Ever After

by Karen Kingsbury

  He read the whole thing, the part about Justin’s courage and great attitude, the fact that he would be remembered as a role model for other soldiers, for all U.S. citizens, and then the details of that day. The caravan had been heading to the far side of Baghdad, intent on finding insurgents, when the car Justin was riding in hit a roadside bomb. One soldier in the car in front of them was killed. In Justin’s car, he and the driver had died.

  His body would be shipped home within the week.

  There were no real facts, nothing that gave them a glimpse of Justin’s final moments. When Gary finished reading, he folded the letter and set it on the sofa beside him. Then he pulled Carol into his arms and together, locked in the saddest embrace, they wept. The anger and shock were still there, but they had grown dim, overshadowed by a vast consuming sorrow that would never go away.

  Not as long as either of them lived.

  Minutes became an hour, and still they sat there, weeping for the son they would never hold again, never laugh with or share a meal with. Finally, as the numbness and panic faded, memories mixed with Carol’s tears. Because Justin had been born to be a soldier. When other kindergarten boys played baseball or ran cement trucks through the dirt, Justin wanted nothing more than a child-sized army uniform.

  Carol leaned back against the sofa. Her sobs were quieter now, but they were constant. So many tears, more than she knew she could cry. And a million memories. “Remember … that Christmas when he was six?” she looked straight ahead, seeing the room as it had been at Christmastime sixteen years earlier. “He opened that uniform and he couldn’t wait to put it on.”

  “ ‘I’m gonna be a Ranger one day, Daddy!’ That’s what he told me.” Gary’s voice held a smile leftover from that day.“ ‘I’m gonna fight the bad guys.’ ”

  When his playmates came over, Justin would give them one of his green plastic guns and they’d play war games. His fascination never waned, not through junior high or high school. Not as he kept his commitment to ROTC through college, and not after he enlisted.

  She turned and looked at her husband. “There was never any life for him other than the military.”

  “No.” Gary squeezed his eyes shut.

  Carol put her hand on his shoulder. Her husband, the man who had been Justin’s closest friend. What was he thinking? That Justin had just written to them the other day, or that he’d sounded so upbeat, so alive? How could they even consider planning a funeral for their sunshine boy, the son who had been everything to them?

  Gary looked at her, and the tears came harder. “He would’ve been … the best commander.” He tightened his hands into fists and pressed them hard against his knees.“God knows he would’ve been the best.”

  Her husband was right. How could God need Justin more in heaven than the world needed him right here? Than they needed him. And suddenly she gasped. Because only then did it hit her. “Emily.”

  Gary hung his head, and his tears became sobs, sobs that came from a bottomless ocean of grief that would never, ever go away. When he finally regained control, he looked up. “We have to tell her. In person, Carol. Today.”

  She tried to speak, but she couldn’t. Suddenly twenty-two years fell away and Justin was minutes old, cradled in Gary’s arms. And her husband was looking at her with those same teary eyes. Where had the years gone? Each one dropping off like so many summer days. Through it all, nothing could’ve prepared them for this.

  He was right. Emily needed to know. She closed her eyes, but the tears came anyway. Streams of them. Poor Emily. Carol let the sobs come, let them wash over her reminding her that the nightmare was real. Way too real. She brought her hand to her face. How would she find the strength even to move? Once a long time ago, she’d heard a talk by Elisabeth Elliot, the famous wife of Jim Elliot, the murdered missionary. One thing she’d said had stuck all these years. Sometimes, life is so hard you can only do the next thing. Whatever that is, just do the next thing. God will meet you there.

  No matter how hard it would be, telling Emily was the next thing. Carol stood, and it took every bit of her energy to walk across the room and into the kitchen. She needed her purse. Gary followed, but before she found the bag, she spotted Buster at the back door. At his feet, crumpled in a ball, was Justin’s sweatshirt. She stared at the dog, just stared at him. Because the longer she looked, the more she didn’t see the sweatshirt, but Justin. Age fifteen, and sixteen, and seventeen — sitting outside on the patio petting Buster or brushing him or hooking up his leash for a walk.

