Hello!
I've been going on a journey as a writer for these last few years. Three years ago, I set a goal to write for an hour every day, and I have mostly stuck to it mostly on my lunch breaks. Lately, I've found myself reflecting on my earliest published works, starting with The People Left Behind and this one as well. As much as I love these works in their original forms, reading them back has shown me how far I have come as a writer. I have decided to remove some of my older works from circulation. These works served their purpose in helping me become more confident in expressing complex emotions through prose and dialogue. I am reworking quite a few of them now, adding depth and maturity to the writing. I will tell you now that the original work, The Things We Chose to Forget, will be deleted on June 4, 2024 in case you want to download it. I ask that no one re-posts it anywhere. In return I present you now the first 14 chapters of the revised version.
Again, I want to warn everyone this one does include triggering scenes, but like most of my works, it's main theme is coming together to heal.
January 5, 2019
History seems to dance upon the polished floors of the East Room as the nation's most influential figures gather to celebrate the Commander-in-Chief's birthday. The room is blessed with elegance, draped in patriotic hues of red, white, and blue, while the soft glow of chandeliers cast a warm embrace over the festivities. Guests mingle amidst a sea of diplomats and spies alike, their laughter and animated conversations filling the air with a buzz of excitement. The waitstaff glides effortlessly through the crowd, offering trays of champagne and signature cocktails named after iconic American landmarks and, of course, the President's favorite whiskey—Redwood Empire Emerald Giant Rye, which Elizabeth is sipping now.
She stands amidst the atmosphere, and for the first time in a long time, she's having fun at a party. The Secretary of State of the United States of America rarely gets a true break. Her job is to be the voice of the country, the face of the United States in many instances, and to always, always stay on point and message. She has a reputation for being a formidable negotiator and is known for being as intelligent and tough as she is kind and generous. But tonight isn't about her, and for that, she is thankful until she sees the tall man standing at a table across the room.
She wonders for a second if it's him. He's dressed like so many other men in the room—a white tie dress code doesn't leave a man many options. But he smiles, clearly laughing, and she knows. The realization hits her bone-deep, and no matter how badly she wants to tear her eyes from him, she can't. She doesn't know what he's doing here or how he got in here. She watches him for a few minutes, taking in his easy posture and his relaxed body language. He's comfortable in this setting, surrounded by politicians and billionaires. She can see he's at home, and her mind wanders to the many things she's always wondered about him—his name, for starters.
She feels his presence big and power-hungry, and it overwhelms all her senses. She hasn't thought about the man in a few years, nor the reason she knows him. Her life has carried her forward, and time has clouded her memory. Or, more truthfully, she's only buried the memory of that morning twenty-eight years ago. Either way, she's fine now. She's usually fine—except for this exact moment. The man is still smiling at something a guest says when she hears it, his laughter rolling across the room, and it makes her shudder. She's not fine at all.
She needs to get out of this room. Her gown is suddenly so tight—too tight. Her hands are shaky, and she's starting to feel like she's suffocating. The air is thick.
Henry doesn't notice the man. But he notices his wife—he always does. He knows that parties can be exhausting for her. She loves to entertain and is gracious to her core, but the parties themselves can be a lot. They're exhausting, and her nerves are always wound tightly. When her smile—big and bright—falters, he begins to make his way through the crowd. Her anxiety is not usually subtle, but tonight, he sees it in the way her chest rises and falls and how her fingers fidget with the ring on her left hand, which is holding her glass concerningly tight.
"Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador," Henry expertly and charmingly excuses himself from his current conversation about Catedral Metropolitana de Quito with the El Salvadoran Ambassador. He nods a slight bow of his head before making his way through the crowd to his wife.
"Are you okay?" He asks as he gently rests a hand on the small of her back.
"Hm? Oh, yeah. I'm fine," The wrote answer leaves her mouth before she realizes what she's said. She's been answering the same question with the same answer her entire life. She's never fine when she says it, but it's a mantra that has saved her countless times.
"Are you sure?" His hand presses a little harder into her back. She meets his eyes and takes a shaky, deep breath. She hears the laugh, still carrying to her ears, though she can't tell if it's real or in her head.
