Chapter 14
Tuesday
May 21, 2002
USS Seahawk
The sensation of losing consciousness only lasts a fraction of a second before I'm once again aware of the solid deck underneath my feet, my emotions shutting down as I struggle to stay steady while the world spins crazily around me. I'm not a medic, obviously, but I'm pretty sure I'm in shock.
The next few hours pass by in a blur of fog: Captain Johnson's brief appraisal of the situation with Bud, who'd apparently been returning from an in-country refugee camp when he spotted a young boy standing in a known mine field off to one side of the road. Debating with Harm over which of us should stay as acting JAG and which of us should willfully disobey the admiral's orders. The short helo ride from the Seahawk over to the Guadalcanal. Finding Jennifer Coates pacing in a frazzled mess outside the Guadalcanal's surgical sickbay... seeing Bud's ashen face as he lay on the gurney, hovering somewhere between life and death.
Eternity. That's how long it feels like the three of us have been sitting anxiously on these stupid hard wooden benches, waiting for news. We sit, we pace, we sit, and we pace some more. Lost in my own world, only part of my conscious being registers it when Coates rushes off to vomit. The one constant throughout everything is Harm's presence – but even though we've been together this entire time, he seems distant and far away despite the mere inches separating our bodies.
Time has lost its meaning. Seconds tick by on my internal clock, yet each seems to pass more slowly than the one before. Maybe it's because my thoughts are flitting from past to present like a honeybee scampers among flowers, images of the last time we'd sat here weaving themselves into the tapestry of the now. Or perhaps it's because I don't dare hope that Bud makes it out of this alive. His hold on life is much more tenuous than Harm's proven ability to outrun a missile; Bud survived before, but that's no indication that he'll survive again. If he dies…
Coates isn't alone in fighting off nausea. I suddenly feel overwhelmingly helpless, as I realize that my best efforts to use what I've learned from the future weren't enough to save Bud's leg, maybe not even his life. But helplessness isn't the only sensation running amok in my chest; with it comes an eerie sense of déjà vu. Time is repeating itself in more ways than one. A clammy laugh bubbles up within my chest only to lodge somewhere between my ribcage and my throat, reined in by the same muscles that are keeping the rest of my tethered emotions from bursting forth. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the metal deck flooring but not really seeing it.
A raspy female voice in stilted English echoes through my head: If you want to change your life—
But what's the point of knowing the future if nothing changes? My own inner voice cuts her off. Why send me back in time if the things I do don't make any difference?
Lifting my hand to the bridge of my nose, I close my eyes and give a soft shake of my head. There must have been something I could have done differently. I could have done more to keep this from happening again. I SHOULD have done more…
This isn't the first time I've foreseen something bad happening to someone I love. It is, however, the first time I've made a conscious effort to prevent my visions – or, in this case, concrete knowledge of fact – from coming to fruition. Taking a deep breath, I try to keep the guilt from overshadowing my concern for Bud.
"You knew, didn't you."
Startled from my own self-pitying thoughts, the world shifts back into focus, and I glance up in the direction of Harm's voice. He's standing a few feet away, leaning up against the vending machine with his arms folded across his chest. When did he move across the room?
His eyes fill with empathy as he repeats the statement; it's not a question. "About Bud. When he received his deployment orders, you knew. You knew about this."
For a moment I can't breathe, the remorse weighing heavily. Why would he want to be with someone who has not only destroyed one life but two, by not listening to herself, by not following her instincts, by not pushing harder for what she knew needed to be done? This isn't the first time someone I love has suffered because I wasn't good enough. Wasn't strong enough. Why would Harm want to be with someone like me? A heavy fist of shame settles behind my breastbone as the irrational thoughts roam freely through my mind.
Then a ray of lucidity breaks through the turmoil. Harm and I have always been able to read each other better than anyone else; that's one of the reasons why we're so good together. He knows my secrets and I know his – I'm safe with him. He won't judge me for my flaws.
My head dropping slightly as I close my eyes and hold back the tears, I give a slow nod. Yes, I knew.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't move, but I can feel him watching me from where he stands. The silence feels clammy in this cold, barren space. Minutes pass before I'm compelled to speak. If anyone has a right to know, it's Harm.
"You know, it's funny. I tried to take the keys." The words are harsh in my throat. "I knew that he was drunk, that he shouldn't drive. I tried to take the keys, but he wouldn't listen. And I was too weak to say no, too weak to make him give them to me. Afterwards, I swore I wouldn't let something like that happen again. And Uncle Matt took me up to Red Rock Mesa."
There's a momentary pause. "Eddie?"
"Yeah." Clasping my hands in front of me, a renegade tear escapes from beneath my closed lashes. I feel it slide down my cheek. Images of my two friends merge and separate in my mind: one dead, one fighting for life less than fifty feet away. "It was like that all over again with Bud. History repeating itself. Only this time I really thought I could keep it from happening. Keep him safe."
"Mac, it's not your job to keep him safe. The only person whose life you have any control over is your own. Well," he adds wryly, "your life and mine."