  As if the dog somehow knew, he began to whine, whimpering and pawing at the door. Gary exchanged a look with her. A look that said every step, everything they had to do that day and the next and the day after that, would be all but impossible.

  He went to the door, opened it, and crouched down. “It’s okay, Buster. It’s okay.”

  But it wasn’t, because Buster would never see his master walk through the door again. Carol ached for the sadness inside her. The tears would never stop, because it would take forever to cry the river of sorrow raging inside her. Gary led Buster back to his doghouse and tucked Justin’s sweatshirt in close beside him. “There, Buster. Go to sleep.”

  Carol watched, unable to move, unable to do anything but breathe and cry and wish with every breath that she had one more chance, one more time to hug her child and look at him and marvel over the boy she’d raised. The soldier, the friend, the son. The hero.

  Gary grabbed his car keys and his wallet. “Let’s go.”

  She nodded. It was time to do the next thing. Now she could only pray that Elisabeth Elliot was right, that somehow they’d survive the coming hours.

  Because God Himself would meet them there.

  TWENTY

  Emily had finished her last class of the day and was heading back to her room when her cell phone rang. It was email day, time to get her weekly letter from Justin. That alone had made it a good morning — that and the fact that the recent rains had let up just enough to allow a few glimpses of blue on the PLU campus. The air was colder than it had been all fall, and snow was forecast for Thanksgiving.

  She grabbed her phone from the side pocket of her backpack and checked the Caller ID. Strange. She didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?” She kicked at a loose pile of fallen leaves and smiled at a passing student, a girl whose room was down the hall from her own.

  On the other end, the caller wasn’t saying anything.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  “Emily?” The man’s voice was familiar, but he sounded upset, his words thick and muffled so she couldn’t quite pinpoint it.

  Her heart hesitated. Who could be calling her so upset he could barely talk? “Yes? Who’s this?”

  “Gary Baker.”

  Emily stopped cold in the middle of the walkway. “Mr. Baker? What’s wrong?”

  “Honey, we’re here at your campus. Carol and I. In the parking lot. Can we meet you somewhere?”

  What was this? Justin’s parents were in the parking lot? And his father sounded like he’d been crying? Her entire world rocked hard to one side. She looked for a place to sit down, but there was none. The bench. They could meet at the bench, the same one where she and Justin had spent so many late hours talking before he said good-night and headed back to his base. “By the stairs,” she managed to say. “Meet me at the bench.”

  She snapped her phone shut without saying good-bye, without asking any of the questions that shook her mind, her senses. What had happened? What terrible thing would cause Justin’s parents to drive an hour north without calling first? She ordered her feet to start moving, and they obeyed. But her head was spinning, even as she walked.

  One of the kids in her sociology class had the paper out that morning, but what had it said? Three soldiers dead … another roadside bomb. At the time, Emily had chided herself. Usually she checked the news — either at night or before heading off for class. But she’d had a game the day before and spent a few hou
rs at the teen center. Between her busy schedule and her homework and daydreaming about Justin, she hadn’t had time to think about anything else.

  Not even the war.

  Justin had been gone nearly two months. Four more and he’d be home. She’d stopped getting sick over every report of a casualty. There were thousands and thousands of soldiers in Iraq; Justin would be fine. He’d promised. Her feet moved faster. She was imagining things. All she needed to do was meet the Bakers at the bench and look in their eyes, and then she’d know that his promise was still good.

  He was fine.

  So why are they here, sounding so upset?

  Okay, maybe he was hurt. Maybe he was coming home early. But so what? She’d be there to meet him, and whatever help he needed getting better, getting back on his feet, she’d be there for him. Whatever he needed.

  Once she saw the Bakers, she’d know.

