Hidden: Part 1

by Linda Berry

  “I’m sorry for being here under these circumstances, Mrs. Steeler,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  “Eric and I were pretty tight. We served together for two years.”

  “Eric wrote about you in his letters. He called you Sully.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Everyone calls me Sully.”

  “May I?”

  “Please.” He took in a long careful breath, released it. “I know most of Eric’s possessions were already sent to you, but he wanted a few personal things hand-delivered if anything happened to him.” Sully crossed the space between them and handed her the small sturdy box, then reseated himself.

  A keen longing to reach across time and touch a part of her son welled up inside as she pulled back the cardboard flaps. Inside, wrapped in newspaper, she found treasures. Eric’s cell phone—holding priceless photos and video clips—a few dog-eared paperbacks, and a worn packet of letters tied together with a shoelace. Maggie lifted the letters to her nose, inhaled the ghostly presence of Eric, and felt quick tears spill down her cheeks. Wiping her eyes with her fingertips, she took a few moments to compose herself, and noticed something small and shiny lodged in a corner of the box, as though thrown in as an afterthought. She pulled out a St. Christopher medal on a silver chain and lifted it to her lips. “I gave this to Eric when he was fourteen.”

  “Eric wore it twenty-four-seven,” Sully said with a ghost of a smile. “He said you had it blessed by the pope, a shaman, a leprechaun, and the Dixie Chicks. He believed it had mystical powers that protected him. He had us believing it, too.” Sully paused, continued. “No matter what artillery was flying around, Eric had the ability to push everything aside and just focus on his job. That concentration saved countless lives. He was a hero many times over.”

  She listened attentively to this glimpse into her son’s private world. “This shouldn’t be in the box. Eric gave it to you.”

  His eyes widened with surprise. “You knew that?”

  She nodded. “A week before he died, he wrote me that you saved his life in a firefight. He wanted you to have it.”

  Sully looked away, blinked, turned back to her. “I wish he’d never given it to me.”

  “Why?”

  A haunted look crossed his face. “I was wearing it when he got hit. I was his squad leader. I couldn’t protect him. Maybe that would’ve.”

  “You believe this medal could have saved him?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Didn’t you?” His blue eyes darkened. “For two tours of duty, bullets never touched him. He seemed to have an invisible shield. Then he gave me his lucky medal. A week later he died. I lived.”

  She said nothing, reflecting on his words.

  “The night it happened, we were ambushed out in the open. Me and three other Marines were shot up pretty bad. We were taking a lot of fire. Eric ran from one of us to the other, giving emergency care. He saved our lives. Then he got hit. We couldn’t save him.” Sully’s voice choked. He looked down at his hands. She saw a tremor pass through his shoulders. “Sorry, Mrs. Steeler. I better go.” Not meeting her eyes, he stood abruptly and started for the door.

  “Sully …”

  He paused without turning. “Ma’am?”

  “Please, stay.”

  She watched him straighten his shoulders and then he turned almost in military fashion, and reseated himself. He cleared his throat, all trace of emotion wiped from his face.

  Maggie sat forward and spoke in a soothing tone. “Eric saved your life, Sully, because that’s what he was trained to do. He died doing his job, and doing it well. There’s no greater honor than that.” She held the St. Christopher medal on her opened palm. “This medallion doesn’t have supernatural powers. Only God has the power to take a life. He chose to take my son.”

  Sully didn’t meet her eyes, and when he spoke, it was almost to himself. “I can’t shake the feeling that I could’ve saved him, if only I was paying more attention.”

  Maggie thought for a long moment, choosing her words carefully. “It’s common to feel guilty about surviving when others didn’t. Feelings of guilt can be intensified if someone died while rescuing you. There’s a name for what you’re feeling. Survivor’s guilt.”

  He sat listening, his expression troubled.

  “A part of you wants to trade places with Eric, but punishing yourself can’t reverse the natural order of things.”

  “On some level, I know you’re right, but …” His voice trailed off.

