A Lover's Lament Read online

  There’s no doubt in my mind that she’s right ... I do need to move forward. Squeezing my eyes shut, I picture the look of disappointment and sadness that I saw on Bailey’s face this morning, and a tiny piece of the wall I’ve erected around my heart falls to the wayside. “Okay,” I breathe, opening my eyes. “What do I need to do?”

  The look of pride on Dr. Perry’s face is unmistakable, and her bright smile beams at me. She stands up, walks over to her desk and pulls out a piece of paper, which she hands to me before sitting back down. My eyes roam over the sheet, and when it sinks in what she’s trying to do, I raise my eyebrows and look up at her.

  “Really?” I ask, scrunching my nose. “This seems a little silly. I don’t see how reaching out to a soldier is going to make things better. A soldier is my problem, remember?” I ask, dropping the paper next to me. I sit up a little straighter on the couch and cross my legs, knee over knee. “Maybe we should avoid any and all soldiers.”

  “I can see why you would think that, I really do. But I believe if you get to know one, it might help you look at the situation differently. It might even make it easier to move past your anger so you can move forward with your life.”

  “Fine. I’ll do it,” I say, fighting back an eye roll because that would be childish, and it’s probably something a twenty-seven-year-old woman shouldn’t do. Dr. Perry’s answering smile tells me that I’ve made her happy, and as long as I’m making everyone else happy, then I guess that’s what matters.

  “Great.” Looking down, she scribbles something on her yellow legal pad—I hate that damn pad—and then she looks back up at me. “I’ll email you a list of participants in the soldier pen pal program so you can get started.”

  “What am I supposed to say?” I ask, suddenly unsure of my decision.

  “Whatever you want to say.”

  “Fuck you?” I ask without an ounce of sarcasm. Surprisingly, Dr. Perry laughs and a small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.

  “Well, you might not want to use those exact words, but if you think it’ll make you feel better, then go for it.” I don’t know how she does it, talking to people all day every day. It would drive me absolutely insane. Hell, I drive me absolutely insane.

  Looking at the clock, I notice that my time is almost up. “Well, Doc, it’s been fun.” I move to stand up, but she reaches out a hand, stopping my movement.

  “Wait,” she says, looking at me curiously. “You never did tell me why you left Wyatt out earlier. Would you like to talk about it before you leave?”

  “No, I would not like to talk about it. We’ve talked enough for one day. I’m all talked out.” Plus, I think to myself, I don’t really know why. I guess that’s just one more thing I should add to my list of problems.

  “Okay,” she says, laughing. “Then I guess we’re done for today. I’ll send you that list of names, and on Monday you can tell me what you did with it.”

  “Sounds fantastic.” Sarcasm is dripping from my voice, but I don’t really give a shit. Right now, I just want to get home, take a shower and go to bed. Pushing up from the couch, I shake Dr. Perry’s hand and make my way out of her office.

  “Oh, and Katie”—I stop and glance over my shoulder—“I want you to write the letter, not type it.”

  “Why on earth would I do that?”

  “Because writing it is much more personal.” She offers me a small wave and then turns toward her desk. I shake my head as I walk out.

  What in the hell did I get myself into? I don’t want to write a letter to some stranger, and I sure as hell don’t want to write to a soldier. As I head toward the car, my mind races with all the different things I could say to piss him or her off. Then that damn look on Bailey’s face pops in my head, and by the time I climb into my car, thoughts of what I should say to try and help me get through this have taken over.

  Do I tell them about the accident and who it was that killed my dad? Do I tell them about everything I’ve been feeling and thinking since I woke up? How much is too much? My mind continues in a thousand different directions, so fast that I can’t even keep up with it. Before I know it, I’m pulling into my driveway with absolutely no recollection of driving here.

  I put my car in park and stare at my house. It’s nothing special, just a small, two-bedroom home, but it’s mine and I’m damn proud of it. Last summer, Dad worked hard to make the outside look presentable. He repainted the house, added some landscaping, planted a tree in the front yard, and he even hung up a porch swing. Tears fill my eyes when I think about all the things my dad did for me … all the things we did together.