  Or maybe something had happened to Buster. He was an old dog, after all. If Buster died while Justin was away fighting, he’d never forgive himself. Yes, that made sense. If something had happened to Buster, the Bakers wouldn’t want to tell her over the phone. They’d need to talk about it in person, so that they could come up with the right words, the right way to tell Justin.

  She walked faster, and there, up ahead, she could see them. Mr. and Mrs. Baker, standing near the bench, the one that belonged to her and Justin. From far away, it seemed strange seeing Justin’s father there. The two looked so alike, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think it was Justin himself. The way he might look in a few decades, when they were looking back at the picture they’d taken that day on the pier, knowing that what the old couple had said about the passing of time was all too true.

  But it wasn’t Justin.

  It was his father and his mother, and they were watching for her, staring at her. She took shallow breaths, all that her lungs would allow. Her heart banged against her chest. She wanted to stop, turn around, and run the other direction. But she couldn’t. Whatever this was about, she had to know. Now, before another minute passed. She began to jog — and then to run.

  She reached them breathless, and that’s when she saw the tear stains on their faces. The red in their swollen eyes. “What …” She leaned over her knees and waited until she could breathe again. Then she straightened. “What’s going on?”

  Justin’s mother held out her arms. “Emily … I’m so sorry, honey.”

  Emily shook her head. She didn’t want to be hugged. She was a competitor, not a meek person who would fall apart when the game momentum turned on her. She took the woman’s hand, but she held her ground. “Tell me.”

  His father took a step forward. “He’s gone, Emily. He was killed in battle yesterday.”

  The moment his words were out, a wall threw itself up between the person standing in her shoes and the person who so loved Justin Baker. A wall made of thick cement and razor wire. The sort of wall no emotions were ever going to get around.

  She shook her head and took a step backward. “No.” She held up her hand. “No, it’s not true.”

  “Emily …” His mother began to cry. “We just found out. We had to tell you in person.”

  Justin’s father crossed his arms, and tears forged two trails down his cheeks. “He was on his way across Baghdad, and his car … the car hit a roadside bomb.”

  A roadside bomb? The one mentioned on the front page? Were they trying to tell her that Justin had been one of the three soldiers killed? She began to tremble. Her coat was too thin for winter weather. She pulled it tightly around her waist and shook her hair free from the collar. Why were they standing here like this, crying? Justin wasn’t dead.

  She needed to tell them. “I heard from him … just the other day. I probably have an email — ” she pointed toward the residence hall and her hand shook hard — “right up there. His letter is right up there waiting f-f-for me.”

  “Honey.” Justin’s mother put her hand on Emily’s shoulder. “Please … I know this is hard for you. Our daughter’s at a dance camp, but we got her a message to leave early. She’ll be home later tonight. We tried to call your father, but he was out.” Her voice cracked. “It’s hard for all of us.”

  They tried to call her father? Emily stood a little straighter. Whatever bad information Justin’s parents had gotten, they didn’t need to all stand outside in the cold. She wasn’t being the least bit hospitable. She tried to smile, but her lips wouldn’t lift. “Mrs. Baker, Mr. Baker … you’ve come a long way.” Her voice was calm, because they were wrong. Of course they were wrong. “Why don’t you come in and wait in my room. That’ll give me time to check my email.”

  Gary Baker nodded and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We’ll follow you.”

  “Good.” She led the way up the stairs. “How’s Buster?”

  Justin’s mother exchanged a look with her husband. Then Mr. Baker said, “We can talk about him later. Let’s get inside.”

  She moved through the entryway and down the hall to her room. Pam was gone for the afternoon, so she used her key and opened it. “You can sit there.” Emily motioned to a single sofa that sat against the wall between the two beds. Again she’d forgotten her manners. “Can I get you water, anything to eat?” She moved past them and opened a small cupboard. “We have fruit leather.”

  Justin’s parents wore looks of astonishment, and his mother seemed on the verge of a breakdown. They took their places on the sofa and Mr. Baker shook his head. “No. We’ll … we’ll wait here, Emily.”

