by Alex Howell
It was, he supposed, a slightly happier conversation than the people that he and his daughter had once hung out with but would never get the chance to do so again.
Like Bree.
He sighed as the memories came rushing back, as they so often seemed to do when he and Clara were out and had a moment of silence or brief separation.
First, it was seeing Bree when he landed back in the States. She was crying when she saw him and kissed him, announcing that the cancer had come back. Mason promised and swore up and down that he was back for good, that he would openly defy government orders if pulled back. Fortunately, that never happened.
What did happen, however, was endless rounds of chemotherapy, a variety of trials, and a whole lot of pain and grief. Bree’s parents did a wonderful job of helping take care of Clara while she fought, and after about a year’s worth of treatments, the cancer once again was beaten.
Just before leaving, though, the doctor warned that if the cancer ever did return, it was going to be a much tougher battle. In that moment, Bree shrugged, saying she had to die at some point. But, Mason, unable to forget threats of any kind, always had that in the back of his mind.
Five years later, at the painful age at which Clara was old enough to know what was happening but not old enough to handle it on her own, Bree came down with terminal breast cancer. There was no getting around it this time.
Mason’s wife was going to die.
Just as he had in the teams, Mason had thrown himself 110 percent into his new mission. He didn’t so much visit her in the hospital as he stayed with her, visiting home or family instead of the other way around. He took her to breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and when she didn’t have the strength to stand, let alone move around the hospital, he’d read stories to her or share old stories of when they first started dating with her.
But by the end, even that was proving mighty difficult. Bree could barely stay awake for more than a few hours, her appetite vanished, and she lost a ton of weight. When she was awake, the chemotherapy to keep her life prolonged just a bit longer was making her sicker and sicker.
Finally, one day, Bree told Mason she’d had enough. She wanted the treatments to stop. Mason objected, but when Bree told him, “That’s an order,” on the verge of tears—but not actually crying—Mason went to the doctors and told them that they wanted to take her home. The doctors, too, objected, but Mason left them no choice.
On his last night with her, just a couple of hours before she passed away, in a private moment with Clara asleep, Bree took Mason’s hand and smiled.
“Thank you for keeping your promise,” she said weakly. “These were the best years I could have ever asked for.”
“No, baby, thank you,” Mason said back.
There was no holding back the tears now. With no one but the person he loved most in the world before him, Mason, the hardened SEAL, the man who rarely spoke, the man who saw it as his solemn duty to do what was asked without commentary, turned into a blubbering mess as he realized his marriage was now at the point “’til death do us part.”
“You are the reason I got out of that life,” Mason said in between sniffles. “You were the one who got me home. Without you, I’m still out there, a man killing for no reason other than because I’m good at it. The SEALs taught me to value killing, but you taught me to value life.”
Bree, exhausted to the point that her grip was mostly held by Mason’s, gave a gentle squeeze.
“You have a new mission,” she said. “One that will last until the end of your days.”
She looked over at Clara, sleeping on an air mattress a few feet away. Clara, much to the amazement of Mason, had asked to sleep next to Bree. Mason had worried that the burden would be too much, but seeing the strength Clara had in not wavering, not breaking, reminded him of himself and of her mother.
“Take care of Clara,” Bree said, her eyes about the only thing that still showed fire in them. “Love her for both of us. I’ll be watching from afar. But you’re going to be the one to take care of her up close. Ok?”
“Ok,” Mason said. “Understood.”
“You’ll be Ok, Mason,” Bree said. “I love you.”
With that, Mason moved in to kiss his wife for the final time on the lips. The rest of the family came in a couple minutes later, and Clara woke up for the final moments.
Within the hour, Bree Jackson Walker was dead.
And, to this day, even all those years later, Mason still couldn’t bring himself to remove the wedding ring.
Why should he?
In true defiance, in true form to the SEAL who refused to conform to regular norms, Mason chose not to believe in “death do us part.” Death may have removed Bree’s physical presence, but Mason could see her spirit in his daughter. He could see that southern charm, that honest-to-goodness smile, and that sense of joy that Bree had brought to the world.
And it wasn’t like he was ever going to date or love again. He may have left the military behind, but the impression it had made had hardened him. He found it hard to build trust with anyone, and even when he did get put on blind dates “just for the hell of it” by people he knew, his answers were gruff and he was deliberately removed from the conversation.
The few friends he had—mostly former SEALs, the occasional colleague from the administrative side, and Bree’s family—wondered when he would move on. Even Bree’s father had told him to find love again, that Bree would have wanted him to do so.
But no.
He could not do so.
And since he could not, he would save himself for the war that mattered most.
The war to make sure Clara had the best damn life possible.
“Ok, so, Emily thinks the green will work, but she thinks… Dad?”
Mason snapped out of his funk, looked at his daughter with a smile, and nodded.
“I’m sure Emily has the right idea.”
