Last Salute

by Tracey Richardson

  “I don’t know. I mean, can one person really make a difference?”

  Pam smiled with satisfaction. “Sure. Look at Gandhi.”

  “All right, you got me there. But I mean one soldier. Or a doctor. Over there in Afghanistan or Iraq. God, it just, I don’t know, seems so futile sometimes. Like we’re banging our heads against the wall over there, and for what?”

  “I ask myself the same things with my own job lately. Every day, as a matter of fact. Sure, I’m helping sick people get better, but is it really a difference in the global sense?” Pam’s smile faded. “Am I really doing enough?”

  “Is that what you want to do, make a difference globally?” Now they were getting somewhere. Back to Pam feeling as though she was never as good as Laura. “Look,” Trish said. “I’d love to educate the whole world, but I can’t. I can only help educate one student at a time. And yes, sometimes I wish I could do more, of course I do. Everyone feels the frustration of their limitations some of the time. Reading this journal, clearly Laura wished she could have done more too.”

  Pam chuckled softly. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Yup. And I wasn’t comparing myself to Laura, honest.”

  “Okay, fine. But I wanted to remind you that you aren’t the only one who gets frustrated in their job, who wishes she could do more.”

  “You’re right. Hell, I forgot that you’re also a frustrated writer.”

  Trish chewed on her bottom lip. “Damn, I wish I’d never told you about those corny romances I try writing.”

  “Ever thought of writing something more real? More important?”

  “Like what, a biography of Gandhi?”

  Pam grinned. “I deserved that.” She tapped the closed journal on Trish’s thigh. “What about that?”

  “Laura’s journal? What do you mean?”

  “Exactly. Laura’s journal. Make it into a book or something, I don’t know.”

  Trish was momentarily speechless. It was a crazy idea. She didn’t know the first thing about war or about writing non-fiction. “I…Seriously?”

  “Why not? I tend to agree with that reporter in Ann Arbor who said Laura’s story deserves to be told. Who better qualified to tell her story than someone who loved her?”

  “Jesus, Pam, I don’t know. There’s private stuff in there. I mean, Laura meant for that journal to be private.”

  “We don’t know what her plans were for that journal some day. And yes, agreed, some of the private stuff isn’t for public consumption. But the things that she wrote about—the mission, her job, her colleagues, the Afghan civilians. They deserve a voice, don’t they? And who better than through Laura, who cared so much about what she was doing over there.”

  Trish remembered her bitterness toward the army and its war. “I wouldn’t want to be an apologist. Or a defender of our foreign policy over there. I couldn’t.”

  “No one’s asking you to. Just think about it, okay? Don’t decide anything right now, but see how you feel after spending a few days there. You have my full support if you decide that’s what you want to do.”

  As much as Trish’s creative side was intrigued by the idea, she wasn’t convinced. What would be the emotional toll of writing a book about Laura? And wouldn’t her own biases make a mockery of the project? “I’ll think about it.” The leather cover of the journal felt soft and worn, comforting. Could she even do justice to Laura’s words, to Laura’s war experiences? Even if she wanted to, was she up to the task?

  Trish turned and studied Pam’s profile; she was lost in her thoughts and staring out the window. Trish smiled. “Nice job.”

  “Huh?” Pam replied, distracted.

  “Changing the subject from talking about you.”

  “I don’t want to talk about me right now. There isn’t much to say.”

  “Oh, Pam.” Trish reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze, wishing the gesture would somehow convey the love she felt for Pam and the regret that they were at an impasse. Her heart ached at being shut out like this. They were sitting so close together, yet emotionally they were a million miles apart. Haltingly, her voice thick with emotion, she whispered, “Don’t you know that I’m here for you? That’d I do anything for you?”

  Pam looked at her for a long moment, her eyes full of sadness. And perhaps regret. “I know, Trish. I know. But I’m giving all I can right now.”

