QUINN
I miss her so much it hurts.
Some days I can move, function, really live, as if she isn't elsewhere. Other days it feels like every breath, every moment is weighed down by the sheer magnitude of her absence.
I wait, but waiting doesn't seem like the right description. Waiting implies that I know the outcome, that a certain eventuality will inevitably be realized. But I don't know. I don't know where she is, I don't know how she is, I don't know if…when…I don't know when she'll be back.
I got an email, as she promised, when she arrived in Kuwait. It was simple and to the point. She was safe. She loved me. She'd call me when she got to her base in Afghanistan. And yet…
That was a month and a half ago. I haven't heard a word from her, and it is tearing me to pieces. If something, God I can't even think it, but if something happened I'm not sure how I'd find out. Since we're not married, her parents would be notified, not me. I've never actually spoken to Santana's parents. I'm not sure if they'd even know how to reach me. I want to be confident that she planned for the possibilities, but I also don't want to believe that she even considered not coming home a possibility.
It's so much harder than I ever really thought it would be to be in love with someone who does what Santana does. Loving her is the easiest thing I've ever done. Dealing with her deployment is the hardest. It's a painful, heart-wrenching dichotomy. She loves her job, I know she does, but how many more times will I send her off to some foreign place to fight an invisible war? What if we decide to have children? I'm selfish enough to want her home with me even though I know that her particular set of skills are rare and important.
My mother has listened to me cry so many times that I feel like I can't call her again for a while. I know she wants to be there for me, but I've asked her and my sister to bear a load that I can't really share. There is nothing they can say or do, no number of times I could cry to them, no solution to be worked out that would fix this endless ache. Only my love, only one amazing, beautiful girl can fix this.
Every phone call, every e-mail, every facebook message…every single notification I get that someone is trying to reach me, I pray it's her. It will be, eventually. It has to be.
Santana likes to say "ruck up and shut up," whenever she talks about Soldiers whining, so that's what I'm trying to do. I know she wouldn't want me to mope around. She has told me more than once that I'm stronger than I give myself credit for. I hope she's right. I want to prove her right. But damned if I don't feel like I'm crumbling.
I miss her so damn much it hurts.
Santana is lying next to me, but I know it's a dream. I see her every night lately. She's rarely ever this close to me though. Usually she's just out of reach, walking ahead of me and I can't catch up to her.
She's looking at me steadily, but suddenly sits up. I'm trying to follow her as she leaves the room. I think she's trying to answer the phone. It's ringing, somewhere. She's frantic, trying to get it before the ringing stops.
Ringing. It's ringing.
Shitmyfuckingphoneisringing.
I shoot up and snatch my phone from the charger, accepting the call immediately without looking at the number.
"Hello?"
Silence, then a garbled sound.
"Hello? Santana?"
"Qui-"
It's her! She's alive! I can barely hear her, but she's alive and I'm crying and oh my God she's on the phone.
"I'm here, baby, I'm here. Can you hear me?" I tell her, desperate to hear more from her.
"I hear you," she says, sounding far away and underwater, "I'm on a sat…ite…one…on't…uch time."
I'm on a satellite phone, don't have much time.
"Okay, babe. Are you okay? I love you." I'm just rushing words out, hoping she can understand me better than I understand her.
I bite my lip during the long pause that follows.
"I'm okay," she sounds clear as a bell suddenly and I nearly squeal with joy. There's a long delay, but she's talking to me. "We lost everything. All of our internet capabilities were lost in a rocket attack. I'm so sorry Quinn. I love you too."
"It's okay, babe. I'm just so glad you're alright." My voice wavers from the crying, and I can actually feel the snot rolling out of my nose, but I couldn't give a fuck less. She's okay.
"I'm doing good, just miss you so much. I sent you a letter, snail mail style. Hopefully it gets there soon. Look, baby, I have to pass the phone on. Everyone needs to call their people and we've only got two phones. I love you so much though. I'll try to call again soon, and I'll write you, I promise."
No, don't go. I want to cry in her ear and beg her not to go, but I can't. She needs me to be tougher than that.
