Authors: Traci Sanders
Your wife,
Jewel
I couldn’t send it. First, I had no address to send it to. Second, I wanted to be strong for him. I didn’t want to make him feel guilty for choosing an admirable profession like serving his country. I folded the paper and slid it into an envelope. Then I placed it in my underwear drawer and turned out the light to face my first night alone in our bed, which seemed to extend for miles since he was no longer there to fill the space beside me.
Each night was a repeat of the one before. I stayed up as late as possible writing or watching television. Now that my friends had returned to their own lives, my characters were the only ones I could talk to. Once I reached the point of exhaustion, my feet shuffled up the stairs in hopes of a good night’s sleep; but my dreams had other plans. They were always the same:
Harley is walking up the front steps. He’s home! I rush out to meet him and just before we touch, a bomb is dropped in between us and he is blown away.
I jolted awake after the explosion. My breath was rapid and heavy and my sheets were soaked in sweat. I pushed my hair back and wiped my face. I grabbed his picture from the bedside table and kissed it, offering a silent prayer once again. Then I placed it back in position and attempted to finish the night.
For the next few hours, the waves mirrored my movements as they tumbled with lack of direction in the sea. I bolted upright again and looked around, awakened by what sounded like a thump at the door. I grabbed my flashlight and Beretta from the night stand drawer, and then took a careful stroll around the house to ensure all was in place. (Thankfully, Harley took me shooting a few times before we married to make sure I knew how to protect myself while he was away.) My heart pounded at such a fierce volume that I worried it would be a dead giveaway, no pun intended. I tiptoed through the house, checking every corner and closet, my hand trigger-ready. Nothing seemed amiss.
I expelled a heavy sigh of relief and returned the gun to its safe place. Then I walked back downstairs and drank some warm milk. My eyes continued to survey the house with each step I took.
Confident my home had been disturbed by nothing more than my own imagination, I returned to bed. My slumber remained as restless as the sea night after night, until that dreadful day came and confirmed that my nightmares had become my reality.
* * * * * * * * *
A
t first I didn’t pay much attention to the black car parked behind the men in uniform who stood before me. They were accompanied by a chaplain and what appeared to be a paramedic, though at first I wasn’t exactly sure why either of those individuals was necessary. It didn’t take long to find out.
“Hello, Mrs. Decker. We apologize for waking you, ma’am, but we need to speak with you for a moment. May we step inside?”
“Of course, but I’m fine here on the porch. We can talk here.”
The melancholic tone in his voice declared that something was wrong right away. My legs disappeared from under me and two of them lowered me to the rocking chair. The lead officer returned to an upright position, forced a stoic expression on his face, and continued with his military spiel.
“I have been asked to inform you that your husband, Second Lieutenant Harley Decker, was reported deceased in Kabul, Afghanistan at 1845 on May 22, 2014.
A missile struck his plane during an ambush. Several lives were lost during this attack and regrettably his was on that list of names
.”
His voice cracked a little and he paused to regain his composure and complete his speech. “
On behalf of the Secretary of Defense, we extend to you and your family our deepest sympathies for your great loss.”
His tone and posture softened as he added, “Ma’am, on a personal note, Harley was a good man and a good friend. He will be sorely missed.”
I was numb, unable to speak. My ears rang. A thousand thoughts flashed through my mind like a 9mm reel. Images of our wedding day … the beach in the Bahamas … him carrying me over the threshold … our last moments together, making love.
Then the images changed as I imagined what he must have gone through in his last moments, the ear-splitting sound of missiles and his yells for help because of the excruciating pain caused by the flames on his skin. It was too much for my brain to process. My breath came at a rapid pace, but I forced it to slow so I wouldn’t hyperventilate. I just wanted those men to go away, so I somehow commanded my mind to move on. There would be plenty of time to fall apart once they left. All I could hope for was that his death was quick and without unbearable pain. My eyes remained dry. I was too shocked to respond to what I’d just heard.
I wasn’t sure if I had even replied to the young man, but I suppose I did because at some point, he and the others returned to the car and drove off at a careful pace. He had offered to have a neighbor or family member come stay with me, but I informed him that there was no one to call, and I was fine. Of course, I lied. He also left a card with a number to call for more information about the incident. I didn’t want to know anything else; I couldn’t bring myself to even think about the other details. How much more did he suffer? I couldn’t bear to find out.
I did remember him saying that the military would be in touch to discuss the arrangements for Harley’s service. I also vaguely recalled him stating that there would be a remembrance ceremony.
