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“I don’t want you to leave.”
He rested his chin on my shoulder. “Believe me, no one’s rethinking their life choices more than I am at the moment.”
“How soon can you get back? I mean for a visit or leave, or whatever they call it.”
“I wish I knew that, but you know I don’t. I don’t even know when I’ll be able to call.”
I nodded with tears in my eyes because I did know, he told me all of this before.
He kissed my head, and it’s as if I can still feel it right now, can still feel the warmth of his breath and that feeling of security I had when I was in his arms.
“Remember what I told you to do?”
“Write to you.”
“Every damn day, Gracie. I don’t care if you write just to tell me what you had for lunch.”
“Really? You’d be happy hearing about a ham sandwich?”
“Yep. Especially if you slipped in a picture of you with your mouth wrapped around it ready to take a bite.” I elbowed him and he laughed. “Seriously, the days and weeks can drag when you’re over there. No one understands how boring it can get. When you’re in the middle of a shitty stretch, especially when you’re in-country, mail call is the highlight of the week for most of us...or the month.”
I turn to face him. “You get your mail once a month sometimes?”
“Only when we’re off the grid. Most of the time it’s not like that. But still write to me because a big stack of letters will get me through it when I’m missing you.”
I did write to him, more times than I’d care to admit. They started out upbeat. I told him every interesting thing my professors said, told him about the parties my roommates dragged me to, and I did tell him about the fabulous new gyro place that opened up off campus, so I did relay what I was eating for lunch. I got one letter back to every seven or eight I wrote. He warned me, but it’s hard not to feel ridiculous when you get little to nothing in return.
I tore that first envelope open, excited and nervous at once. He was grateful for my letters, he told me. He thanked me for the pictures I sent, told me he missed my beautiful face so much that it physically hurt him.
The second letter came weeks later. He loved me, he wrote, and I cried when I read those words. Was I sure, he asked me, still sure that I’d wait for him? I shook my head, smiling. I didn’t even need to think about it. Of course I would wait.
I got one more letter, and it was of the short and sweet variety. I still wasn’t sure what it was that he saw in me, so his quick, impersonal note left me feeling unsettled.
I was still that girl, not even twenty years old, who didn’t have the confidence to see myself objectively, let alone in a positive light.
I kept writing long after his letters stopped, but the tone of my letters changed too. They went from sounding like they were penned by an upbeat cheerleader, to concerned, and then when I heard nothing back, my letters turned matter of fact and then sterile.
I need to speak with you, are you allowed to call me?
It’s really important. Please call.
My last letter was one single line:I’m due in the middle of August.
I never got a response.
“Do you think I’m making a mistake?” I ask him now as I look down at the ring. “I’m thirty-three…Not getting any younger.”
It comforts me to talk to him this way. I’m free on the bank of the river, speaking to a ghost, spilling my secrets. Because it’s true what they say: dead men can’t tell tales.
“I still haven’t told Jack.” I can practically see him shaking his head. “He won’t understand. Now? No, I can’t tell him now.”
The wind picks up, rustling the leaves. I imagine the sound is his voice telling me:There will never be a right time, Gracie.
“She turned fourteen this past August.Fourteen. Can you believe it’s been that long?”
The wind, the leaves—no one has an answer for that one.
And that’s when I wrap my sweater tight around my shoulders, back away from the water and make my way to the car.
