by Jay McLean
They’d tell me, right? If something were wrong, they’d call? No. They just show up at the door. I’ve seen it in movies. Read it in books. They don’t call.
Did he even change the address on his forms? Or whatever the fuck they have to do to let whoever the fuck know to go to wherever the fuck so they can notify if something happened.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. He probably didn’t change the address.
Without a second thought, I grab my keys, not bothering to dress and jump in my car.
I pull up to Dylan’s dad’s house and check the time on the dash. 6:02.
If it’s physically possible to have your heart beat and die at the same time, that’s what mine’s doing. I step out of the car and march to the front door, my adrenaline and fear overshadowing any sense in the situation. I knock, hard and loud, and when a few seconds pass and no one answers I start to yell and pound my fist.
Eric answers wearing nothing but his boxers, his eyes half asleep at first but when he sees me and my obvious state, he seems to wake up. “What’s wrong?” he rushes out, pulling me inside.
“He didn’t call!”
“What?”
“He said he’d call and he didn’t call. Have you heard anything?”
“Riley!” He grasps my elbows. “Slow down.” Then over his shoulder, he shouts. “Dad! Riley’s here.” He bends down and looks in my eyes—my tear-filled, panicked eyes. “Take a breath, try to calm down. And start again. Please.”
Mal appears down the hall, tying his robe. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
I try to take Eric’s advice.
Breathe. Calm. Speak. “Dylan called last night.” I shake my head quickly. “Not last night, but the night before. And he said he’d call again and he hasn’t. Something happened to him. Did you get a call or—”
“Riley,” Eric cuts me off, grasping my elbows tighter. “Did Dylan say he would definitely call? Or did he say he’d try? Because we can’t make those kinds of promises.”
“I—” I try to think of Dylan’s exact words but nothing comes to mind.
Sydney’s up now, her look of worry matching everyone else’s.
“Sweetheart,” Mal says, coming to me and placing his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure he would’ve called if he could. There are just so many uncertainties over there, it’s impossible…”
Eric releases his hold on me and leans against the wall, his chest rising and falling as he runs his hand through his hair. “So you haven’t heard anything? Official, I mean.”
“No but—”
His dad and he share a look—one of relief.
Sydney asks, “Do you want me to get your mom, Riley?”
I nod, tears releasing with my sob.
“Come on,” Mal says, his hand still on my shoulder as he leads me to the kitchen. He sits me down on a chair and switches on the coffee pot. Then leans against the counter, Eric beside him. They’re looking at me with pity in their eyes and I know what they’re thinking, because I think it too. I’ve just never voiced it. Not until now. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”
“For what?” Eric asks.
“For this. This military life.”
Silence fills the air as I look down at the table, my tears flowing fast and free. Then, unable to keep it in anymore, I release a truth that even I didn’t want to believe. “I thought I could handle it but I can’t. I wanted to believe so badly that I was strong enough for this but I’m not. I can’t deal with another death and I feel like that’s what I’m waiting for. For someone to knock on my door and tell me that another person I love is dead and I can’t. I just can’t.” I wipe my tears, my words strained as I look up at them. “I love him. I do. You know I do, but—”
The back door opens and my mom appears. She’s in her pajamas, her eyes glassy as she looks over at me, Sydney behind her. “Oh, honey,” she coos. Then she smiles. “You’ve had a bad night, huh?”
I nod, releasing yet another sob.
She lifts the packet of bacon in her hands. “Will this help?”
I nod again, and even though I feel like a child—a sad, heartbroken child—having them here, having them understand—it helps.
In hushed tones, Eric, Sydney and my mom make breakfast while I focus on the table, waiting for my heart to settle.
“Riley?” Mal says, standing on the other side of the table. His voice is low, barely a whisper. “I’d like to show you something, if you don’t mind.”