It was as if my soul abandoned my body as I closed the door behind me. I fell to my knees and buried my face in my hands. My body rocked back and forth, as if music was playing in the background, but my sobs were the only sound that echoed throughout our empty house.
Mom came to stay with me for a few days. She, along with Gretchen and Chelsea, attended the service and tried to convince me to, but just as I’d done with my grandpa, I didn’t want to be a part of it. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t listen to the trumpet blaring out “
Taps,’’
couldn’t take having an officer placing that flag on my lap. People would have repeatedly offered the ‘we’re so sorry for your loss’ speeches throughout the entire event. I know folks mean well and feel helpless in times like that, so they feel obligated to say these things; but none of it helps.
No amount of sympathy or condolence would bring him back to me.
For the next few days, I played my denial role well, and even convinced Mom I was well enough for her to go back home.
So I could grieve in solitude the way I preferred.
Gretchen and Chelsea had to get back to their jobs, thankfully.
When she left, I went back to doing what I do best during tragic times. I shut the world out. I functioned on auto-pilot. I couldn’t eat or sleep, and barely moved throughout the day. Showers were not a concern to me.
One day, two men in uniform showed up on my front porch with a box in hand. I sat on the couch, hidden from view, until the knocking finally stopped and my feet carried my small frame over to peek out the front window. Once the car was out of sight, I opened the door and found a small box on the porch, with the name Second Lieutenant Harvey Decker written on top. I concluded that it contained his personal belongings. There was that neatly folded American flag on top. I slid the box inside, and sat it in a corner to deal with later.
I wanted to kick it across the room, but decided that would be disrespectful. So many emotions were swirling around in my head, anger, sadness, betrayal. I knew he didn’t really betray me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been cheated out of the life I was promised.
* * * * * * * * *
I
sigh as my mind returns to the present moment. I toss the pills in the trash, angry at the realization that I’m much too chicken to take them. My feet shuffle a slow path down the stairs.
When I reach the bottom, I see the sign above the door and vent my anger to the empty room.
“So you’re really gone? This is it? This is all I get? You sweep me off my feet in a whirlwind, and then leave me to live in this huge house all alone?”
My voice gets louder. “I don’t want this fairytale without you!” I walk over to the sign, tear it from the wall, and sling it toward the patio doors with as much strength as I can muster. It doesn’t break.
Damn weatherproof glass.
CHAPTER FOUR
M
y feet shuffle a slow path to the couch where I fall onto my back and face the ceiling.
I think about all the little things I took for granted. His touch. His smile. The way he placed his hand on the small of my back to lead me through a crowd.
I close my eyes for a moment and imagine he’s beside me once again. I can feel his heart beating. A heartbeat. It’s such a simple yet magnificent thing. Its mere presence can sustain an entire being; yet its absence can destroy one.
My body remains still, caught between an awakened state and sleep as my eyes follow the circular path of the ceiling fan above. I have no sense of time or the happenings in the world outside these walls. All I know is my husband—my best friend—is dead, and I have no clue how to exist without him.
A thousand thoughts run through my mind.
What did he mean about fulfilling
my
destiny? What could
my
destiny be?
Unable to come up with any immediate, concrete answers, I turn once again to my usual comfort. Writing.
I pull out my laptop and prepare to type. My fingers rest on the keys for several minutes, but the words don’t come. I get up to stretch my limbs and glance around the room. The box in the corner haunts me as I make my way over to sift through it.
I lift the folded flag from the top and bury my face in it for a moment. Then I take great care to wipe my tears off of it and place it on the floor beside me.
A picture of our wedding day catches my eye. It’s a bit faded and crumpled. I pick it up and run my fingers over his face then place it against my heart for a moment. I plant a small kiss on it and lay it on the floor, moving in slow motion. My hands find a couple of his t-shirts and I breathe in his scent.
What I see next makes my heart skip a beat. My hands tremble as I open the folded piece of paper and read these words:
Dear Jewel,
Well, this isn’t exactly how I had planned to spend our first few months as a married couple, but life doesn’t always work out the way we hope. I’m sitting on this plane, needing to get some sleep for what lies in store for me in the days to come, but all I can think about is your sweet smile and how much I miss touching your soft skin. Those thoughts will keep me warm at night, and I know I will have only sweet dreams.
I know you haven’t had time to process everything that has transpired in the past few weeks. You have a new husband, new home, and new way of life, but I hope you never regret marrying me because making you my wife was the best decision I could have ever made. I can’t wait to be back in your arms.