Clara smiled but crossed her arms, a look that told Mason that he might be able to fool enemy combatants, he might be able to fool his superiors, he might be able to fool bureaucrats and day-job supervisors, but he could never fool his only child.
“You were thinking about mom, weren’t you?”
Mason sighed.
“Yes.”
He never lied to his daughter, not even white lies, and painful as this was, a lie was more painful. A lie would dig in, like a virus, making both of their lives miserable as they became more and more uncomfortable with opening up.
This just sucked in the moment.
“She would have been very proud of you,” Mason said.
“Thanks,” Clara said, her voice shaky. “But she’d be prouder of you, you know. I’m here because you’ve raised me right.”
Ah, jeez, Mason thought, fearful of the emotions getting too strong.
“Don’t say that, Clara,” Mason said with a bit more force than he’d intended. “You got yourself here. I just made sure you didn’t go off the rails.”
Clara laughed, but it was the sort of laugh designed to deflect tears from forming.
“In that case, dad, you put up the best possible rails. I know I’m safe with you and that nothing bad will ever happen as long as you’re watching me.”
Mason smiled, but the smile was beginning to pull back into tears. Clara’s eyes twitched, and she burst into tears.
Mason held her close to his chest, and, when he did so, he was reminded of his wife. He remembered the times holding her close to him, how he swore to never let her go. How he had sworn to protect her until the day she died. He might have protected her from enemy threats, but he could not protect her from death.
Now, Mason only had one person to protect.
He, too, shed a tear.
2
Date: May 12th, 2028
Time: 11:32 a.m.
Location: Baltimore, Maryland
* * *
Feeling the effects of an emotional hangover—though never a physical one, as Mason had not touche
d alcohol since he returned from his last deployment—Mason haggardly rose from the seat of his insurance company, Watchful Eyes, with a need to stretch his lower back and his hip flexors.
The early-morning meeting, which had run an improbable three and a half hours, was meant to discuss something related to the expansion of new fields his company could offer insurance in, but, to Mason, it was just all one big bore, one big drag, one big grind. It wasn’t that he took advantage of his background, but he knew full well his bosses were never going to fire a former Navy SEAL—they knew the bad PR would kill them. So while he did his job well, when he wanted to, he wasn’t afraid to show his displeasure.
His displeasure ran deeper than Watchful Eyes or anything related to the company, though.
It ran with himself for the conflicting feelings he had about his new life in comparison to the old life. There was little doubt that this was safer, better for Clara, and less stressful.
But there was absolutely no doubt that the bond he shared with his coworker was beyond superficial. It was barely tangential, the sort of thing that existed only because company policy dictated Mason work with others from time to time. It was nothing like the SEALs and the black ops, where names like Luke Simon and Jack Jones actually meant something to him.
Today, though, names like Travis Johnson and Mike Sanderson were just words on a wooden placard meant to identify the office Mason would have to walk into.
It was, bluntly, a waste of his time, if not for the fact that Mason wanted to provide Clara with the best life possible.
At the end of the meeting, his boss had asked Mason if he had any questions. Mason simply shook his head no, not even giving a verbal answer. His boss had cracked some lame joke about how masons were supposed to talk while they worked, to which Mason, in as dry a voice as he ever could, said, “I’m a Walker, not a talker.”
Some office laughter had filled the room—the type that no one would ever do when with actual friends—and the boss quickly killed the meeting.
It was a nice relief. Mason would no longer have to spend the three and a half hours rehashing the memories that he’d visited with Clara the day before. He hated when he did it, even though he did it daily.
He knew Bree wouldn’t want him to dwell on her, but then again, she probably wouldn’t have wanted him to continue wearing his wedding ring. Sorry, babe. It’s the way I do things.
As he rose from his desk and saw the time on his phone, he remembered that he had an afternoon lunch date with Clara, who, as a senior at her high school, was able to get off campus on Mondays and Fridays for her lunch break. He texted her to set up a date for the nearby Starbucks, also reminding her that they had a vacation planned to the Alps in a couple of weeks, and asked if she wanted him to grab any equipment while he was out.
He saw that she began to type a response, as evidenced by the text bubble, but then it vanished. Probably got called by some boy at the school. Some boy whose background I don’t know. Some boy who…
Ok, easy, Mason. She’s a big girl now. She can handle herself.
But might be good to ask some questions when you see her. You know, just in case.
Mason returned to his desk and fired off a few emails that he knew didn’t matter as he reminded himself not to be so fatalistic and nihilistic when it came to his job. Perhaps he would never share a brotherhood with the people he spent most of his time with as he had in the SEALs, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t at least fake it.
Except for the fact that “faking it” worked well with others, but not with Mason.
Really though. You want to be a miserable cog for the rest of your life?
Didn’t think so.
It’s just too bad that almost all work doesn’t mean anything compared to the SEALs or family.
He sighed and returned to what he always did in moments like this, when the dark thoughts became a bit much.