  It would have to be enough, Trish knew, even though she desperately wanted to take Pam into her arms and press her tightly to her, then kiss and caress away her sadness and confusion. Would she ever have Pam in her arms again? Would she ever get another chance to make love to her? To prove to her that they could have a life together, if only they’d take the chance?

  She had to look away, knowing her despair was written all over her face.

  * * *

  In spite of her words to Trish, Pam knew she wasn’t giving all she could. Hell, she was giving almost nothing. She told herself she was too emotionally exhausted, too distraught over Laura’s death, that there simply wasn’t anything else left to give. But she was also smart enough to know that she needed to give, needed to share and to take from Trish, because closing herself off was a slow slide toward emotional death. Living with grief, with gut-wrenching loneliness, was not the time to put up walls. Intellectually, she knew that doing so would only make things worse for her in the long run.

  She looked at Trish’s sleeping form in the seat next to her and felt a familiar tug at her heart. Trish was so beautiful. So serene. Such a calming, level presence. Solid in every way. Dependable, smart, talented, warm, generous. And oh, God, so incredibly sexy. Trish was everything she could ever want in a woman, in a partner. Had always been everything she’d ever desired. But now that the prospect of Trish being hers was finally at hand, it scared the shit out of her. What if, after all these years of fantasizing, daydreaming, longing for Trish, it didn’t work out? What if this love for Trish was simply some juvenile form of a crush that she’d held on to, nurtured, molded into something that it wasn’t? In her mind, she’d crafted theirs into a perfect union, but there was no such thing as perfection in real life. As a couple, they could never live up to Pam’s fantasy. And what if she wasn’t enough for Trish? What if she turned out to be the Wright sister who was all wrong for Trish?

  Pam closed her eyes, pictured Laura. She knew they strongly resembled one another, everyone said so, although Laura had shorter hair and, in her uniform, looked more masculine. Laura had also been an inch shorter and slightly stockier. A better athlete by a notch or two, maybe even a better doctor too. But Laura hadn’t seemed truly capable of love, of being a good partner to anyone. She loved her army, her friends, her career, her sports, her short-term love affairs. But since Trish, it seemed she’d never really tried to give herself to another woman, at least as far as Pam could tell.

  That’s not going to be me. I am not going through the rest of my life without love, without a true companion. I will not be a loner who devotes absolutely everything to my career. I want so much more, Pam realized. So much more, in many ways, than Laura had ever been prepared to risk.

  She remembered Laura and Trish as they’d been in high school—innocently in love, madly attracted to one another, spending all their time together, not caring about the other kids and teachers knowing the nature of their relationship—of course, that all changed in college as Laura drew closer to joining the army. But in high school they spent evenings doing their homework together in Laura’s room, although sometimes, when Pam would press her ear to the door, she heard a lot of moaning and groaning and muffled giggles in what she guessed were heavy make out sessions. Sunday dinners, Trish was always the fourth. Laura’s basketball games, hockey games, track competitions, Trish was always there, cheering her on. Then things began to change between them. It was subtle, but there was less hand holding, less fooling around when they thought no one was looking, less laughter, more worried expressions,
more serious tones to their voices. It was clear Laura had begun pulling away, planning her exit from Trish, even before medical school graduation and joining the army. Perhaps the army had been a handy excuse for staying single.

  Dammit, Laura, I wish we’d talked about this! I wish I’d known you better.

  And yet Pam knew in her heart that Laura had loved Trish. Had probably loved her as much as she was capable of loving anyone. But that wasn’t enough, not for a woman like Trish, who wanted a true partner in every sense of the word. There had always been love, but as they became young adults, Pam had observed that their relationship began to take on the appearance of trying to fit a square peg into a round hole.

  Well, big sis, what would think now about your little sister taking your place in Trish’s heart? In her bed?

  What hurt was that she’d never be able to ask, and would never be granted, Laura’s permission to be with Trish. It was crazy, stupid, but she wished somehow for Laura’s blessing before she moved forward with Trish. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel guilty.

