Title: The Yearbook
Rating: K+
Summary: "I'm gonna make you proud of me someday, just like you're proud of him, Mommy." one-shot.
Words: 1,998
Prompt: contest prize for kuku88 - war-themed.
A/N: I PROMISE THE NEXT CHAPTER OF SPOTLIGHT WILL BE UP SOON! I'M NOT DEAD!
The Yearbook
Isn't it interesting how you can just open up any high school yearbook to a random page, and no matter what year, what generation, or what style, you'll always notice such different people and personalities? Perhaps you'll notice certain fashion trends or conformities, but for the most part, a person's general personality is arguably visible.
She'd always noticed that. She loved it. The way she could just tell one person from another by glancing at a school photo. But this particular one had been her favourite ever since it had been printed. But she had forgotten about it. Slipped into the back of her mind along with the rest of the painful memories. Tucked under a blanket and shoved into a chest in the attic for eight whole years.
And now it was out in the open, resurfaced because of one youngster's curiosity. There it sat; faded, broken binding and all, just the same as she'd left it. Just like always.
"Mom, did you know Uncle Butch is in a book?" The young boy gaped up at his mother, a large gap in his mouth where his front teeth should have been. She chuckled at the young boy's interest.
"That's called a yearbook, love." She offered him her arm, which he gladly took, hopping up into her lap, book in hand. Flipping to a random page, he scanned the portraits until he located the one he wanted, his mother pretending not to watch over his shoulder.
"Look, see?" the boy said eagerly, pointing to a black-and-white headshot of a handsome young man with jet black hair and wide, laughing eyes.
"That certainly is Uncle Butch," she said with a smile.
The boy jabbed a heavy finger at the pages, pointing to the black-and-white lettering beneath each photograph. "It even says his name, look! 'Butch Jojo'. That's him, right?"
"It sure is," she responded quietly, studying the photo with a secretive look in her eye that her son was too young to pick up on.
"Sissy said he's famous, is that true, Mom?" His wide, raspberry-coloured eyes gaped up at her like huge glimmering beams of light.
"Of course not," his mother said in a softened tone, hugging her son tighter on her lap. "Your sister just loves to make up ridiculous stories."
"Then how come his picture's in a book?"
"It's a yearbook, honey. Everyone's photo gets put in a yearbook."
"Even yours?" the boy questioned and she patted his thigh.
"Yes, even mine."
"Is my picture in a yearbook?"
"It will be, someday." She ran her hands through his short, carrot-coloured hair with a sigh.
She decided she couldn't avert her eyes from the photos any longer. Her eyes trailed off to the left of Butch's photo, where a devilishly handsome young face grinned back at her. The face had pinched, flushed dimples and a dazzling smile. His eyes sparkled, wide and innocent, and his light hair looked soft as a cloud. This was Boomer, Butch's younger (and arguably better-looking) brother. She smiled to herself as she realized Boomer hadn't changed a bit. He and Bubbles lived on the opposite end of the country, though, and only visited every couple of years, so she'd be surprised if her son had recognized him.
But there was a third face she definitely wasn't expecting him to recognize. She thought it particularly strange, as she always had, that Brick was flanking Butch's right rather than taking up the middle, as was their usual stance. No matter how many times she looked at this photo, she knew it would always bring a smile to her face that mirrored the one he had in the photograph. It was a secret smile, like the two of them shared a secret the rest of the world would never know. She admired his serious stance, the way he held his chin and perked an eyebrow just so that it looked like he was inquiring something of her. To her disappointment, he was not quite clean-shaven, for he was never the type to stay crisp. Of course he did, however, conform to a shorter haircut; he had gotten the long orange locks trimmed after her persistence that senior year was coming up, and he didn't want to look like a hippie in his senior photos. And of course, he complied. The young Brick Jojo would have done anything for his high school sweetheart. She would later discover that part of the reason he chopped his hair off was because he had decided to join the army soon after his graduation.
The memory of his eager dedication to the force brought an overwhelming wave of tears to her eyes, which she tried to hold back as her son began to read off a few of the names in the yearbook and make comments on the different photos. She wrapped her arms tighter around her son and planted a soft kiss into the back of his hair while rocking him back and forth gently on her lap. This action went unnoticed by the boy, who continued to babble on.
She could still remember the rushing sound of the wind in her ears as she raced through the endless crowd, searching through miles upon miles of conformed soldiers, all dressed in green cameo jumpsuits and big, thick black boots. She watched and her breath quickened as soldier after soldier approached his wife and pulled her into his arms, a few of them even lifting his wife into the air and kissing her passionately on the lips. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw one soldier greet his family, his wife and small child, with another close on the way. She placed a palm on her own bulging stomach and slipped around a few couples towards the fifth platform, where the last train was just pulling into the station.