"Alright, baby. I love you so fucking much, Santana. I miss you," I say with as much strength as I can muster.
"I miss and love you too, Quinn. Bye honey."
"Bye."
I bury my face in my hands and weep, torn between joy that she's okay and I heard her voice, and a desperate sadness that she had to go so soon. I cry and laugh at times, because at this point there are too many emotions for one person to know what to do with.
She's alive and she called me.
I miss her so goddamn much it hurts.
The letter comes two days later. I tear it open with the excitement of a five year old on Christmas morning, thrilled to be holding something that she had in her hands. My eyes tear when I see the distinctive all caps handwriting that I know so well. Santana told me once that she filled out so much paperwork in the Army that she just gave up using lowercase letters entirely.
DEAR QUINN,
HOW WEIRD IS THIS? AN ACTUAL LETTER! I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG THIS WILL TAKE TO REACH YOU, BUT I HOPE I'LL GET TO CALL BEFORE IT DOES. LITERALLY THE DAY I GOT BACK WE TOOK A LOT OF ROCKET FIRE, IT WAS CRAZY. THEY TOOK OUT OUR INTERNET, ALL OF IT. I THINK WE MIGHT HAVE OUR SECRET NETWORK UP AGAIN, BUT I CAN'T USE THAT TO CALL YOU. I'M SO SORRY IF YOU'VE BEEN WORRIED.
I'M NOT SURE IF THEY ARE GOING TO PUT THE CIVILIAN INTERNET BACK UP AT ALL. WE'RE GETTING READY TO TEAR DOWN THIS COMBAT OUT POST ANYWAY, SO THEY MIGHT NOT. I HOPE THEY TEAR THIS DUMP DOWN SOONER RATHER THAN LATER SO WE CAN MOVE TO A BIGGER PLACE WITH MORE STUFF. THERE IS A FORWARD OPERATING BASE IN ANOTHER AREA OF OPERATIONS WITH A COFFEE BEAN AND A REAL CHOW HALL! IF I MOVED THERE I'D PROBABLY BE ABLE TO CALL YOU ALL THE TIME, BUT I'M TRYING NOT TO GET MY HOPES UP TOO MUCH. IT'S EASIER TO DEAL WHEN YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING TO LIVE IN A SHITHOLE DUMP AND THEY SURPRISE YOU WITH SOMETHING NICER, RATHER THAN HOPE FOR SOMETHING GOOD AND BE DISAPPOINTED. THE ARMY HAS A MAGICAL WAY OF SCREWING YOU HARDER THAN YOU'VE EVER BEEN SCREWED, SO MINIMAL EXPECTATION IS FOR THE BEST. SORRY IF THAT SOUNDS NEGATIVE, IT JUST REALLY SUCKS OUT HERE WITHOUT BEING ABLE TO TALK TO YOU.
HOW ARE THINGS BACK HOME? SAY HI TO YOUR FAMILY FOR ME. ACTUALLY, THAT REMINDS ME, I SAW MY DAD ON MY WAY THROUGH BAGRAM AIRFIELD. HE'S LOOKING FORWARD TO MEETING YOU. I SHOWED HIM YOUR PICTURE AND HE ASKED ME IF YOU'RE A MODEL OR AN ACTRESS OR SOMETHING. IMAGINE THAT, SOMEONE ELSE THINKS YOU ARE TOO GORGEOUS FOR REAL LIFE…
ANYWAY, I MISS YOU SO MUCH, QUINN. I THINK ABOUT YOU EVERY SINGLE DAY. I HOPE YOU ARE DOING ALRIGHT. BE BRAVE FOR ME, BEAUTIFUL.