  Pam’s gaze returned to the cloudless sky outside the airplane window. They were in Afghanistan airspace and were beginning to descend. A small stream of fear raced through her. It was dangerous here, but she reminded herself that she needed to see where Laura died, needed to move in her world for a short time. Maybe there were answers here to be had. And maybe there weren’t. But she’d been compelled to come, and for that, there must be a reason, she decided. Whatever it was, she vowed to keep an open mind and an open heart.

  She glanced back at Trish, raised her fingers to Trish’s cheek and stroked gently until she stirred. Big brown eyes took a moment to fully focus, before a lazy smile spread across Trish’s face. Pam swallowed against the wave of longing that swelled her heart. How she’d love to wake up to that smile, those sleepy eyes, every morning. Not yet though, she told herself. It wasn’t their time yet.

  “It’s almost time to land,” Pam whispered.

  “Bagram Air Field already?”

  “You’ve been asleep for a couple of hours.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “No, don’t be. I wish I’d been able to sleep.”

  “Are you okay?” Trish asked, her voice still scratchy from sleep.

  Pam took a deep, quiet breath as Trish’s voice sent a pulsing warmth down her middle. “Yes. Are you?”

  “I’m a little scared. Okay, quite a lot scared.”

  “I know, but they’ll look after us. I expect Camille and the rest of them will make sure we’re as well protected as can be.”

  “I know, but nothing’s guaranteed, is it?”

  Pam thought about Laura and how being a doctor was supposed to be one of the safer vocations in a war. But then, nothing and no one was truly safe when there was a war on. Hell, even when there wasn’t a war, nothing about life was guaranteed. As someone who worked in an emergency room, she knew that lesson all too well.

  The plane drew sharply lower. Trish’s hand snaked into her own, squeezed tightly. Their fused hands felt good, familiar, as though they’d done it a million times before. Pam had to shut her eyes tightly against the sudden threat of tears.

  “This okay?” Trish asked warily.

  “Yes. Definitely okay.” She squeezed Trish’s hand tighter. She wouldn’t let go until after they landed.

  Mountains split the desert from the sky. Pam was surprised that some of the peaks were snowcapped, it being summer and all. She’d been warned to expect temperatures well past one hundred degrees, and even now she could see heat shimmering up from the ground, making the brown earth below look blurred.

  The plane descended lower. Below looked nothing like flying into a typical American airport. There were no skyscrapers, no paved streets, no rush hour of traffic. The buildings were one-story and made of brick or mud or wood, with clay walls around most yards. A few brown faces looked up at the plane, some waved. Talk about a strange land, Pam thought, tensing. She’d been told that if she went off base she should not be too friendly with people because it wasn’t always clear who the enemy was. Taliban fighters sometimes disguised themselves or used women and children as suicide bombers. Pam shivered at the thought.

  “You okay?” Trish asked.

  “Yep.”

  The seat belt alarm chimed its reminder. Pam could see they were almost at the base, with its barbed wire fencing and its crowded collection of small buildings. The stark difference at this airfield was that there were no passenger jets with the usual names across them like British Airways or American Airlines, only military aircraft lined up like toys. There were fighter jets, big bulging cargo carriers, bombers and helicopters of various sizes.

  A fighter jet screamed down a parallel runway before lifting off and circling in a clockwise pattern.

  “Jesus, we’re not in Kansas anymore, that’s for sure,” Trish whispered dramatically.

  The plane touched down with two bumps, not unlike the dozens of other landings Pam had made in her lifetime. She always said a silent prayer with every safe landing. With both her father and her sister dying in air crashes, Pam couldn’t help but feel a little spooked about flying.

  “Welcome to Bagram Air Field,” the captain said over the speaker as the plane cruised to a near stop.

  Pam looked around her. The large plane was nowhere full. A smattering of a couple of dozen passengers anxiously began unhitching their seat belts, even though they were supposed to wait until the plane came to a stop. A few were in uniform, but most looked like civilians. Private contractors, Pam guessed, or government workers.

