by E. J. Noyes
“No way. Surprised, but not mad.” I shuffled, trying to get comfortable. “Besides, she did the same to me, remember?” While I was stateside recovering, anxiously waiting for Bec to give me her firm return date, she’d just turned up at my house one afternoon after separating from the Army. It was wonderful and sweet and had been a perfect gift. Now I wanted her to feel the same.
He said something else under his breath that gave the impression he thought he knew better than me. Then he raised his voice. “Geez, woulda thought you’d be dyin’ to get home. And into bed,” he added.
I was but was also being smothered by that fear of going home. To Bec. To my safe place. Totally rational, post-deployment jitters, that’s all. Keep lying, and maybe one of these days you’ll believe yourself. Mitch cleared his throat and gave me the pointed look I knew so well. Stop thinking and speak, Sabine, or he’s going to dig in. Before I could think of something to say, the address system crackled. The cabin grew quieter, then the usual incantations echoed through the plane. Prepare for approach, thank you for your service and sacrifice, welcome home and God Bless America.
Mitch leaned down to make sure both our packs were stowed under the seats in front. “You two goin’ away?”
Once all our in-processing requirements, screenings and briefings and crap were done, we were all being sent on two weeks’ block leave. Two weeks was shorter than usual, but the deployment rotations meant we were needed back at work at our new duty station—Walter Reed National Military Medical Center—ASAP. They’d only just moved the hospital to Bethesda and combined it with the Naval Medical Center, and Amy, Mitch and I would likely stay there until our next orders came through in six or nine or however many months it was until the Army decided what to do with us. “Mhmm. Just five days with the parents then the rest at home doing chores and stuff.”
“Boring.” Mitch had a week in Canada planned with his boyfriend, Mike. Mitch and Mike, my M ’n’ Ms. In the beginning I’d teased him about how they sounded like a sitcom. The original M, Mitch, raised both eyebrows. “You’re so domesticated it makes me sick.”
“Jealousy is unattractive,” I said sweetly. “And get off your high horse. What are you guys doing for the second week once you get home, hmm?”
He blew a raspberry at me, his presumably snide response smothered by a command through the cabin to sit down and belt in. From a few rows forward there was a thud and a loud, “Which of you fucking assholes tied my laces together?” Amy’s head popped up over the seats. Her murky green eyes found mine, then narrowed. “Sabine, you shit!”
I affected an innocent look. “Moi? Would I really do such a thing?”
Her response was a middle-fingered salute that was most definitely not in the prescribed military manner.
After a hard landing at Joint Base Andrews in Maryland, we taxied for an eternity until there was parking space for the huge plane. The moment the C-17 became stationary, everyone leapt up and noisily began gathering their kit. I did the same, albeit with less enthusiasm. Amy hopped to her feet and launched herself toward me, arms outstretched for a hug. “Come on, let’s get to this bus and get our asses home.”
I held her tight, burying my face in her shoulder and absorbing her strength. I wondered if she remembered me from the early days, our first deployment, when I didn’t need to lean on her so much. When I was normal and didn’t have a meltdown every time there was an incoming enemy fire drill. Or real enemy fire.
She’d had a front row seat to some dark times in our last two deployments—my ex’s cheating and breakup from thousands of miles away, my subsequent breakdown, then The Incident and PTSD. And she’d stood firm with me through it all.
Amy planted a smacking kiss on my cheek, gave Mitch the same treatment then rushed toward the rear door, calling for us to hurry the fuck up. My friends and coworkers disembarked in a seething mass of combat uniforms and excited chattering, and I was swept up and deposited outside with them. Everyone began to disperse toward the buses, but I was stuck in place, as if my boots had melted into the tarmac.
Ten yards ahead, Amy elbowed her way through the crowd, desperate to get to the transport that would take us to the base where family and friends would be waiting. Waiting for everyone except me. Mitch paused, looked around and when he spotted me, waved me over. “Fleischer! Let’s go.”
