Nicole,
We got shot at today. It's crazy, how quickly your body can go through so many things. At the first pop, I felt panicked, the way I always do, no matter how many times it happens. But then the survival instinct kicked in. I hit the ground, pulled my gun out, crawled to cover, and shouted orders all in about 10 seconds. A kid next to me got hit. The blood went spraying and he fell to the ground. I was over to him before the dirt even settled, jabbing my fingers at him, feeling for a pulse.
I haven't prayed in a long time, but I think the whole rosary ran through my head in a half second when I felt his heartbeat. He's ok now, recovering from a shallow abdomen wound. At least, that's what the medic told me. Normally I don't trust those guys, but they let me in to see him. The kid's name is Chris. He'll be 21 next week. We were supposed to have a party for him when we got back stateside.
He'll be in the hospital for his birthday.
It's got me all twisted up for some reason. I couldn't stop shaking. The boys didn't say anything, but I know they saw it. I feel sick. All I wanna do is sleep, but I'm afraid of the dreams I'll have. One little fucking bullet undid every scrap of happiness I've felt for weeks.
I hate it here.
I write Nicole and tell her this. It's short. I don't want to, and can't, go into too much detail. I give her the basics, the kid's first name, what happened. It takes up less than half a page in my book. Her letter comes back a few days later, the snail mail way. Her handwriting is what I thought it would be. It's tiny and loopy and slants up on the unlined paper. Her words fill three small stationary pages.
Dear Tommy,
It took me a long time to write this letter. I wanted to write how sorry I was, but I realized that those words do not even begin to cover how I feel. I know this boy only through your letters, and the details have been scarce. I am sorry that Chris was shot; I am relieved he is alive and I pray he will be all right. But the person I am most worried about is you.
You put up a tough front Tommy, but I know you are upset. I see it written all over your last letter. I wish I was there. I wish I was holding your hand, hugging you, kissing you. I wish I could make the hell you are in disappear, bring you home and make you whole. I want to book a flight, tell the government to fuck itself and pull you out of that damn desert. But I am here and you are there, and even though I try to hide it, it makes me sadder than you know.
Please do not be afraid to write these things to me. The empty spaces in your letters speak of horrors you are not ready to share with me. If you do not want to tell me, tell Brendan. Tell your Pop. Tell a counselor. But please, Tommy, tell someone. Don't let these things stay inside of you where they tear you up and feed your anger.
I am privileged enough to not know the true nature of war. It takes a strong person, a person of great character, to deal with what you deal with. You will come through this. You will come home. And somehow, it will be ok. I know it sounds like an empty promise, but you have to believe it. There are people waiting for you, praying for you, thinking about you. It has to be ok.
The world will settle down and I will see you again.
I don't care where you go. If you come back to Pittsburgh, I will be there to meet you. If you go to Philadelphia, I will take the train out. If you come to Bristol, I will be at the door before you even get out of the car. Anywhere you go, I will be there to see you. I miss you that much. I know it sounds forward, and maybe even ridiculous. We have known each other less than a year. But the situations we have been in and the things you have told me make me eager to see a side of you I have only caught glimpses of.
It sounds impossible, but you will laugh again. And smile. You will wake up on your own time; do what you feel like doing when you feel like doing it. Your life will be yours, full of possibility. And whatever you aspire to- fighting again, or going to school or farming or dancing, whatever it is—you will do it. And every day that you wake up, all that you have gone through will hurt less and less, until you barely feel it at all.
That is what I want for you, and for Chris. That is what you deserve.
If I could send you a kiss in a letter, I would. For now, these pictures will have to suffice. I hope that they do not seem inappropriate, but distract you instead.
As always, I miss you Tommy. Please take care of yourself.
Nicole
A package came with it. I read her letter 3 times before I get to it. Just the sight of that ink on the paper makes me feel better. I can picture her writing it, maybe even crying when she did it. I should feel bad, making her cry, but it's nice, just once, to have someone crying for me. I feel like a loaded rifle, ready to explode. It's like being a kid, having a temper tantrum. Life isn't fair. My whole 29 years, it's been beating my ass, kicking me when I was down. Taking away everything good.
