She checked in with the maître d’, who directed her to Matt’s table. He was wearing a suit, a rare sight seen only on occasions like charity fundraisers.
When she got to the table, he kissed her, and they sat down. He was smiling, buoyant, like a little boy anticipating Christmas morning. He’d already ordered champagne, a bottle of Taittinger.
“I have something I want to say to you,” he said, reaching across the table for her hands.
Her palms were actually sweating.
He drew in a nervous breath, released it, and said, “I’ve been offered clinical chief of emergency medicine.” He burst out in an ear-to-ear smile. “I thought this was the perfect opportunity to celebrate.”
Margo forced a smile. She was happy for him, but she was also disappointed.
On cue, the waiter came over and poured two glasses of champagne. When they touched glasses, she tried to stop her hand from shaking. Grow up, Margo. Next time. Then she reacted.
“I have news too,” she blurted out. “I’m taking the position at Lurie.” Lurie was a children’s hospital in downtown Chicago that had offered her a position as an attending physician in the ER.
He looked confused. “You’re taking it? I thought you decided not to.”
“You know I want to work with children, Matt.”
“Congratulations, Margo. I guess tonight is a celebration for both of us.” This time, his smile was forced.
She lifted her glass. She’d told him she was going to turn the job down and spend another year at Marshall General. That earlier decision, right or wrong, was solely because she wanted to be near Matt. He was an amazing mentor. She adored that about him. Matters were much clearer now. So what if they worked at different hospitals? They would be okay. Except, as it turned out, they wouldn’t.
In the dream that Nick overheard, Margo was pregnant, and she was shouting at Matt—but not for the reason Nick thought. She wanted to have a life with Matt. She wanted his children. But she and Matt always seemed to be moving in opposite directions. They’d never raised their voices at one another, but in the dream, they didn’t hold back. She was going to tell Matt that she was pregnant, but she’d miscarried, and like Heather, had become infertile. The dream wasn’t about hating her current pregnancy—it was about loving it and fearing she wouldn’t survive this ordeal to see or touch or hold her baby.
Now, as she trudged eastwardly downward through the heavy mounds of snow, ever hopeful, continuing onward back to civilization, the landscape seemed like nothing more than a foreign language written in pine trees on snow. Her internal sense of time had slipped from her grasp, and the sun seemed as if it were about to fall from the sky. Her best guess said it was sometime after three o’clock in the afternoon. But again, it was hard to be sure of anything. No matter. If she walked east, west, or south, traveling down, eventually she’d meet up with the highway, which couldn’t be all that far away.
In the first half hour, she avoided the deeper snow by using her stick to judge its depths. Then, she came across the kind of sinkhole that Nick warned her about. That didn’t stop her. The trick to avoid falling into the deeper snow was to simply go around it—retrace her steps, veer wider into the forest, and exit back out to where she believed the railroad tracks to be. If only she could run. The mind so often wants what the body can’t deliver.
How odd that, in all this madness, her feet hadn’t felt the cold until now—a benefit of the pregnancy—and that was likely because of the physical exertion.
Encountering wild animals—coyotes, in particular—remained foremost in her thoughts. No longer did she believe that a coyote wouldn’t attack a human. Attacks might be rare, but they happened. With each step in the right direction, her determination continued to build. She didn’t worry about Nick. Nick could take care of himself.
She was careful not to move toward the mountains, because mountains weren’t linear and there were few tunnels cut through the rock. She focused on where the light in the sky was most intense and estimated where the east was. She continued to use her stick to judge the snow’s depth. She took every precaution. The next few microseconds changed all that when she stepped onto what seemed like hard, compacted snow. Like an eternity lost, God turned off the clock of time. Her every thought and movement became suspended in super-slow motion.
Her body pitched forward, and she dropped her stick. She tried to raise her arms to find balance, and that might’ve worked if she’d had the strength to shift her weight back to the left foot. She didn’t. Her left knee bent and fell onto packed-down snow, but the right leg sunk deep into a soft patch, and her right foot broke through something hard and continued down even deeper but never hit bottom. Her mind swirled as she tried to grasp what had happened.
