AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“That’s what Patrick says.”
“Sounds like a pretty smart guy.”
“I suppose,” Brock relented. “You know what else he said?”
“What?”
“He said we should give the baby a name.”
I fell back against the wall and sank down to the hard floor, breathing heavily. “Why? We don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl.”
“Because it will help give us closure. It will help us to accept that it was a person, not only an idea.”
Those tears I had been holding back flooded my eyes and rushed down my cheeks. “It’s a lovely idea actually, but we . . . I mean, I never thought of names because . . . well, because I’d hoped maybe someday you would help me choose one.”
“I want to now. Boy or girl?” he asked so gently.
I placed a hand on my empty womb. “I kept dreaming of a little girl with dark hair and olive skin.”
“Beautiful, like her mother,” he sweetly replied.
“She was beautiful and so real. I want her,” I cried.
“I want her too.”
“You do?” He had no idea how I had longed for those words.
“Yes. What should we name her?”
I thought for a moment. “I always loved the name Charlotte. It’s a pretty name.”
“That was my great-grandmother’s name.”
“Really?”
“I think she would be honored.”
“Charlotte it is.” It felt right somehow, like it belonged to her. And in acknowledging my Charlotte, I felt a tiny piece of my heart stitch back together.
“Charlotte Holland,” Brock said her name so reverently. In a way that made me love him even more.
“Thank you, Brock.”
“Thank you for trusting me enough to be a part of that.”
I rested my head against the wall and ran my hand through my hair, taking a moment to let what had just happened sink in. Brock seemed content to let the silence linger between us. In the silence there was a peace I hadn’t felt in a long time, especially where Brock was concerned. I immersed myself in the comfort it gave. I felt as if I had my best friend back. I had missed him more than anything.
After a moment of reflection and a prayer of thanks in my heart for the grace I had felt, I asked, “Besides the hugging in group therapy, how is it going there?”
He let out a long sigh. “Honestly, I hate it half the time. I don’t like people being in my head, and I can’t stand feeling broken. I don’t like reliving what happened, though I know I need to. I know—” He paused. “I know I need to talk to you about Afghanistan.”
I brought my knees up to my chest and held on tight. “I’m here for you,” I couldn’t hide the tremor in my voice. I meant it, yet I knew it was going to be hard to digest what he had to say.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to,” I said, braver this time.
“There are parts I’m not ready to talk about yet.”
“I won’t push you. I’m here to listen.”
It took him a good two minutes before he spoke. I didn’t mind waiting. Finally, he exhaled loudly. “It was night and suffocatingly hot. It doesn’t cool down there in the summer, even after the sun goes down. And the dust in the air is ever present. It carries with it the smell of raw sewage and sweat. Those smells live on everything outside the base.”
I found myself wrinkling my nose while he spoke.
“We had to go at night, under the cover of darkness. The village wasn’t particularly welcoming to Americans. I can’t blame them. While we’re there to help, sometimes we hurt. Innocent people die.” Remorse and anger wove through his words. “Asadi, though,” his voice hitched, “his friend needed our help. He was too sick to be transported, and even if he could have been, the man refused to leave his home. I say home, but most of the villagers live in rudimentary cement houses with no electricity. Our prisoners in America live in much better conditions.”
“I can’t imagine how hard it was for you to see the disparity between our two countries.”
“I’ll never complain about my life,” he responded before continuing his story. “Even Asadi, who was a doctor, lived a very basic life, barely able to provide for his wife and three children,” his voice trailed off. “He had a family. Nicholas did too. A wife and a baby on the way. A baby who will never know him.” The guilt was apparent in his fractured words and tone.
“Brock, it’s not your fault they died.”
“Maybe not. But why did they die when I lived? A man with no one who was depending on him. Who was too afraid to commit because I was so damn worried about giving up the freedom to do whatever I wanted whenever I pleased. All while these men begged me with their last breaths to take care of their families—to tell them how loved they were.”
