Bethesda, MD – September 2005
"Hey, I know you still don't want to talk about it, but I got a new report from Mike Hirst. They think they found the house you were kept in." George pauses at the end of his sentence, waiting to see how Elizabeth will react.
Elizabeth doesn't say anything. She's prone to silence. Since she got back to the States, her days are all the same. Not unlike they were in her private prison. She wakes up and eats the food provided for her. She has physical and then occupational therapy. And then trauma therapy. The one with a shrink who sits patiently waiting for Elizabeth to talk. And Elizabeth sits and stares at an abstract painting on the wall. It's painted with yellows, which Elizabeth thinks is supposed to be a happy color, yet all it does is remind her of the sun in the desert. Of course, she hasn't told the shrink that. She hasn't told her many things. Not that she wakes up in a cold sweat most nights. Not that she misses her family so much that her chest literally aches all of the time. Not that she's dreading her shoulder getting better because they'll take away the pills. She noticed recently how well they aid in her numbness.
"They were looking for a man named Sayyid Al-Khalaf when they hit the house; they found a room in the center. A cell, really. It had a torture table and a dirty mattress." George continues. He carefully observes his friend, looking for any sign of recognition.
Elizabeth keeps her silence. She doesn't want to hear this. She doesn't want to talk about it. She wills George to go away. Why is he doing this?
"In that room, there was a dead body. A man. His throat had been slashed, and he apparently bled out." George pauses again. This time, for a long moment. He wants to let Elizabeth absorb the information.
Elizabeth swallows and does her best not to cringe at the memory of his blood falling over her. Sticky, viscous, and warm.
"Hirst said that when they found you stumbling around in Saaba Al-Bour, you were covered in blood. It wasn't until you were back on the base in Baghdad that they realized it wasn't yours. You hadn't been able to tell them much."
"Stop," Elizabeth says quietly with a small sob. She fiddles with her wedding band, missing her engagement ring; the stones had made it easier to turn around her finger.
"No, kiddo. We have to talk about it. I can't help you if we don't." George says. He knows she's going to get worse before she gets better. He knows that now that she's no longer in danger every day, the PTSD will set in.
"You can't help me at all." Elizabeth turns her attention to the window.
"Okay," George takes a deep breath, "I've been as patient as I can. I've given you all the space you've asked for. But Bess, Agents, and Soldiers are risking their lives every day trying to find the person or people who took you. We need to know if we can call them off. You need to give a statement. It's time, kiddo. You need to do this. It's not healthy to hold this all in." George pushes. He knows she is scared and traumatized. He knows she wants to shut down. He also knows that wouldn't be good for her. He's been giving her a wide birth. The worst thing he could imagine doing is trying to control her after all of her control was robbed. But now he needs her to face the music—at least a little bit of it.
"I didn't ask for their help. I never asked for their help. And I don't want their help. I am not responsible for their wellbeing." She sounds bitter. She always sounds bitter now.
"Bess, I know you're angry. And you have every right to feel that way. And if you need to take it out on someone, you can take it out on me. Okay. But I need you to tell me if the body they found is the man who took you and if there were others involved?" George tries. Elizabeth stays quiet for a long time, and George is worried that she isn't going to answer him.
"Yes, that sounds right..." she confirms. No details, no real answer. She doesn't offer up any information.
"You killed him. Is that how you got away?" He asks for confirmation. He's learned that providing details for her and allowing her a yes or no question works better than open-ended ones.
"Yeah," she says quietly with a nod. She's ashamed. Her face always gives that away as her cheeks grow red.
"Bess. You don't have to be ashamed. You did what you had to do." George says gently. He's proud of her. "He's the man that raped you?"
She flinches and then gives him another small nod.
"Were there any others?"
"Yes," she nods again. "He never touched me like that... I don't think he was allowed to... he wasn't in charge... but he was the muscle. He did most of the physical torturing in the beginning."