  “The message hasn’t made the leap from your brain to your heart, but it will in time. One day you’ll accept that there was nothing you could’ve done to save Eric.”

  They sat without speaking, listening to the silence of the house. Wind passed across the windows with a low moan.

  “I knew my son,” Maggie said. “He wouldn’t want you to suffer.”

  Sully looked at her with warm appreciation. “Eric told me you were a therapist. He said you always knew the right thing to say.”

  Maggie smiled. Helping Sully also helped her. She held the medal out to him, the chain dangling from her fingertips. “Please take this. Eric wanted you to have it, and so do I.”

  He took the medallion and she saw something soften in his face. Maybe it did have magical powers.

  “This means a lot to me, Mrs. Steeler. I didn’t have anything of Eric’s.”

  Maggie was moved. She felt concern for this war-weary young man who was trying to assimilate back into civilian life straight from the heat of combat, alone, while his buddies were still in a war zone trying to survive. Civilians didn’t understand the challenges facing vets coming home. There should be more counseling but unfortunately there wasn’t. It saddened her that these men and women were asked to sacrifice everything, were put through the meat grinder of war, and then were shipped home and discarded. It was immoral. She knew Sully was struggling to control emotions that weren’t controllable. Many vets, deprived of healthy outlets for grief, spiraled into self-destructive behaviors; drug and alcohol abuse, even suicide. She wanted to help steer Sully away from a tragic outcome. “Honor Eric, Sully, by making your life count for something. That’s what he would want.”

  “That’s my intention, ma’am.” He pulled the chain over his head, held the medallion in his fingertips, and surprised her by bowing his head and silently moving his lips. Maggie felt humbled by his unembarrassed show of faith. Her own faith had been stripped away. The injustice of Eric’s death proved that a cold, merciless God governed the universe. She had been left stranded with a hollow feeling of abandonment. The gray light coming through the windows suddenly shifted and the room was infused with a luminous golden glow. It seemed otherworldly somehow, a message perhaps, delivering a sliver of hope. The room turned gray again.

  Sully opened his eyes and gazed around the room, seemingly taking it in for the first time. “This is a beautiful home. Eric said your husband was an architect.”

  Her gaze too took in the fluid beauty of David’s design; high wood-beam ceiling, walnut floors, river rock fireplace, and oversized windows that offered stunning views of the Cascades. Outside, Maggie saw the melting sun flowing like honey down the forested flanks of the mountains. She and David had picked out the furnishings with comfort in mind; overstuffed chairs, and colorful pillows and art pieces collected from their travels. Photographs crowding the shelves chronicled her married life and Eric’s childhood from baby to adult. “David poured his soul into this house,” she said. “He died right after it was finished.”

  “He died young.”

  “Yes, forty.” She sighed, recalling the shock of suddenly being single, juggling the demands of her career and motherhood. Life had been a whirlwind, and it sped by way too quickly.

  “I’m sorry for your losses,” he said gently.

  This from a man who had also suffered enormous loss. “Thank you.”

  A moment of profound understanding passed between them.

  “Eric talked a lot about his home
life,” Sully said. “He appreciated the way you raised him. He said the values you taught him made him a better medic.”

  She smiled, gratified.

  He smiled too, his eyes brightening. “He used his hands a lot when he talked, just like you do.”

  Maggie’s smile deepened, and it felt genuine.

  “I missed his funeral. I was laid up in Germany.”

  “Are you fully recovered?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Maggie thought back to the colorless day her son’s coffin was lowered into the frozen earth. The American flag, folded into a precise triangle in the white-gloved hands of fellow Marines had been placed in her hands. The memory made her shudder. “Funerals are supposed to bring closure, but for me … it just reinforced the sense of loss.”

  “I don’t like funerals either. I’ve been to too many.” He pushed up his left sleeve and revealed a list of names tattooed on his forearm in bold black letters. “My tribute to Eric and five other buddies. I look at this every day, so I never forget what they sacrificed.”