"Please take me home," she whispers her plea, "I wanna go home,"
He offers her his arm as if this was always the plan, "Let's go," he says with a small reassuring smile.
He leads her out of the White House and to her motorcade. He notices she seems to be moving on autopilot, but he doesn't say anything. He knows her well enough to know when not to ask questions. The Secretary of State cannot be seen to have weaknesses, especially not at the White House, with numerous foreign dignitaries around.
He gets her into the back of the SUV—gown and all and climbs in after her. His hand finds her knee, and he squeezes gently. She jumps under his touch. He looks at her quizzically, but she doesn't look at his face. Her hand grabs his hand on her knee and squeezes it tight. Her grip is almost painfully tight—not unlike it was when she gave unmedicated birth to their Stevie. Thoughts of what happened tonight fill his mind. This is out of character for her. She was fine. He had heard her laughing with Ellen Hill, and then, five minutes later, she panicked. He can usually tell when her anxiety is going to rear its ugly head, but he hadn't noticed tonight. She's been in a good place lately. Maybe it's the stress of the pending resignation and campaign?
She's looking out of the window, but he can tell she's not seeing anything. She certainly isn't processing the fact they are home and the car is coming to a stop in front of their brownstone.
"Babe?" he tries softly, his thumb brushing against her knuckles, "we're home,"
Her eyes turn to him, and she nods. She moves to exit the car, and he follows. As they enter their home, she walks straight to the couch and collapses down on it. She says nothing. She sits there. He's unsure what to do. Usually, he'd pull her right into his arms and hold her tight. But something is different tonight—her sudden change in mood, her removing of his hand from her knee. He moves to sit on the coffee table directly across from her. She's staring through him—unfocused and reminiscent of the first few weeks following Iran.
"Babe?" He grabs her hands gently and holds them in a gentle attempt to bring her back to him. She says nothing as she stares through his face with the man's laugh still echoing through her head.
"Elizabeth, what happened?" He tries again after a few moments. This time he squeezes her hands gently in his and shifts so he's blocking her view of the empty room behind him.
Her eyes focus on his, and her lip quivers. Henry sees a single tear escape the corner of her eye. He's at a loss.
"I-I'm so sorry," she chokes, "I'm so sorry,"
Her words cause the dam holding her together to break finally. Her head falls as she pulls her hands out of her husband's, and a sob rips from her throat.
"Oh, babe," Henry says quickly and without thought. His heart aches as her body shudders under the weight of her pain.
"I'm s-s-so sorry, Henry," she repeats, her head now cradled in her hands. He acts purely on instinct as he moves his body to the couch and begins to pull her close to him. She willingly falls into his chest. His arms wrap tightly around her. He kisses her hair as she clings to him and sobs. He's never felt more helpless.
"Shh, Baby. It's okay," he murmurs into her hair, "Whatever it is, it's okay."
His worry continues to grow as his wife sobs into his chest. Elizabeth isn't a crier. Sure, she likes a good cry occasionally, like anyone else, but even those aren't this. Her sobs are full and heartbreaking—and causing her to cough every minute or so. Her body literally can't sustain these tears. He traces back through the last few weeks, trying to remember anything out of the ordinary that could've triggered this.
For her part, she feels ridiculous. She can barely catch her breath through her tears, but she also can't stop. Everything she's pushed down for decades is now bubbling to the surface, and she's powerless to stop it. She wants to crawl back into the comfort of her denial—go back in time and not hear his laugh. She wants to be fine. She has been fine. She never told anyone—she never had to. She was fine. For nearly three decades, she put on the facade of fine. And now, that's all crumbling around her.
"It's okay, babe," Henry whispers in another attempt to comfort.
"It isn't," She says, barely indecipherable, "I'm not okay," she admits, her grip on his tux tightening.
"You don't have to be okay," He says quietly, kissing her head. "I'm right here, whatever it is."
"It's...It's... him." She admits, her voice small and scared, "I saw him. I heard him. He was laughing." The more words she says, the less forceful the sobs are. It's as if her body needs her to purge this truth.