"Good. Good. Thank you." George praises her. "Do you know their names?"
Elizabeth closes her eyes. She had called him the man, but she knows that she found out his name. She searches her memory for the answer. She can't find it. Why isn't her brain working? It's frustrating her. She doesn't want to forget this particular fact. She wants to remember. "No. I can't... I don't... I don't know..."
"It's okay. That's a good start. Thank you." George wants to ask more questions; at least, the agent in him does. But he can't. She doesn't need Agent Peters. She needs George.
"George, can I ask you something?" She asks, her voice sounding hollow.
"Sure, Bess."
"I... I never understood why I was there..." she admits a truth she's terrified of, "I think I was set up. Do you think that's possible?"
"What makes you think that?" George's eyebrows shoot up. He thinks about the file—the one he picked up this morning in the bathroom of a coffee shop that he has yet to open. The one that supposedly holds a list of crimes committed by his boss.
"It's just... I don't think he was related to Al Queda." She admits, "He was a sadist..." she has to pause as her brain tries to flash images at her, "And I... I think there was someone else involved... someone that made sure I was in the right place at the right time. The IED seemed so orchestrated. Maybe I'm crazy," she takes a deep breath, "but I had nothing but time to think about it."
"You're not crazy," George tells her.
"If it were Al Queda, they would've taken me out. They would've interrogated me first, but they would have killed me. I think we both know that. My death would have been used as propaganda." Elizabeth has thought a lot about this. She has a theory. She hopes it's not true. But she remembers his crucifix. "Also, the man was Catholic."
That's a definitive sentence. There is absolute truth in her voice. George believes her instantly, but he needs to make sure he gets the details straight.
"How do you know?"
"He had a cross. He never took it off. Not even when he was, you know? And he liked Christmas. He gave me my picture back as a Christmas gift." She tells him. George realizes that, yes, some of her silence is trauma, but not all of it. Her brain is working in overdrive. She's looking for answers. She's trying to make sense of it all.
"Okay," George says.
"He spoke Spanish..." she says, and then words flash in her mind. His mother. He had called his mother a lot, "Samuel. I think his name was Samuel. He was from Columbia."
"You did good, kid. We will pass this information on."
"Don't. Please don't pass it on. Not yet." She doesn't know why it feels like a bad idea to tell the powers that be about her memories of the man. But there is a deep gut feeling advising her against it. And her gut has gotten her this far.
"Why not, Bess?" George asks, though he knows.
"I don't know... but please. For me." She doesn't want to explain the feeling she has. It's hard to put into words. The two friends have no idea that they are thinking the same awful thought. Conrad Dalton did this. He orchestrated her abduction.
…X…X…X…
She shimmies into a pair of jeans for the first time in almost two years. George had had the unfortunate chore of shopping for her. At least for a few outfits to get her by. She can't stop her smile at the feeling of denim on her legs. It's weird, the small things that can make you feel like a living person. Today, it's jeans and a Stones T-shirt. And sneakers. Her hair has been washed and brushed. She doesn't have the heart to cut it. Not yet. She doesn't want anyone near her neck with scissors, but she also wants the hair gone. She might do it herself. She might make George do it. She'll decide later. She doesn't look in the mirror. She hasn't since the hospital in Germany. She doesn't want to. She doesn't need a visual reminder of how thin she is. She's finally gained enough weight to be released, but she's still ten pounds lighter than her pre-deployment weight.
"Hey, kid. You ready?" George says, knocking on the bathroom door.
"Yeah," she nods. He comes in and stands beside her.
"How do you feel?"
"I don't know," she admits. "It's..." she doesn't know what to say. All of her feelings are so magnified now. Everything is too much. "I guess I'm just nervous."
"That's understandable," George says. He understands because he feels it, too. He feels responsible for her well-being. It's not that he doesn't want the responsibility. He doesn't want to make it worse than it already is. They are about to step out into the real world. This room has been a cocoon of safety. She has real freedom when she leaves. She can do whatever she wants, except for the one thing she really wants. To see Henry and her children.
