by Kristie Cook
Jonathan fingered the crease of his Army blue dress pants, pinching it where it broke over his knee cap. He sat on the front row of the chapel and stared at the flag draped over Franklin’s coffin. All it held was a small urn of ashes, Franklin’s dress blue uniform and his dog tags. Or at least that’s what the funeral director claimed. Who knew what was really in there. It was a closed coffin.
Once the Army figured out that the dog tags someone shoved into Jonathan’s front shirt pocket weren’t his, they were able to identify some of Franklin’s remains with DNA testing. By the time they got it all straightened out, Jonathan was out of the ICU. Dad offered to postpone Franklin’s funeral for a couple more weeks, but Jonathan wanted to get it over with while he still had access to high doses of pain killers.
Bishop Thorne droned on and on about the plan of salvation; as if he were trying to convert everyone instead of directing a funeral. But as soon as he started talking about Franklin, Jonathan wanted him to stop and start preaching again—or just shut the hell up.
“Franklin McKnight’s time on earth was short, but he accomplished so much while he was here.”
“Bullshit.”
A collective gasp, followed by a buzz of indignant murmurs, snapped Jonathan out of his daze.
He hadn’t meant to say that out loud—even if it was true. Franklin had a plan for his life. A plan that did not include getting blown to pieces and scattered all over some insignificant dirt road in the middle of Afghanistan.
Jonathan blinked then laughed. He knew it was inappropriate, but he couldn’t help it.
Strong arms wrapped around Jonathan’s shoulders. “It’s okay, son. It’s okay.”
Jonathan jerked away from Dad. His vision tunneled as he crashed through the double doors and took off running. He stumbled and tripped over his own feet as if he were drunk—which he probably was. He’d taken an extra dose of pain meds when the funeral home’s limo pulled into the driveway that morning, but his wrist still throbbed with each beat of his heart.
A car rolled up beside him, matching his pace, but he didn’t recognize it. The window hummed as it rolled down.
Dad put a hand on the passenger seat and leaned towards Jonathan. “Get in the car, son.”
Jonathan slid into the unfamiliar car and pulled the door shut. “Whose car is this?”
“Bishop Thorne’s.” Dad didn’t say another word until he parked at the cemetery. He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “You aren’t the only one grieving.”
“I know.”
“I want you to participate in the dove release ceremony.”
Jonathan shook his head. He didn’t want to be there at all. And he sure as hell didn’t want to participate in any bird ceremony. Mom had forbidden the firing of any weapons, so instead of a three volley salute to honor Franklin’s service and sacrifice, he was getting a flock of doves. The stupid birds would probably shit on his casket.
Dad put his arm around Jonathan and led him towards the crowd standing on the hill. People stepped back and made a path that led to Franklin’s open grave. Dad nodded at the bugler. The poignant notes of “Taps” squeezed Jonathan’s chest, but it didn’t thaw the icy numbness surrounding his heart as he watched the honor guard fold the flag from Franklin’s casket.
Tears streamed down Dad’s cheeks as a soldier knelt in front of him and handed him the flag. But Jonathan’s eyes remained dry. The numbness spread to his fingers.
A man in a black suit led Mom and Dad to a large, wicker basket. Music from a portable sound system filled the air as they opened the lid and released twenty white doves; one for each year of Franklin’s life. The man reached into a much smaller basket and pulled out a single bird then tried to give it to Jonathan.
“I’ve only got one hand.” Jonathan lifted his bandaged stump.
“It’s okay.” The man handed the dove to Dad then took Jonathan’s right hand and placed it on the dove’s back. It’s feathers felt like silk against his palm.
Mom and Dad kissed the dove’s head, but Jonathan just stared at it. The man recited some poem about the dove symbolizing Franklin’s spirit ascending to Heaven then said, “Let him go.”
Jonathan’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces as he watched the lone bird race towards the circling flock overhead. When Franklin’s bird joined the others, they circled once more then headed west, towards the Sawatch Mountains. Jonathan continued to stare at the distant peaks, long after the birds disappeared.
