Letters from War (2 page)

The house creaks with memories.

Beth Thompson walks across the hall toward the room with the slightly open doorway revealing a sliver of light. She passes these empty rooms every time she comes up the stairs: Emily's room on the corner, James's next to it, the hibernating guest bedroom. Pictures of the children decorate the walls but there is no substitute for hearing their laughter and seeing their smiles.

It's good to have someone home.

She knocks gently, then nudges the door. She sees pink pajamas and remembers the toddler days as if they happened that morning.

“Hey,” Emily says, her thumbs working on the cell phone, her gaze fixed on it.

“Busy?”

Her twenty-one-year-old daughter shakes her head. “Just saying hi to some friends.”

“Any of them boys?”

Emily laughs. “No. Just men your age. Asking for my hand in marriage.”

“Be nice to your mother. You haven't been home long enough to start abusing me.”

“It's just Trish. She says hi.”

“Tell her to come on over soon,” Beth says.

“Oh, she will. She didn't have to get a job. Her parents love her.”

“I can think of quite a few things for her to do around here.”

“You invent things to keep busy.”

Beth smiles. “It works.”

Emily looks up at her mother. Taking the comment as a cue, she puts the phone on the bed and moves over so her mother can sit next to her.

“I thought you went to bed,” Emily says, brushing a runaway strand of dark hair from her face.

“Not yet. Just reading.”

“It always happens. I keep tellin' ya.”

“What?”

“You slow down in the evening and get all gloomy and such. I think I need to buy you a dog.”

“Only if a babysitter comes with it.”

Emily stretches, then yawns. “What a day. I forgot how crazy our family is.”

“I don't know which side is more dysfunctional—your father's side or mine.”

“Can you believe Uncle Stuart?”

Beth shakes her head. “No.”

“I think his jokes are as bad as his cooking.”

“Sometimes I wonder how your father and Stu could be brothers.”

“Me too.”

“What if I had married him?”

“I would have run away at four,” Emily says, grinning.

Beth takes in the room and notices how little it has changed over the years. Seeing her daughter's clothes littering the floor, makeup and jewelry and other belongings scattered on top of the dresser, the messiness all seeming to have its proper order, reminds Beth of high school days.

“What?”

“I haven't been in here in some time,” she says.

“What about James's room?”

She shakes her head. Emily studies her the way a therapist studies a client.

“Is it tougher today than normal days?” Emily asks, the question and her tone surprising Beth.

She's already acting more grown-up and she hasn't even started her junior year yet. I'm not ready to have both of my children all grown-up.

“It would be if I had to celebrate Memorial Day by myself.” She grips Emily's strong hand. “I'm glad you didn't go on that trip.”

“Mexico is
so
overrated.”

“Not when you're twenty-one.”

“Have you ever been?”

“Yes, I was twenty-one at one point in my life.”

Emily rolls her eyes. “I mean to Mexico.”

“Me?” Beth laughs. “Please. I was married to your father by the time I was twenty. I'd barely been out of Tennessee by then.”

“Don't give me this
aw shucks
business, Mom.”

“I'm not. I'm just being honest.”

“The parade was nice, wasn't it?”

“They always are. I just wish—the flowers were unnecessary.”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“Emily…”

Her smile is so innocent, so beautiful, so much like her father's. “I swear. Everybody knows your story, Mom.”

“It's our story.”

“Yeah, I know. But I just…”

Beth waits for Emily to finish. She's used to the half thoughts and unfinished phrases, especially when Emily's talking about James.

“Maybe it's just—maybe I've come to a place where I finally have peace about it all.”

They've had this conversation before. Beth knows how it can go. She is careful with her words. “That's good to hear.”

“I just wish everybody didn't talk about the war like they're following it nonstop. Like they're all giving their take on it. That's all anybody talks about—the war, politics. Well, when Uncle Stu's not talking.”

“I prefer listening to Stu over conversations about politics and war,” Beth says.

“That whole al-Qaeda-versus-Taliban discussion—I wanted to curl up in the dishwasher. Most of them don't have a clue what they're talking about anyway.”

For a while they don't say anything. Eventually Emily shifts deeper into her pillow and speaks with a soft voice. “Sometimes I dream about James. Like I'm talking to him. Then I wake up.”

She's staring at the ceiling as if it's a star-filled sky on a cloudless night. Emily looks as if she's recalling a fond memory from just the other day, the kind of memory that makes one stop and smile.

“That's understandable.”

Emily plays with her hair as she glances again at her mom. “What do you think that means?”

“That you miss him,” Beth says, “just like the rest of us. Just like those watching the news on Afghanistan all day long as if they're going to get a glimpse of him on TV or something.”

“Just like you writing those letters?”

The statement startles her. For a moment, Beth can't say anything.

“Sorry. I just—I saw you put one in the mailbox Saturday. You still write them on a regular basis?”

She nods.

Then Beth sees one of the saddest looks she's ever beheld on her daughter's face. It's not the childlike poutiness of Emily not getting her way, or the smart-aleck whimsy that usually accompanies her sarcasm. It's more of a strained heaviness that comes only with age and experience. Those beautiful blue eyes look lost at sea.

“It's okay,” Beth says.

Emily doesn't say anything back. She tightens her lips in a forced smile.

Sometimes, there's really and truly nothing to say.

Sometimes, all one can do is sit holding hands with a loved one, lost in thought and memory.

The ritual is the same.

She turns off all the lights except those on the porch.

As if that one dim light right next to the rocking chair will be a guiding light in the darkness.

As if James needs it to find his way home.

She leaves it on for the simple fact that it's
something she
can
do. There are so many things she can't. She can't fly over there, strap on a gun and a backpack, and go searching for him the way Chuck Norris might. She's can't communicate with him in any manner or form. She can't even communicate with his officers. There has been limited interaction, and it's always been the same: cryptic information combined with government-speak.

What she can do is leave a light on, and she does that every night.

Heading back up the stairs, Beth notices the light in Emily's bedroom is off. She wonders if her daughter is asleep. Then she finds herself recalling the days she and her husband would tiptoe past her room, trying to be as quiet as possible. Some nights she would push James's door open to find him reading by flashlight or playing with his toys.

In her bedroom moments later, the taste of toothpaste still in her mouth, the face in the mirror looking older for some reason tonight, Beth kneels by her bed and prays. Maybe it's Emily being there or maybe it was the parade and the special presentation of flowers she received. Maybe it was the family gathering at the house that kept her busy and somewhat sane. Maybe it's none of those things. But for some reason, Beth prays a different prayer tonight.

She always prays for James and Emily.

Yet tonight, she also prays for herself, asking God for a little extra strength and wisdom.

Not that she hasn't asked for it before. But with Emily around, she's trying to act stronger yet doing a miserable job at it.

James might be gone. Either in another country or in heaven. She doesn't know.

What she does know is that her twenty-one-year-old daughter is alive and kicking. Emily is strong and alert and insanely perceptive, meaning Mom needs to be strong.

Whatever that means.

After praying, Beth finds the stationery and realizes she needs to get more soon. A familiar hand pens a familiar phrase on the cream-colored paper.