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“I do.” She turned and sat on the steps, mimicking what others had done. Kent did the same and slipped his backpack off and opened it. He handed her a bottle of water and a protein bar. She wanted neither yet took both.
“Do you ever wonder why we memorialize some, but not all?” she asked as she took a bite. “So many people have shaped American history.”
“I think DC does an okay job of making sure they’re honoring all.”
“There’s room for improvement.”
“In everything we do,” Kent said. They finished their snack and walked what many would consider a short distance to the next set of steps. “You know, when we go to Arlington National Cemetery, I’m going to insist on the chair until we get to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The walk is daunting.”
Palmer grabbed the railing and took the first step. “Do you have friends buried there?” she asked.
“I do.”
“Are we going to see them?”
“We are,” he told her. It was important to Palmer that Kent pay his respects to the friends he’d lost. She insisted a trip to the cemetery be an item he could add to their list.
About halfway up, Palmer reached for Kent’s arm. “Do you want to stop?” She shook her head and wheezed.
When they reached the top, Palmer sucked in a big gulp of air. Kent was next to her and spoke calmly in her ear: “I need you to bend over.” She did, and he began rubbing her back and speaking in his soothing tone. “Short inhale, long exhale.” Palmer nodded and practiced the breathing technique.
She stood and said, “I’m good. Let’s do this.”
Kent laughed at her spunky attitude. She rolled her eyes at him but couldn’t hide her smile. Her mood changes often left a sour note in both their mouths. Step after step, she prevailed. When Palmer made it to the front of Lincoln, she marveled at the grand statue. She read the words behind his statue.
“Turn around and pose.”
She did as Kent asked and put her arms diagonally in the air. Ever since they’d gone live on Instagram the day before, she’d been a bit more willing to have her photo taken and posted. She’d even insisted on taking some of Kent, taking selfies, and videotaping them on the train. Palmer even told Kent that when they went live again, she would tell the world what was wrong.
They swapped spots, and Palmer took photos of Kent, and some of the Reflecting Pool, and some of the Washington Monument. After another quick break, they made their way down the stairs, which was much easier than going up, and headed to their next destination.
As far as train stations went, Palmer thought the Metro was fairly clean. She wasn’t a connoisseur of subway systems, unless she counted Boston’s, but had heard horror stories about other cities and how filthy they were. They hopped on the Blue Line and rode the rails for just over thirty minutes. The escalator ride to get outside seemed to take forever, but once they reached the top, the sun shone brightly on them. Kent motioned for Palmer to get into her chair, and she did so begrudgingly.
“Maybe I should push you,” she said as they crossed the street. He laughed.
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Don’t dare me,” she told him. “I’m in rare form today and can do anything I set my mind to.” Truthfully, she scared herself. She was having a great day, a perfect one, in fact. Her pain was minimal, she didn’t have a headache, her stomach didn’t hurt, and the blurriness in her vision wasn’t affecting her much. Tomorrow, she expected, she’d go downhill. There was no way she’d have back-to-back great days without paying the price somehow.
Palmer gasped when they entered the cemetery and saw rows upon perfectly lined rows of headstones. The precision with which they lined up astounded her. No matter which way she looked, they all lined up.
“They’re all the same,” Kent told her. “Same height and weight.”
“That’s some amazing craftsmanship.”
As Kent pushed her through the cemetery, she understood why he’d insisted she be in her chair. The ground was uneven in places and hilly. They came to their first stop. Kent helped Palmer out of her chair and held on to her while they walked toward the headstone of a man Kent had served with.
“Chuck was in my barracks during my first tour,” he told her as he put a dime on top of his headstone.
“What’s the dime for?” she asked.
“It tells his family that someone he served with came to see him. A penny means someone visited, a nickel means you trained in boot camp with them, and a quarter means you were there when they died.”
“That’s very . . .” She paused. “I guess I don’t know. I think if he were my son, I’d be moved knowing his friends came to see him.”