Something brushed Jonathan’s cheek then fell onto his chest, over his heart. It was a tiny, white feather, as light and delicate as a snowflake. Jonathan plucked it off his uniform, stared at it for a moment, then put it in his pocket.
***
Later that night, Dad knocked on Jonathan’s door then entered without waiting for an invitation. “Do you still have the feather you put in your pocket?”
Jonathan pressed his lips together and nodded. He hadn’t removed it, and Mom hadn’t taken his uniform to the dry cleaners yet so it should still be there.
“Go get it.” Dad pulled a tiny glass vial full of sand out of his jacket pocket. He uncorked the vial and emptied it into the trashcan next to Jonathan’s desk.
Jonathan handed the feather to Dad. He poked it inside the vial then slid the thin silver chain attached to it over Jonathan’s head. “I hope this reminds you of the peace you felt when we set Franklin’s dove free.”
Jonathan had felt grief, guilt and physical pain when he let go of the bird; but no peace.
Maybe he would someday. Maybe, sometime in the distant future, he would be happy again. That fragile thread of hope was the only thing keeping him alive. That and the thought of what his suicide would do to Mom and Dad—especially Dad. He’d wear the feather around his neck as a reminder of that hope … and that burden.
***
Jonathan couldn’t move. Each breath launched waves of pain through his chest, but he pushed through it. Small caliber fire spit puffs of dust into his face. He tried to raise his weapon, but someone was holding him down. “Hang on Frankie! I’m coming!”
He got his arms free and landed a right cross to his enemy’s jaw; followed by a left jab. His hand shattered on impact. Bits of bone and flesh flew through the air like broken glass. He screamed and cradled his throbbing wrist against his aching chest.
“Jon-Jon, wake up. You’re okay, it’s just a dream.”
Jonathan’s eyes flew open. Dad was leaning over him, shaking his shoulders, tears streaming down his face.
Mom stood in the doorway, backlit by the light in the hall, biting the back of her fist and sobbing silently.
Tremors shook Jonathan’s body. His heart raced. His left arm felt as if he’d plunged it into a vat of molten lava. He’d never get back to sleep.
Dad placed his palms on the crown of Jonathan’s head. “Do you want a priesthood blessing?”
“No.”
Dad gave Jonathan and Franklin blessings before they deployed. He’d promised them both that God would watch over them and protect them if they obeyed His commandments. If some soldier hadn’t requested a priesthood blessing, Franklin and the chaplain wouldn’t have been on the road. They wouldn’t have hit that IED. They wouldn’t have died. Jonathan couldn’t think of anyone less likely to break a commandment than Franklin. A lot of good it did him.
Jonathan didn’t want a blessing. Even if he did, he didn’t deserve one. “I’m fine. Go back to bed.”
He waited until he was sure Mom and Dad were asleep then unplugged the nursery monitor and threw it in the trash.
***
Jonathan fought his pillow and his sheets for an hour before giving up on sleep. He wandered downstairs and fixed a bowl of Shredded Wheat, but couldn’t eat it. He was empty, not hungry. He’d been avoiding the basement sparring room ever since he’d gotten home. Maybe he’d find a small amount of peace where he and Franklin had spent so many hours together.
He grabbed the door knob, but it refused
to turn. That was new. The door had never even had a lock before. It didn’t take long to pick it.
He flipped on the light. There wasn’t enough space left in the sparring room to turn around, much less workout. Franklin’s entire room had been disassembled and moved down there, even his bed. But it wasn’t just Franklin’s stuff. Jonathan spotted the tip of his competition bo staff poking out from behind a pile of boxes. As soon as he felt the familiar grip of his staff warming within his fist, it felt as if a part of his soul had been restored.
It took him most of the night to push everything out of his way. He still didn’t have much room, but it was enough.
Tender ribs, phantom pain, and no left hand slowed him down, but it felt good to move. Jonathan began a modified, slow-motion version of the last synchronized weapons routine he and Franklin had performed together. He had to simplify all the moves and take out all the left handed grips. And it would be months before his body healed enough to attempt any of the gymnastics moves, but most of those didn’t require any hands at all. He wondered if he could still do a standing back layout with a full twist. Only time would tell.