  Good. She didn’t want to hear anything else about Justin, not when they were completely wrong. He was fine. His letters told her that he knew what he was doing, defending the various ethnic groups in Iraq, the ones in favor of freedom and democracy. He’d done this before, that’s what he told her. He knew his way out of the battlefield. Just four months. Sixteen weeks and he’d be home again.

  She ran up the stairs to the computer station and signed on. God … help the Bakers. They’re so upset. She felt arms behind her, arms that were holding her up. But even that was strange, because she wasn’t about to fall. She only needed to check her email and find the letter from Justin.

  The screen came to life and there it was. A brand-new letter. Hah! Just like she’d known it would be there. The subject said the same thing it always said, “Missing you.” She opened it, but she refused to read it. Not here. Not with his parents sitting in her room certain that Justin was dead.

  Dead, of all things! The idea was ludicrous! While his letter was printing, she stared at the Internet Explorer button and warned herself not to look. It wasn’t possible. The wall was firmly in place. No matter what the Bakers believed, they were wrong. She could run a check on the Internet and then she’d know.

  Don’t do it! A voice deep in her heart warned her. Don’t look. You’re right; his email is enough.

  But she had to look, because if she could find the story, if she could find the names, then she could make a printout of that too and take it to his parents. Then they could hug each other and smile and thank God that they were wrong.

  And they could talk about Buster and how sixteen weeks wasn’t really all that long, and they could go home where they belonged. Yes, that was a good idea. The letter was still printing, so she’d run the search real quick. The Internet was always helping her find things.

  That was how she’d found her parents, how she’d first made contact with them and brought them back together. Yes, the Internet would know, and then she could tell Justin’s parents. Everything was fine. Justin was fine. Her heart thudded harder, her breaths quick and raspy.

  She called up Explorer, and then opened Google. With her fingers shaking so hard she could barely type, she went to the search box and typed in the words, “roadside bomb, three soldiers.” Despite the part of her heart that was desperate for her to stop the search, she hit enter. Then she waited.

  The first story was one dated that day. The source was CNN. Fine, CNN would
have the facts. Especially if the story was dated that day. She called it up, and as she did, she told herself she wouldn’t actually read it. She would print it out, and she and the Bakers could read it together. She hit print, but as she did, her eyes betrayed her.

  They scanned the story, and that’s when she saw it.

  A blur of names, and there in the middle of them …

  “Justin Baker, 22, from Fort Lewis.”

  “No.” She slid back her chair and jerked to her feet, staring at the screen. “You’re wrong. You’re all wrong!” The wall was crumbling, but Emily wouldn’t let it. Not all the way. She was in a match for her life, down 3 – 0 with the championship on the line. Be tough, Emily, she could hear her coach shouting at her. Be tough!

  And she would be.

  She grabbed the pieces of paper from the printer, ran back to her room, and snatched up her purse and car keys.

  “Emily …” Mr. Baker was on his feet. “Where are you — ?”

  She held up her hand, stopping him. “I can’t … I’ll be back.” Then she ran as fast as her feet would take her, out into the hall, down the stairs, and into the parking lot. Her car was parked in the back row, and that was good. The running felt right, something she could do to get her head back in the game.

  God … guide my hands. I can’t think, can’t breathe, so guide my hands. She climbed into her car and took off, out of the parking lot and onto the freeway. Not until she took the exit did she really understand where she was going, where her car was taking her.

  The Sound, of course. Puget Sound, the place where she’d come so many times with Justin. She folded the printouts. Then she stuffed them into her jacket pocket and put her keys in the other. Overhead, the clouds were gathering again, threatening to break open just like her heart. But not yet, not until she reached the water’s edge.

  She kept running, ignoring the way her ribs ached, the way her lungs burned from the effort. And finally, finally she reached the metal railing. She tilted her head back, gasping for her next breath. The boardwalk was empty, deserted on this cloudy mid-November afternoon. Her sides heaved, and she leaned on the railing, leaned on it the same way she and Justin always did whenever they came here.