Hope this up date helps with the isolation fever! Thanks to Debbie for he beta read through. Take care all. xx
Maybe
Chapter 2
There were many things she loved about him. His height, his eyes, his special smile for her. But she'd always loved his hands too.
He'd laughed the very first time she been brave enough and had told him this. Then she explained it more; how she thought his fingers were really, to her, things of beauty. That's what she most admired about him.
They were long thin, and although everything about him was masculine, controlling, commanding, his fingers were delicate, fragile. Delicate in their touch. Delicate in how they behaved around her. Delicate in the power they held over her.
Right from the very beginning of 'them' she was fascinated by his hands and fingers. Often found herself mesmerised by them. It was her secret for a while. How she adored the way in which he touched her with them. By the way he commanded her in with a mere gesture of them. How they had wiped the tears that fell from her face, at their beginning, when she was sad, and how that continued all throughout. How they touched her with their magic time after time, night after night when they loved each other.
But most importantly of all she loved how one of these admired digits wore the ring that showed the world he was hers. Yes. She loved his fingers, and hands, even longer than she had loved him.
And it was these thoughts that were making her very own shake at this very moment.
Why she found it difficult to keep her, dry, chapped hands steady. Unable to hold the letter that was in her hands still.
For the letter she was holding was from Charles.
She couldn't take her eyes away from it. His writing from his much admired hand stared back out at her. Bold beautiful and instantly recognisable.
She'd been out there for over three months and for those three months she'd expected this letter.
Some days she'd hoped one would come, and on other days she was grateful when one didn't. Then there were those lonely times at night where she convinced herself she wished one would never come.
Yet as each day went by and one didn't arrive, she secretly longed for one even more. And now that one was here, that he had finally wrote to her, she found herself unable to open it.
Molly was too shocked by its arrival.
Too relieved that had kept his word.
Too worried as to what it was going to say.
Too eager to read and to devour it contents. And totally too unwilling to open it up to find out.
So, she simply didn't. Instead she placed it in her jacket pocket, not trusting it to be out of her sight for one minute. Keeping it close. Promising herself she'd find the right time to read it later. When she was alone. When she had sorted out her nut.
She knew though they were excuses. Her nut would never be sorted out, until she had at least read it.
She had time on her hands, she had plenty of opportunities to be alone to read it. But still she waited.
The place was quiet. Deserted.
The medical faculty she worked at, and had just started her solitary duty in, was empty, and would be so for hours. She had the unenviable task of being on night shift in the deserted unit. Security, and her, the 'just in case person', were the only ones awake at this ungodly hour.
She had no one else to talk to, and truthfully nothing to do. Just sit and wait until her time was up and she could hit her pit and do it all over again the next night. Such was her routine for the next week.
Now would have been a perfect time, but still she couldn't do it.
It had been a surprise.
She'd stayed in the camp's gym longer than planned. Missing the mail call and on returning finding the letter on her pillow, placed there by a helpful colleague.
It had shocked her, but she knew instantly. The very instant she first had seen the crisp white envelope shining out in her dull quarters. She knew then that the letter could only be from him. From Charles. The usual blue force's paper was not his style if he could help it. He'd always used his own special stationary in the past to write to her, and this letter showed his habits hadn't changed.
It used to embarrass her. At the beginning when she was starting out. Years ago, when she was on tours and got such envelopes from him, she used to be mocked playfully by her other comrades, and it made her feel awkward. Though she never told him that, but as the letters became more regular and more precious to her she eventually learned not to care what others thought. She knew what they meant to her, to them. Very quickly she had realised how special it was. How special it made her feel. The expensive paper, the beautiful ink, and the words he wrote always made her believe in the love he had for her, and she had for him.
She sighed and stared out onto the hot lonely night. Pulling the envelope out of her pocket for the numerous time that night, to reassure her it was still there.
The sounds of the dense vegetation around her making the night anything but silent. She might be alone, but she wasn't alone in silence.
Molly turned the envelope over and over again in her hands. As though she might discover something, some clue as to its contents by doing so. But there was nothing. A return address printed on the back, but that was all.
Time passed and she still held onto it. Constantly worrying it from hand to hand. Then looking down she saw how creased it was becoming, and she realised she was harming the envelope with her sweaty hold, and so she once again folded the envelop in two and shoved it deeper back into the pocket.
The paper was still crisp enough however and was noisy. So, each time as she moved to get comfortable on her chair or to stretch her legs the envelope protested noisily in the pocket it was hidden in. Every time she moved, she heard it. It was as though she'd get no peace until she had read it.
But still she didn't.
Maybe she wasn't brave enough just yet, she reasoned. Or maybe it was that she was so brave she didn't need to read it. That Molly Dawes no longer needed to hear what he had to say.
As the night passed, she realised she wasn't curious anymore about the letter.
She was angry.
Angry that after all this time he was still unsettling her. Angry after all this time he was writing to her. Angry that once again he was in her mind.
She moved from the hard plastic chair she was sitting on and paced around. Gnawing away at her fingernails. An old habit that she had returned to with gusto, now he wasn't there to remind her to stop.