He leads me down the hallway to his bedroom. I’d never been inside before but I just assumed it would be like Dylan’s—sparse and covered in flannel. So you can imagine my surprise when he opens the door to a beautiful dark timber setting and white cotton sheets with a knitted throw at the end. He must see the shock on my face because he chuckles, low and gruff, just like Dylan. “It helps remind me of Ruby; Dylan’s mother. It’s the only space in the house that has any form of feminine touch.” He sighs. “Twenty-three years she’s been gone and I still can’t find it in myself to change the washing detergent she used. Smells like her, you know?”
It’s the most he’s spoken about her and I wonder why. Out loud. Then kick myself for doing so.
He doesn’t seem to mind though. He just points to a beautiful armchair in the corner of the room and indicates for me to sit while he goes to his closet. “I made the decision early not to talk about her too much around Dylan. I didn’t want him feeling left out if Eric and I speak about our memories of her since he never knew her.”
“I’ve met her,” I tell him, my hands gliding across the fabric of the seat.
From inside his closet, he asks, “Oh, yeah?”
“Dylan took me to meet her right when we started dating.”
“He did, huh?” he responds, walking out with a shoebox. Then he stops in his tracks. “Has he mentioned anything… about us not talking about her too much? Would he like us to?”
I shrug. “To be honest, I think it’s something he thinks about but doesn’t really talk about…”
He nods and continues his path toward me. Then, carefully, he places the shoebox on my lap. “Take a look,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed a couple feet away from me.
I lift the lid. Letters. So many letters addressed to My love, Malvin, but no addresses. I look up at him.
“She wrote me all these letters while I was deployed in Panama. I never knew about them until she passed and I was clearing out the closet to move here.”
I take a calming breath, wondering why he’s telling me all this. Not just telling me, but showing me. “So you’d never read them before then?”
He shakes his head. “She didn’t write them for me, Riley. She wrote them for herself. I guess it helped keep me close and make the distance easier to deal with.”
“And why… I mean, why are you showing me?”
He smiles. “I think there’s a lot you can learn from these letters. If not learn, then at least understand. No one is cut out for this life but we make it work. Because that’s exactly what life is, sweetheart. Work. And in the end, it pays off. I know—I have two amazing boys as proof.”
I spend the rest of the day in Dylan’s bed, surrounded by tissues and letters filled with immeasurable heartache and longing and fear, but also joy and love and excitement and questions of the future. And plans—there were so many plans Ruby Banks made with a man oceans away, doing exactly what Dylan is—helping to provide a life better than the one we know.
Every letter starts the same. She loves him. She misses him.
Some are sad, some are funny, but most of them just spoke about him. About her memories of him which she missed dearly. Memories that reminded me so much of Dylan that I spent most of the time with my hand to my mouth to stop from crying out loud.
There were also a few pictures in the box. Mainly of her taken over the years, even one of her pregnant with Eric going by the date stamp.
But there was one letter that hit me right in the feels. One that changed my outlook on eve
rything. She told him about all the unsent, unread letters and she promised he’d never see them. At least not while he was deployed. She wanted him to focus on absolutely nothing but getting home to her. Safe. So they can continue making the memories she holds so close.
And when she ended the letter with “Fuck the oceans,” I lie down on the bed, her letter against my chest, listening to the silence that surrounds me and release the fear of grief.
I connect to a woman whose words give me a sense of calm, of hope and of understanding—long after her last breath.
Ruby Banks—she was something else.
She was brave, she was funny, and she put love first.
She was an exceptional woman.
And she was everything I hope to be.
Thirty-Four
Dylan
“You think this is enough?” Dave mumbles, sitting against a wall of what I’m sure was once someone’s home… now ours for the night.
I pocket the picture of Riley I’d been staring at and face him. “What’s enough?”
“What we’re doing? You think we’re saving the world?”
I shrug. “You think that’s our purpose?” I ask him, my weapon to my chest, finger off the trigger. We hadn’t heard anything since the sun set. Our duties are done for the day—at least me and Dave’s—and I plan on spending the next couple hours trying to get some sleep.
