Thursday, April 3, 1969

I don't know when things had ever seemed worse. Being without Al was something I'd never get used to, the pain and loss weighed down on me day after day. Now, after two years, I was doubting anyone could survive being shot down by the VC, doubting that I'd ever see my husband again. That Marine kid in the burn ward, Andy, well, he just reminded me so much of Al-- that cocky fighting spirit that cried out, "Look out, world!" And when he died, I knew the odds were too much for anyone to beat, even my Al.

Jake and Dirk, bless them, each tried to help; but that night, like so many others that had come before, I was all alone with my memories. As I sat there, listening to the Righteous Brothers and smoking a cigarette, it almost seemed as if Al's spirit was there with me, talking to me, watching me. Saying good-bye. On impulse, I changed the music to "Georgia on My Mind," our song. As I danced alone in the living room, eyes closed, I imagined Al dancing there with me, the way we used to. With each step I pictured his face mere inches away from mine. If I concentrated hard enough, I could almost feel his breath against my cheek, smell the scent of him. Was he really there with me? I didn't dare open my eyes and shatter the illusion. I missed the way he whispered my name, the way his voice could make the single syllable last an eternity. The song drew to a close, and I felt the faintest brushing of his lips across my forehead, and then I was alone. My heart plummeted at the sudden emptiness that encompassed the room. I knew then that Al was dead, that I would have to face life alone, or start anew.

"Al," I whispered, resignation washing over me along with a flood of tears.

I opened my eyes, and for a split-second could see nothing through the blur of my tears. My vision cleared, and it was then that I saw the man.

"Beth?" he asked.

I didn't even stop to wonder how he knew my name. "Who are you? How did you get in here?" He hadn't come through the door, I was sure of that. Those hinges had needed to be oiled since before Al had left.

His sincere face was oddly reassuring in spite of his sudden appearance in my living room. "I'm not going to harm you," he said.

I believed him. Why I should believe a strange man who was inexplicably standing in front of me, I didn't know, but, somehow, he just seemed to be someone I could trust. He was a handsome man, probably about to hit forty, with a striking shock of white hair in the front. There was something profoundly sad behind those hazel eyes. I couldn't begin to fathom on what might have caused it. My mind was racing when he spoke again.

"I'm here to help you. Help you, and help Al."

"Al?" He nodded. "You're . . . you're a friend of Al's?" He must have known something about Al's death, heard that they'd finally found his body, and come personally before they could deliver a telegram. His reaction only served to strengthen this feeling for me.

His voice broke ever so slightly when he answered, "Yeah, I'm a friend of Al's." He hesitated. "Do you think we could sit?"

As we sat down on the couch, I steeled myself for the words which would verify what I had come to terms with just moments before. Even though I now believed Al was dead, some part of me didn't really want it verified. Another part of me yearned for the closure, for healing for the raw wound tearing at my soul. Could this man help either me or Al? How? Who was he? I still wasn't sure how he'd gotten in my house, but I pushed those thoughts from my mind as he began speaking again.

"I'm gonna tell you a story, Beth. A story with a happy ending, but only if you believe me."

That took me by surprise. I wasn't sure where he was headed. "And if I don't?" I asked him.

"You will. I swear you will. But instead of starting with 'Once upon a time,' let's start with the happy ending." He paused and I drew in my breath.

"Al's alive, and he's coming home."

Those were not the words I had prepared myself for. They were the most welcome surprise I had ever known. Oh, God, can it be? All I could do was smile before the tears streamed down my face. I stared at the man and he stared intently back at me, truth of his words boring into me. Al was alive? How could this man possibly know for sure? It was too much to hope for, and I had run out of hope. I opened my mouth to ask him a question when he vanished in a shimmery blue light.

The sudden appearance, without explanation; his exit in a flash of light. I knew with absolute certainty he was telling the truth. Al was alive. He would come home to me. The man--the angel had told me so.

I ran my fingers across the name engraved on my M.I.A. bracelet. Lieutenant Albert Calavicci. "Thank You," I whispered. "Thank You, God."