  Now who will come over when my water heater goes out or my drains get clogged? And who’s going to help me install the cabinets that Dad and I spent all winter sanding and staining? Better yet, who will walk me down the aisle on my wedding day and teach my son or daughter to throw a perfect spiral?

  I bat angrily at the tears rolling down my face, push myself out of the car and walk the few steps to my house. Quickly unlocking the door, I nudge it open with a loud creak and slam it behind me. When I flip the light on, the first thing I see is my dad’s coat still draped over the back of my couch. He left it here the day of the accident, and I just can’t bring myself to move it. If I do, then I’m losing a part of him all over again and I just can’t. Once has just about killed me.

  Tossing my keys on the table, I grab my laptop and make myself comfy in my recliner. The second I power up my computer, there’s an email waiting for me from my lovely psychiatrist.

  From: Dr. Carol Perry

  To: Katie Devora

  Subject: Soldier Pen Pal Program

  Ms. Devora,

  Attached you will find the list that I was telling you about. Pick any one and get started on your path to healing. Good luck. I’ll see you on Monday.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Perry

  I double-click on the attachment and a list of names pop up.

  Casey Dean Becker

  Patrick Eric Malone

  Richard Lee Farnsworth

  Jason James Newman

  Paul Thomas Johnson

  Jeremy Michael Wilkinson

  Daniel Robert Gladney

  Todd Wilson Blair

  Jacob Matthew Dicenzo

  Eric Robert Recendez

  Maxwell Lucas Albert

  Shane Emil Lopez

  Blake Kenneth Haines

  Christopher Marcus Holguin

  Kevin Aaron Witte

  Devin Ulysses Clay

  I suck in a sharp breath at the sight of his name. “Impossible,” I murmur, sitting up in the recliner. There is no way that there’s more than one Devin Ulysses Clay walking this earth. It’s impossible. Right?

  Scratching my head, I inspect the name, reading it several more times to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and a small shiver runs down my spine. No way. What are the chances of this?

  I click on his name, but all it tells me is that Devin Ulysses Clay is a twenty-seven-year-old sergeant in the U.S. Army.

  Well, I’ll be damned.

  My eyes continue searching for any information I can glean, but it only provides me with a postal address. I grab a pen and paper to write it down. I don’t even bother looking at any other names because this is it. Devin is yet another connection to my past—a connection that still doesn’t feel resolved.

  Closing my eyes, I tip my head back, letting the memory take over, a memory that I can drown my anger in.

  I can’t believe he’s leaving. Tugging my comforter to my chin, I curl up into a ball and cry—really cry—over what all of this means. My mind sifts through memories, one by one, as though it’s putting them into tiny little keepsake boxes so I’ll be able to pull them out whenever I want.

  The day we first met.

  Falling out of a tree and sitting side by side in the emergency room as I got a hot pink cast put on my right arm and he got twelve stitches in the side of
his face.

  Dancing with him for the first time at my Junior Prom.

  The look on his face the first time I told him I loved him.

  One piece of knowledge keeps trying to fight its way in, so I battle it the only way I know how—with more memories.

  Running … laughing … riding horses … swimming in the creek … snowball fights … skinny-dipping …

  I’m not sure how long the memories cycled through my head but obviously long enough to put me to sleep. When I wake up to the sound of the rooster crowing, I haul myself out of bed, slip on a pair of jeans, change into a bra and t-shirt, and run through the house. Ignoring calls from both my mom and dad, I scurry out the door in a hurry to complete my morning chores. It takes longer than I’d like, and it’s close to noon when I slide into my car and drive to Devin’s house.

  Last night I apologized, and I know that he accepted my apology because we sat in my driveway for nearly an hour discussing all of the ways we could make things work between us. We talked about letters, payphones, calling cards … anything and everything we could think of to stay connected until he can come back. And even though I know we’re standing on solid ground, that knowledge does nothing to suppress this weird tingling I have in the pit of my stomach—a tingling that tells me something is off.