ALL MY LOVE-
SANTANA
I read the letter over and over again, until I've memorized most of it. I find myself tracing her blocky handwriting with my finger, imagining her huddled in an armored truck or somewhere on the side of a mountain, writing to me. I've seen pictures of her from other deployments and from the beginning of this one, so I see her pretty clearly in my mind's eye—
Her uniform is faded from the sun and the dirt permanently rubbed into it. She's wearing her helmet, which she tells me they call a Kevlar after the stuff it's made of. She's got body armor on, with all sorts of stuff attached to it. Santana pointed out to me what all of it is, but I don't remember what each thing is called. (I just remember the magazines, because I thought that was a weird thing to be carrying, until she explained that a "magazine" in the military is what holds their bullets, not something they read.) She's wearing gloves. In every picture I see, she's got tan gloves on. Oakley sunglasses, which she tells me are capable of saving someone's eyesight in a blast. I thought that was impressive. Finally, I see Santana's face. Her face is tanned and dirty, and she wears this indescribable half smile. It's the kind of smile that indicates someone who is completely at ease in their world.
Santana is the most badass human being I can imagine, but she doesn't seem to think anything of it. Sometimes it's hard, when people ask about her, not to brag. This is a woman who has voluntarily put herself on the front lines of the fight, rather than do some administrative job or stay on the base. She is so selfless and brave, it's actually kind of terrifying. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Santana will risk her life for other Soldiers. It's basically what she does on a daily basis.
Sometimes I have to remind myself of what she's doing when I start to feel sorry for myself. It sucks so bad to miss her so much, but she misses me just as much. And on top of that she has to deal with rocket attacks and firefights and IEDs and God only knows what else. Santana is my hero, bottom line.
I sit down and write a long letter back to her, carefully transcribing her address onto the back of the envelope when I'm done. It's crazy to think that in this world of interconnectivity and instantaneous communication, we've been reduced to writing letters as our only real means of speaking. I'm okay with that, as long as Santana is always on the other end.
I miss her so fucking much it hurts.
SANTANA
"Puckerman, get your fucking ass down! What the fuck are you trying to do? Keep your head down."
I'm tired, so fucking tired.
"Oh I'm sorry, I thought you wanted some more magazines. I could just take these to someone else though, if you don't need bullets to kill the bad guys."
"Don't be a fucking smartass. Give me four. Put the others right here behind this rock so we can reload faster."
"Think we'll get another wave?"
I glare at this idiot for a minute before I get my sharp tongue under control.
"Yeah man, we're going to get more. They're calling in the birds but…I don't know, the choppers are coming from a ways off and won't have long overhead before they have to refuel. I just want to make sure we get the wounded out."
"Shit."
Yeah, shit is right. This fucking deployment sucks. Everything about it has just been worse than any other I've been through. It's manageable, like all things are, but at every single turn there is a setback. This firefight has been going on for three hours. It doesn't seem like we can knock enough of these assholes down to stop them from coming again, and they will kill every last person in the village to our south if we can't fight them off. The Taliban doesn't take kindly to Afghans who are friendly to US forces. They don't actually take kindly to anyone who won't cower beneath their heel.
I hear the distinctive snap of a bullet flying over my head and I know it's back on. One by one the guns on our end begin to return fire.
Puckerman and I have a good position, looking down the mountain, protecting the flank. Normally I'd be somewhere in the middle of our defensive circle, guiding in the medical evacuation birds or waiting for someone to need me, but this fight is a shit mess, and we need every weapon we can use.
There's movement below us and I recognize the telltale pop of a grenade nearby. I return fire first, carefully squeezing the trigger so as not to waste our dwindling ammunition.
9…10…11, 12…13…
I count each round in my head so that I won't go empty unexpectedly. Puckerman takes over while I slouch down and unhook my pistol, just in case.
There's a snap against the rock above my head and pieces of shale rain down on me. Instead of popping back up where I was, I roll left and fire a heavy volley down the mountain to get those bastards to duck.
14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20…21, 22…23, 24…25, 26…
"I need to reload," I shout at Puck and pops back up to take over for me.
27, 28, 29, 30
I roll back over and change my magazines as fast as I can.
1, 2…3, 4…
"MEDIC!" Someone is screaming behind me. "MEDIC!"
I look at Puck for a second.
"GO Lopez! I'm good here. GO!"
FUCK.
I snatch up my aid bag and sprint, keeping my body as low as possible. The trees around me are splintering from bullets hitting them, but I don't stop. I shouldn't be able to move this fast. My legs should be quitting, my lungs should be screaming, but I can't feel anything. I run to the sound of the yelling and drop to my knees next to a scared sergeant who is bleeding profusely from his leg. I know him. Evans. Fuck.