But baby, you know the risks of my job. If something should happen to me, grieve if you must, but not for long. Don’t waste the rest of your life missing me. You are meant for such greatness in this life. Make me proud. I will love you forever, and we will always be unsevered.
Love, your husband,
Harley
I press his words to my heart, and tears drench my face. My body sways as it did the day I got the news about him.
After some time, my crying slows and a sweet breeze of peace washes over me. I refold the letter and place his items in the box. I position my laptop underneath the box. I always keep it handy in case my characters decide to talk to me. Then I carry the load upstairs to my room. I place my laptop on my bed and slide the box into the closet. With no ambition or energy to do anything else, I curl up in my cover and fall sleep, with his letter still in hand.
As usual, I toss and turn in unison with the sea. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face and hear the words he last spoke to me—about fulfilling my destiny.
Perhaps I’m meant to start another book.
For the first time during my career as an author, I know exactly what the title will be.
* * * * * * * * *
I
’m not even sure why I attempted to go to bed. It’s only 3 a.m. and my eyes are wide open. My mind is overflowing with ideas. Sleep is not happening tonight, which is not a big loss. It’s usually filled with nightmares anyway.
I rise to a half-sitting position, reluctant to leave the warm, soft haven of my comforter. I pull my laptop over to me on the bed. I take in a deep breath, toss my hair into a scrunchie, and begin typing.
A mixture of emotions floods my soul. I cry, I laugh, and I cry some more as my fingers tap the keys. The next time I look at the clock, it is 7 a.m., and the sun is peeking over the sea. I’ve written eight chapters. The words flowed from my heart like never before. It was as if he was right beside me, feeding me thoughts and phrases. Harley used to revel in watching me write. He said it was as if I would transcend to another place and time, and he was riveted by it.
The story mimics everything about our relationship. It includes the night we met at the bar, every detail of the wedding, and our last moments together.
I stop typing when I reach the part about his death.
Now what? What am I supposed to write next? Our story ends here.
I rise from the bed and take a few deep breaths. My neck is stiff, my eyes heavy. My feet carry me to the balcony that’s positioned off our bedroom, where I stand mesmerized by the crashing waves and the serenade of sea gulls below. The sky is painted in beautiful shades of orange and yellow. It’s an incredible view, and I’m one of the lucky few in the world who is afforded the luxury of waking up to this every day. Thank God we didn’t live on the base, or I’d be back in that depressing one-bedroom apartment now.
A smile plays on my face as I think about how much fun it would have been to skinny-dip in the salty sea at night with him, with the sand invading every crevice on our bodies while we make love on the beach. We would have woken to a beautiful sunrise over the sea. So many plans; so many dreams.
As I walk back to my bed and sit with my laptop in hand, an epiphany surfaces.
Perhaps I can write our story the way
I wanted
it to end instead of the way it actually ended.
The idea thrills me.
With my newfound energy, I sprint downstairs to prepare my first real meal in weeks. I always write better on a full stomach. Soon, the smell of bacon, eggs, and French toast engulfs the house. I smile as I crack the eggs, remembering that this was the last meal I’d prepared for Harley. Little things like that seem to be sticking with me.
I almost inhale my food then run back upstairs to find a decent outfit for the day. Pajamas can’t be worn forever. While the shower warms, I stand in front of the full-length mirror inspecting myself. My eyes have developed saggy pockets underneath. My skin is droopy and pale. I half-chuckle at the irony of living on a beach with pasty skin. It seems almost disrespectful.
My stomach and thighs have accumulated a little extra padding due to recent events. I’ve survived the past few weeks on cookies, cakes, and pies, so I guess it makes sense.
I brush the sticky film off my teeth and comb tangles from my frizzy hair, then disappear into a hot, steamy portal of bliss.
The water awakens my senses as it cascades down my back and legs. I lather my hands with soap and cleanse my body. As I caress my breasts, thighs, and feet, I imagine it’s
his
hands touching my skin. His strong fingers press into my arms and make their way to my waist, then down my hips and thighs. Whether it’s my strong visualization skills as a writer, or it really is happening, I’m not sure. Regardless, in moments, I release all my pent-up sadness, frustration, and anger in the form of a quite satisfying orgasm.
I’m lost in the moment and shudder as the water temperature turns frigid. I step out of the glass enclosure alone.
Only my imagination.