  Speeding through town, I nearly break every driving rule known to man. I need to see him, to see for myself that we really are okay. I want to kiss him, hug him, make love to him and remind him that I will fight for this … for us.

  When I pull up in front of Devin’s house, I shove the car in park, pull my key from the ignition, sprint up the front walk, and bang on the door.

  No one answers, so I bang again … and again. Running around back, I head straight for Devin’s bedroom window. My feet skid to a stop when the first thing I notice is that the curtain is no longer hanging in front of it. My stomach rolls, and on shaky legs I walk toward his house. Leaning in close, I peer through the cracked glass of the window.

  A sharp pain is carving its way through my chest, and I can’t help but imagine that this is my heart breaking. The pain rips through me, leaving a trail of shredded flesh in its path, and I clutch my hand over my chest. Panic grips me, adrenaline pumping through my veins, and I drop to the ground in a gelatinous pile of arms and legs. Curling myself into a ball, I bury my face in my arms and sob.

  I lost a part of myself that day. Most people would say I was too young to really know what love is, but I disagree. Admittedly, I’m not sure what part of myself I lost—or how permanent the emptiness is—but I’m sure it must’ve been significant if the gaping hole inside my chest is any indication.

  “I can’t believe this,” I whisper to no one but myself. What are the chances that his name would show up on a pen pal list that my psychiatrist sent me? It’s a passing thought, but one that I can’t ignore.

  What if his name was meant for me to see? It wouldn’t surprise me, considering that Devin was always the one person who could help me work through my problems, however big or small they were … at least until the day he decided to leave me without a word.

  Bitterness seeps into my veins, but I fight against it because there is no way in hell that I will allow Devin Ulysses Clay to have that kind of control over me, especially after the way he left. And now I have to write him, because if I don’t, I’m letting him win—I’m letting the bitterness win—and I’m tired of fucking losing.

  No, there is no reason at all that I can’t write him a letter. A measly little letter. Who knows? Maybe it will be good for me.

  Without giving it much more thought, I open up a Word document to start typing my letter when I remember what Dr. Perry said. “Damn it,” I mumble. Shutting down my laptop, I grab the paper I wrote the address on and the pen lying next to it.

  Now what? My fingers twirl the pen as I contemplate what to write.

  Fuck you! I laugh out loud when I scribble the words on the paper. Then I quickly scratch them out, because as much as I’d like to write that, I’m not that big of a bitch.

  My phone buzzes on the end table next to me. Looking down, I see Wyatt’s name pop up on the screen. I tip my head back and groan. Something has shifted between us over the past several months, and if I’m being completely honest with myself, I’ve felt different about Wyatt for quite some time. As to what exactly has changed, I’m not so sure, but things are different … I’m different.

  Before the accident, I seriously thought that it was all in my head. I figured I had just gotten too comfortable in our relationship and it was a phase that I would have to work through. After the accident, I began to realize that the love I feel for him is no different than the love I feel for my mom and Bailey. Now the love I felt for Devin ...

  Whoa! Where the hell did that come from? Hell no, Katie, I tell myself. Not. Going. There.

  My phone continues to buzz so I push the green button to answer the call. “Hello?”

  “Hey. Did you make dinner tonight? I just got off work and can head over.” His voice sounds hopeful, and something about that just pisses me off. Hell no, I didn’t make him dinner. I didn’t even make myself dinner.

  “No,” I snap, dropping my head into my hand. It’s been a long-ass day and I’m beyond exhausted, but I don’t need to take it out on Wyatt. “I’ve been busy all day, and I just got done at my appointment with Dr. Perry and now I’m—” I quickly cut myself off. Do I really want to tell Wyatt about the letter I’m going to write? He and Devin were never really on friendly terms, and I’m sure it would only create more waves in our already churning ocean of problems.