Snow. Ice. Water.
In this temperature, any error could be fatal. Wet feet meant frostbite. She’d never be able to get her foot dry again. Her heart pounded as if she were at the end of a long sprint, and she did her best to balance her weight.
Don’t panic.
One misstep and her entire body could go down. There was only one way to get out of this. She raised her arms, leaned back, and set both hands down behind her, driving them deep into the snow, hoping to gain enough purchase to hold her weight. She repositioned her bent knee to steady her body. With the large belly, it was almost impossible to maneuver. But she managed to dig deeper cavities with her hands. She eased onto her rump, not slipping forward. Inch by inch, she drew her right leg out of the snow. Minutes later, the leg was free, and she was safe.
After a few slow breaths, she looked at her right leg and found no rips in her pants, which, mercifully, were dry. Her boot was wet, but her foot felt dry. What had just happened? The terrain appeared to be level. There was no indication of a drop-off. She lowered her hood and listened. The wind stilled enough for her to hear the soft trickling of water. She glanced to her left and studied the tree lines. There was a twenty-foot gap in the forest, which was separated by boulders protruding through the snow. Of course. She’d walked into a stream. She’d been so focused on studying the terrain that she’d missed the warning signs around her.
She picked up the walking stick, used it to locate stable ground adjacent to the stream, and carefully inched forward. She was on her way again until the stick sunk lower. When she pulled it up, the tip was wet, and fragments of brown sediment clung to its edges. What had she missed this time? Looking around, she appeared to be free of the stream. But the water and debris indicated otherwise. That left a few possibilities—a sinkhole, a tributary, or an underground creek.
“Dammit!” she screamed but fell silent. Loud sounds triggered avalanches and might attract unwanted guests.
Now what?
Go back to the shed and set out again at first light? Everything inside her said to keep going down the mountain. Going up was irrational. But there was no way she could safely cross the stream. That left a compromise with nature; she’d continue along the bank of the stream because it was heading down.
One step at a time. It wasn’t long before the sky darkened and snow began falling, but not heavily enough to dissuade her. She wiped the snow from her cheeks and pushed forward while shielding her eyes from the snow. Just ahead was a break in the terrain. Could it be? Had she reached the highway? She hastened her pace down, making sure to remain on solid ground. As soon as she emerged from the cover of the trees, she discovered her mistake. Civilization was nowhere. No sign of a highway, no sign of railway tracks. She now stood on a precipice gazing into a vast landscape of mountains filled with only trees. Ten feet in front of her was a sheer drop-off—a frozen waterfall. The beauty was breathtaking, the discovery heartbreaking. How could this be? She’d been so careful to go in the right direction.
Angry heat raced through her veins, threatening to rip her soul from her flesh. Exhausted, she wanted to sit down. That, too, would be another mistake.
Damn the snow, damn her mistakes, damn her loneliness, damn her stubbo
rnness. Damn it all.
She faced the mountain that held her prisoner. “Is there no reasoning with you, you beast? You impenetrable mass of stone. I know why you’re here. You want to judge me, don’t you? To strip the very life from me and my child? Well, forget it. I won’t let you. I can, and I will persevere. I’m going to beat you.”
She looked into the sky. How long had she been walking? How long would it take her to get back to the shed? It didn’t matter. She started the climb. Five steps later, a severe cramp in her abdomen struck—a sensation she hadn’t experienced in years. She walked two steps more. Impossible to continue.