But now it's given me Nicole. She's like an angel, like something I made up in my mind. But here in my hand is proof, handwritten proof that she gives a damn about me. The first woman since my mom died who cares about me is hundreds of miles away, in a city I ain't never been to, writing me letters and telling me it's going to be ok. I want to believe her, but that's not a good idea. Every time I think something is going to be ok, it all goes to hell.
I swallow the lump in my throat and tear open the cardboard of the box she sent me. She said it was a distraction. God knows I need one.
A stack of CDs fall out. They're labeled in her neat handwriting, listing tracks. I think for a second that it's music. I've never been the biggest fan of music, beyond it being just background noise. But anything Nicole likes, I'm willing to listen to. I pop it into my walkman and put the headphones over my ears as I open the rest of what she sent me.
When I hear a man's voice, not singing, but talking, I start to listen harder. She's sent me a CD of comedians whose names I don't know. They're talking about everything, drugs, sex, relationships, even the war. Shit that has never been funny to me. But as the CD plays and I look at the rest of what she sent—a stack of pictures of landscapes and a few of her (my favorite is one of her in a bikini on a beach, but there's a nice one of her sitting in the middle of a pile of fall colored leaves), some stories on the MMA world, a box of Oreo cookies and a Sports Illustrated magazine—I find myself smiling a little bit. It's not an all-out laugh. I'm still too fucked up to laugh. But it's funny enough that it's taking my mind off shit.
I bring the CD to Chris on his birthday. He has me put it on right there by his hospital bed, blasting cuss words loud enough for everyone to hear. He starts laughing so hard that he almost pulls a stitch out. A couple of guys from our tent show up, with the Oreos arranged to spell out "Happy Birthday." And even though it's just a bunch of men, sweating their asses off in a shitty excuse for a hospital and eating cookies without milk, Chris tells us he's having a good birthday. And for whatever reason, that makes me feel good.
Training kicks up and we're put through so many scenarios that it's half a week before I get my book out again. Nicole's last letter is tucked in the pages now, folded in half. It's already starting to fall apart a little, but I found some tape to hold the creases together. I read it every night. Sometimes it keeps the nightmares away. Sometimes it don't. But it makes me feel better.
Nicole,
Your last letter was nice. You've got pretty handwriting. If this journalism thing don't work out, you can write letters for a living.
Chris is doing good. He's out of the hospital and back bothering me, but I ain't complaining too much. It's better than what could have happened. And I'm doing better too. You shouldn't worry so much. That shit gives you wrinkles.
I got your picture tacked up on my bunk. It's nice to look at you before I go to sleep. You give me good dreams. Last night, I dreamed you came out of the picture and joined me in bed. It's the best dream I've had in weeks.
It's been quiet over here. It's the way I like it. It's even starting to cool down, enough for us to go out and play football. I know you're reporting on it back in the States. Who's winning? How are the Eagles doing? Is Vick making a comeback?
Don't let any of those football boys hit on you. They're are the worst. You're better off dating a broken Marine than a football player. Plus, most of them are fat. You're too pretty for a fat guy. You gotta date a guy with a six pack, not a keg. Just in case you forgot, I'm sending you a picture of me not wearing a shirt.
Last week when 9-11 passed, we had a ceremony thing over here. I think they wanted it to motivate us to keep fighting, but it depressed the hell outta me. There's a lot of shit going on in the world and I don't want to be part of it anymore. When I get back, I hope I never see a gun again.
I've been thinking about that beach you mentioned a while ago. It'd be nice to sit in sand without it burning me. It'd be even nicer if you were laying next to me, all wet in that purple bikini. Any chance of that happening?
Miss you.
Yours,
Tommy
Thank you all, as always, for your kind words and enthusiasm. I hope you are all enjoying the story. Review please!