  Maggie’s breath caught. “May I see that up close?”

  In answer, he came and sat next to her.

  Oh dear God. Five other families suffering a loss so big it swallows your entire life. She read down the list, reciting each name like a prayer. Her son’s name was etched at the bottom near Sully’s wrist. “This is the most beautiful memorial I’ve ever seen.”

  Sully’s eyes were glassy. He pulled down his sleeve and looked away.

  “I told myself I wouldn’t ask you this,” she said. “But I feel I have to. Did Eric die alone?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said softly. “I was there with him, holding his hand.”

  “Did he suffer?”

  “No. It was fast. He died peacefully.”

  Thank God. Maggie didn’t want any more details. Not yet. She felt a sense of relief emerging from a deep black void. Eric wasn’t alone. He didn’t suffer.

  “Would you like to see Eric’s room?” she asked, knowing it would be healing for Sully, and Eric would want it.

  “Yes, ma’am. I would.”

  Maggie led him down the hall and opened a door. Homer, who had slept with Eric since he was a puppy, leapt on the bed and curled near the pillow.

  Sully moved slowly through the room, lightly touching things, the way she did when she wanted to conjure Eric’s spirit. Her son dwelled here in an endless archive of memories. The shelves overflowed with books, electronic gadgets crowded the desk, and his snowboard, tennis racket, and gulf clubs leaned against the wall. Sports trophies lined the windowsill. Posters of women in alluring poses and rock stars adorned the walls. The bed was neatly made and Eric’s clothes hung in the closet, just the way he left it on his last visit. “No one else has been in here since Eric died,” she said. “Everything is …”

  “Sacred.”

  Maggie nodded, impressed by Sully’s sensitivity. Young men, it seemed, came back from war morphed into older men, seasoned by unnatural experiences taking place in an unnatural compression of time. Eric too had changed. When he came home on leave he was more guarded, private.

  “Socrates, Charlie Brown, Lao Tzu.” Sully read the titles of books lining the shelves. “Eric always had his nose in a book. Always quoting some philosopher or other. One in particular. Blaze something …”

  “Blaise Pascal,” she answered.

  “Here he is.” Sully pulled out a book, leafed through it, and read, “Between us and heaven or hell there is only life, which is the frailest thing in the world.” He looked at her. “Your husband gave him this.”

  She smiled. Sully’s familiarity with intimate details of her family felt comforting.

  “Eric and I spent hundreds of hours together,” he said. “There wasn’t much to do but talk about our lives, our families, our girlfriends. How much we missed everything American.”

  “Eric sent me lots of photos.” She turned on Eric’s laptop. “Want to take a look?”

  He leaned over her shoulder as she started scrolling through pictures of Afghanistan.

  “That’s our squad,” he said, pointing to a group of Marines in combat gear posing in front of a dusty Humvee. The silver skin of the Pech River snaked through the background, framed by the steep blue mountains of Korengal Valley. Sully was squatting in the foreground. Eric stood behind him. Two Marines were watching the high ground on either side of the Humvee. To Maggie, it had seemed like a casual shot, but now she recognized there was a tension in the way they held their M16s, gloved fingers near the triggers.

  Sully breathed deeply and she knew he was reliving memories.

  “This is my favorite.” Maggie scrolled quickly to the next photo; Sully and Eric with their arms thrown casually across each other’s shoulder, faces tanned, relaxed, smiling. Eric’s hand was out of the frame holding the camera. They could have been two California surfers instead of Marines caught in the crucible of war.

  “I remember the day this was taken,” he said quietly. “We’d just returned to base after completing a three-day mission with almost no sleep. Being back was like being in a resort. My squad slept twenty hours straight. We ate real food in the cafeteria, hot, on a plate. Played video games. Watched movies in air conditioning. It was good down time.”

  “He told me about this mission,” she said. “Your squad took fire, yet everyone made it back safely. Eric said it was because of your leadership. He said you had instincts the Marines couldn’t teach.”