She held her breath as each soldier stepped out of the car and onto the platform, the sharp hiss of the steam engine echoing in her ears along with the steady thump of her heartbeat. She watched impatiently as soldier after soldier stepped out of the train... and not a single one of them had those familiar bright red eyes. A wave of panic swept through her system as the very last man descended the steps onto the platform. It wasn't him.
Her eyes darted left and right—perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps he'd missed his train, or taken the wrong one.
A man in a dark blue blazer was directing a group of distraught-looking women towards a poster board near the far end of the greeting area. As she approached, she noticed that these were portraits and names of the men that had been deported off to Iraq to continue to fight in the war. Her heart jumped straight into her throat as she immediately spotted his name on a small rectangular card. Her breath quickened and she tried to stay calm.
Breaking through the clusters of reunited families, she rushed out of the train station to her car and drove quickly home.
She remembered that drive home better than any other car trip she'd ever taken.
As she was driving, cruising just below the speed limit, her cell phone rang.
Being the responsible driver that she was, she pulled over to the side of the road to take the call, rather than attempting to multitask.
That single call was the most memorable moment of her life.
It was the colonel of her husband's army troop. His name was Dave.
He was a nice man, burly and always laughing. Except for now. Dave was melancholy and seemed very upset.
It turned out that her husband had indeed been deported to Iraq earlier that morning.
Being the dedicated soldier he was, Brick had volunteered to serve frontline in a neighboring attack outside city lines.
It was then that she knew what had happened. Dave didn't even have to say a word. Her phone dropped to the floor of the car and her entire body trembled with disbelief. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. She had always heard stories about women whose husbands died in the war, but she'd always told herself: it won't be him. It won't be.
But it was.
Sobbing uncontrollably into her hands, she sent her fist flying into the steering wheel, causing the horn to blare loudly. It just wasn't fair. All those women whose husbands returned from the war without a scratch on their bodies, and he couldn't have been one of them?
Brick Jojo. Her perfect, wonderful, magnificent, handsome and flawless husband Brick had died voluntarily serving frontline infantry in Iraq. She knew she should be proud. She knew she should feel awed and thankful that she had such a brave and dedicated husband. But for once, she felt selfish. For once, she wished she could've had a husband who'd wanted to be a doctor or a lawyer or something far less dangerous.
Anything to have her sweet husband back. With a four-year-old at home and another on the way in only a few weeks' time, she couldn't do it alone.
And for the first time in her life, the strong, independent and carefree woman broke down completely on the floor of her car and just cried. She wasn't sure how long she cried there. She hadn't even realized she'd abandoned Dave on the phone those many hours ago. But she couldn't care less. There was nothing he could do now; the deed had been done.
Her perfect husband was gone—lost at the hand of some warrior for Iraq.
That had been eight years ago. Eight years of pain, suffering, crying, and bottled up emotions that now came flowing out in a waterfall of tears—right in front of her son. She had always hated the war, ever since she'd been small. But that one occurrence had caused her to hate it with such a passion that she never wanted anyone she knew to participate in such a travesty ever again.
She thought it so devilishly unfair, how he could be gone, poof, right out of her life, and yet his high school yearbook picture could still be as flawless and perfect as ever, that serious young boy staring up at her from the page just as he had for as long as she'd been there. A seemingly unimportant shot captured forever onto the page of an old, faded yearbook.
It wasn't long before the boy noticed her crying, and he looked up at his mother with wide, fearful eyes. He had never seen his mother cry before. Dropping the yearbook on the floor, he twisted himself around in her arms and took her face in between his tiny hands.
"Mommy, don't cry," he said softly to her. "I'll be in a yearbook one day, too. Just like you and Uncle Butch. And you can look in the book and see me and I'll be famous, too."
Her son's assurance sent another ripple of sobs through her shoulders and she cradled him in her arms, rocking him back and forth repeatedly.
"I know, baby," she whispered. "I know you're gonna make Mommy proud someday. Just like your daddy."
"I'm gonna serve my country just like he did, Mommy," he said softly, patting her hair. "I'm gonna be an army man just like Daddy."
This statement startled her. She had always had the gnawing fear that her son would someday enlist in the accursed army, just like his father, and meet the same end. It was her greatest nightmare. She was about to tell him no—she wouldn't allow him to put himself into such danger. But what he said next awed her into silence.
"I'm gonna make you proud of me, just like you're so proud of him, Mommy. Then when you're old like Grandpa you can tell everybody how much you still love me, just like you tell me and Sissy how much you still love Daddy."
Immediately, she wrapped her arms around her son as tight as they would go. The tears flowed out of her eyes like a running faucet and the sobs shook her like an earthquake.
"Of course, baby," she choked out into her son's neck. "You're gonna make Mommy proud. I know you will."
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