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Thank you for putting your anger away and responding, especially in your time of grief. You won’t ever fully understand what that means to me. God, Katie, I can’t stop thinking about you, your dad, your whole damn family. I hate that I wasn’t there for you when you needed me most, because you know I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. But I’m here for you now. I’m sure you’ve already gone through several different stages and emotions, but I want you to know you can come to me.
Speaking of emotions, I truly believe that the feelings you’re having in reaction to your father’s death are normal. All the amazing times Jax and I had together: going through Basic, graduating together, making Sergeant, drunken nights in small German towns … they aren’t what I see when I close my eyes. I only see him lying there in my arms completely lifeless, eyes closed, body limp. I think some of it has to do with not getting to say goodbye, and a lot of it has to do with wishing it was us who died and not them. I’d give anything to switch places with Jax, as I’m sure you would with your father. They call it “survivor’s guilt,” and they say it’s a bitch to get over.
Of course, that’s assuming it’s something you can actually “get over.” I don’t see it ever going away. I’m devastated that I lost him, but truthfully, I still feel him around me all the time. I think he’s watching over me, or maybe I’m just fooling myself.
You asked me how I do it … the answer is easy. I don’t. I see him when I close my eyes. He’s in my dreams, my nightmares … he’s always there. I can’t help but think that maybe we just need time, you and me. Maybe, in time, our memories won’t haunt us quite as badly. Maybe, in time, we’ll be able to process it easier. Or maybe that’s just hopeful wishing.
You are right, though (I bet you enjoy hearing that, don’t you?). I can’t let this stop me from doing my job—from getting these men home safe. It’s a burden I accepted when taking on this rank, and it’s one I take very seriously. But being in this position means much of what I feel must be restrained. I can’t let them know I’m hurting and that I’m weak. Sometimes the pressure of it all feels like it’s going to suffocate me. And other times, I feel like I’m right where I belong.
I love these guys, and the bonds I’ve formed with them are like nothing I’ve ever felt. You know I was kind of a loner growing up. I had a few friends here and there, but I didn’t really feel like I could relate to any of them. And then to come over here, to fight and bleed next to these guys, to do something so much bigger than us … it means everything. No matter how this place changes me down the road, I will always be grateful for these friendships. These men are my brothers.
It means even more when you’re seeing a real difference. When you know in your heart that you’re doing something good, something that changes the life of another human being for the better. That’s how it was in Afghanistan, but here … not so much.
Like today, for example. Something happened during a mission—something that’s left my head spinning. I don’t even know how to make sense of it all. The absolute disregard for life by these animals perplexes me. To kill a child, to steal her from her parents without regard is something I will never understand. They call us murderers. They call for our heads even, and yet they kill each other with reckless abandon. I like to think I joined the Army and deployed to this hellhole to do some sort of good—to make a difference in the world—but it doesn’t feel like we’re making much headway.
I don’t mean to pummel you with the depressing details of this place, because I know you’re dealing with your own grief. It’s just nice to have someone to talk to about it all, especially someone who’s not over here questioning the same things I am.
Trust me, I won’t be complaining in a few months when my ass is boarding a plane back to the States, I can promise you that! I miss beer so damn much—oh, and pizza … can’t forget the pizza. Is that little pizza joint still in town, the one we used to eat at every Friday night after football games? God, I miss that place. I remember when Mom worked there for a couple of months and she would bring home leftover pizza from their buffet—okay, seriously, I can’t talk about food or it’ll drive me insane.
Anyway, speaking of my mother … unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how you look at it—she’s out of the picture. We spent the better part of my first two years in the Army faking the funk. I’d fly to Pennsylvania for a week or two of leave and stay at her house. She’d make dinner and play “mom.” Then she’d try to convince me she was sober, and she did look a little better, but I’m not a fucking idiot. I caught her a few times doing a line or key bump. In the weeks I spent with her, I’d meet twenty different versions of Josephine, each more psychotic than the last. She’d be nice only when she needed something from me—usually money—and I just grew tired of it.
