Chapter 12

Michele awoke with a sputter to a flash of bright white light. She had a pounding headache, and her chest felt as if it was going to explode. She blinked furiously, trying to clear the haze from her eyes, but was unsuccessful. She could hear the incessant beeps of an EKG machine, timed to the rhythm of her own heart.

"Private Daurier," said a soft female voice, "it's nice to have you awake. How are you feeling?" The face of the woman swam into view. She was pretty, with a tight blonde bun at the back of her neck.

Michele coughed, ignoring the ridiculous question the nurse had asked. "Where am I?" She asked. There were fish hooks tearing at her throat as she spoke, and the feeling of fire in her gut.

"You're in Laos," she said, brushing a cool damp cloth over her forehead. "You were air-lifted here. A Private Carver carried you back to base. You should be thankful, you could have died."

Michele swallowed, preparing to speak again. "What happened to me?"

"You were shot," said the nurse, pouring a glass of water and placing a straw in it. She placed it between Michele's lips, and told her to drink. "The bullet entered to the right of your shoulder blade and exited just below your collarbone. You're very lucky it didn't pierce your heart."

Michele looked up at her with raised eyebrows, realizing all too late that the act of doing so was tremendously painful.

"You also bashed your head on a rock when you fell. We stitched you up alright, but I'm sure it still smarts." She dabbed the cloth to Michele's forehead again, avoiding the wound.

"I suppose I'm done now," said Michele, closing her eyes.

The nurse sighed and drew her hand back. "I'm afraid so. Aren't you relieved?"

Michele opened her eyes half-way. "Yeah. I guess I am."

The nurse smiled. "Besides, you've got someone to go home to, don't you?" She took out a folded up sheet of paper, a bullet hole blazed through it and light blood stains splattered all around it. She handed it to Michele, who raised her arm with all of her might and took it from her.

Michele managed a little half-smile. "Yeah. I guess I do."

"MEECHELE!"

Michele's eyes snapped open at the sound of her mother's broken English flying down the hallway and her father's heavy footsteps following close behind. She threw back the curtain in Michele's little compartment, and ran to her, crying and laughing all at the same time. She threw her arms around the injured woman, who was propped up in bed, an IV drip in her arm and her legs curled up underneath her. Her father joined in the embrace as well, crying out with joy with the two women.

After a time, her mother pulled away and wiped the tears from her eyes, and her father did the same. "Meechele," she said softly, "I was so afraid. My beautiful daughter. We're both so proud of you." The sound of French made the man in the bed next to her look over and roll his eyes, but she didn't care. She had missed her family so, had missed America.

Her father held up a basket with a bundle of cloth inside, and a large bottle of French champagne. "For celebration," he said. "We thought you'd be tired of hospital food, so..."

Michele smiled. "Thanks, Papa." She didn't mention that consumption of alcohol was strictly forbidden in her condition.

They talked for hours of Michele's experiences in Vietnam, about battle that ensued before she was injured, about how she had missed home. They cried, they laughed, they spoke of how much they loved each other. She hadn't felt so good in 11 months.

"I hope I'm not bringing up painful memories," said her father, "but how much do you remember from your accident?"

Michele shook her head. "Not much. I remember..." she paused for a moment, and stared down at her hands. "I remember my friend was shot. And then I was running, and then...I was shot." She looked up at her mother, who had tears in her eyes, and her father, who was listening intently. "But I remember thinking about something...a song. And...and Max was singing it." She shook her head to clear her mind. "I know, it sounds insane. And childish. But that's all I can remember, and then everything goes black."

Her mother laid a hand on her arm. "It doesn't sound childish. Mex..." she paused and looked deep into Michele's eyes. "Mex loves you very much. He wrote you dozens of letters before I finally told him you were in Vietnam. I have them..."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a fat expanse of white envelopes, all addressed to Michele. She placed them on the bed and smiled. "You can read them when you're ready."

A few days went by and Max's letters sat on the chair beside the bed, still unopened. She had thought about reading them hundreds of times, but couldn't bring herself to do it. The world had moved on since she and Max had last been together, and things had changed. Michele had changed. She hadn't seen him in a year and a half, and there was no telling just what those letter might say. She slowly reached for the stack, removing the first letter from under its rubber-band prison. She tore the envelope open, unfolded the letter, and read.

Michele,

It's almost been a year since I've heard from you. Are you alright? I understand what I've done and I respect your decision not to talk to me, but please, at least tell me you're alright. I'm an idiot for what I did. In my mind I can still see your face, wet with tears at what I'd done. I remember. I remember everything about you, the way you smell, the way you taste, everything. I love you so much, and I probably always will.