I nodded and tried to move. Couldn’t. The only way I could unstick my feet was with a decisive internal count of one step, two steps…three. No, stop. Don’t do that, not here. You don’t need to. Mitch always called my demand for regulation and organization OCD, and maybe it was, but what was happening to me now sat in some uncomfortable gray area. I’d had to admit to myself that after The Incident, certain things made me uncomfortable. Like messy surgical trays, misaligned shoes and walking anywhere without counting my steps. Because, you know…I might need to count them to get back to safety if something happened.
I gritted my teeth and jogged over to him, singing the theme song to Sesame Street in my head to override the intrusive mental counting. Mitch’s warm, dry hand found mine and he tugged me toward the buses. By the time we reached the vehicles, I could barely breathe. I bent over and rested my hands on my knees, trying desperately to oxygenate and stop the dizziness that threatened to topple me. Mitch’s hand moved to my back. Along with Amy, he’d spent this deployment holding my hand, literally and figuratively, whenever I had a moment and his solid presence helped push some of the panic aside.
Someone spoke from my right. “Are you okay, Sabine?”
I raised my head. “Mhmm, fine. Thank you, John. Just getting over the flu.” Stand up, Sabine. People are staring. I straightened and forced a smile.
Mitch rubbed gentle circles on my lower back, his voice calm and quiet. “You’re okay, darlin’. Come on, we’re here with you.” He gave me a gentle nudge forward. “We’re home now and it’s all over.”
All over, yes, but I still had to get into a vehicle. Nothing’s going to happen, Sabine. You’re stateside, you’re fine. Mitch slung his arm around my shoulder, maneuvered me to a bus and into a seat near the front. My emetophobic friend bravely ignored my anxious dry heaving—another unfortunate side effect of my PTSD—and kept his thigh pressed against mine in his version of a show of support. Turned away from me, the music blasting through his headphones blocked the sound of my gagging and completed his little safety bubble. Reaching over from the seat behind us, Amy massaged my shoulder and gave running commentary on the scenery passing by to help distract me.
The trip to Bethesda took fifty-three minutes in familiar traffic and as the bus finally pulled around, I got my first look at where I’d be working until my next posting. Impressive, even with the cranes and mounds of dirt scattered around the grounds. Weapons and equipment handovers, check-ins and final checks took almost three hours and then we were released out into the world again. It began as an orderly procession but the moment we came within sight of the parking lot, and the view of a few hundred people massed and waiting, everyone pretty much let formation go to shit. Mitch grabbed my hand again, both to pull me along and also to stop me from getting lost, and dragged me toward the crowd.
Amy was tackled around the legs by a red and blue blur who was way taller than the last time I’d seen him. She dropped to her knees, pulling her son into a fierce hug, her hand strafing the back of his head. I recognized her husband, Rick, rushing toward them but didn’t wave or draw his attention away from the woman he hadn’t seen in months. It wasn’t the time.
The parking lot was a staging area for joyous reunions—kids climbing over their parent newly returned from deployment, couples embracing and kissing, parents crying and laughing. And even though I’d planned that nobody was there for me, a vise of disappointment tightened around my chest.
Mitch’s step quickened when he spotted Mike and I hung back as he strode over with a gait so excited he was practically levitating. The two men paused, staring at one another for a long moment before Mitch gr
abbed his partner and pulled him in for a crushing hug. At this distance I could almost hear bones grating. Mitch lifted Mike up off the ground and they kissed sweetly. The repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was a thing of great beauty.
They’d met during our last deployment when they’d both been on a few days’ leave in Qatar. They’d conquered distance and DADT until Mike’s separation from the Army a few months before we’d left for this, our latest deployment. My boys were so sweet together, and also like oil and water. Six-three of All-American handsome Mitch who thought ball, beer and barbeque were the greatest things on earth. Then bookish, quiet Mike who only stood as tall as his boyfriend’s shoulder and loved sitcoms and cooking and painting.
Once they’d finished their polite-for-public-eyes greeting, Mitch called, “Sabine! Stop draggin’ yer tail and get over here!”
I rushed over as quickly as I could juggling both backpack and laptop bag as well as a heavy kit bag on my shoulder. I set my gear on the ground, and Mike swept me up into a warm embrace. He smelled faintly of freshly baked cookies and aftershave. “So good to see you, Sabine.”
