“It was cute, actually. I was flattered. I’m even more flattered now to know I could have been your Mrs. Robinson.” Trish giggled and waggled her eyebrows.
Pam laughed too, picturing the scene from The Graduate where Mrs. Robinson bares her breasts to the young Benjamin and propositions him. “You’re not going to take me upstairs and whip your shirt off, are you?” She cringed a little after the words were out, her boldness shocking her a little.
There was a twinkle in Trish’s eyes as she said, “I suppose you would have liked that fifteen years ago, hmm?”
No, that’s where you’re wrong. I would have liked it a lot more recently than that. “Yes, I definitely would have liked that very much.”
As quickly as they’d risen, Pam’s spirits began to plummet. Trish belonged to Laura—always had, always would, even in death. She’d learned long ago never to compete with Laura beyond following her to medical school. Laura bested her at everything, including with women. She sighed heavily. “So here we are, our hearts forever engraved by someone we can never have.”
“Oh, Pam.” Trish reached out and cupped her cheek. Her touch was so tender, so full of understanding and kindness. Pam nuzzled into it, closed her eyes, wanted to cry, wanted to kiss those lovely fingers.
Trish was so close that Pam could feel her breath on her cheek. She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid of what she might see in Trish’s eyes. She wasn’t sure what would be worse, seeing rejection or seeing mutual attraction. No, she decided. No good could come of either scenario. She told herself it was only their emotions getting the best of them, their grief and nostalgia uniting them.
“Trish,” Pam whispered, knowing if she didn’t ask now, she never would. “Will you do something for me?”
“Of course. Anything.”
Pam opened her eyes. Oh God. Trish looked at her with so much affection, so much kindness and generosity…all the things that had always cemented her little crush on her. She swallowed hard and pressed on before she lost her courage. “Will you come to Arlington with me? For Laura’s funeral?”
Trish’s eyes slammed shut, her face a mask of anguish.
Oh shit, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s too much.
“Y-yes,” Trish answered haltingly. “I-I would be happy to go with you.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Trish tried to smile, but the effort fell flat. “We’ll say goodbye to her together. It feels like the right thing to do.”
“Thank you,” Pam replied, knowing Laura would like the idea of them saying goodbye together.
Suddenly, Pam was exhausted. It was as though every part of her body craved sleep, and she could no longer keep her eyes open.
Wordlessly, she slid down and rested her head in Trish’s lap. She’d just lie down for a moment, doze for a bit. She closed her eyes and felt Trish’s hand smoothing the hair from her forehead, stroking her softly. She knew sleep was imminent.
Chapter Six
Camille looked exactly like the kind of woman Laura might be interested in sexually, and as the three of them were driven in a limousine to the airport, Trish wondered if Camille and Laura had ever been lovers. The thought hurt a little. It wasn’t the sex part that felt hurtful. Laura had undoubtedly had many lovers since they’d parted, and Trish had had a few herself. It was Laura’s time, Laura’s nearness, Laura’s heart that she’d missed the most, that she remained jealous of. In what quantity had Camille shared those things with her? How much time had they shared? How much a part of Laura’s life had she been? Had they shared laughter, tears, memories?
Camille wasn’t giving anything away. She was clearly emotional and upset about Laura’s death, but she was stoic too. She was young, closer to Pam’s age.
Trish found her voice and interrupted the brooding silence. “What was she like over there? In Afghanistan?”
Camille’s dark eyes snapped to her, serious and slightly suspicious. “Laura? How do you mean?”
“I mean…” Trish continued, not really sure at all what she meant. “I don’t know. Did she like being there? What was her mood? Was she anxious to finish her tour?” She had imagined all kinds of things about Laura there—that she hated it and couldn’t wait to leave, that she loved it and wanted to stay forever. She had no idea.
Camille paused, her eyes softening. “All of us have moments of loving it and hating it there. It’s complicated. It can be frustrating and rewarding, all in a matter of minutes. You kind of get to a place where you appreciate the roller coaster or at least learn to live with it. But mostly, you come to live in the moment. Take things an hour, a day at a time. Sometimes a minute at a time.”