* * *
It was the first photo he and Bree had ever taken with Clara, just hours after she was born—she was wrapped up, held by both of them in Bree’s bed. She had on a huge, tired grin on her face, while even Mason did the same. For a man who might as well have considered smiling a sign of weakness for how little he did it, it was pleasant for Mason to see that, yes, he could still sometimes be human.
It just seemingly took an incredible moment for it to happen.
He sent the last email and headed to his automated car, waiting to pick him up, checking his phone once he was seated. Strangely, though, he did not see that she had responded at all. He tried closing out the messenger app and re-opening it, thinking it might just be frozen, but no. In fact, as if to mock him for thinking such a thought, a coworker’s message came through about an afternoon happy hour, but nothing from Clara.
Perhaps she had left her phone somewhere? No, that wouldn’t make sense—Mason reminded himself that the girl had so much walking technology, it was all but impossible for her to not access or respond to incoming messages. Maybe she had just gotten busy and hadn’t had the chance to respond? But busy with what?
It wasn’t like Clara to not respond, especially not when class was not in session.
“T-101,” he said, speaking to the interface of his automatic car that was also used to drop Clara off from school. “Show me the last time Clara rode in this car.”
“Acknowledged,” a computerized woman’s voice said.
The camera from inside showed Clara getting into the car to meet Mason for lunch, then swearing when she had forgotten something—Did I teach her to speak like that? I gotta watch my mouth at home more—and asking the car to head home. The vehicle drove her home as she did homework, texted, and danced a bit in the car. Mason tried to remind himself not to tell Clara that he could see everything that she did, fearing doing so would create an invasion of privacy.
Still, he couldn’t help himself. A soldier, even an ex-soldier, thrived on intelligence and information. The more he had of it, the more comfortable he felt. The less he had of it, the more paranoid he became.
Of course, knowing Clara, she probably was fully aware of the cameras in the car. She probably just didn’t care or was smart enough to not actually do the things that would upset her father. She was a smart and tough cookie, that one—so much so that it unnerved Mason, especially when she would make comments about joining law enforcement or one of the federal agencies. Because what the Walkers need is more of us put in the line of danger.
“Huh, so she’s home,” Mason said, returning his focus. “All right, let’s give her a call.”
“Acknowledged,” the vehicle said. “Calling Clara Walker.”
The phone rang… and rang… and rang…
Ok, this is really weird. By now she would have answered.
“Hi! This is Clara Walker. You know how it goes, leave your info, have a good one!”
The phone beeped, but Mason disabled the call before it went any further. There was no point to leaving a voicemail for his own daughter when he was with her a good five or six hours a day, not including the time for sleep—her, nine hours, him, four hours.
She’s probably home because she forgot some school work or something. Wouldn’t be the first time that girl’s forgotten something.
How can a girl so smart seem so damn forgetful?
Just one of the many things I’m not smart enough to know. Thank God Bree had some brain cells she passed down to her.
While everything did seem odd and it felt like there was something missing—was she hiding? Was she sick? Did she just not have her wrist phone on her?—Mason did his best not to worry too much about it. Clara liked to play the “pretend technology is evil” game by removing everything and trying to go completely hidden from everyone and everything from time to time. Most likely, he’d come home, catch her rummaging in her room for some notes, and then share a good laugh as they’d have to reschedule their lunch date to Friday or the weekend.
Of course, the possibility that something more scandalous w
as going on. If her date to the prom, Tom Whatever-His-Name-Was, was over… well, his SEAL training was never too far removed. She’s too well behaved, though. I doubt anything like that is going on.
The car continued to drive itself down the highway as Mason tried to distract himself from the confusion of Clara not answering. He first played a podcast about calmness that he liked to listen to on the way home, but, in this particular instance, it only served to fluster and aggravate him even more. He then tried to go in the other direction, listening to some of the heavy rock that he liked in his youth with Disturbed and Metallica, but, even then, he could not pry away his worries about Clara.
This was very unlike Clara to not answer her phone. At the very least, by now, she would have sent him a text saying something to the effect of “gimme ten.” It wasn’t much, but it told him that she was aware of him. That she wasn’t doing that…
Had her and Tom…
Mason had to chuckle a little bit, at least internally. He had remembered how much of a player he was in high school, but now that it was his daughter out there, he had suddenly turned into the world’s staunchest guardian of chastity. If he so much as saw Clara hugging a boy, he would probe into her with a million questions about who he was, what kind of family he came from, and what he planned to do with her. Clara was used to it, brushing it off with the same answers so often that it was almost a game.
“Who is he?” “Tom.” It’s always Tom.
“What does he do?” “Student.”
“Good date?” “Yep.”
“What does he want to do?” “Spend time with me.”
It was almost sweet and fun, but once the vehicle pulled off of the highway and was a mere mile from his house, Mason was no longer thinking in terms of humor. Something was going on, and he could only hope that she had sprained her ankle or something to that effect.