George is not ready to face that situation. There had seemingly been an unspoken agreement between the two friends. Wait until she gets out of the hospital and then start their investigation. But she's still so fragile. And he doesn't want to push her. She needs to focus on healing. He doesn't know if he can handle her breaking down. But he also knows she needs her family. So they'll get it done and get her home.
"Okay." She says. She's gathered all three of her earthly positions. Her wedding band and her photo which is now in a frame George purchased before her flight back to the States. That's it. That's all she has. And for the first time, she processes her death. She was dead. Everyone who loves her has grieved for her.
She doesn't know how she feels. She was dead. But she wasn't. She lived her life in a type of suspended animation, fighting for something she may never have again. It's hard to put into words. But she is alive. And she was never actually dead. And here she is now. Lost? Forgotten? Gone.
"Ready?" George asks her.
"Not really," she answers. But she smiles anyway. Her first smile in a long time. And it doesn't reach her eyes at all.
The ride from the hospital to George's apartment is quiet. Thoughts run through Elizabeth's mind. She has no money, no ID. Nothing. She can't even drive. She'll stay with George for now, quietly. No one is to know. Conrad was adamant about that. No one can know. She feels trapped, still trapped. Still not free. Her breath quickens. George takes a deep breath of his own, reminding her to do the same. At least she's not alone.
"George, I want to see my grave." She says quietly. It's been a thought in her head for a while. But she doesn't know where it came from.
"Bess..." he sighs, "Okay."
…X…X…X…
She doesn't know what she thought she was going to get out of this. But it turns out that looking at your own gravestone like you're Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol is not a fun thing to do. It's trippy. And surreal. And depressing. There are fresh flowers (fresh blue hydrangeas, her favorite) on the ground and a little American flag stuck in the grass. Someone comes here. Someone who knows about the hydrangeas. Henry. And suddenly, everything Conrad said doesn't make sense. Not fully, anyway. There is a part of her that feels unlovable. A part of her that truly believes Henry could not possibly want her anymore. Part of her feels so broken, so damaged, that Henry could not possibly still love her.
But his flowers say otherwise. She plays her conversation with Conrad over and over again in her head. Something isn't adding up.
"We need to figure out how this happened." The determination in her voice is pure Elizabeth. It's as if she's back. However, she isn't, not even close. But at least it's another distraction.
"We will." He promises.
Pittsburgh, PA – September 2005
For the second time in his life, Henry adjusts his tie on the day he will be married. Henry always hates when he has to admit that he has something in common with his father. But he does. It's funny, Henry had always said he wanted a big Church wedding. But apparently, that's untrue.
He and Elizabeth had just wanted to be married. They wanted the marriage. There were deployment and paperwork reasons to do it so quickly; they could have pushed it back and done the big ceremony, and maybe they should have. But they didn't want to at the time. They didn't want any of it. They wanted to be married. And Henry doesn't regret that. Being Elizabeth's husband was the privilege of a lifetime.
Henry has a particular outlook on marriage. His father had told him the night before he married Elizabeth that marriage is the best way to confront your inadequacies on a daily basis. Henry had rolled his eyes at the time, but it turned out to be true in a way. True intimacy, the kind that causes a bearing of souls and complete trust, places one in a situation where they always feel inadequate for their partner. Elizabeth always deserved better than him. And he's sure she felt the reverse. But that was what made their marriage great. There was a constant low-lying feeling of inadequacy, which caused them to try harder, which in turn made them a great team. And they had been a team—a unit of two. Henry had loved Elizabeth. And he loved being married.
