2
Thirteen months later
I awoke crying, covered in sweat.
"Cupcake, are you okay?" Joe asked me, looking in through the bedroom doorway.
I was short of breath, but I answered him as calmly as I could. "I'm okay, Joe. Just a dream."
"Seems like you've been having a lot of dreams lately. I've got coffee all made, and there's Boston crèmes, too. Come on out and get breakfast."
"Thanks, Joe. I'll be out in a minute."
I lay there for a minute, thinking about the dream. It had started right after Ranger left on his last mission.
I was in a jungle, very warm and humid, surrounded by ferns and vegetation, a high canopy of trees overhead. Sweat poured from my body, generated by the heat, dripping down my face, neck and chest. I paused, listening. Over the twittering and cawing of birds and the chattering of monkeys I could hear them. They were after me, and they were getting closer.
I ran down a narrow, overgrown road in the jungle, silent in spite of the fast pace, not wanting a sound to give away my position. I pressed a hand tight against my side, trying to staunch the bleeding that had begun again. I was wounded in multiple places, and the wounds were slowing me down, impeding my progress.
All of a sudden I came upon a fork in the road and stopped, trying to decide. I needed to get across the border into the neighboring country, and then I could call for an extraction. But which path?
As I stood looking at the two trails in front of me my hand went into my pocket to feel the small disc there. The pursuit behind me grew louder and I knew they were only seconds from capturing me.
And then I would wake up, every time, crying out Ranger's name.
I dragged myself into the bathroom, a zombie, constrained by fatigue from lack of sleep. I began having the dream almost as soon as Ranger left, and at first it was only occasionally, and much less intense. But after Ranger missed his check-in eight months ago, the dream became more detailed and more disturbing. There had been no word from Ranger since that time, and Tank said the brass were presuming Ranger to be dead.
I knew better. I'd feel it if he were gone, I was certain of it. When the dream stops, I told myself, then I'll give up, but not a second before.
I shuffled out into the kitchen wearing a ratty old bathrobe, not caring about scary morning hair, dark-circled, puffy eyes, or sagging posture.
"Here, Cupcake. Try and eat something." Joe greeted me with a cup of coffee fixed just the way I liked it and a plate containing six Boston crème doughnuts.
I sat hunched over at the table and sipped the coffee. I took a doughnut and nibbled at it, but set it back down on the plate. I wasn't hungry. I hadn't been hungry for months, and I'd lost over twenty pounds. My clothes were hanging on me, normally the occasion for a joyful shopping trip with Lula or Mary Lou, but I didn't have the energy or the ambition to shop.
I hadn't been working, either. I'd barely been able to get dressed, and after awakening several times a night with the nightmare, I'd end up napping off and on during the day to try to make up for lost sleep.
Money wasn't a problem, because it turned out Ranger had arranged for his hazardous duty pay to come to me. Every month a large sum of money was deposited into my bank account, courtesy of Uncle Sam, and according to Tank it would continue until Ranger came back. I didn't ask what would happen if he never came back. I wouldn't even let that idea cross my mind.
Because I'd lost so much weight my mom tried to insist I come over for dinner every night, and to appease her I agreed to three times a week. Joe would come to my apartment after work and pick me up. My mom had called him a few months ago, and he'd made it his mission to get me to eat, taking me to dinner, bringing me breakfast, and making sure my fridge and cupboards were well stocked.
But nothing helped.
"Gotta get back to work, Cupcake. I'll pick you up for dinner at 5:45. Try to be ready. I don't want to have to dress you again." Joe gave me a kiss on the top of my head and took off.
I sat and stared at the coffee for a few minutes after he left, and then slogged back into the bedroom. I crawled back into bed and slid my hand under the pillow to grip the little leather book of poetry Ranger had given me. I'd slept with it there the entire time he'd been gone.
I'd paged through the book a few times, and had even tried to read some of the poems, but I've never been very much into literature, so I didn't get very far. Today, however, something felt different.
I pulled the book out, rolled onto my side, and held it loosely in my hands. It fell open to a page near the center, and I noticed with surprise that a few lines of poetry were underlined in pencil. I read them:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Written in pencil in the margin next to them was the word, "Babe."
I hadn't cried much since Ranger stopped checking in, mostly just feeling numb, but the tears began rolling down my cheeks and I was sobbing his name, "Carlos, Carlos, Carlos, I love you, I love you."
My tears stained the pages and I cried myself to sleep with the open book under my cheek.
TBC