She sat down, pulled the hood over her face, and eased down onto her side. The cramp slowly intensified. Please let it only be Braxton-Hicks contractions. She drew in deep breaths, waiting and praying that the contraction would pass and that no more would come. To distract herself from the pain, she lowered her hood enough to see up into the trees. The wind had picked up considerably. There was only the wilderness, not city billboards, horns honking, or the other sights of a city that could be so distracting. She rolled her head from side to side. The branches swayed in circles and then back and forth as if a symphony conductor were directing their movement. For a moment, she lost herself in thought, imagining which melody the trees were playing. Maybe Mozart, Brahms? No, Bach. Whips of wind nipped, and a clump of snow fell into her eyes, robbing her of this brief reprieve. Groaning, she grasped her stomach.
Change the focus.
She closed her eyes and imagined a warm sunny day—a picnic lunch with her child in Millennium Park where they’d visit the Bean sculpture and make funny faces in its mirrored surface. They’d skip, play tag, and race one another until they were out of breath and then flop down. They’d lay arm in arm as they gazed into the sky and watched white puffy clouds dance by, tracing images of dragons and dogs and birds and whales. When they’d caught their breaths, they’d scramble up to their feet and race hand in hand to the hotdog stand, where they’d order foot long dogs and ice cream for dessert. They would proudly live the wonderful clichés of a happy family, mother and child. Snowflakes fell on her nose, another reminder of the cold, although she kept her eyes closed.
Margo flashed back to the tiny hand of the six-month-old baby who’d died on her first day of work in the ER and cringed. Mother Nature surely didn’t intend to take Margo and her child, not now, not yet, not as they lay in the earth’s cradle.
Finally, the contraction passed. When no more came on, she braced herself and got to her feet. As soon as her equilibrium returned, she began her retreat. Maybe tomorrow a rescue squad would arrive and find her at the shed. With Nick gone, she’d have to survive on her own.
Nothing was impossible.
CHAPTER 25
Three years passed before Nick reunited with Specialist Andrea White on another deployment to Afghanistan. She was reattached to his unit as part of a cultural support team as well as a helicopter pilot.
“Good to see you, Sergeant Eliot,” she said.
“Long time, Specialist White.” His jaw tightened in an attempt to remain distant and professional. The memory of their intimate encounter in the cave on the night their chopper went down had never left. The hard truth was that a day hadn’t gone by without his pining for her. And though he never believed he’d see Andie again, looking at her now, he couldn’t imagine going through life without her. Why had he remained distant? She had too, but he was her superior, so what choice did she have?
“You can call me Nick, Andie,” he said.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” she replied. It was a game they’d played since the day they survived that first battle.
“I’ve been keeping up with your career, Specialist. You’ve done well. From helicopter pilot to cultural support team member. You even learned to speak Pashto, I understand.”
She blushed, her fair cheeks turning an intense scarlet. “I had a lot of lonely nights after I left your unit, Nick. I had to fill the time with something. I missed you.”
“Same here, Andie.”
There was an awkward silence. Without cracking a smile, she said, “So, a farmer buys a rooster named Randy to service his two hundred hens. When he gets the rooster into the barnyard, he tells him, ‘Randy, I want you to pace yourself. You’ve got a lot of chickens to service here, and you cost me a lot of money. Have fun, but take your time.’ The farmer points him toward the henhouse, and the rooster takes off like a shot. WHAM! Randy nails every hen in the henhouse, three or four times. Randy runs out and sees a flock of geese down by the lake. WHAM! He nails all the geese. Randy runs to the pigpen, the cow pasture—soon, he’s done every animal on the farm. The farmer is distraught, worried that his expensive rooster won’t even last the day. Sure enough, the farmer wakes up the next morning to find Randy laid out flat in the middle of the yard, buzzards circling overhead. The sad farmer shakes his head and says, ‘Oh, Randy, I told you to pace yourself. The buzzards are coming for you now.’ Randy opens one eye, winks, nods toward the sky. ‘Shush, dude. You keep talking and you’ll scare them away.’”
“Funny,” Nick said, laughing. “Do you have any more?”
“A whole bag of them.”
“Why don’t you come to my barracks tonight and tell me some?”
“Is that an order, Sergeant?” she asked, smiling one of her cute little grins.
