As I waited for his first letter to arrive, I ordered a T-shirt emblazoned with the words Half My Heart Is in Iraq. Immediately when it arrived in the mail, I threw it on. My marine pen pal had become my marine.
CHAPTER 14
Homecomings
Reuniting with Eric at Camp Lejeune after his second tour in Iraq.
WHEN PAPA’S MEMORY started to go, he had to move to an as sisted-living facility. Mom said it was because he had forgotten the stove was on and set a glass bowl of linguine on the burners. “Things are getting worse,” she said night after night. And she was right. He couldn’t recall how to work his VCR or his record player, and the voices of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin no longer filled his living room.
Every time I had a chance, I climbed into my roadster and took off down Stevens Street, enjoying the tight, winding roads and the wind in my hair on my way to Whitney Place Assisted Living Residences in Northborough to break Papa free and take him to Dunkin’ Donuts. Whitney Place was like a mini resort with a kind staff, and also my first employer— I worked at the front desk three days a week and every other weekend. Each time I pulled around the circular driveway, Papa was waiting on a bench, smiling broadly and waving at me, as though I might confuse him with another grandfather sitting outside.
“C’mon in, let’s blow this joint,” I said one afternoon and waved him into the car. He slowly lowered himself down into the passenger seat and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. I had the top down and the sky above us was crystal blue and cloudless. Papa adjusted his trusty white Nike golf hat and pulled his blue golf slacks up toward his hips. Within a minute or two down the highway, a cluster of gray clouds formed above us, interrupting the abundant sunshine.
“Looks like rain,” Papa said, gazing at the sky intently.
“Don’t worry,” I replied. “The sun’s still out, we’ll be fine.”
We drove along in comfortable silence, the wind whipping at my windshield as I turned up the volume of my Frank Sinatra CD— which I always made sure to have in the car when I was going to see Papa. I navigated the road toward Dunkin’ Donuts.
“Tiffie,” he said more insistently, “listen to Papa. I think we better put the top up. It looks like rain any minute.”
“Oh, Papa,” I said with a smile. “You worry too much. We’ll make it to the drive-through and back to Whitney Place before any rain.”
We ordered our coffees— a Hazelnut Coolatta for me and a hot black coffee for him— and I turned toward the parking lot exit. Then the sky opened up. Within seconds, we were soaked and I scrambled to find us a parking space through the blinding sheets of rain.
With Sinatra’s “Summer Wind” still blaring from the speakers, Papa and I looked at each other and burst out laughing as raindrops continued splashing our faces and rolling down our noses. Papa just shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“That’s life,” he said. “That’s life.”
When our Indian summer ended for good, and fall began to show its true colors, Papa’s life grew even cloudier. No longer would he be waiting on the bench outside. He’d be in the common living room area, fast asleep in a chair. Our trips out together ended, and I’d make our Dunkin’ Donuts coffee runs alone. Then I’d silently place the drink on the table beside him and sit on a nearby couch until he woke up, or sit behind the front reception desk to work.
I’d answer phones, greet residents and their families, and sort mail and newspapers, and when the night grew quiet, I’d make personal calendars: one for my new exercise routine to help me be free from my cane by the time Eric returned from Iraq, and the other to count the days until February when I would be in his arms again. Like the sight of the clothes I’d ordered from catalogs and the roadster commercial I watched over and over as if it were a big-screen blockbuster, these calendars helped me envision and focus on the day my marine would be home. More than that, they helped me ignore the persistent fears that Eric was dodging rocket-propelled grenades and IEDs— improvised explosive devices— out in the desert.