As he gained confidence, Jonathan moved faster. He was about halfway through the routine when he accidentally hit the corner of a box at the top of one of the piles, knocking it down.
Letters, postcards and photographs fluttered to the floor. Jonathan swore at his clumsiness, then leaned his bo staff against the wall and got to work gathering the scattered memories.
A faded photograph caught his eye. At first, he thought it was a photo of himself or Franklin, but he didn’t recognize the beautiful young woman or the dilapidated old cabin in the background. When he looked closer, he realized it was a picture of Dad—but that woman sure as hell wasn’t Mom.
They were both facing the camera when the photo was taken. Dad’s chin rested on the woman’s shoulder. He had his arms wrapped protectively around her body, crossing beneath her breasts. She had one arm raised with her palm pressed against Dad’s cheek. They both looked incredibly content. Jonathan had never seen his father look that happy. In fact, “happy” didn’t begin to describe his expression. Blissful, ecstatic and euphoric weren’t adequate either. Who was this woman?
“Jonathan, what are you doing?” Mom’s voice carried more than a hint of frustration. She was pissed.
“I could ask you the same thing. Why is all my stuff boxed up down here?”
“What happened?” Dad’s voice held only concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” The words were an automatic reflex. He was anything but fine.
Before he knew what she was going to do, Mom snatched the photograph out of Jonathan’s hand.
“What is this?” She gasped when her eyes focused on the picture. “You promised, Charles. You promised to burn everything.”
Dad reached out to take the photograph, but Mom tore it in half.
Dad’s nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed into slits. “Give it to me, Beverly. Now.”
Dad hardly ever called Mom “Beverly” instead of “Bev.” When he did; it meant trouble.
Mom’s hand shook as she handed the torn photo to Dad. She turned and ran up the stairs without a word.
If she hadn’t packed his stuff up, as if he’d died too, Jonathan might have felt sorry for her.
“Dad? Who’s the woman? Was she an old girlfriend or something?”
Dad stared at the photo. “She was my wife.”
***
Six months later, Jonathan tossed his pack into the back of Dad’s Range Rover then slammed the hatch shut, rattling the glass.
Dad flinched and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t feel good about you taking off all by yourself, especially this late in the season. Why don’t you let me go with you?”
“I need to do this.” Franklin had wanted to go on a summer-long trek through the Sawatch Mountains after graduation with Jonathan. They’d enlisted in the army instead. “For Franklin.”
He needed to do it for Mom and Dad, too. They’d done nothing but fight since the night he’d discovered that old photo of Dad and his first wife. Jonathan wasn’t so egocentric that he believed it was all his fault, but his presence wasn’t helping. Mom rarely even looked at him, and when she did, he could see the pain it caused her. She’d packed a bag last week and left. She said she needed to get away from all the ghosts in the house.
Maybe if he weren’t around to remind her of what she’d lost, Mom would come home and try to work things out with Dad. Jonathan didn’t blame her for not wanting to look at him. He still missed Franklin so much it stole his breath every time he glimpsed his own reflection.
Dad pressed two metal rectangles on a chain into Jonathan’s palm.
He knew without looking, they were Franklin’s dog tags. “I thought these were buried with Franklin.”
“That was your mother’s idea. I took them out of the casket.”
“Why?”
“I thought you might want them.”
Jonathan slipped the dog tags into his pocket. He wasn’t sure how he felt about them. They were the source of the army’s mistaken identity fiasco. It was an honest mistake, but one that caused a lot of additional pain.
“Be careful, son.” Dad wrapped his arms around Jonathan and hugged him to his chest.
Jonathan returned his embrace, then held Dad at arm’s length. “I’ll be back in three weeks.”
“Do you have extra battery packs for your iHand? You don’t want to run out of juice in the wilderness.”
“Got ‘em.”
“What about your phone? How will you charge it?”
