Surrender (14 page)

I needed to pee, but it was safe and dark under the blanket, serene even, and God knew I needed some peace. My eyes were puffy and stinging, and my throat was dry. I peeked out from under the blanket at the clock: 5:23
A.M.

Shit.

I held my fists up to my eyes, the silver ring back on my left hand, trying to force myself to sleep the last hour before I had to get up. But try as I might, my brain wouldn't stop whirring with Jason's last words. I'd heard his voice as I was reading the letter, had heard the hopeful tone coming through his writing. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine him alive in Afghanistan, sitting in his plywood room, writing me that letter.

Five years had gone by since he died. Five years of thinking that he had left me without anything. And only now was I finding out that he had left me his love, his thoughts, his words.

Neal had robbed me of that closure for over five damn years.

With adrenaline surging through my veins, I threw aside the blanket and reached for the phone.

“Hello?” he said after the first ring. “Julie?”

“When did you know?” I asked. “When did you know I was the Julie in this letter? Did you know from day one, on that beach?”

He cleared his throat. “No. Not that day. I didn't even have a clue until we were talking on the beach after the wedding reception, when you told me that your fiancé had died.”

“Why didn't you give it to me then?”

“I don't know. I guess I was hoping you weren't
that
Julie,” he said. “I didn't know for sure until you told me your name in Vegas. By then I didn't want to give the letter to you anymore. You'd been through so much, I didn't want to put you through another emotional upheaval.”

“What the hell were you thinking?” I cried, starting to feel my sanity slip. “What, you thought you could just insert yourself into our lives? Try to be Jason's replacement?”

“No,” he said without any fight in his voice. He sighed. “It wasn't like that at all.”

I took in a shaky breath, tears filling my eyes once again.

I looked around the room, at the darkened walls boxing me in. “When I first read Jason's name on that news article, I just got in bed and crawled under the covers. I didn't want to move. I thought that if I stayed there long enough, it wouldn't be true. Then if I stayed there long enough, I wouldn't be pregnant. I wanted to sleep it off. Everything.”

“Julie . . .”

“You know what was the last thing Jason said to me?”

“What?” he whispered.

“He said, ‘I'll see you soon. I can't wait to go to that first ultrasound with you.'” I covered my mouth to hold back the sob that erupted from my throat. “I haven't slept. All I keep hearing is his voice, how shocked he was when I told him that I was pregnant, then his ridiculous laugh. He sounded so happy.”

When Neal said nothing, I kept going. “He wrote that letter the same day he was killed. He didn't want to die. He had so much to come home to. And then there's you, the guy who proudly courts death,” I said. “How is it Jason died while you lived?”

He didn't argue, didn't tell me I was being unfair. In many ways his silence made it worse.

There was a rustling on his end. Then Neal said, “I'm coming over.”

“No. Don't,” I said, sitting up and glancing at the clock. “I have to take Will to school and I have work . . .”

“I don't care. I need to be with you.”

“Neal, we're not . . .” I sighed. “I shouldn't have called you.”

He let out a frustrated breath. “Julie—”

“We're over, Neal. Once and for all.”

“I don't think so. Not by a long shot,” he said with some grit in his voice.

“Well, fortunately, that's not up to you.”

—

After dropping Will off at school, I called off from work and just started to drive around. Pretty soon I was driving north on I-35, toward Oklahoma. I'd never once taken this drive to see Jason, was never even asked.

The entire time we were dating, I thought he hadn't introduced me to his family because he was ashamed of me. Turned out he had just been waiting for me to make the first move.

So I finally made the drive up that long stretch of asphalt that tied Dallas to Oklahoma City as I should have done a long time ago. I tried to recall each and every time we were together but five years had burnished some of the memory's edges, made it hard to remember every detail until only faces and words and feelings were left.

With help from the GPS in my phone, I found the park that Jason had often told me about. I parked the car and got out, finding the running path that bordered the grassy area. Even though it was only a few degrees above freezing, I walked along that path, staring down at my feet, imagining I was retracing Jason's very same steps.

“He was here,” I murmured, fingering my ring. “He was real.”

I must have looked strange—this woman huddled in her coat, staring at the frosty ground as she talked to herself—but I didn't care.

“You'll love this park by my apartment,” Jason had told me once. “Earlywine. It's always full of activity, people running and walking, kids practicing soccer, families enjoying the playgrounds. It's always so alive.”

“I'll stick to my treadmill in the gym, thanks,” I'd said just to be ornery and he'd tickled me until I'd thrown my hands up in surrender. “So when are you planning on taking me to this park of yours?”

He'd studied me for a moment before saying, “Whenever you like.”

I'd misunderstood him back then, had allowed fear and insecurity to keep me from hearing the truth: that Jason was ready to give me everything. I'd just needed to say the word.

As I walked back to my car, I passed by a mother pushing her child on the swing. I wondered about her little family, about the father of her child. Was he in the armed forces or did he work a civilian job? Most important, was he alive, and if so, did she know just how lucky she was?

Thirteen Years Ago

The day my mom came home from the hospital I was convinced she was getting better. But I was only seventeen and didn't know squat.

