I had to get this one out of my head to be able to continue on with People Left Behind.
Elizabeth comes home from Iraq. Cannon Compliant.
There's a darkness to her when she walks in the door. There might be a big smile on her face. And she might be holding our little boy close to her chest as she hugs our daughters with her other arm. She might be telling them she missed them and that she loves them. She might be telling them about the gifts she brought back for them. But there's a darkness. How could there be a darkness? She was only gone for five weeks. I shudder to think about what she could've seen in that time. Especially when I don't even know where she was.
When the girls give her a little space, she looks up at me for the first time since walking in. Her smile falters for a fraction of a second.
"Hey, kiddos. Go get my bag and I'll get your gifts." The kids scurry out onto the porch and she throws her arms around my neck resting her head between my collar and jaw. I wrap her up with my arms thanking god that she got home safe. I give her a kiss to the temple and just cherish this moment that I know won't last for long.
"Here you go, Mommy!" Jason yells as Stevie and Allison help each other carry in her bag. She gives me a tight squeeze for a moment before letting me go. When she lets go, she's back into mom mode. If someone else were to be looking in right now, they wouldn't notice. They wouldn't notice her shoulders are tight. They wouldn't notice the hitch in her voice when she tells them she was in Jordon. They wouldn't notice her laugh is fake when she watches them try the Middle Eastern candy she brought back for them. Something is wrong.
I watch her go through the motions for the rest of the day. I watch her play tag with the kids. I watch her move food around on her plate only eating a fourth of it at dinner. I watch her read bedtime stories and tucking them in. And then I watch her, watch them sleep. She's leaning against the door frame watching Stevie. Her head must be getting heavier as she places it against the frame as well.
"Let's go to bed, babe." I whisper to her, and she startles. But then she turns to me and nods.
Once in our room, I realize that she hasn't changed her clothes yet. Her black combat pants still bloused into her boots. And a tan shirt tucked in. She did ditch the scarf, which I assumed had been covering her hair. She pulls the ponytail holder out of her hair and I notice the sand that falls onto her shoulder with her hair.
"I need a shower, I still have sand all over." She looks up at me. Looking into my eyes she lets me see her, lets me see that she's not okay. She's not hiding the darkness anymore, and I'm grateful. Grateful that she feels safe enough with me not to hide.
She's dead on her feet tired, but if she wants a shower, I'll help get one. I lead her into our bathroom and sit her down on the toilet. I help her remove her boots, which are indeed sandy. As I help her remove the rest of her clothes, I think about the intimacy she and I share. There's something special about this type of intimacy. The kind that isn't at all sexual, more so just a baring of silent nakedness and vulnerability.
She leans her head back letting the hot water remove the sand and dirt. I notice her tears mingling with the water, but I don't ask her about them. I don't have to. I know the horrors of war first hand. I wash her hair, giving her scalp a massage hoping to help her start to relax. I help her wash away the rest of the sand, hoping she feels the weight she holds go down the drain with it.
I get her dressed and into bed, pulling her close. She lays her head on my chest.
"What do I do now?" She asks. She doesn't need to elaborate for me to know she wants to know how I handled coming home from Iraq.
"One day at a time." I tell her. And it's really the only advice I have.
"What if I can't even do that?"
"Then one minute at a time." I feel her nod against my chest and I wonder once again, about could've happened in the last five weeks.
"I let awful things happen." It's an admission whispered into the night. Her self-loathing is palpable.
"You did your job." And I know she did. I know my wife, whatever was done was protocol. It's a type of guilt I can relate to. I also did awful things. It's one thing to train and then to actually drop bombs. But coming home to live it, that's the hard part. I will be here for every minute of her hard part, as she was for mine.
"I was in Bagdad by the way." Her body is starting to take the choice of sleep away from her mind. I know she can't tell me more than that, and I'm sure she wasn't even supposed to tell me that. So I won't ask. But that sentence told me everything I needed to know. She was in an incredibly active warzone. The things she must have seen on the ground will most likely remain unspoken, but I know enough to put at least the edges of the puzzle together.
"I love you." I squeeze her tighter and kiss her hair.
"I love you, too." She's asleep not even two seconds after the words leave her mouth. I don't sleep. I just hold her. I run my hands through her hair. I watch her sleep. She's home. And I will make sure she doesn't self-destruct. I will love her with everything I have.
Two people, two wars, and two roles. But we'll get through it, just like we did last time.