“It depends. Do you want it to be?”
“You know how I love taking orders from you, Sergeant. On and off duty.”
“Then you’ll be in my room at nineteen hundred hours. Prompt.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Nine months into Nick’s deployment, fatigue set in. He wasn’t due to return stateside for another three months. He’d never put in for mid-deployment leave, but now, he needed to spend some alone time with Andie. They were both eligible for R&R, but they couldn’t be seen asking for the same dates. So they staggered their requests and were fortunate to receive a week’s overlap.
A few days before the trip, four dainty knocks sounded at his door—Andie’s distinctive knock. He wasn’t expecting the visit. She opened the door and peeked inside.
“Sarge, got a second?”
Nick sat up. “Sure. Anyone see you?”
“No, no. All good. I’m not staying. I just want to give you something.”
She tiptoed to the bedside and set an envelope on the side table.
“That’s not what I think it is,” he said. “Because if it is, it’s not necessary.”
“Hey, we all write letters just in case something happens.”
“We’re not going into combat, Andie.”
“I know. That’s why it’s better to do it now, so it’s not filled with last-minute emotional drivel.”
He nodded and pulled her into his bed.
Andie left the following day for Christchurch, New Zealand. Nick met up with her a week later, and together they flew to Mount Cook and traveled to the Aoraki Mount Cook National Park—a stargazer’s heaven. They backpacked into the mountains, where they spent their days roaming the pristine, breathtaking wilds and enjoying their evenings staring into the heavens and making love.
One evening, as they lay in each other’s arms, Nick was sliding a strand of her long hair between his fingers and across his lips. Never in his life had he believed that he would find a woman like Andie.
She nudged his side.
“Please. Not another rooster joke.”
“I was thinking, Sergeant. Why don’t we get married? You know, take the big dive, jump a cliff, hug a tree, bite a snake, wake up a rooster?”
At first, he thought she was kidding, but when he looked into her eyes, he saw that she was sincere. “Andie, I’m an old, worn-out dogface.”
She playfully slapped his abdomen with the back of her hand. “You’re right. You’re not getting any younger. Neither am I. Which means it’s time. We can quit the army and go raise chickens, a couple of roosters too. Better yet, I swear, Sarge, I’ll make you crow
at the crack of dawn.”
He laughed. “But you snore as loud as a Howitzer.”
She rose up and placed her arms against his chest. Then she nudged her nose against his. “I’m telling you the truth, Nick. I love you. That’s enough.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Sure I do, Soldier Boy.”
Something inside him snapped, and he reached out, grabbed her wrists, and squeezed hard. She’d never called him that before. Donnie, the kid he’d grown up with, had called him that. Nick had always hated that moniker.
“Hey, let go, Nick. That hurts.”
He’d never shown that type of fast-twitch aggression toward Andie. He shut his eyes and let go. “Don’t ever call me Soldier Boy again.”
She held up a hand in submission. “I’ll only call you Sergeant from now on, like I always do. But you hurt me. I never thought …”
“Andie, I don’t know what got into me. It’ll never happen again. The war …”
She ran a hand down his chest. “You sure are fucked up, Sergeant.” She giggled. “But I get it. And I’m hooked on you. Baggage and all.”
He drew in a deep breath and gently stroked her cheek. Images of fallen soldiers passed through his mind. He could see faces, their expressions of horror in the last moments of life. He shook his head. Because she was a soldier too, she understood why he would react this way. She, if anyone, would be able to see past it. And it would never happen again, he vowed. “Why would you want some old guy like me?”
“I want a real man for a husband. Is that so wrong?”
“There are plenty of younger, less damaged men out there.”
“Boring. Little boys. I want a man who’s really seen the world. One who understands the value of life. Someone who likes to play hard. A big, sexy hunk. That’s you, Nick.”
“So those are the criteria? Isn’t it the man who usually proposes?”
Cover Your Tracks Page 12