I push my hands as hard as I can against his wound and look him in the eye.
"Listen to me. I need you to start talking to me. Name, rank, last 4, blood type. Keep telling me while I work on you so that I don't forget."
All of the things I just asked him to repeat over and over are actually sewn on to his helmet, I just need him focused on something other than the fact that at this particular moment he is bleeding out. He starts rattling off this meaningless information while I assess his wounds.
Entry, exit. The exit is nasty, too. Bigger than the entry. I have to tourniquet him, as much as I don't want to risk having this kid lose his leg, his femoral is nicked and I have no choice.
I quickly apply pressure dressings first, to cover his open wounds and hopefully prevent all sorts of nastiness from getting in there. Then I grab the tourniquet off of his kit.
"Sergeant Evans, Samuel. 8170. A-positive. Sergeant Evans, Sam...hey, is that my tourniquet?"
I ignore him as I slide it up his leg, a few inches over the wound. If we don't get him out of here quickly he'll lose his entire left leg. He screams as I ratchet it down tightly. I look up to see where I can move him that is safer.
"Am I going to lose my leg?"
I see a spot, up a little ways that has better cover, but it's going to suck to get him up there. I reach down and unhook the dead weight on his kit, instead snapping it onto mine.
"Seriously, Doc, am I going to lose my leg?"
I pause for a fraction of a second and look him in the eye.
"No."
I'm back to work, putting a splint under his leg and tying it down, too. Bark rains down on us as the tree next to us takes a bunch of rounds.
I swing my weapon up and begin firing on the muzzle flashes I can see as I position myself between Evans and the incoming gunfire.
5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
My thumb clicks the safety on my rifle and my rounds start coming out in threes.
11, 14, 17, 20, 23
I pause for a second, still knelt down. I don't know if I've killed any of them or all of them, all I know is that we need to move.
I turn and grab Evans' body armor by the shoulder, hoisting him cleanly to a sitting position. He seems to recognize my urgency and does all he can to help me pull him up. He's over my shoulder in a second and I grab his rifle as I stand up and start running as hard as my legs will carry me.
30 meters.
Fuck.
25 meters.
FUCK.
The crescendo of gunfire is mind blowing.
15 meters.
Four Soldiers appear before me and sprint past us, laying an unholy amount of gunfire down the mountain. I trudge the last few meters and drop Evans as carefully as humanly possible behind a huge rock.
"How are we doing, Sam?"
He's wide eyed and clearly overwhelmed, but he cracks a smile with his abnormally large mouth, his fishy lips cracked from the sun.
"Alright, alright, alright," he says in a Matthew McConaughey voice.
I shake my head and start laughing hard. It wouldn't even be that funny, except that this jackass is shot through the leg and still doing impressions. I laugh the entire time I'm hooking him up to an IV to keep his blood pressure up.
My laughter ceases as soon as I hear the beautiful sound of rotary wings above my head. The cavalry has arrived. Now that I have a minute I unsnap the stretcher that's folded down in my aid bag and get some of the guys that ran past us with guns blazing to help me carry him to the makeshift landing zone.
We guide the helicopters down and then run forward carrying Evans on the stretcher, the wind from the blades whipping us in the face. He grabs my hand after I hand off his IV to the flight medic, nodding a thank you. I give him a short nod and run away from the chopper so that it can go.
Before it can take off four guys run up with a bodybag and load it inside as well, right next to Evans. I'm pissed at first, because it's fucked up to put a dead guy next to a guy that's still fighting, but I know in my heart that the most important thing is that everybody, dead or alive, gets off this mountain.
I turn to the team of guys that were carrying the body when they run back to where we are.
"Who was the KIA?" I ask.
"Specialist Puckerman."
I nod, fighting the urge to scream, or cry, or fall to my knees and do both.
"I'm sorry, brother," I whisper as I watch the helicopters fly off.
My bags are packed. Most of our shit has already been sent back to the States in containers. We only have about three weeks left in this shithole country and then we'll be flying home.