Jonathan opened the door and slid behind the wheel. “It’s fully charged. I’ll only turn it on in case of an emergency.”
Dad grabbed the door and held it open. “Hang on a sec. I’ll go get my new handheld GPS and one of the satellite phones. Cell coverage will be sketchy—if you can get a signal at all.”
“The whole point of backpacking is to get away from it all. I’m not taking every piece of technology we own.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, son. But … you have limitations now.”
Jonathan gritted his teeth. He didn’t like worrying Dad, but this was a turning point for him. He could either accept his limitations, or prove to everyone, himself included, that he was strong enough to overcome them.
“We all have limitations.” He tapped his temple with the index finger of his prosthetic hand. “But only in our minds.”
***
Jonathan didn’t see any other backpackers or hikers, so he didn’t need to go far to find the isolation he sought. He had no agenda or daily mileage quotas, so he took his time. On the morning of the third day, he woke up with a restless feeling so he decided to break camp and hike a little deeper into the wilderness. But first, he needed to refill his water supply. It wouldn’t hurt to clean up a bit either. He retrieved his backpack from the fork of the aspen tree where he’d stashed it the night before, pulled out his hydration system, a couple of high-energy power bars and his hygiene kit. He wouldn’t be gone long, so he left everything else, including his prosthesis, inside his tent then backtracked a couple of miles to a stream he’d crossed on the way in. The water was too cold, even for wading, but it felt good to rinse the grime away with a washcloth and shave the stubble off his face.
As he was hiking back to camp, the north wind picked up. The sun crept higher into the eastern sky but held no warmth. The temperature dropped ten degrees. “So much for extended weather forecasts.”
Jonathan picked up the pace and jogged back to camp in case the storm turned out to be more than an afternoon snow flurry. His state-of-the-art camping equipment would keep him alive, even in a blizzard. It just wouldn’t be much fun. He was about a quarter-mile from camp when a tiny white feather landed on his shoulder.
The memory of Franklin’s funeral blasted a hole through Jonathan’s chest. He fingered the thick, gold chain around his neck, but didn’t pull
it out. He could still feel the weight of the medallion next to his skin. He was afraid that the glass vial Dad gave him would break so he’d had the feather from Franklin’s funeral encased in resin and mounted on a solid gold disc—the words ‘Brother’s Forever’ inscribed on the back.
Jonathan wasn’t superstitious—or even remotely spiritual—but this wasn’t the right habitat for white doves. It was a pretty strange coincidence. “Is that you, Frankie?”
Another feather drifted into view, then several more. If Franklin wanted to give Jonathan a message, he’d know he’d need to make it obvious. A doubter like Jonathan wasn’t going to believe any supernatural sign unless it hit him over the head. A gust of wind delivered another flurry of feathers, too many to count. They fell along the sides of the path, as if Franklin wanted Jonathan to follow the trail back to his campsite.
He rounded the final bend and froze. Shredded scraps of blue nylon littered the ground. Goose down, not dove feathers, drifted in the wind like falling snow. My sleeping bag?
His tent was also shredded, the poles bent like pretzels. Despair swept over Jonathan. He could handle the destruction of his campsite, but not what it meant. The feathers he’d thought were a sign from Franklin were nothing more than debris.
A twig snapped. Jonathan’s army training kicked in. He ducked behind a boulder, held his breath and listened. Another twig snapped. The noise came from his right. Jonathan peeked out from behind the left side of the boulder and spotted his prosthesis on the ground at ten o’clock, about fifteen feet away. His pulse pounded behind his ears. Whoever did this had better hope his iHand still worked, or there’d be hell to pay.
Jonathan stayed low as he crept forward. He grabbed his prosthesis then ran back to the boulder. He tested it to be sure it still worked. The servos hummed and clicked as he opened and closed the robotic fingers. He climbed on top of the boulder to get a better view and found a black bear, digging through what remained of his other pair of jeans. Jonathan had stashed his food out of the bear’s reach, but he’d forgotten about the bag of trail mix in his pocket.
The bear lifted its muzzle. Sunlight glinted off something hanging from its mouth.