Dad carried her in from the car, settling her into his favorite recliner. He was still really strong then but it wouldn't have taken much strength to carry my mother anyway. The never-ending chemo and radiation had done a number on her; she was stick thin, her skin pale and paperlike, and she looked about twenty years older.

But still, I thought for sure she was kicking cancer's ass. She was Lori Harding, former firefighter for the Navy and all-around badass. For the longest time, I was convinced that she was some sort of superhero, that there was nothing she couldn't overcome. Turned out I was wrong.

I brought in Mom's bags from the car then helped Dad make her comfortable, tucking her in with her favorite fleece blanket, setting drinks and magazines by the side table within easy reach. We even gave her free rein of the TV, which, for two men who had lived on their own for a long time, was something like giving up an important organ.

“Are you quite done?” she asked, swatting us away with remote controls.

Dad's lips twitched under his overgrown beard. He hadn't shaved in so long, I'd almost forgotten what he looked like under that brown bush. “I'm sending Neal to the grocery store. Do you need anything?”

“Why don't you go instead?” she asked. “I'd like to spend some time with Neal.”

Dad shrugged and took the keys from me. “So what do you need?”

“I'd like a big bottle of Yoo-hoo,” Mom said with a smile. “I suddenly have a hankering for an oversugared chocolate drink.”

Dad smiled. “Anything else? Twizzlers to go with that?”

“Twizzlers will gunk up my system. Better make it Red Vines,” Mom said, and suddenly it was like we were back in the old days, back when Mom hadn't yet been diagnosed with cancer and our lives were still fun and easy. For the first time in years, I felt the weight lift off my chest. Maybe it was really going to be okay.

After Dad left, a quiet contentment settled over the room. I sat on the end of the couch closest to Mom and we watched some lame soap opera where the guy got this woman pregnant but she turned out to be his sister or something.

“See, Maurice fell in love with Paulette,” Mom explained with a knowing smile. “Then he learned she was really his sister but the kid she was pregnant with really wasn't his. It was really his best friend's baby, who is currently lost in the Sahara Desert.”

I gave her a look that conveyed just how ridiculous I thought it was.

“I know,” she said with a laugh. “But it's good to escape once in a while.”

I rolled my eyes approximately fifty times during the next two minutes. When I couldn't take the show's absurdity anymore, I turned to Mom. “So are you ready to see your only child graduate?” I asked. “For a while there, I thought you might not be able to make it.”

Mom turned off the TV. “When is it again?”

“In May. Three months till I'm free.”

“Until you go to college,” she said in a happy tone that seemed forced. “Will Gia go with you?”

“We're staying here, going to San Diego State. You know that.” I'd come to the hospital almost every day, telling Mom everything about my life so she wouldn't feel left out. One of our most frequent subjects was my girlfriend since junior year, Gia Hedlund, and our plans for the future.

“You're still young, Neal,” Mom said. “You have many more years of living ahead of you.”

I scrunched my eyebrows together, not sure what she meant.

“You don't have to pin yourself down in one place so soon.” Her gaze wandered to the window, a faraway look on her face. “Travel around, see the world. Go kiss the Blarney Stone, walk the Great Wall of China, surf the waves of Hawaii.” She blinked a few times and turned back to me. “Your dad always told me I had a gypsy soul. I think you do, too.”

I jumped up and ran to my room, grabbing the oversized world map that I'd glued onto a foam-core board. “Look,” I said, holding it up before her. “These are all the places I want to go once Dad and I are done building the plane. I've got a notebook with information on each country, the best time to visit, the best sights to see.”

She reached out and touched every single red pin, reciting each location under her breath. When she was done, she looked up, tears shining in her eyes. “Yes. This.”

We looked at each other for a long time, understanding passing between us.

Finally I set the board down at my feet. “You're not going to make it to my graduation, are you?” I asked, my voice cracking at the end.

She shook her head. “I think it's nearly time to start saying good-bye.”

My chest hurt. I knew her death had been coming, but knowing hadn't made it easier to deal with the reality.

“Neal,” she said, reaching out to take my hand. She pulled me closer. “I know it hasn't been easy for you and Dad. And it might get a little harder after I die. But I promise you that it will get better as time goes by. You'll see.”

How could that be? It didn't seem possible. “Who's going to listen to me ramble on and on now?” I asked. “You're like a diary except you talk back and lecture me.”

She gave me a sad smile. “You know you can talk to your dad, too.”

“Not like I talk to you.” I crouched down in front of her, trying to keep it together. “He's not very good at talking back.”

“But he's very good at listening.” She took my face in her bony hands, her skin scratchy and thin. Still, I nuzzled my face into it, trying to memorize everything about her from here on out. “Everything happens for a reason, Neal.”

“Aren't you scared?”

“No. Not anymore,” she said. “It's inevitable. We're all going to die, just some sooner than others.”

I bent my head at her lap, my tears darkening the blanket that covered her. I felt her fingers through my hair, stroking it like she used to do when I was little and she'd sing me to sleep. It felt like a million years ago.