Once, when she was his, she had had beautiful nails. Not long, but neat and healthy. On her wedding day she had them manicured and took great pride in watching how perfect they were as he slipped her wedding band onto her finger.
The day it all ended the first thing she did was to recommence the attack on her nails. She saw them as a reminder of him, so she destroyed them. Now they were bitten right down and ragged. Ruined. Just like her marriage.
She winced as she chewed too close and removed some tender flesh. Her nail bed started to bleed as she had ripped the skin off, and she cursed. Reaching angrily into her pocket for a tissue to stem the blood.
As she so did, she pulled out her phone and numerous other objects, and considered them all.
The compound was silent. Every lucky bugger in bed. All apart from her and the compound guards. No one would come to relieve her for many hours. No one would seek out her company. She was alone.
And so, did something that she had resisted doing for two whole painful years. Had never once succumbed to temptation, but now she found she just couldn't stop herself.
She found the number instantly and pressed the dial button.
"Hello." A voice said after a few rings. Full of curiosity and sleep. Only then did she appreciate that there would be a time difference.
"Why!" She shot out not too quietly. "Why did you did it?"
"Molly?" The voice asked. "Is that you?" Unbelieving that after all these years she was making this call.
"Why?" She asked again with force.
"Are you ok?" He asked back panicked. Ignoring her question. "What's wrong?" He still cared.
"Why?" She said with more strength than she felt. Foolish at having to ask so many times.
"What?" The reply came back. "Do what?" Although he guessed he knew the answer.
"Write me that bloody letter Charles. Why?" Molly asked him again.
Before the letter she had a chance of pretending she wasn't thinking about him, but now she couldn't fool herself.
He was blindsided. For two years he had hoped she'd call. Her old number had changed very quickly after they ended, and he never found a way to contact her. He'd tried once or twice to contact her parents, mutual friends, but they were always on her side. Never his. He met a wall of silence, and very quickly gave up asking. Knowing when he was defeated.
Yet here she, was months after seeing her again calling him up in the dead of night demanding the question 'why'.
"Because you said I could." He therefore replied simply. The utter truth. She had given him permission and he had grabbed it happily.
Then there was silence as she realised that she had in fact agreed to his correspondence.
"So!" He began again. "Everything is ok? There's nothing wrong?"
His concern for her despite her ambush and angry outburst made her feel briefly ashamed.
"Yes. I'm fine." She answered meekly.
"Good." He let out a sigh. "Have you read it? The letter." He asked nervously.
"No." She snapped out. Her ire was up.
"Are you going to?" He tried again.
"No." She shot back, then thought. "Well. Maybe. I don't know."
"I hope you do." He said gently. "It took a long time to write. To explain. "
"Yeah!" She sounded disinterest.
"It's not full of excuses Molly." He admitted. "Just what was going on in my head, and why it all happened." He paused. "I'm so sorry."
"Yeah." She said again, feeling awkward but not once having any regrets about calling him. "You have said."
"I know. Can't stop saying it I guess." She gave him nothing, so he changed his tac. "You ok then? Tour going well?"
"Yeah." For the third time the childish reply came from her lips.
But this time she secretly smiled as she knew he'd be eaten up with curiosity. Curious about her, and her posting, and she wasn't going to tell. Not yet.
As she mulled over her next move, she heard him stifle a yawn, and was interrupted by the tussled of material and bed sheets. She knew he was in bed asleep before her call.
"Shit. Sorry. I woke you." She apologised, the guilt surprising her. "I should let you go." But she knew she didn't want to.
"Please don't." He said quietly. "Talk to me."
She laughed at this. "Isn't that what I asked of you all those years ago?" Then when she didn't receive a reply instantly. She added. "Sorry. Cheap shot."
"I can see a way forward. At times. Some days at least." He swallowed hard as the words slipped out before he had time to think about them completely. "But then others... it's still hard... but the letter... I'm trying Molly."
"So? Talk to me then Charles. I'm here... alone. Bored. You might as well." Molly offered. Pretending to herself she was the one doing him the favour, but she knew she needed this too.
"I still go running." He began. "Every day. In the park we used to run in." He laughed out. "Routine is apparently a good way forward."
"Yeah?" She said but this time with kindness. "Go on."
"Tina says for PTSD that systems, routines, schedules, are all good coping mechanisms."
"Tina?" Her ears picked up at the name of another female in his life, and her heart felt squashed for a moment.
"My counsellor." He said not suspecting the pain she might have felt. "She's constantly going on about fitness, and routines. Schedules that need sticking to."
Molly laughed. A genuine laugh, as she remembered the Charles of old.
"Well that's bleeding perfect for you mate. You loved a bit of a schedule. Didn't ya?"
He laughed gently back.
"I guess I did." Suddenly his laughter stopped mid-way. "But then I didn't; did I?" He blew out his breath as though it was a new admission. "But yes, that's how I know I'm getting better. I need one again. A routine. I've started seeing the benefit of them."