  Sully reddened and stood up straight. She saw he didn’t take praise well.

  “What kept us alive was everyone working as a unit. You’re only as good as the guy watching your back. I didn’t know Eric wrote about missions. We try to spare folks at home.”

  “He didn’t give details. Mostly he talked about his buddies. He referred to you as Big Bro.”

  “I called him Lil’ Bro.”

  “I think he adopted you as the brother he always wanted.”

  A ghost of a smile.

  “Let me make you copies.” She turned away and waited for them to print out and then she handed him a dozen printouts.

  Sorting through them, Sully’s face relaxed.

  “Eric snapped pictures nonstop. Thousands,” he said. “Mostly, I took pictures of kids. They crowded around us in droves. They loved Marines. Reminded me of why we were there.”

  Maggie heard the timer go off in the kitchen. “Oh, my lasagna. Are you hungry?”

  He thought for a moment. “I don’t wanna put you out.”

  “No trouble. Follow me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do me a favor, Sully.”

  “Sure.”

  “Stop calling me ma’am. Eric’s friends call me Maggie.”

  He smiled. “Okay, Maggie.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  With its frosted glass, burnished wood, and cushioned booths, Saguaro Cactus was a classier bar than the ones Justin normally frequented. He’d been here once before with a buddy after a win, when he had a little money to burn. Soft lights flattered the customers and highlighted the well-stocked shelves of booze above the bar. The men, mostly weekend cowboys, were dressed in expensive western wear. The ladies were rodeo groupies from the suburbs, dressed in short skirts and cowboy boots. He figured very few of them had ever straddled a saddle, or even wanted to.

  Unable to afford a drink, Justin slipped into the shadows against the back wall. The prettiest girls were all up front, hugging the bar or making sultry moves on the dance floor. Justin didn’t know much about the workings of the female mind but he knew enough to stay clear of pretty, take-charge women. They’d have expectations he couldn’t begin to meet. Instead, he scouted out the darkened area in the back, occupied by couples or clusters of giggling girls. His eyes returned repeatedly to a plump redhead sitting solo in a corner booth, a diamond ring on her right hand. She had a timid way about her, which made him think she might be a recent divorcée out testing the waters as a single. Justin watched he
r for twenty minutes, trying to build up his courage.

  As she sipped her second drink, the redhead’s posture thawed a little, she started bobbing her head to the music and casting shy glances around the room. Justin waited until the DJ played a slow song, then he made his move. Forcing a natural-looking gait, he cut a path around tables to the redhead’s booth, enduring some god-awful pain from his throbbing hamstring. As he closed in, her eyes caught his and darted away. “Howdy, miss.” He tipped his hat and smiled. “Care to dance?”

  She stared, her mouth opened a little, not answering.

  He leaned in. “You’re not gonna make me walk back across this room alone, are you?”

  “No. No.” She stood up too quickly, knocking over her glass of water and she started dabbing the table with a napkin.

  “Don’t worry ’bout that.” He took her hand, led her to the dance floor, and pulled her into his arms. Not too close. Polite. They both slipped into the rhythm of the music which had an easy two-step beat. Up close, she looked about thirty and had a plain, round face. She had some extra meat on her, but he didn’t mind. He liked the feel of a woman in his arms. “What’s your name?”

  “Avery.”

  “I’m Justin.”

  “You live here in Phoenix?”

  “Nah, just passing through.”

  “You in rodeo?”

  “That I am. Just took second place in Red Rock. Bull riding.”

  “Oh my gosh. You ride bulls? Wow.”

  “You like rodeo?”

  “I like the cowboys.”

  He smiled. “When I asked you to dance, you looked like a scared filly, ready to bolt. Am I that bad?”

  “No, no. Not at all. I guess I just … don’t trust men who look like you.”

  “How do I look?”

  “Like Kenny Chesney. Maybe cuter. Bluer eyes.”

  “That a bad thing?”

  “Not if I was a supermodel.” She smiled, and the sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks made him think of poppies in a mountain meadow.