I wrapped my arms around his lean frame. “You too.”
Mike released me carefully, not letting go until my feet were on the ground and I’d straightened up. He peered around curiously. “Where’s Rebecca?” He slipped an arm around his boyfriend’s waist and kissed the underside of Mitch’s jaw. Mitch responded with a small rumble of pleasure and brushed his nose through Mike’s hair. They were so cute, it’d be nauseating if I didn’t adore them so much.
“At home. Or work.” I gnawed the inside of my cheek before elaborating, “I didn’t give her our updated arrival time. Wanted to surprise her.”
Mitch’s massive paw landed on my shoulder. “Sabs thinks it’s romantic, sneakin’ in like this.” He jerked me back and forth, knowing full well I hated it.
I shouldered my big bag again, knocking his hand away in the process. “It is.” I didn’t want to be caught up in a discussion about how I chose to come home, so I backed up a step and punched Mitch’s arm, knowing full well he hated it. “Speaking of, you two should get the hell out of here and get all caught up. Don’t forget to come up for air.”
Mitch laughed. “You can talk.” He snatched me up and hugged me so hard I groaned. Then he spun me one-eighty degrees, murmuring, “Love you, darlin’.”
I kissed his bristly cheek and squeezed him back. “Love you too, Mitchy.”
When he dropped me, he asked, “You want a ride?” The question lacked enthusiasm, and considering his boyfriend was in touching range I didn’t blame him.
“Nah, thanks. I’m good. I’ll see you back here in a few days.” I blew them each a kiss and made shooing gestures.
Mike returned my blown kisses. Mitch rolled his eyes. The boys quickly tossed Mitch’s bags into the trunk and drove off with an out-the-window-wave each. I stood on the curb, watching other families drive away until the crowd thinned, and I was one of the few people left. It was almost eleven in the morning and I could be at the front door of our two-story Tudor in the outer suburbs of D.C. in forty-five minutes, if the traffic was good and the cab driver drove like my sister.
But I wasn’t going home. I just…couldn’t. Not yet.
Chapter Two
Rebecca
Jana whirled through the door a little after seven p.m., still dressed in one of her impeccable work suits, and holding pizza and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. “Sorry, Bec. Court ran late, then I got tangled up with a client,” she explained, and went on to blurt a bunch of random thoughts—an endearing trait she shared with Sabine. “Messy divorces are awful, but they pay so damned well. I’m tempted to buy a bigger condo or even a house, but do I need more than two bedrooms for just me? Oh my God, these new shoes are so painful, it’s a pity they’re so fucking sexy or I’d probably ditch them. Maybe I’ll buy a house with a yard and get a dog. I was going to get something healthier for dinner, and then I thought screw it, I’ll just do an extra gym class this week. Eating pizza with champagne isn’t tacky, is it?”
She dropped her bags on the table, slid everything else onto the kitchen counter and with a happy sigh slipped out of her heels. I had to choose something to respond to, so I smiled and answered her final question with, “No, it’s not tacky.” I picked up the champagne, which was fancier than what we usually drank with our catch ups. “What’s the occasion?”
“We’re celebrating, obviously.” Sabine’s sister pulled two champagne glasses down from the cupboard above the coffeemaker.
“Celebrating what exactly?”
“Sabbie’s home the day after tomorrow, and I made it through the day without killing anyone or yelling at opposing counsel.” She paused and added a cheeky, “Only just. Plus I got a fantastic settlement for someone who really deserves it while nailing her bastard ex-husband to the wall and I negotiated a custody arrangement for another client that actually works for everyone, kids included. Well, as much as those things can. Oh! And I have another date with Hot Coffee Roaster tomorrow night.” Jana left me to open the bottle while she busied herself fetching plates.
Good enough reasons for me and given I didn’t have to work for the next four days, a few glasses of champagne sounded heavenly. I’d taken a couple of vacation days to get organized before Sabine’s arrival, and to have some uninterrupted time once she came home. Then I had another two weeks concurrent with her post-deployment leave so we could reconnect, and visit her parents and grandparents.