"Him?" Henry asks, confusion clear in his voice.
"I can't." She gasps, "I can't tell you. You'll hate me." That's always been a fear of hers—his hatred or his judgment. They've spent thirty-one years of her life together, twenty-nine of them married, and not once has she been worried about either. But now, in the late evening, with her mascara running down her cheeks ruining his white tuxedo shirt, she can't help but imagine the worst-case scenario.
"Baby, there's nothing that could make me hate you," He tells her, and he hopes she knows that. They've made it through so much throughout their marriage. Nothing could be worse than her thinking that.
"Elizabeth, what happened tonight?" He asks when he feels her starting to clam up once again.
"I saw him," she repeats, tucking her head further into his chest, pressing her nose against his breastbone. He can feel her breathing start to slow as she focuses on the smell of him.
"Who, babe?" He prompts, rubbing his hand up and down her back.
"The man who raped me," She whispers into his chest. She's never said it out loud—not once. She has never told another living soul about that morning twenty-eight years ago. She barely even uses the word when she does think about it. The word is harsh, and it bursts her bubble of willful forgetfulness.
"Wha—Woa—hmm," He can't make a sentence or even a word. His hold on her loosens for a moment in his shock. But his love for her—his wife, the mother of his children, the person he has loved and cherished and built a life with—compels him to tighten his arms around her once more.
"I'm here," he manages, "I'm here," His brain is full of questions—mostly when and how and why she never told him. But her tears have slowed, and she's no longer clutching him like her life depends on it. So, he stays quiet, waiting for her tears to subside fully.
He's not sure how long he's on this couch, holding her close to him in silence. But he's content to stay this way forever if that's what it takes. His hand is rubbing soothingly against her back, and his mind is whirling.
"You were raped?" He asks again after some time, his voice soft and gentle.
She nods as she slowly starts to pull her body away from his. She's scared to look at him, but she feels she needs to. This is the most vulnerable she has ever allowed herself to be on this topic. So, she forces her eyes up to his face, searching for the disgust and disappointment that she fears will be there. But he's looking at her the same way he looked at her the first day he said I love you, and every day since.
"When you were deployed," she begins. Her voice is thick with the remnants of her crying, but she's not shaking anymore.
"When you were deployed, I was raped," her voice is stronger than she imagined it would be when she says the sentence out loud—not that she was ever planning to. She was going to carry this on her shoulders to her grave.
"You said you saw him tonight?" He asks as the shock is finally giving way.
"At the party," she admits. "Henry, I'm so sorry."
"Stop, Elizabeth. You have nothing to be sorry for," he says, squeezing her hand. It'd be a lie to say there weren't times when he suspected as much—little moments when the question was on the tip of his tongue. But he always left it unasked because, in the end, ignorance is bliss.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" He can hear the unsure waver in his voice as if curing his ignorance of this piece of his wife's history could destroy their bubble of peace. But he knows she's held onto this for nearly three decades. For so long, she's been the sole bearer of the weight of her truth. And now that he's found out, he can't just let it sit with her anymore.
January 2, 1991
The winter air is crisp in their shitty one-bedroom DC apartment- consistent with Henry's need to keep the thermostat at sixty-eight degrees at night. But waking up in Henry's arms is like waking up in a cocoon of warm affection. He's already awake. She can feel it. But he's holding her- his fingertips brushing softly up and down her arm. She opens her eyes slowly, allowing them to adjust. The morning light pours in through the blinds, painting stripes across the bedspread and illuminating the dust particles that float through the air. The clock on the nightstand ticks away the time, counting the seconds they have left together. The fear that this could be their last morning slowly creeps into her mind.
She snuggles closer to him. He got the dreaded but expected phone call two days ago. Things are heating up in Iraq, and he's needed on a carrier to be on standby. She knows he signed up for this. And she did, too, when she married an active-duty Marine. But knowing those things doesn't make this part easier. Neither does knowing that Henry was at the top of his class in flight school or that he is in the best shape of his life. War is unpredictable.
