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CHAPTERTWENTY
Tuesday, June 22
I’ve beento Washington D.C. several times in my life. I’ve seen the national monuments, I’ve toured the Smithsonian museums. But there is something wonderful and new about seeing them with Connor. Instead of walking for miles around the city, he books a twilight tour of the war memorials and we are driven through D.C. just as the lights begin to twinkle and the stars peek out from behind a purpling summer sky. We sit atop an open-air bus, sipping ice-cold lemonade.
The statues are haunting in the glow of the lights that illuminate the faces of the fallen. Our last stop is at Arlington. It is nearly dark, but Connor seems as if he would know the way to his destination even if he was blindfolded. Three small white crosses mark the names of the men who died in the bombing in Afghanistan. Connor doesn’t speak. He just stands with his hands in his pockets, quietly whispering to the ghosts of the fallen who had been brothers in arms to him.
The experience is sobering and so much more emotional than I dreamed it would be. Looking up from the three headstones engraved with the names and ranks of U.S. Army Special Operators Mark Freedoms, William Greer and Nathan Fairsmore, my eyes gloss over thousands upon thousands of small white markers. The straight lines of them crisscrossing seem to disappear over the horizon. I feel hot tears well up in my eyes. There are so many of them. So many soldiers who have been willing to go into battle for our nation and the ideals it stands for. The idea is staggering.
“You OK, Lainey Bird?” Connor’s voice is tinged with sacrifice and loss.
I can only nod. Words are too much — even for me.
“Don’t cry for them. They’re together with their brothers here. These are the people they were fighting for.” His arms wrap around me and his fingers drift softly over my skin.
“People think we fight for oil or for sand or for freedom. But we don’t. We fight for the man standing next to us. And all of those who stood before and all those who will stand after.”
Connor’s words comfort me a little. The idea that these men and women aren’t alone, that their spirits are at rest with those people they fought for, eases me some. Connor sends the tour bus on ahead without us. We’ll call a cab when we’re ready, he tells the driver who also wipes tears from his eyes. Even though he’s probably seen this scene a hundred times, it never gets easier.
Hand in hand we walk through the cemetery back to the entrance. The park closes in a few minutes. I should be completely freaked out, walking among the dead in near darkness like this, but I’m not. Miss Insecurity is at peace. She has been for a while now, only coming out of her quiet closet when truly fearful things occur.
“Why did you join the Army?” I ask quietly. “Was your dad in the service or something?” I knew that both of Connor and Tori’s parents were killed when Connor was younger, but he never told me how it had happened.
“No. My parents were in New York City on September 11, 2001. They were visiting an old friend and meeting with some financial people about investments and stuff.” Connor’s voice grows quiet again. “They died in the World Trade Center bombing.”
“Oh God, Connor, I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. I was kinda lost for a while. I spent a lot of time with Ox and the band and found more trouble than I did direction. Tori is the one who put it into my head to join the Army. She said I needed discipline. When I did join, my commanders found out I was pretty good at being a hard-ass, and I got my ranger tab shortly thereafter. The rest is history … until Afghanistan.”
“Tori must feel a bit responsible for what happened to you there, and with Shana and everything,” I say, compassionately.
“I never thought about that, but yeah, I guess she might. She babies me about everything, and I used to think it was just some kind of mother-hen act. But there’s truth to what you’re saying, Lainey. She shouldn’t feel that way though. Soldiers fight wars. They get hurt. They die. It’s what I signed up for. I was old enough to know.”
After we make love that night at the hotel, I curl quietly next to the lion beside me. Equal parts protector and defender. I brave my fear and finally touch the raven on his back and understand why he had the artist place it there. Then, I run my fingers along the deep scars in his skin. He’d said he’d been injured, but I had no idea. Most of his tattoo covers them, but I can feel the ridges and dips in his muscles under the wings of the raven. Scars hidden and protected by a bird, both omen of luck and of death. A raven, like me.