Max

Michele folded the letter and set it back on the table. She sat for a moment, thinking. Things had changed, she thought, and this letter is proof. She stared at the stack, entranced for a moment. Slowly, she reached over and grabbed another letter, tore it open, and began reading again.

Twenty letters later and the room was full of torn open envelopes. Her fingers were black with ink, and were covered with more than their share of paper cuts. She set the last one down on the bedside table, letting her head sink back into the pillow. She heard someone enter the room and sighed. "Listen," she said, "I really don't need any more of your shitty food. Go away, I'm a veteran you know." The person, whoever it was, stood still for a moment. Michele rolled her eyes. "Alright, I swear, if you don't get the hell out of here, I'll..."

She sat up, and her words failed her. Max was standing in the entry way, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

"Max..." she said, swallowing and propping herself up. "I-I-I didn't know it was you." She cursed herself for stuttering like an idiot, and smoothed her hair back frantically.

"I didn't think so," he said, staring at the many apparatuses she was hooked up to. "You uh...you've really got the whole shebang here," he said, coming around to examine her IV machine.

She laughed weakly. "Yeah, well. It's not something I'm really that thrilled about." There was a pain in her chest, and she grimaced and rubbed the hole that now graced it. "But I guess it's my own fault."

He looked down at her for a moment, searching for something to say. "Uh...I brought you these," he said, quickly handing her the bouquet. "I know flowers don't really do much against bullets. If they did, the cops at those protests would really be in trouble."

She laughed and took them gently. "Thank you Max. That really was thoughtful of you."

He smiled and relaxed a bit, at ease with her reaction. He pulled up a chair and sat down. "So what happened?" He asked, his smile fading. "I mean, your mother mentioned something about you being hurt." He laughed again. "And I didn't think it was because of a ladies' case of the vapors."

She smiled faintly, but did not laugh. "No. There wasn't any room for that." She looked up at him, noticing that he had recoiled a bit. "We were in a trench and there were some...enemy forces or...whatever we're calling them nowadays...they were shooting at us and I was following with my camera." She was surprised that she wasn't crying, but Vietnam would do that to you. "My friend Sean was shot in the head, and everyone and everything around me was just...exploding. And then a stray bullet went through my back." She pulled down her hospital gown a bit to show him the scar.

"Oh my God...Michele, I'm so sorry," he pressed a gentle finger to the wound, and she smiled with pain and jerked away.

"You can't touch it for Christ's sakes!"

"I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking!"

Michele took a deep breath and let it out. "It's fine, just don't do it again."

There was a long pause. The ticking of the clock on the wall shattered the awful silence around them. Her EKG machine beeped, the sounds of nurses and doctors running back and forth and shuffling papers.

After what seemed like hours, Max spoke. "So...why did you go?"

She didn't speak for a long time, so long that he thought she hadn't heard him. "Because I wanted to show the world how ugly war is. So the people safe and sound at home would have more respect for their vets, and so that the people in Washington wouldn't be so apt to sacrifice them." She swallowed. "But mostly, I did it for my friends." She looked at him, looked through him. "I did it for James. And Sean. And Henry, the guy that sits at my table and orders a burger from me because he knows no one else will serve him." She reached out and stroked his cheek. "And I did it for you. Because I wanted you to be proud of me."

Max swallowed and looked down at the floor. "I am proud of you Michele."

There was another pause. "There's something else," she said. "When I was shot, there were a lot of things going on. Explosions, people screaming, and pain. Lots of pain." She let her hand slide down to grasp his. "But for some reason, the only thing I could think about was you. You, and how much I loved you. How much I still love you."

Max stood up slowly and leaned over her, and kissed her, his hands resting on her cheeks. "I love you too, Michele."

Michele, my belle

These are words that go together well,

My Michele

Michele, my Belle

Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble,
Très bien ensemble

I love you, I love you, I love you.
That's all I want to say.
Until I find a way
I will say the only words I know that
You'll understand.

Michele, my Belle

Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble,
Très bien ensemble

I need to, I need to, I need to.

I need to make you see,

Oh, what you mean to me.

Until I do I'm hoping you will

Know what I mean.

Michele, my Belle

Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble,
Très bien ensemble

Michele smiled sweetly, then kissed Max. After everything she'd been through, everything, THEY'D been through, they were finally going to be together, until the day they died.

THE END