Apparently Dave has other plans. He likes to save these philosophical conversations for the times when we’re alone. He ignores my question and asks, “You ever regret it?”
“Regret what?” I shuffle further down the wall until I’m lying on my back looking up at him.
He shakes his head. “Nothin’.” After a pause, he smiles. “I miss my fuckin’ mom, man. And my brothers.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out some photographs. “Ricky had a birthday party. They sent me photos.”
“Ricky’s the youngest, right?” I take the pictures from him.
“Yep,” he says, his pride evident. “Just turned seven.” He points to the picture. “They all dressed up as Minions.”
I study the photograph: Three boys standing next to each other in bright yellow shirts underneath blue denim overalls. They have the same red hair and freckles as Davey. Same identical smiles. “They look happy,” I tell him, moving to the next picture of Ricky blowing out the candles on his cake and I find myself smiling. “Maybe being here is different for everyone, Dave. Maybe we’re not here to save the world, or maybe we are. But in the end, you saved them—your mom and your brothers. You think they’d be smiling like that if your old man were still home beating the shit out of you and your mom? They’re your purpose and you’re their reason.”
He’s quiet as he takes the pictures from me, a solid frown on his lips. “Yeah… you’re right. I guess sometimes I forget that.”
“It’s real easy to forget when you’re here. I’m sure they don’t forget what you’re doing for them, though.”
He nods slowly, carefully placing the pictures back in his pocket. Then he smiles when he looks back at me. “Yo. What do you think our girl’s doin’ right now?”
“A: She’s my girl. Not ours. And B:…” I close my eyes and settle my head on my rucksack, trying to picture her smile, hear her laugh, but the only thing I can see are eyes the color of sadness. I release a breath, my heart aching for her. “I just hope she’s finding the strength she needs to get through the day.”
Riley
Two years.
That’s how long it’s been since I’d driven up this road. Since I’ve seen the clear blue of the lake. Since I’ve sat on these rocky embankments watching the sun filter through the water.
Two long years.
And I don’t know how I feel.
I glance down at Bacon sitting on my lap. “Well… I’m here. That’s something, right?”
He pops his head up, just for a second, before settling back down on my arm.
I take a breath, ignoring the thundering of my heart as I slowly tear my gaze away from him and up to the edge of the cliff, a thousand questions running through my mind. I wonder if it knows the heartbreak it caused—the life it took that created an onset of events that brought me here. “Time to make Daddy proud,” I tell Bacon, setting him on the ground beside me. I stand and turn my back on the cliff and the lake and focus on him. “I bet you’re sick of me talking about him, huh?” I clip the leash on his collar. Squatting down so we’re eye to eye, I say, “You’ll love him, Bacon. And he’ll love you. And when he comes home, we’ll be a happy family and I’ll be free of all this. That’s why I’m here… for closure. You understand, right?”
He spins in a circle, tangling the leash around his legs. I lead him toward a tree and tie the leash around it. “I’ll be back.” Then I point at him. “Sit,” I order. He sits. He’s a champ of a dog, well-behaved and completed puppy training first in his class. I told Dylan all this in one of the letters I’d never send him.
I face the cliff again, my heart now beating out of my chest. I shrug out of my shirt and shorts and stand in my one-piece swimsuit, preparing myself for the battle ahead of me. For a second I think about Dylan, think about what he’s doing right now and if he ever feels what I’m feeling. When he’s face to face with danger, weapon drawn… does he ever feel ready?
Probably not.
But he does it anyway.
Because he’s tough and he’s brave and he’s everything he encourages me to be.
With tears welling in my eyes, I take the first step.
Toward the cliff.
Toward my past.
Toward my pain.
My fists ball at my sides, my footsteps heavy as I make my way up the path I’d tried so hard to forget.
I try to ignore the voices in my head. Not mine. Not even Dylan’s. But Jeremy’s.
“I think I’m afraid of heights.”