“She wrote a journal over there,” Pam said to Trish. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to read it.”
“I understand,” Trish replied. She’d read it in a flash if given the chance. She wanted to know the things that had gone through Laura’s mind, because maybe then she could finally understand what drove Laura to stay in the army all these years. Maybe it would tell her why Laura had chosen that life over a life with her.
“You…would you like to read it?” Pam said, a streak of surprise in her voice.
“Yes, I would.”
“But it’d be so hard…”
“I know. But I feel like I don’t really know the person Laura became these last few years.”
Pam blinked her understanding. “Yes. Laura wasn’t the person she used to be when you two…you know. I’m not even sure how well I knew her over the last while.”
Trish expelled a long held breath. She had no confidence now that she’d ever really known Laura. And maybe if she could understand, could come to know the woman Laura had become, she could let go of those juvenile notions that a part of Laura had always stayed with her. That they both had remained those two teenagers in love.
“The journal,” Pam continued. “When it comes, I’d like you to read it.”
“Thank you. I’d like that.”
Pam turned away to peer through the dark glass, lost in her own thoughts. Trish wanted to ask Camille more, like had Laura ever talked about returning to civilian life, had she ever talked about her dreams, her desires? But both Camille and Pam were being quiet, distant, and she didn’t want to intrude.
She looked at Pam’s silhouette and thought how vulnerability did not suit her. She had a piercingly confident gaze, a determined set to her jaw, a physical strength in her long, tight body. Her hands looked and felt strong and capable—they were hands that healed people. Yet grief had peeled those strengths away to reveal her vulnerability, her fear, her aloneness. Her skin and eyes were dull. Her body, thin and a bit too angular, slumped in weariness. Her handshake, her hugs, were half-hearted, as though her body had surrendered itself to being crushed, bulldozed, overpowered.
As difficult as all this was for Trish, it had to be much harder for Pam, she decided. She reached for Pam’s hand on the seat between them and squeezed it lightly. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Pam whispered, still gazing out the window.
They would be okay again, wouldn’t they? Trish wondered.
* * *
Arlington, Virginia, was bursting with fragrant apple and cherry blossoms of pink and white and grass that seemed greener and lusher than any Pam had ever seen. The season was at least a month or two ahead of Chicago’s or Ann Arbor’s. If only she were here for a different reason, she could enjoy it, she thought. But there were reminders everywhere of the grim reason for their presence. Flags were at half-mast everywhere she looked, as though death were a constant, daily occurrence. Soldiers in uniform walked the streets of D.C. There was a war on, and the signs of it were everywhere.
Trish had understood her need for space last night, as Pam secluded herself in her hotel room, ordered room service, took a long bath and then downed a lorazepam with orange juice to help her sleep. She wasn’t one of those purist doctors who believed in natural remedies at the expense of pharmaceuticals, nor by contrast was she a pill pushe
r. Pills of any kind were rare for her to take, but she needed sleep or she would never be able to get through the emotional grind of Laura’s funeral.
Now as she and Trish were driven to Arlington National Cemetery, she noticed for the first time that they were dressed nearly identically—black knee-length dresses, plain black pumps, a lilac-colored silk scarf around Trish’s throat, a dove gray sweater over Pam’s shoulders. Trish looked the part of the grieving wife, Pam the mourning family.
She clutched the small black purse to her stomach in the backseat as the limo approached the gates to the park. The letter—Laura’s official goodbye letter—was in the purse, the envelope still sealed, its corners slightly mangled from the trip. She’d not had the courage to open it yet. Hell, maybe she’d never open it. Maybe she’d fling it into the hole with the casket.
“You doing okay?” Trish whispered.
No, she wasn’t, but what was she supposed to say? “I’m okay. You?”
Trish sighed. “I don’t know, but I’m here, and we’ll get through this, okay?”
