.

“Selfish! How do you figure?” Max asked, indignant.

“Well, wanting to die with your buddies is noble and understandable, but what about your family and your friends?”

“What about them? None of you would understand.”

“You’re absolutely right, but believe me when I say there is a lot we do understand! How much better do you think it is for us? Not knowing where you are, if you’ve been wounded and how badly, whether you’re still alive or not, when and if you’re ever coming home. And will you be the same person? Of course not. But we’re willing to face that because we love you, we fight for you and with you, and none of it is easy. Day after day, night after night, nightmare after nightmare—yes, we have them too—we hang on, we support you, and we believe in you. All the mothers, fathers, spouses, children, siblings, friends—we’ve been through hell too, Max, something
we
can understand and you maybe can’t! And you drink so you can forget. Well, that is ridiculous. The more you drink the worse you feel.

Max was getting a little of his own medicine. He could sense his mother was close to exploding, although he didn’t know that it was an act she was controlling. “Mom…”

“And how dare you think that you can just give up your life, as if it had no meaning or purpose whatsoever, however noble?”

“Mom…” Max tried to interrupt again, but she was on a roll now.

“You are my only child, Max,” Davina ranted on, “did you ever think of
me
when you decided it was okay to give up your life?
I’m
the one who gave it to you in the first place!”

“Mom!” Max said forcefully.

“What?”

“I get it.”

Davina thought maybe he actually did, and hoped to God that what she had done would help in even a small way “Max, my love,” Davina said calmly now, “you have to understand that it wasn’t your time. You weren’t supposed to die with them. That wasn’t your destiny.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“That’s just the way it is. Your path was different than theirs.”

“And that means what, exactly?”

“That means that you have your whole life ahead of you. You didn’t lose your leg or anything else, your pains will eventually subside and it will surely take a while. It might never completely go away, but I know it will only get better. You have a tremendous support group—your family, first and foremost, and the best specialists in the world. You’ve made the first step by understanding your needs, and these people, these professionals, can actually help. Give them, give all of us a chance, Max. You are meant to do something with your life, something that will be clear at some point. Give yourself a chance as well, my sweet heart. When you ‘see’ the ones who are no longer with us, think of them with the beauty and love they gave.” Davina hugged her son and looked at the eyes she had ‘given’ him. They were blue-gray and sad.

Max nodded and looked at his mother. She was amazing, and the smartest woman he knew. Not only was she beautiful and an incredible musician, she was also the perfect mother and his best friend. He knew she would always be there for him, but even with all her talents and assets the one thing she couldn’t do is bring Sam back from the dead.

“I’m on my way to the recording studio, would you like to come?”

“No, not today, I’ll hang out here.”

“Alright. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will. And Mom…”

“Yes,” she said, turning back to face her son.

“Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Davina waived as she left.

Max looked at the baby grand. Of course his mother would have a piano in the guest house. He sat on the stool and looked at the keyboard. Something his mother had said starting him thinking about a tune. He put his hands on the ivory and ebony keys, as so many of his ancestors had done before him, and made the sounds he had in his head. “This one’s for you, Sam,” he said out loud to the love of his life, “it’s called Music of my Heart. I hope you like it.”

Max stayed at the piano for hours perfecting the song, and late into the night. As the early sun of dawn made a spider web rainbow through the window Max fell asleep, the first time in weeks without being drunk. It was also the first time he had a goal—he would honor the love of his life and the wonderful musician Sam had been, with music.

♫