For a year or so, I felt this built-up resentment in the pit of my stomach and it was dragging me down. Ugh, you can’t judge me for this next part, okay? I spent about two hours one random night writing out how I felt … all of it. I mean, this thing ended up being like five pages long. I spent thirty minutes on the phone telling her what I’d written, pretty much chewing her ass out. She got pissed off and turned it around on me, blaming me for my dad leaving because she said he never wanted kids in the first place. We argued off and on, and then her last words to me were, “So what? It’s in the past.” I said ‘fuck you,’ hung up the phone and never called again. It’s been three years now since we last spoke, and I can’t say that I’ve missed her.
As crazy as I’m sure all that sounds, I felt better after I did it, like a weight had been lifted. I wasn’t burdened anymore, because I’d laid it all out on the table and washed my hands clean of it. This is actually my first time thinking about her in a while, so thanks for that (and yes, I’m being a smartass).
I did have a great two years with my grandma though. I worked odd jobs and took some classes at a community college nearby. With what free time I had, I read her books. Her favorite author was Nicholas Sparks. We’d often get to that dreaded last page of the book, and as the final words poured from my lips, she’d flip those eyes open wide, let out a long, satisfied sigh, and then start in on a story about grandpa and her falling in love. She said they fell in love with each other over and over and over again. She missed him terribly in the years she spent without him, and it seemed the closer she got to the end, the more excited she was to see him again. It may sound dumb, but it was just a really beautiful thing to be a part of.
Sorry, I think I may be the one babbling today. And enough about me anyway. Tell me about you. It’s been a decade, so what have I missed? What does Miss (or Mrs?) Katie Devora do? You know I’m a soldier out here playing in the world’s largest sandbox. What are you doing with your life? Can I take three guesses? Teacher, nurse, or social worker. I know how big that heart of yours is, and you always said that you wanted to do something to help others.
Well, it’s been a really long day and my eyeballs hate me right now so I’m going to hop off of here. But I want you to know that it’s been nice to talk to someone, particularly you. I’m glad we have a faster means of communication, because I don’t want to wait weeks in between hearing from you again—not after the last decade we’ve spent apart.
PS. How is your mom and Bailey?
Sincerely,
Devin
My body is a jumbled mix of emotions as I lean back against my headboard and take in everything he wrote. My heart aches for Devin and what he’s witnessed and endured both at war and at home. I don’t know how he does it, how he copes from day to day, but I could tell by his mad rush of words that he needed to get what happened today—or maybe it was yesterday—off his chest. He also mentioned that it was nice to have someone to talk to, and my stomach flutters at the thought that I’m that person. A sense of peace, belonging and friendship washes over me, and I squeeze my eyes shut because the feeling is so familiar that it physically hurts.
And for the first time, it hits me—I miss him. I miss our friendship, the connection that we shared. I miss being able to talk to him without being judged, and I miss the way he used to support me without swaying any of my thoughts or actions.
I miss Devin.
Somewhere in the back of my head, there’s a tiny vision of me crying in the middle of his driveway after I found out that he’d left, but I push it away and focus on his words.
How in the world can his words affect me this way? It took about a year after he left to face the facts that he wasn’t coming back, and another year to convince myself that whatever feelings he had for me weren’t real. About a year after that, I finally realized that I’d never be the same. So for him to be able to easily infiltrate my life this way after a decade of nothing … well, it’s scary really. Because if he hurt me once, he could do it again.
That thought alone makes my stomach churn, but I take a deep, cleansing breath, pushing past the nausea. Because right now I want nothing more than to take all of this for what it is and go with it. I don’t want to live in fear. What I want is to move forward.
Just as I’m about to reply to his email, my phone vibrates again.
Wyatt: Please call me
“Come on, Wy,” I mumble, to no one but myself. “Please don’t do this.” I sit for several minutes, trying to decide what to do, and when I blow out a breath and look to the side, my eye catches on a picture wedged into the side of my mirror. My first thought is how in the hell is that picture still up there? Then, as my eyes linger on the photo of Wyatt and me, arm in arm, the day after we got engaged, I instantly think of Devin.
Why did he ask if I was a Miss or Mrs.? Is he curious because he thinks that this … whatever this is … is more than what it is? Or maybe he realizes he made a colossal fucking mistake and wants me back. If that’s the case, then no way, mister. You snooze, you lose, and Lord knows I’m not going down that path again. Right? Right! But what if …
Maybe he’s engaged. Or, worse yet, married. Holy shit, what if he has a family?