  “Now you’re what?”

  “I—uh … now I’m getting ready to make dinner. So if you want, you can give me about an hour and then head over. Is that okay?” Son of a bitch. I don’t want him to come over tonight. I don’t want anyone to come over tonight. I want to write this stupid-ass letter and then go to bed, dinner be damned.

  “Are you okay, babe?” I can hear the concern in his voice and it annoys the hell out of me. I don’t say anything though, because I know Wyatt and he won’t pursue it. Hell, maybe it’s not even concern in his voice, maybe it’s agitation. Wyatt doesn’t understand what I’m going through and he’s done a good job at pushing everything under the rug. As much as I’m annoyed at everyone’s obsessive worrying, his lack of concern has put a huge strain on our already strained relationship.

  “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. See you in an hour.”

  “If you’re sure.” And that’s his go-to … if you’re sure. He never pushes for more; he’s just always happy to take the easy way out. Typical man. “See you soon,” he says.

  I hang up the phone without saying goodbye. Pushing all thoughts of Wyatt out of my head, I turn to the notepad in my lap and stare at it … and then stare at it some more. I tap the pen several times against my mouth. I have absolutely no idea how to even start.

  Do I tell him how I feel? Do I speak my mind, and if I do, will it offend him? Do I really care if I offend him? Nope, can’t say that I do. He left me, remember? Plus, it’s not like we’ll ever be friends again, especially after the way we he tucked tail and ran. It’s likely that he won’t even respond.

  I situate the pen on the top line of the paper and decide to go for broke. I mean, seriously, what do I have to lose?

  Not a damn thing.

  “Warrior” – Evans Blue

  THE MORNINGS HERE ARE WHEN I’m most at ease. The sun scrapes the horizon, teasing the leaves of palm trees with flickers of life. The air is at first cool and light before making way for the broil of midday, and I do my best to enjoy every bit of it. I find that the eastern boundary of our small compound, which is no larger than an elementary school campus, is the best place for catching the sharp, early morning rays. I patiently wait here for them to breach the massive walls, our only defense against a harsh reality on the other side.

  I slept like shit last night thinking of Jax—or Sergeant David Jackson, as the etche
d stone now reads.

  My thoughts have strayed as of late, reaching deep, dark places they’re not meant to go. To him … to our first deployment in Afghanistan, which was cake compared to this.

  Jax was like a big brother to me there, taking me under his wing. We grew close fighting an enemy that came with tenacity. But at least we knew who we were fighting because they’d bring the fight to our fucking doorstep. It wasn’t like this bullshit here, bombs buried around every turn.

  I vividly remember watching the planes barrel into the Twin Towers. It stuck with me, and serving my country was always something I thought about. So after years of dicking around and a failed attempt at community college, I joined the Army pissing vinegar and ready for a fight.

  The notification that I’d be shipping right out to meet an infantry unit in mid-deployment was of no concern to me, and Afghanistan was exactly what I’d hoped it would be. We spent many a long night after a mission was complete talking under the bright desert stars, keeping each other’s hopes up with stories of college, girls and beer. Discussions so vivid, you could almost taste the hops.

  But this deployment … this is so much different. I didn’t sign up for Iraq. I didn’t even really agree with it. Hell, I even had ‘Fuck Bush’ written in white window paint on the back of my mom’s ’95 Dodge Stratus in high school. That shit was on there for like two years. Mind you, that was mostly because pissing off Tennessee rednecks gave me a hard-on. I never really belonged there.

  As a soldier, I took my doubts about Iraq in stride, but with explosions every other day and the enemy camouflaged so thoroughly within the public, it’s made for hard time served. With each passing day, these thoughts have become more frequent, pulling at my attention, taking me to places I know I shouldn’t be going but can’t seem to help. They burrow into my brain and have their way with me.

  I think of what stage of decomposition Jax would be in as visions of blood seeping through the material of his uniform flash through my head.

  God, please save me from these thoughts.