The meandering drive around manicured, hilly lawns and perfectly shaped trees seemed to go on forever, and around each curve, Pam’s insides knotted tighter. She caught glimpses of rows upon rows of white tombstones, all perfectly symmetrical. One of those headstones would soon bear Laura’s name. She’d never given any thought to the national military cemetery before, where the dead from all five branches of the armed services were buried. Of course, the Kennedy brothers were buried here, and she’d seen the eternal flame on television before. It never occurred to her that she would one day have a reason to visit this place.
The limo coasted to a stop. This is it, she thought, as the door opened and she and Trish stepped out into the air fragrant with blossoms. Her knees weakened for a moment as she caught sight of a four-man color guard standing at attention. Her gaze swung to the escort platoon across the road in front of them, waiting stiffly, their arms like rods at their sides.
“You can stand just over there,” Camille said, pointing a short distance away. “I’ll stand with you, okay?”
“What happens next?” Trish asked in an uncertain voice. They’d gone over everything earlier, but in her nervousness, she had tuned it out.
“The caisson will bring the casket,” Camille said matter-of-factly. “The escort platoon will move out shortly and pick up the caisson, escort it here. The honor guard will carry the casket over there.” She pointed to a roped off area where a couple of dozen people milled about, standing in front of chairs. “There will be the flag folding, the rifle volley, the last salute.”
Jesus, Pam thought, nervous suddenly. It was all happening so fast. An order was barked, echoing like a rifle shot into the vast sky. The platoon, in their dress blues, marched smartly down the road, their polished shoes tapping the pavement in sync with each step. And then they were coming toward them, marching a funereal march that reminded Pam of how one walked up the wedding aisle, methodically and slowly, a slight dragging motion. As they drew nearer, she spotted the two beautiful white horses behind them bearing a black-shrouded caisson topped with Laura’s flag-draped casket. The wheels creaked, the horses snorted in what was otherwise near silence.
It was beautiful, she thought on an intake of breath. Absolutely beautiful.
She gasped again as the riderless horse, boots backward, followed the casket. It reared its head a little, clearly not enjoying the absence of a rider. A calm soldier with sergeant’s stripes handled the horse’s bridle, never breaking his stride.
They’re so damned good at this, Pam thought. Too good. Too many damned funerals like this one.
More orders were barked as the procession crisply halted in front of them.
“I’ll take you to your seats now,” Camille said, inserting herself between the two women and giving them each her arm.
The rest of the funeral was a blur. An army padre spoke, then a colonel. Pam sat stoically in the hard chair, staring straight ahead, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. She managed to keep the tears at bay by trying to distance herself a little, by trying to stay a little outside of herself. It was the same tactic she used in particularly gory cases in her trauma room at the hospital. Crushed heads, beaten bodies, an accidental leg amputation from an equipment malfunction at a meat factory. She dealt with them by shifting to a different place in her mind, a place that was almost unreal—where anything that happened while she was in that place wasn’t really real.
She felt Trish flinch beside her as the seven firing squad soldiers fired their twenty-one volleys. Eight soldiers stood erectly beside the casket, facing one another, as the flag was lifted from it and folded in rapid, exaggerated movements. She didn’t cry as it was presented to her, but Trish was furiously wiping away tears. Not even the playing of “Taps” got to her…she’d somehow managed to steel herself against that. It was the last salute that broke down her final barrier. The dozens of soldiers raised their hands all at the same time in that slow salute of mourning she’d also seen them do at the funeral home. Three seconds up, three seconds hold, three seconds down. It was the last time anyone would ever salute Major Laura Wright again, and it broke her heart.
Pam cried, didn’t try to hold the tide of emotions back. She felt Trish’s arm tighten around her waist as they stood. Someone had pressed a rose into each woman’s hands. Trish stepped away, stood alone at Laura’s casket for a moment, then carefully placed the red rose on top of it. Pam did the same, whispering to herself, I wish I’d known you better, big sister. I wish you were still here. I will miss you for the rest of my life. She placed the rose on the casket, felt herself shrink and wilt until Camille clutched her elbow to prop her up.