I found myself daydreaming about what that day would look like when he returned to me. I pictured big band music blaring somewhere in the background as the American Coach buses triumphantly pulled into a parking lot at Camp Lejeune. Crowds of friends and family would be dotted with waving American flags as everyone waited anxiously for the doors of the buses to fold open, revealing our men in uniform, home safe. And then there would be me, standing caneless in perfectly fitting jeans, kitten heels, and my soft velvet jacket with a satin bow. My makeup would be perfect and my hair adorably curled, and I’d top off the look with the crystal heart necklace Eric bought me, plus a coat of vanilla lip gloss— his favorite. And when I finally saw my marine in his digital desert uniform, I’d jump into his arms with one knee bent like they do in the movies and he’d dip me into a long, passionate kiss. The scene looked a lot like the ones from the 1950s films I had loved to watch with Papa growing up that were now collecting dust on his bookshelf.
That winter, my morning trips down the curvy driveway to the mailbox grew slower. The cold always wreaked havoc on my joints, and the ice and snow building up on the driveway made the walk even more perilous. But I never stopped making those trips, with my cane in one hand and a pink envelope sealed with a heart sticker in the other. I wrote every day and every night, and sometimes two or three times in one day. I did everything to keep Eric updated on all that was going on, even if the only change had been in my appetite— he knew about it all.
“Have you heard from him, Tiffie?” Papa would ask at Whitney Place, propping his elbows up on the counter of the reception desk. Though Papa struggled to remember so many things, he never forgot to ask about Eric.
“I have!”
I looked up at Papa smiling, pushing aside my worry. “Want me to read you the last letter he sent me? I’ll get it for you, Papa.”
“Sure,” he replied, “let me get another cup of coffee first.”
“I’ll make it for you, Papa.”
By six p.m., the phone fell quiet at the front desk. Papa had settled onto a couch in the communal living room. I made my way to the coffee machine, making a full black cup for him and a half-cup with cream and sugar for me. I walked carefully, without my cane, trying to push my progress a little bit more each day.
Carrying our coffees and my letter to the couches, I walked past the baby grand piano that was almost never played. Then I opened Eric’s letter and began to read.
I love you, baby, the letter began. Papa sipped his coffee and sat back on the couch with a soft smile and a faraway look in his eyes.
So I wake up today to the sound of HMMWVs and a seven-ton, which meant resupply was here. Sure enough I was right and I found two letters and a postcard waiting for me. I helped move water and whatever else they needed done and then went to your letters. Let me tell you it’s been a hard week, so getting your letters really lifted my spirits. I’ve had a toothache for the past 8 days. Mix that in with missions, patrolling, the heat, lack of sleep, a lot of physical work and stress— it’s been a bad week. But I’m feeling good because of your letters. God, I love you.
As I continued reading aloud, I noticed a few residents making their way down the main hall. There was Trudy, a real riot who moved quickly despite her wooden cane, and Connie, the no-nonsense lady who loved nothing more than a spirited debate. They both joined us in the living room to listen to my letter. Then Marion, a prim and proper uptown gal, came in with Mr. Rochette, a marine who served in World War II. Before long, I had my own listening party— about a dozen residents who all gathered in the living room around me and Papa each time I received mail from Eric. They all listened intently, and I noticed the occasional smile or twinkle in their eye when I’d read phrases like I can’t wait to come home and I love you.
When I finished the most recent letter one frigid afternoon, Papa pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. It was a picture of a dog making snow angels. Beside it, he had written: An officer o
n duty, a good-natured dig at the men in charge of my enlisted boyfriend.
“Give this to him in your next letter. It’ll make him laugh.”
I showed my audience, who’d gathered, as always, in the pastel chairs. They laughed, and then Papa and Mr. Rochette began playfully chiding one another about their respective military ranks.
Soon, it wasn’t just Papa asking how Eric was doing, but also Mr. Rochette, Marion, and Connie, too.
“I got one!” I’d tell Mr. Rochette as he passed by the desk on his way to dinner, showing off my latest letter.
“You did? I’ll let everyone know.”
At six p.m., I’d leave the phones again and join the group in the living room to read. We’d all help ourselves to a cup of coffee first, and then meet by the piano. One night, Trudy took the longest to join us, so I waited for her to begin. When she finally came around the corner, urging me to begin in her usual peppy tone, I noticed she was carrying a framed photo with her.
