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Adam’s fingertips feathered my cheek. “Morning, sweetheart.”
“Mornin’,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. Adam saw right through my lukewarm smile, and edged closer to me. The trace of mint I smelled from his breath stirred my senses, and I wanted to freshen up for him. I tried to sit up, but he eased me back down. He aligned his body to mine, bearing his weight on his arms, as if he were about to do push ups.
“Jasmine, I want you to remember this: I’m never beneath you, or above you, always one with you. You have my heart. That will never change.” He moved to the side, cradling my body with his arms. I nuzzled against his chest. “I’m gonna be fine, and you’re gonna be fine. When I come back, I’ll be holding you, while you nurse our baby to sleep. Life will be better than before, I promise.”
I bit my lip as I looked down at my gold wedding band. “Life is good now.”
Adam lifted my chin, his jaw slightly clenched. “Sometimes, love clouds the reality of life. We got obligations, Jasmine. Your career, my work here at the mission, and now my call to treat the injured in Vietnam. Going away wasn’t in the forefront of my mind, but definitely not an afterthought. Just reality. Hopefully, my efforts will help prevent casualties. Being a good doctor is about saving lives, no matter what the cost, or where I have to do it.” His expression brightened. “Your job is to stay happy and healthy, making sure this bug-a-boo is fine. All right?”
I nodded. “You’ll write me?”
“Every day.”
“You’ll continue loving me?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
***
The waves from the Doboy Sound were calm. Adam leaned against a pier post, and I was wrapped in his arms. The ferry approached the dock, dividing the still waters with its hull. The ferry horn sounded from a distance. I looked up at my husband with weary eyes. For a second, I saw us back in time. A slave ship, parting still waters. A husband being taken from his wife, against his will. Civil Rights and Black Power ideology were integral to blacks in the sixties. In the whole scheme of things, though, I felt like a black man still didn’t belong to his family. Adam called the war an obligation. I saw it as neo-slavery.
The ferry docked just as my tear landed on Adam’s hand. I wouldn’t be joining him on the ride to St. Simons Island. We both felt it was best to savor the moment in Sapelo, where we married. Clinging to him across the waters would only deepen the pain.
Anxious tourists, and a few school-age children, were bustling around us, preparing for the ride. Adam turned me around. “Remember what I told you,” he said as he caressed my face. “I’m never beneath you, or above you, always one with you.”
“I love you.”
He smiled and kissed my forehead. “I love you, my Geechee girl.”
I sighed and shook my head. “I know there’s nothing you can do, but I still don’t want you to go.”
“Don’t worry, Jasmine. I’ll be back soon,” he said, his voice confident and strong.
“I know,” I said softly. Anxiety churned my insides. While the weather had been mild for late November, a breezy current formed off the water. “Hold me.” I shuddered into Adam’s chest.
“Always, right here.” He took my hand and placed it on his heart. “For life.” We stared into each other’s eyes and danced slowly, immersed into our silent love song. Sunrays from another dayclean descended down upon us, and together we remained… until the ferry operator made the final call for Adam to board.
STRONG AS DEATH, SWEET AS LOVE
1968
My head was on fire as if I’d been bludgeoned. The bedroom seemed to be spinning, sorta like the Turbo Spin ride at the Georgia State Fair that made me sick, when I was ten. I massaged my temple as I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to block the images of Adam drowning in his own blood.
Oh God, this can’t be real, I prayed. “Wake me up,” I said, slowly opening my eyes. Adam wasn’t dead. No, not my Adam. Adam was a common name…it was someone else’s Adam. Not my Adam. Some bastard made a crank call, I concluded. A hoax, I could accept. April first was a couple of hours away. News of a bomb destroying the medical tent where Adam was located, I refused to accept.
I’d gone to sleep early last night, due to constant back pain and pinches to my side. I was nine months’ pregnant, and the baby had been kicking a lot. Like he had no room to get comfortable. The phone rang loudly, startling me out of a peaceful slumber.
“Good evening, this is Lieutenant Kramer. May I speak to Mrs. Jasmine Kelly?”
“This is she. Now why are you calling me at ten-thirty at night?” I asked, holding my swollen belly. I rose to my feet. “Is my husband, okay?”
A pause, then the words I never imagined: “I’m sorry.”
His tone of voice, neutral. No persuasion of emotion, more like routine. Perhaps I was one of many on his casualty advisory list. I didn’t need his sterile sympathy. I needed Adam.
The remainder of his dialogue was incoherent. I stood there, holding the phone down by my side. The phone cord swayed as I gripped the receiver with my sweaty palm.
Anger set in.