I've never been more scared in my life.
It's the weirdest thing in the world, but I'm terrified. I do fine outside of the gates. I can do my job, I can deal with gunfire, I'm never really afraid out there.
But in here…it's fucking awful. There's no control. I don't live or die based on how well I handle my weapon, or how well my brothers do their jobs. I live or die based on a math equation that varies every single time a rocket is fired. Trajectory, speed, angle. All unknowns. A problem cannot be solved with all unknown factors. I have a stupid Mean Girls quote stuck in my head all the time.
"The limit does not exist."
I don't know why I can't stop thinking about it. Maybe because it pisses me off that the answer to the problem is a non-answer. I just keep living. I go to the gym, I eat in our mess tent, I walk to the shower trailers, and I sleep in a fucking plywood building. Any moment, any day, any hour, those assholes could launch a lucky ass rocket that just happens to land on my forehead, or at least close enough that my body is destroyed by the blast or fragmentation. It's a total crapshoot.
What's crazy is that this has been true literally the entire time I've lived here, and yet it only bothers me now. We're so damn close to going home. I'm so damn close to holding Quinn, to kissing her, that it feels like an impossibility. Like there has to be something that prevents me from reaching her.
It's fucking terrifying.
I miss Quinn.
QUINN
Any day now, she'll be home.
The dates keep changing, but any day I'll get the call saying what time she'll be on the ground. I'm so excited it's hard to function at work. It's pretty hard to function at all, actually.
My phone is buzzing in my pocket, so I excuse myself from lunch with my coworkers to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Hi! This is Debbie Anderson from the Family Readiness Group. Is this Quinn Fabray?"
"Yes, this is she."
"Great! You are listed as the contact for Staff Sergeant Santana Lopez with 146th Medical Detachment, and I'm calling to inform you that her unit will be arriving back at Fort Stewart at 2300 tonight."
"2300?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, military wife, military time. That's 11 o'clock pm."
"So Santana will be home at 11 pm…tonight?"
"That's correct, dear."
"Great! Thank you! Thank you so much!"
"You're welcome, bye now."
I end the call and return to my coworkers, a broad grin on my face.
Tommy, a handsome guy whose exact job I can never seem to remember, notices me first.
"What's got you so excited? Find out when Santana's coming home?" he asks playfully. My entire office is well aware of my fiancée's impending return from Afghanistan.
I bite my lip and nod.
"So?" All eyes are on me.
"Tonight! She'll be home tonight!"
I'm waiting, impatiently. It's almost midnight, and we've been informed that the flight has landed, but that our Soldiers are in-processing.
An older guy who looks vaguely important steps up to a microphone.
"Good evening, I am Colonel Hall, and I'd like to welcome you all to the welcome home ceremony for 146th Medical Detachment. Your Soldiers will march in shortly, we'll say a few words, and then they'll be released to be with you again. I recognize that I'm the only thing standing in the way of a lot of long awaited reunions, so I promise to keep it short."
Some music starts up and all eyes turn to the entrance as a bunch of travel weary Soldiers march in smartly. They look exhausted, but they move in perfect synchronization.
My gaze travels from face to face until I see her and my heart stops. She stands stiffly at attention, her eyes straight forward until seemingly by magic they slide directly to mine. She winks and then looks straight ahead again.
I can't even hear what the old guy is saying. I'm just plotting routes to get to my fiancée as quickly as possible.
"…so without further ado. Company! Atten-tion! Fall out!"
I'm on my feet and weaving between couples and families reuniting, heading in the general direction of where she was standing. All at once I see her, smiling, waiting for me exactly where I saw her.
I jog the last few steps and jump into her arms, wrapping my legs around her waist and kissing her soundly. She smiles into the kiss, and it's just…everything.
She's kissing me. She's home. Hallelujah.
I put my feet on the ground again and just hold her close to me. She feels so tiny, thinner than when I last saw her. Her slight frame is shaking.
I've never seen Santana cry before.
"I love you so much, baby," I murmur into her ear, "welcome back."
"I love you too. God, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you," she whispers back.