“Go ahead, Tiffie,” she urged again, settling into her spot by the fireplace. “Go ahead.”
I got a phone account, baby, I began, stealing a glance at Trudy, who had propped up the photo next to her. I’ll finally be able to call you over here.
The group murmured with happiness at the news.
I told my buddy about all the letters you write me. He said, “Wow, she must really love you.” And I replied, “Yes. She really does.”
When I finished the letter Trudy was the last to return to her room. She slowly followed me to the reception desk and revealed what was in the frame: her wedding photo.
With tears in her eyes and her hands shaking slightly she said, “He was an airman.” She touched the glass softly. “He would have loved to hear your letters.”
I stared at his pale face and wavy blond hair, thinking how alike he and Eric might have been. Despite the generations between us, the residents and I bonded each night in the living room, supporting one another and listening to one another’s stories about loved ones either overseas or long gone. They became my closest friends.
After I read Eric’s letters, our conversations often turned to the war going on in the Middle East and how much we’d all like to help. That Christmas, we figured out a way to do just that. Since the troops couldn’t be home for the holidays, we would ship the holidays to them, in individual stockings stuffed with goodies. We called it Operation Stocking Stuffer.
We set a date that winter to have an event at Whitney Place to stuff the stockings and ship them to Iraq. I reached out to local schools and asked if teachers would help their students to make holiday cards for the men and women in Eric’s unit. I called popular rock radio stations and asked if they’d mention the event to help bring in donations. The response was overwhelming. Teachers jumped at the chance to help, and not only were the radio stations helpful, but they also sent us supplies of their own: CDs, band merchandise, gift certificates, DVDs, and books. Soon our little idea had grown so big that the closet that Whitney Place had lent me to store our supplies was overflowing and I had to take on a second, then a third, then an entire room to store supplies. People from around town came to Whitney Place with beef jerky, crackers, and cookies to send. Local coffee shops and even the big chains delivered coffee by the pound. The love and support was monumental.
So was the cost to ship all this stuff to Iraq. I needed help. Luckily, all it took was one phone call to the Marine Corps League in Worcester— the people there promised to ensure every package was sent by setting up fund-raisers of their own.
Finally, on a cold, blustery afternoon, the main event for Operation Stocking Stuffer had arrived. The crowd came in droves. The Junior Marines attended, and community members funneled through the Whitney Place doors. There were teachers, students, family members of residents— everyone came and they brought piles of stockings and supplies with them. In the bustling sea of people, I made out a woman with long blond hair tied in pigtails underneath her baseball cap. My mouth dropped open and I felt my eyes water when I finally placed her. It was Mike’s sister, Maureen.
“I heard about the event on the radio,” she said with a smile when she saw me.
I hugged her tightly, sobs escaping me.
“Don’t cry,” she said. “He would be so proud of you and he’d want to be here. I’m proud of you, too. And I brought friends,” she added with a wink.
A group of people next to her grinned broadly, each one holding stockings, snacks, and handwritten notes.
“Where do you want us?” Maureen asked.
I led her and the rest of the team past a reporter and cameraman from the local news station, a line of people picking through items for their stockings, and Edna Sinclair, a resident who was sneaking a pack of cigarettes and a five-dollar bill into her stocking. Another resident, a man named Ed, had squeezed into his half-century-old sailor uniform just for the occasion. Papa was there, too, standing with my mom and smiling, observing everything and everyone as he always loved to do. That Christmas would be the last time I saw him that way.
On February 6, 2007, on Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville, North Carolina, Eric and the rest of 3rd Battalion, 2nd Marine Division, Lima Company were scheduled to arrive at seven p.m. The clock on my mom’s dashboard read 6:40 and we were still trying to find a parking spot in the massive lot on Camp Lejeune. The scene looked nothing like I had pictured.
It was a million times better.