I busied myself with popping the cork and tossed it to the ground for the cat. Titus was a ginger and white blur as he batted the cork around the floor, until he eventually punted it across the room and under the fridge. Game over. Sabine would have been on hands and knees fumbling for the cork, and even moving the fridge if she couldn’t reach the insignificant and replaceable cat toy. Innocuous daily events like this were when I was most aware of her absence. I pushed the feeling aside, reminding myself that in less than forty hours, she would be home.
Jana poured champagne, raised her glass and flashed me a smile. “To our last dinner as The Left Behinds.” She’d dubbed us this silly name not long after Sabine had gone back to Afghanistan. From the outset, Sabine’s family had accepted and enfolded me, but during Sabine’s deployment Jana and I had grown even closer, drawn together by mutual sadness. She’d become the sister I never knew I’d wanted. Or needed.
I tipped my glass to her. “Cheers.”
After a mouthful, Jana set her glass down and gathered her bob into a ponytail. She had the same hair as Sabine—a shade off black, thick and straight. After tucking a few loose strands back, Jana asked, “Have you heard from her since Monday?”
“No.” I couldn’t help frowning. Two days without contact was odd but not cause for alarm. “Have you?”
“Nope. Probably just technical issues, work, preps, all that shit,” Jana said dismissively. After supporting her sister through three deployments, Jana knew the coming home routine almost as well as I did.
I murmured in agreement and carried the bottle and my drink to the table. Jana brought the pizza and settled across from me, her butt barely hitting the seat before she flipped the lid. Her expression was one of pure delight, as though pizza would solve all her problems. Jana pulled out slices and dropped them carelessly onto plates. “When do you guys go to Ohio?” She studied her thumb then licked it.
I helped with a piece of cheese that was trying to part ways with the rest of the topping. “Two days after she’s finished all her in-processing.” Sabine would have to complete a week on post-deployment debriefing, and physical and mental evaluations before being allowed her two weeks’ leave.
“Time with the in-laws. Lucky you.” Jana didn’t bother to hide her smirk.
My smile was automatic, and genuine. “I know.”
Sabine and her family were extraordinarily close, and at the beginning of our relationship, I’d been consumed by an emotion I could only call envy. My parents di
ed when I was five. I was an only child and my aunt who’d raised me had died eight years ago. Then the Fleischers began to treat me like a daughter, and that envy turned to love and an overwhelming sense of acceptance.
Jana ate most of her slice then set it down with her eyes half-closed and her mouth still quirked into a smile. After a mouthful of champagne she said, “You know she’s been sending me emails this whole time making sure that I’ve been taking care of you.” Those last four words were accompanied by air quotes. “I wonder if she’s going to make me give her a detailed report.”
I swallowed quickly and laughed. “I know. I’ve been getting the same. Except mine are more along the lines of ‘is Jana taking care of you?’”
“Ugh, she’s such a control freak,” Jana complained. After a moment she seemed to collect herself, and grew serious. “But…she’s way different with you than I’ve seen her with anyone else. Protective of you and of your place with us. You do belong with us, Bec.” After a decisive nod, she let calming silence envelop us.
I stared into my champagne flute. Protective. I was eight years older than Sabine and logically, I should be protecting her. It didn’t feel as though I’d done a very good job of keeping her safe. Before I retired from the Army I’d broken so many rules to be with her. Then I’d sent her on the errand that led to her being hurt. And I hadn’t been able to protect her from having to redeploy when she was clearly still struggling with PTSD.
Every time we’d Skyped during our time apart I’d wanted to weep. She’d insisted that going back to where it’d happened would help her move on, to let her see that it was just a place, nothing more. And I’d disagreed, but only once out loud because her jaw had set into that stubborn line of insistence I knew so well.
Over the past months I’d watched helplessly as the angles in her face grew more pronounced, the shadows under her eyes darkened and the defeat in her voice became more prominent. And I knew being over there was doing the opposite of what she’d thought it would. But there was no pleasure in my being right this time. The only thing I’d had to hold on to was that when she came home, she could begin to heal again, away from at least one stress. Another step closer to her completing the contract that exchanged med school for seven years of service still tying her to the military. In less than two years she’d be done.