“Pamela Wright?”
A woman in army blues, crutches beneath her arms and a cast on her right leg, hobbled up to Pam.
“Yes?”
“Lynn Stonewick. May I have a word?”
She’d leaned on her crutch so that she could stick out her hand. There was something pleading in her eyes. Clearly, she didn’t want to be hurried.
“Sure,” Pam replied, leading them a few feet away for privacy.
Trish hovered, never more than an arm’s length away. It occurred to Pam that she didn’t mind Trish’s protectiveness, which came as a surprise. Fiercely independent, she typically liked to handle her issues alone. But this…this was too much for one person. She knew with certainty she would be buckling under the weight of Laura’s death right now if not for Trish.
“Your sister. Major Wright. I…I was in the helicopter with her when it crashed.”
“Oh God.” She hadn’t meant to say the words out loud.
“I’m sorry,” the young woman muttered, and Pam wondered if she meant she was sorry she survived, sorry Laura died or sorry for bringing up the crash.
“Why?” Pam whispered, her thoughts racing feverishly. “Why did it crash?” What she really meant was, why hadn’t Laura survived? Why had Lynn survived and not Laura?
“I don’t know,” the woman uttered, gulping uncomfortably. “There was a sand storm. We couldn’t see the ground. We couldn’t see anything. It just happened so quickly. But I wanted you to know she wasn’t alone. You know, when it happened. We tried to help her.”
From her peripheral vision, Pam caught Trish shooting daggers at the soldier.
“Come on,” Trish urged gently, her hand slipping into Pam’s to steer her away.
Pam let herself be guided back to the limo, all the while cognizant of the young soldier leaning on her crutches, silently, sadly, watching them.
“You know,” Camille said pointedly to Trish beside the car. “Laura and I, we weren’t…you know.”
“Okay,” Trish answered. “But you didn’t have to…”
“Yes, I did. You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”
“Does it show that much?”
“Yes, and it’s okay. Everyone deserves to be loved that much.”
“Did she, you know,
ever mention me?”
Camille looked puzzled. “She mentioned you all the time, but she would never really talk about you. Do you know what I mean?”
Pam nodded, knowing exactly what Camille meant. It was Laura to a tee. She’d often mention Trish’s name to Pam over the years, talk about some of the things they had done when they were together, but she never talked about her heart, about how she felt about Trish then or maybe still felt. Whether she regretted how things had turned out between them.
Too bad, Pam thought as she and Trish climbed into the back of the limo. If Laura had opened her heart to Trish these last few years, told her how she really felt, maybe things would have been different. Maybe they’d have reunited, maybe Trish would have been able to talk Laura into leaving the army. She felt her chest clench at the thought, because she knew in her heart that the army would always have been a contentious issue between the two of them, that Laura would never have quit the army for Trish.
“Driver,” Pam said, not thinking about Laura’s final letter until this very moment. “Please take us to a quiet part of the cemetery for a moment.”
Again they drove past the endless rows of white tombstones, beneath the silence and the shade of the massive trees. At the top of a knoll overlooking the city, Pam asked the driver to let them out. She waited for Trish to join her on a white stone bench.
“I never thought I’d say this,” Trish said, “but it’s beautiful here. And so peaceful. I’m glad Laura wanted to be buried here.”
Pam opened her purse and pulled out the sealed letter before she changed her mind. “I don’t want to do this alone. It’s her final letter.”
“Oh, Pam, I’m so sorry.”
Laura’s handwriting had always been so neat, so undoctor-like—the opposite of her own illegible hieroglyphs. Her heart pounded, producing a tremble in her hand as she began to read.
Dear Pam,
If you are reading this, I am so very sorry. You have to believe I never meant to hurt you or cause you grief.
Last Salute Page 5