There were big white tents with tables full of food and drinks underneath them. A DJ got the already excited crowd even more pumped with patriotism. Moms, dads, wives, girlfriends, and children all danced and jumped up and down, anxiously awaiting the big arrival. I was trying to find a spot among them all. Then the DJ interrupted the music.
“Everyone! I just received word that the buses have pulled through the gates of Camp Lejeune!” she shouted into the microphone. The crowd roared. Mom looked panicked.
“The camera!” she shouted. “I can’t find the camera! I think I left it in the car!” She bolted back to grab it.
I stood by myself— in my perfect outfit and without crutches or a cane, just as I’d pictured— in the middle of the huge, happy surge of people. The white, unmarked buses with black-tinted windows rolled through the gates and into the parking lot. I had no way of knowing which bus was Eric’s. The crowd erupted in cheers. I craned my neck and tried to see through the masses, asking Mom, “Do you see him?” over and over again. Everyone was either crying as they found their loved ones or still holding handmade signs high in the air so their marine could spot them. I walked through the throngs, unsure of which direction to go. Maybe I should just stand still and let Eric find me, I thought to myself, when his friend Martin spotted me first.
“Hey!” Martin shouted. “Tiffanie!” He hugged me and thanked me for the Christmas stocking. “Turn around,” he said. “Turn around real quick.”
And there he was. Before I could say a word, Eric hoisted me high in the air and then lowered me down to his chest. My tears soaked his camouflage shoulders as I kissed him. Several minutes later, he gently placed me back on the ground and my mom called to us.
“I got it!” she shouted, waving the camera triumphantly. “I got the picture!”
That night, we settled into the rental beach house that Mom and I had found for Eric’s homecoming. It was nothing fancy, but it had a big deck overlooking the ocean. The three of us ate dinner and Eric filled in my mom about all he’d done overseas. Then he and I sat on the deck and listened to the waves crash, marveling at being back together again. As I held Eric’s hand and breathed in the salty air, I felt as content as I’d ever been. We’d planned to rent an apartment together in North Carolina just outside of base when he returned. Eric was contemplating reenlisting into the Marine Corps and that meant I would need to find a new job away from Whitney Place— away from the residents I had bonded with over the past seven months.
“Marry me,” Eric said out of nowhere. “Marry me tomorrow.”
“What?”
“I want you to marry me tomorrow. After we sign the papers for our apartment, I want to marry you.”
“But what about the whole tradition thing?” I asked. “What about asking Dad for permission and all that? What about a ring?”
“I’ll do all that, too. Just marry me.”
“I can’t,” I told him. “It doesn’t feel right.” It’s not that I didn’t want to spend my life with him, though. I felt safe with Eric and, more important, I felt I could be myself with him. I could expose my scars, both internal and external, and he appreciated each one of them. I could feel that love every time he looked at me. I didn’t have a single question about him or about us. He was undoubtedly the one for me, but I couldn’t see myself saying “I do” without the presence of the one man who believed in me from the day I was born— Papa.
After Eric’s homecoming in North Carolina, I went back to Massachusetts to spend time with my family for a few days before moving in with Eric down south. One night back at my parents’ house, Mom tiptoed into my bedroom around four a.m. She squeezed through the boxes I’d packed and sat on my bed and put a hand on my shoulder, waking me. Sleepily, I inched upright to face her. Her cheeks were stained with tears.
“Papa’s gone.”
My uncles joked that it was just like Papa to see that a blizzard hit just in time for his funeral. It made us feel better to think that he was there and making things difficult, creating a huge winter storm so everyone wouldn’t feel so sad.
Of course, we cried anyway. Eric and I made our way into the cemetery in my uncle Joe’s Lincoln Town Car. Eric was decked out in his dress blues, his white-gloved hand resting on my thigh as we drove. I slipped my hand in his and squeezed as we pulled into the cemetery. Everything was white, and in the distance a half dozen sailors stood around an open plot with their rifles pointed upward. Eric helped me out of the car, asked if I was okay to walk through the snow on my own, and excused himself to speak to one of the sailors standing by Papa’s coffin.
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