A cool blast of air collides with my skin. I dry off with a plush, brown towel and pin my hair into a quick bun. Then I slide into the first pair of jeans I’ve worn in a while, paired with a v-necked white t-shirt that reads ‘I write. What’s your gift?’ It was a present from Harley, and he adored me in it.
I carry my laptop downstairs to the sofa and prepare to construct my fantasy … or what became my new reality.
* * * * * * * * *
M
y story continues
where Harley is headed to the Middle East, my friends sleep over and then we part ways the next day. I am left alone in the house for the first time, working on my latest novel titled ‘The Magic of Love’—and that’s where things become quite strange.
* * * * * * * * *
I
glance at the clock beside my bed, with sleep-crusted eyes. “Past noon already. Half the day is gone,” I complain aloud.
I survived my first night alone in the house, aside from getting up about a million times for every single noise I heard.
My feet hit the floor in conquest of food, but I remember I haven’t been to the grocery store in quite a while. It was something Harley and I always did together. Another thing I’ll have to get used to doing alone.
I settle for a few crackers and pickles, then take a long walk on the beach to calm my thoughts. The sky is a brilliant blue backdrop sprinkled with white, puffy clouds. The warm sun and soft mist from the ocean tickles my skin, simulating the experience of walking into a sauna. I close my eyes and take in the serenity. The sand disappears under my toes as gentle waves crash over my feet and return to the sea. My mind begins to calm.
I linger for a couple more hours then head back home to dive into writing again. This particular book is about a young woman who discovers she has magical powers, but can’t allow her husband to know. It will be the first in my
Enchanted
series.
Writing is soothing and cathartic for me. Plus it keeps my mind busy while waiting for news about Harley. It’s been thirty-seven days since he left and it feels like a lifetime. I haven’t heard anything about the mission. I don’t even know if he made it there safely. The not knowing is the hardest part of being a military wife.
I pour myself into my work. Some days, the hours seem to fly by, and others, they drag on. I purchased an elliptical bike about a week after Harley left, and set it up in front of the lower patio doors facing the ocean. When I get writer’s block, I hop on it and within minutes my brain is recharged and ready to go again.
Six grueling months of drafting, proofing, editing, and re-editing pass. My story is finally ready to be published. My publisher, Betty, calls to confirm that the release date is three weeks away. I hope Harley will be home in time to join me for the launch party. Now that this novel is done, once again, there’s nothing left to do but wait.
Since we don’t live on base, I don’t see the other military wives often, but do occasionally have lunch with a few of them or exchange phone calls for encouragement. I have mixed feelings about the support meetings. Sometimes it helps, but other times it’s just a bunch of women sitting around crying over missing their husbands, which makes me sad. Then there are those complaining about having to take care of their kids and households alone, which makes me mad. I don’t want to become bitter and I definitely don’t want to sit around and cry all the time. I guess each person deals with it the best they can. Thank God I have my writing.
My friends seem too busy to hang out these days. I figure it might have something to do with the talk of “my new book” again. I’m sure they get tired of hearing about it, but I don’t have much else going on in my life. I hear Chelsea found a great guy and is wrapped up in him. I miss our good times but I’m thrilled for her. She deserves to be happy. She had such a rough childhood. Being sexually abused by her father gave her a poor example of how a man is supposed to treat a woman. That, in turn, caused her to choose partners who have treated her like dirt over the years. I truly hope this guy does right by her.
With no friends around and Harley still away, I’m left to my own devices many nights. More often than not that means writing. The problem is that I have no other stories in my head at the moment. I turn to mindless television.
Letterman
ends and I make my way upstairs for bed. It always seems so cold and lonely when I first slide under the covers, but somehow this night is different. A warmth surrounds me, something I haven’t felt in quite some time. It’s as if Harley is in our bed again. Though I’m not sure if it’s because my book is finished, or the fact that I’m so exhausted, I pass out and enjoy a rare full eight hours of sleep.
* * * * * * * * *
“M
mm,” I moan. Soft wet kisses are my wakeup call. The darkness outside my window confirms that it’s not quite morning. At first I assume I’m dreaming, but I open my eyes to the most wonderful reality—Harley!
I kiss him back with a strength I didn’t even know I possess. He runs his fingers through my long, wavy tresses, and takes notice of something new about me.
“Wow, baby! Your hair has grown so much since I left. And it’s dark blonde. I thought you hated your hair being dark?”
I look away, a little embarrassed. “You don’t like it. I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy with my book and haven’t had time to get it done. This is my natural color.”