It almost feels like a betrayal to start this Marriage in a way that is so similar to his previous one. Not that it's the same at all. Jessica is Catholic as well as him, so there will be a mass. And his family will be in attendance. No cranky judge at Charlottesville City Hall this time. But the inadequacies are there, though they are also different. They stem from a place of different love, though not of lack of love. He feels inadequate to provide everything that Jessica needs. To provide the level of happiness and companionship she deserves. To be her rock the way he feels a husband should.
But here they are. And Jessica looks beautiful. Her dress is simple. White satin that hugs her body and shows off the tiny bump of her belly. He wants to take her hand and never let go.
Henry can't help but feel a bit of a fraud at the moment. He has been married once. To someone he could not imagine living without. Yet here he is, living without her. It surprises him every day that he is able to go on without Elizabeth.
He looks at Jessica. He finds himself going through a list of things he likes about her. The way she looks at him, with kindness and patience. The way she talks, her words and phrases. She is smart. She is great with the kids. She makes him laugh. She loves shitty reality TV, which is new for him, but he does like watching her react to the drama. The shallower parts of him remind him she is beautiful, and the sex is really good. He likes all of these things. He can see himself falling in love with her.
She has a different style of loving than Elizabeth. It is not the same, but it is a valid way of loving. He makes himself realize that he cannot compare the two anymore. It is not fair to any of them. His marriage to Elizabeth was what it was. And he loved every second of it. But his marriage to Jessica will be what it will be, and it cannot be weighed down by grief. He grows around it a little more than usual today.
He smiles at her. She is smiling at him. He has a hard time taking his eyes off her, even when the priest begins the mass.
He and Jessica had no issues when it came to choosing hymns and readings. They had both had no trouble agreeing on a traditional mass, and they had easily agreed on the music. He takes a look at his children. His beautiful children. They are so strong. They will be fine. Even Stevie gives him a small smile.
"In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit." The priest says. "Amen."
"Amen."
"Dearly beloved: We have come together in the presence of God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony."
He holds Jessica's hands in his and looks her straight in the eyes.
"Today, you will declare your love for each other, exchange vows, and enter into the sacred covenant of Holy Matrimony. It is a wonderful celebration of love, commitment, and unity. It is the embodiment of hope and the embodiment of faith."
Henry smiles, and Jessica giggles just a little. There is a certain sparkle in her eyes that he hasn't seen before. He thinks, if nothing else, she is very excited to be a wife.
"It is a public affirmation of the love that already exists between you. And a sign of the new life you now embark upon together."
The mass goes on. He and Jessica don't stop smiling at each other. He is nervous and excited, and he has a million other emotions. They've chosen the traditional vows for which Henry is grateful. He is not sure he would have been able to write his own. He wrote her a letter that ended up with so many rambles it became incoherent.
"I, Jessica, take you, Henry, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us part."
Henry's throat threatens to constrict on his turn. But he pushes past it.
"I, Henry, take you, Jessica, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us part."
The exchanging of rings is a quick affair. His fingers shake a little as he slips the band on her finger. But Jessica takes his hands and steadies them.
"By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss one another." The Priest says with a jolly voice and a big smile.
Henry takes Jessica's face between his hands and kisses her deeply. She's holding onto his biceps and kissing him back. His heart feels ready to burst out of his chest. Is it a good way or a bad way? He doesn't quite know.
"Ladies and Gentleman, Mr. and Mrs. McCord."
There is polite applause from the pews. The organ player starts up the recessional.
Henry is now a married man again. He smiles at his bride and offers her his arm. Jessica stops at the first pew and holds out a hand to team McCord, inviting them on this walk. Henry's heart swells. Stevie takes her hand, then Alison. They all turn their back and leave the church as a newly minted family sanctioned by God and the Government.
Jessica and Henry spend their first evening as a married couple, surrounded by family and friends, in their backyard. It's quiet and simple. There's laughter and joy. It's everything he could have wanted. He feels so full of love and gratitude. His children are happy. His parents are happy. His family is happy. The people who mean the most to him are happy. And for the night, Elizabeth is forgotten.