“My only regret is that I couldn't be a better mother to you,” she said, her voice unsteady. “But I know you and your dad are going to be okay. You guys need to take care of each other, okay? He won't ask for help, but try to give him a hand anyway.”

I nodded, the vision of my mother hazy through my tears. I wiped at my face with the back of my hand to see her more clearly.

“Don't be so sad,” she said, bending forward to kiss my forehead. “This isn't a permanent good-bye, Neal. We'll see each other again.”

Five Years Ago

I shielded my eyes from the intense sun and looked up at the small wooden structure—the B-hut, as they're called on Bagram Airfield—wondering what the hell I was in for. I was not prepared for the windowless darkness that welcomed me when I opened the door, with nothing but raw plywood walls greeting me on both sides, the tops of which didn't even reach the ceiling. There were six doors in all in this narrow hallway, three on each side, with a dirty rectangular rug lying skewed on the cement floor to tie the shitty décor together.

I walked in and found my assigned room at the end of the hall. With a small push, the door flew open and slammed against the wall. Hell, I could have breathed on it and it would have blown open, it was so flimsy.

The room itself was roughly seven feet by seven feet, with a rumpled bed that looked as if its previous occupant had just gotten up to go take a leak, a wooden bookshelf above overflowing with books and various other things, and a horrendous maroon rug covering most of the cement floor. The closet, if you could even call it that, was nothing but a rectangular niche in the wall covered by a piece of plywood on hinges.

“Homey.” I set my boxes down on the middle of the rug, suspecting it hadn't been vacuumed in several deployment cycles, if ever. The wall that the bed butted against also didn't reach the ceiling, but the occupant next door had stapled a piece of black fabric up there for some semblance of privacy. All in all, this was typical Bagram accommodations. Hell, at least it beat the tents. At least I no longer had to jack off in the latrines.

I walked over to the narrow shelf, looking over the books the previous tenant had left behind.
Faith of My Fathers
by John McCain,
The Art of War
by Sun Tzu,
A Game of Thrones
, a few James Patterson novels, and a book on poker. I held an empty box at the end of the bookshelf and slid everything over into it, then changed my mind and took out the largest book. I'd read the entire Song of Ice and Fire series before but this deployment was going to be long and I'd need something to fill the hours.

I made my way to the closet, finding it completely full of clothing, most of them folded, some not so much. But as long as a scorpion—or worse, a big-ass camel spider—didn't jump out at me, I considered it a good day.

It felt strange to be going through this guy's stuff; I'd never even met this Captain Sherman. I'd only heard stories about him, about what a great guy he was, smart and a good leader. People were saying if his unit had only gone a different route that day, if they hadn't stayed to talk to the locals, Sherman would still be alive, as if they could have saved the poor guy from his fate.

Death wasn't something we could avoid when there were people out there plotting against us daily, whose main concern in life was to kill as many of us as possible. All you could really do out here was hope to prolong the inevitable.

It took a while to empty the closet as I folded everything neatly before setting everything in the box, knowing nobody else would repack it before it was shipped back to his parents or wife. When I was almost done, I spotted a plain white envelope at the very back of the tiny closet.

Julie Grace Keaton
,
it said on the outside.

I flipped it over and found the flap unsealed. I looked at the name again and wondered why Sherman hadn't sent the letter. Perhaps she was an old flame, someone who'd decided to leave her man during the deployment, or maybe she was “the other woman.”

Whoever this Julie was, she obviously wasn't important enough to get this forgotten letter.

I didn't know what possessed me to do it—why I thought it was okay to read this dead man's words—but I sat on the bed and opened the envelope, unfolding the lined notebook paper without too much hesitation.

It became clear, after the first line, that this was no ordinary letter. This was a freaking death missive, a man's last words before he went out to die in battle. Except, in this day and age, save for a few sentimental guys out in the front lines, nobody writes these anymore.

Still, that didn't stop me; in fact, it made me all the more fascinated. I'd never read one, never even thought about writing one of my own. What would I even say to my girlfriend, Shari? Would I tell her to move on with her life, even though I was still alive? Why would I even need to write one when my job entailed never having to leave the base?

Here at Bagram we'd get mortar attacks about twice a week, and though a lot of the times they were duds, a few still managed to cause trouble. A rocket lit up a truck recently and did some damage to a nearby building. We were lucky there were no casualties, but it could have just as easily killed someone, a service member or contractor who thought we were safe within the walled confines of this base. In that sense, writing a death letter wasn't so far-fetched.

Still, the man in that letter wasn't ready to go. Hell, he didn't want to go. His desire to live and get back to his girl was as clear as day.

I put the letter back in the envelope but something kept me from dropping it in the box along with the rest of his stuff—an image of a woman reading this letter, and the tears that would surely follow when she realized he could never make good on his promises.

Before I could change my mind, I folded it in half and stuffed it into my camo pants pocket, ignoring the fact that I was stealing from the dead, preferring instead to think that I was doing them both a favor. I was saving her from even more heartache and he from becoming a man who didn't keep his word.

For years I held on to that letter, trying to understand why this Jason Sherman was so opposed to the idea of dying. It wasn't until much later, when I finally met Julie Grace Keaton, that I finally understood his reason for living.