“This is bad. This is really fucking bad.”
I wipe the tears released with my sob and put one foot in front of the other, my mind screaming to turn around—my heart doing the opposite—until the tears are endless and the sobs are loud and I’m standing at the top of the cliff, the otherwise perfect sky clouded with memories of Jeremy.
“I love you.” I hear it over and over—the last words he ever spoke—words I laughed at and never repeated.
Not to him.
I stand in the middle of the clearing, my eyes drifting shut and my fingers digging into my palms. I feel the heat of the sun warm my skin, feel the wind whirling around me, hear the ebb and flow of the water beneath me. I inhale deeply, hoping it’ll help to calm my nerves and the immense emotions hitting me, drowning me, slowly killing me.
I cover my mouth, muffling my cry and turn swiftly.
Away from the edge.
Away from my past.
Away from my pain.
“I was wondering if you’d ever come up,” a deep male voice says from behind me.
I know the voice.
I’ve heard it so many times since Dylan left.
I close my eyes before slowly turning to him. Behind my lids, the tears are begging, fighting to be released. He adds, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
My eyes snap open to see Jake standing in front of me wearing nothing but board shorts and a sad smile. “What are you doing here?” I squeak.
He shrugs, his hands at his sides.
“But how did you know—”
“Dylan.”
I bow my head, not for a moment of silence, but for a moment of clarity. My knees go weak and I collapse to the dirt, my hands over my eyes as I release every single emotion possible.
Sadness.
Longing.
Heartbreak.
Fear.
Grief.
Then I look up when I hear Jake’s footsteps moving toward me. He sits beside me, his head lowered and his arms resting on his raised knees. His gaze is distant when he says, “Sometimes I have these moments where I look at myself and my life and
I realize how good I have it. I’ve never had to experience the kind of loss you have. I’ve never had my heart truly broken, never had my life ripped out of my hands, never had to deal with devastating news that would ultimately change the course of my future. And sometimes I think I don’t belong. Like I’m an imposter in an unforgivable world and I keep waiting for something bad to happen to me directly and nothing does.” He pauses a beat. “Not that I’m not grateful for that,” he adds quickly. “I’m just saying I wish I had something better to say, or a piece of advice that would somehow help you in this situation. But I don’t. The only thing I can say is that while it’s hard to watch the people you love suffer… loving them during those times is easy.” He turns to me. “So that’s why I’m here, Riley. Because you’re one of us. And we love you.”
Another sob.
Another round of tears.
He throws his arm around my shoulders, bringing me to him as he continues to speak. I try to listen; try to pay attention, even though my cries make it almost impossible. “You know the phrase actions speak louder than words?”
I wipe my cheeks. “I know it well,” I tell him. Facta Non Verba.
“That was my motto when it came to Dylan.”
“Because he was so silent?”
Jake nods. “He never voiced it, but I could tell something was up the few weeks leading up to him enlisting. It was hard to get him to speak when we were with the others and college didn’t give us much free time to catch up on our own. So one day I loosened a spark plug on my truck and called him to have a look at it. I could tell he knew what I’d done as soon as he popped the hood, but he didn’t mention it. He just kept fiddling with the engine because he knew I wanted to talk and I knew he’d let me. I knew if I asked if he were okay he’d nod and move on so I chose my words carefully. I asked him if he was happy.”
I face him. “What did he say?”
He turns to me. “He said he was happy enough, but I could tell he wanted more because he stopped his task and just stared at nothing for a long time. Then I finally asked him if happy enough was good enough. He shook his head and without another word, he replaced my spark plug and dropped the hood. The next time I saw him was the day before he left for basic. The others don’t know this but he showed up at my house the next morning and asked that I ride with him back home to his dad’s house. He spoke more to me on that two-hour drive than all the years I’d known him. He admitted to hating college, he admitted to falling out of love with Heidi and he admitted that for the first time in a long time, he was actually looking forward to something.”