They spent the last two days holed up in their apartment, enjoying the last remnants of their pre-deployment bubble. They'd ordered takeout and watched movies. They'd made love in every room, in every position, with every ounce of energy they had.
She smiles as she runs her hands over his chest, "Good morning," She says softly.
"Good morning, babe." His voice tells her he's been awake for a while. And knowing he's nervous does nothing for her nerves. She reminds herself he's prepared. He's in peak physical shape. He can fly his jet in his sleep. He'll come home to her. She repeats those three sentences to herself over and over.
She looks up at him and smiles. He kisses her. She's sure she could do that forever. Just lay in bed and kiss him. They kiss long and slow, savoring the moment.
"We have to leave for Norfolk in a couple of hours," He whispers, finally breaking away from her. He runs through the list of things he needs to do: make her breakfast, call his mom, and take a shower.
She sits up, wrapping the sheet around her naked body, and watches him go about his morning routine. She takes it all in the way he moves, the way he smells, the way he sings in his boxers over the pancakes. His cooking will be in the top five things she will miss while he's gone. She has gotten used to it over the past few years. It's become their routine: he cooks, and she does the dishes. But it'll be a while before she gets to watch him flip a pancake in his boxers again. But she does tear her eyes away from him through their open bedroom door.
She rifles through her nightstand for the secret gift she has for him- the polaroid of her posed naked body. She takes a black Sharpie: For when you miss me... XO Elibet. She tucks the photo in between the pages of his pocket bible along with a few other things she wants him to have, like a letter and some pictures of the two of them. Then she slides the book into his duffle.
She puts on a robe and pads into the kitchen. "Smells good, babe," She wraps her arms around him, hugging him from behind.
"Banana bacon," he smiles as he stacks them on plates.
She watches him carry the plates into the living room and set them down on the coffee table. She pours two glasses of orange juice and follows him. They keep their conversation light and playful as they eat. She steals bites of banana off his plate, and he teases her. They laugh. They tease. But the elephant is still in the room.
It turns into a dark cloud as he excuses himself to a shower. She does the dishes, cleans the counters and dresses before he reappears in his class A's. It's her least favorite uniform. She loves him in The Dress Blues and finds him sexier than Tom Cruise in his flight suit. But the green one reminds her too much of the danger he will soon find himself in.
"Hey there, Lieutenant," She teases. He smiles at her, and she can see it's a little sad. He's thinking the same thing she is.
"Hey there," He steps up behind her, pulling her in close. He holds her in silence for a few minutes before grabbing his duffle as she grabs the keys.
The drive to Norfolk is silent. Neither one of them seems to want to be the first to acknowledge the goodbye they're about to face. There are no words for either of them to express their fear or anxiety. The radio is their only companion as Elizabeth's third cassette of Frampton Comes Alive! plays Baby, I Love Your Way. Henry hums along with his hand resting on her thigh. It's so simple and sweet. She tries to focus on that.
She accompanies him as far as she can onto Naval Station Norfolk. He has to check in, and she's not allowed past the security gate. He parks his car in a visitor spot, and the two of them get out.
She hugs him close, trying to hide the tears that are already forming in her eyes, "You better come home to me, Henry McCord," She tells him in a faux stern voice.
"Yes, ma'am," He grins, kissing her cheek.
"I love you," She says, her voice breaking.
"I love you, too." He replies. They hold each other close and kiss passionately as if it is their last.
She watches him walk until she can't see him anymore. And then she stands there for a few moments longer. She takes a deep breath as she gets behind the wheel of their car and readjusts the seat and the mirrors. She wipes away her tears and pulls out of the lot. Her heart hurts, and her eyes are blurry with tears, but she drives as if it is a perfectly normal day.
It's dark when she gets home to a quiet, empty apartment. The place feels colder, somehow, as if it's also grieving the loss of Henry. She takes a deep breath. She will be okay. This is what it will be like when he's gone, she thinks to herself. But she's no stranger to the silence. She turns the TV on to drown it out, and she's so distracted by the book she's reading that she doesn't notice the man watching her through her window.