  The heat was like a brick wall when they stepped out of the plane’s doors and on to the metal stairs that had been wheeled into place. Pam nearly choked trying to gulp enough air. Trish was doing the same, her hand reflexively moving to her throat. It was hard to breathe.

  “Relax,” Pam finally managed to whisper. “Slow, shallow breaths at first.”

  It was a dry, steady heat, like hot glowing coals. The smallest exertion of walking down the steps and across the shimmering tarmac made Pam break out in a sweat. Two soldiers in full battle dress uniform handed each of them a flak vest and helmet and warned them to wear them at all times when they were outside.

  “Even on the base?” asked a pudgy man in a rumpled short-sleeved shirt and tie.

  “Yep,” the male soldier replied in a southern accent. “The base comes under attack several times a year. I can’t force you to wear it, but it’s to your own peril if you don’t.”

  The man took the offerings and shuffled along, grumbling. Pam and Trish accepted theirs like they were life jackets in a sinking boat and began putting them on immediately. It earned them a trace of a smile from the soldier.

  “Ladies, over here.”

  Pam turned to see Camille Chavez patiently waiting a few yards away, also wearing camo BDUs, complete with a flak vest, although she held the helmet in her hand. They hurried to her as quickly as the heat would allow and were each greeted with a warm hug and a wide grin.

  “Lieutenant, it’s so nice to see a familiar face,” Pam said with relief.

  “Please. I won’t answer to anything but Camille from you two. And sorry about these vests and helmets. They’re a pain, but wear them whenever you can, okay?”

  “The heat,” Trish said in a strained voice. “How do you stand it?”

  “You get used to it. Your body adapts somewhat after a couple of weeks, of course, not that you’ll be here that long. Just make sure you drink lots of water.”

  Pam looked around, struck by the simplicity of the buildings—all low-slung, hastily thrown-together structures of metal or wood, including many large, army green tents. The two runways were the only paved roads. Everything else was dirt or gravel, all of it surrounded by twelve-foot-high fences topped with barbed wire, dotted occasionally by watchtowers. The snow-peaked mountains looming in the background lent a small sliver of beauty to the ugliness of the base. It was almost the polar opposite to Chicago, w
ith the lake serving as a backdrop to the tall, majestic skyscrapers. Worlds apart in many ways, the two were.

  “I know,” Camille said. “It’s not much to look at. But it’s home. Come on, I’ll show you where you’re staying.”

  “It is air-conditioned?”

  The desperation in Trish’s voice made Camille chuckle. “Yes, your hut is air-conditioned. I’ll let you two settle in for a couple of hours, then how about a tour of the hospital?”

  Pam brightened. “I would love that.”

  As they walked, Trish asked, “How do you come to think of a place like this as home, when everything looks so temporary?”

  Camille shrugged beneath her flak jacket. “It’s the nature of the military. You wouldn’t believe what can feel like home. When you’re out on a long march or a convoy, sleeping under a truck can feel like home. Or a tent.”

  How much we take for granted in our lives, Pam thought, remembering television images of refugees from Syria and the Sudan living in tent cities, happy to have escaped death and violence. How could living like this not change you? How could it not affect your outlook on life? She and Laura were not much alike at all, save for their physical similarities, their shared background and early family life, their medical degrees. Why didn’t we really talk about any of this? Why didn’t I know you better, Laura? We were different, but I would have liked to have known how you felt about what you were doing, about how you were living, about how it had affected you. The journal helped clarify some of Laura’s thoughts, but not as much as a heart-to-heart discussion would have.

  Trish fell into step beside her. “You okay?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “You looked a little sad. Like you went somewhere.”

  “I’m good.” Pam felt like a shit for walling off her emotions from Trish. Trish loved her, of course she did. Maybe she was not entirely in love with her—it was too early for that—but Trish cared for her more than anyone else in her life now. So why can’t I accept it? Why can’t I accept what I’ve wanted for so long?