"So it helps? All of it?" She asked.
"Yes. I'm quite a boring guy now though." He added. "Running for exactly 40 minutes each day. Same route. Same warm up, same cool down."
"Sounds a bit dull." She added.
"Yes, it is. But. Actually." He thought deeply. "No, it's not. Shopping every Tuesday at the local supermarket. Planned laundry days. Household cleaning every Wednesday and Sunday night. My life has a schedule. Keeps me focused. Connects me once more."
"And Tina?" She asked. Curious about his life.
When they were together, he'd loved lists, schedules, plans.
It had been the first thing that went when Elvis died his ability to be organised. At least in his domestic life. After exercises she'd find kit always immediately organised, but jobs around the marital home were left. Plans with Molly ignored. Routines forgotten. Now she was hearing that he'd got that back, to a degree. He was functioning again on that level. She briefly started to wonder what else he could claim back. What else he'd lost and had now found.
"How often do you see her?"
"Twice a week." He admitted. "Some sessions are short some are long." He laughed. "Been a bit longer in my sessions since I saw you."
"Sorry." She said and she slumped down on the floor of the room she was in. Drawing her knees in and hugging herself. Holding on to her sanity in all this, and the feeling it was giving her. She was enjoying herself.
She realised even though it was hard, they were at least talking. And she had a smile of sorts on her face.
"You've nothing to be sorry about." He said. "You know that? Right?"
"Think I must have. Something to say sorry about that is." She said quietly. "I mean I knew what you were going through. I should have been tougher. The better person, but I just couldn't anymore. You were drowning Charles and I just couldn't let you take me with you."
It was a huge confession. The biggest she had ever made throughout it all. Never once admitting it out loud to anyone, but knowing it was true. That maybe just maybe she had given up on him too quickly. That she had given up, not because she didn't love him, but maybe because she knew she wasn't strong enough for him without him. And so, she left.
"Stop Molly. Stop." He said in the old Captain tones of times gone by. He knew how her mind was working. "Stop it Dawes. It was not your fault."
"Kind of was." She replied.
"No. It wasn't mine either, not all the time. Yes, there were times when it was my fault. When I failed to reach out, admit my problems... the whole fucking Georgie mess. They were mine... I'll never forgive myself... but I was ill."
"I know." She admitted quietly. "But I didn't help you."
"Shit Molly you did. You did every day, and each and every time for some reason I couldn't see that. You tried."
Molly said nothing. She thought over the painful times she had had with Charles and his PTSD. She knew that's what he had but doubted herself. Her worth. His love for her. Their ability to be the right ones for each other. So, when he started to push her away, she allowed him too, eventually.
"I let you down." He said with raw honesty.
Silently she nodded, forgetting he couldn't see her. Accepting his confession. Tears fell.
"I'm so sorry. I hurt you. I loved you and I hurt you." He said softly.
Then he heard her sniffing.
"Shit and I've done it again." He said angrily. "I love you and all I do is hurt you."
"No." She said quietly through her tears, but he continued.
"I'll never forgive myself. For what I did. Have done to you. To us." He considered his next words. "Tina reckons that's a good thing actually."
"What?" Molly asked confused. "She wants you to feel like this?"
"Apparently holding on to the consequences of my actions keeps me in contact with reality and helps me move on". He said robotically. Paraphrasing his therapist's words.
"Wow." She said. "I don't want you to beat yourself up about it you know?" She asked and she meant it. "I want you to get better too."
She'd been angry, hurt. Too upset to deal with it all when it happened, but now sitting here in a dusty dark room, thousands of miles away from him, she was seeing it for what it was.
It was the past.
It was over.
She had tried to move on. Tried to live without a 'them' in her world and had to an extent succeeded right until the stage where she saw him again, and then things changed.
She'd carried the guilt around with her as well as the anger. As she guessed he did too and talking to him helped them both to a fashion.
"I wish you'd trusted me." She said sadly. "Believed in me, in us, enough to help you."
"Molly." He began. "I didn't believe in me. I didn't trust me. There was no room in my head for anything but just being the Army man, everyone thought I was."
"I didn't think that." She said angrily. "You was me husband. That's who I thought you were. Well right up until you decided that you wasn't, and you were free to shag Georgie."
He stayed silent. He had hope that she could forgive him. That there may be at least a friendship developing between them, but he knew not to hope. He knew he had caused too much hurt.
He knew his time was running out. That she wouldn't tolerate him for much longer.
"The letter Molly it says it all. It's not pages of excuses it's reasons why, and how I wish it could've been different."
He waited for a reply and wondered for a while if she had hung up, but he heard the cicadas in the background and knew she was still there.
"I hoped one day..."
"What?" She asked. Hopeful.
She was too proud to admit it but her feelings, for this adulator, were still strong and she still wanted to be wanted by him.
"I hope one day you'll forgive me." He said.
That was too much for now, and all she could say was.
"I don't know Charles."
"Well at least read the letter. Understand a bit more." He suggested.
"Maybe." Was all she said as she disconnected the call with a silent goodbye