If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond
the present moment. If you want to change
My mind involuntarily tumbles back to that awkward conversation in the ladies room at the Lucky Dream Palace, oh-so-long ago, after first reading the fortune that has since become something of a cross between a mantra and a broken record. That's how this all started, isn't it? I think. The mysterious old lady had said that I'd made a choice. At the time I had no idea what she'd meant, distinctly confused because I hadn't consciously MADE a choice.
The key word there is consciously.
The only person whose life you have any control over is your own. Well, your life and mine.
From the moment I'd cracked open that stale cookie and read the fortune inside, my thoughts had been centered around Harm, around the 'what ifs' that had bogged down our relationship. That's what – or rather who – I'd been thinking of when moments later I'd run off to the ladies room to regain some measure of composure… and had an encounter that had quite literally changed my life.
I'd chosen Harm.
"Don't blame yourself, Mac."
The gentle touch of his fingers on mine brings me back to the present moment. Opening my eyes to see Harm sitting next to me, our gazes meet. For a moment I'm struck by how handsome he's grown over the years, even more so than he'd been when we'd first met. He's wearier now, a little more tempered, and there are faint lines fanning out from around his eyes. Those eyes are what capture me the most, a stormy blue-green-gray that reflects his compassionate nature along with sharp intelligence. Looking at him now, his face is intense but full of understanding, not recriminations. The flood of love emanating from him is almost too much for me to bear; I glance back down at the floor as his words pierce the silence.
"It's not your fault that Bud got deployed. And it's certainly not your fault that Eddie got behind the wheel. Stop holding yourself accountable for what goes wrong in other people's lives. It's not your fault."
Squeezing my fingers, Harm yet again sets aside his own grief and fears for Bud. Out of the corner of my eye I see him flash me a small, reassuring smile. Having his support doesn't set my mind entirely at ease, of course, but it brings a wonderful and welcome flood of warmth to my soul – the knowledge of being truly and deeply, unconditionally, loved. The tears burn as I fight them back… only this time they're tears of happiness at having finally acknowledged how truly special Harm is, how much he means to me. I squeeze his fingers back. God help me, I love this man.
The intimate moment is broken by the squeak of hinges. The trauma surgeon, Commander Ferraro, stands in the doorway. From the way her hands are folded in front of her holding a surgical mask, and her neutral expression, it's impossible to read her feelings. Did Bud survive, or didn't he? I don't dare ask the question.
"Colonel, Commander." The doctor addresses us, stepping further into the corridor. "Lieutenant Roberts put up one hell of a fight…"
My breath catches.
"…and he's stable." She grins. "I think his prognosis is excellent now."
The relief is so tangible that it's all I can do to keep myself from staggering backwards and sinking to a heap on the floor. I wouldn't have imagined it possible, but somehow the long night of waiting for news of Bud's condition was more stressful the second time around than the first. After keeping quiet throughout this long night of stress the little voice inside my mind reminds me that such a display of emotion isn't befitting of a Marine. Feeling my strength and fortitude returning, I stand a little straighter and smile back.
"Thank you, Commander."
"Well, it was the lieutenant who did it. He's one hell of a fighter." Smiling one last time, she glances between us with a small acknowledging nod before returning to sickbay.
I watch as the heavy steel hatch closes behind her, the soles of my shoes feeling as though they've been welded to the metal flooring plates. While I couldn't prevent Bud from stepping on that landmine, the doctor's declaration and my own inner instincts are suddenly all telling me that he'll come through this ordeal with flying colors – just as he did before. The weight of responsibility for my friend's future finally lifts from my shoulders.
Just as the realization sinks in, I reach back to grasp Harm's hand… and encounter only empty air.
"Harm?"
Behind me, he has moved back to the bench and is now lowering himself down. My heart goes out to him as he slumps down against the bulkhead, the stoicism draining from his face only to be replaced by tears that refuse to remain unshed any longer. His features crumple in the wake of relief and postponed grief for a friend whose life has just changed irrevocably.
Taking his hand as I sit beside him, something fragile breaks inside my chest as I wrap my free arm around his shoulders. He looks over at me, eyes bright with tears, as though to apologize for his uncharacteristic display of emotion. After all, I've only ever seen him cry once before, in Russia, when I found myself having to relay the devastating news of his father's death. A shiny path courses its way down his cheek as the tears begin to overflow. How large the heart of a man who cries for those he loves, but never for himself? Oh, my love…
I must have said that aloud because he lifts our entwined hands, pressing the back of my knuckles against his lips and holding them there. Gently stroking the back of his hairline, I wait until he returns our hands back into his lap before scooting nearer. I move as close as I can without breaking regulations and drop my head onto his shoulder, murmuring words of comfort into his ear as he leans his head back and closes his eyes.
"I love you, Mac," he whispers into the silence.
"I love you," I reply softly, the words catching in my throat as my own eyes start to well with tears.
We sit there for an eternity, just holding each other. Everything will be all right… I can feel it.