Letters from War (24 page)

She remembers his giggle and how he laughed uncontrollably when tickled. That sound—a toddler's laugh—might just be the first sound she hears after entering heaven's doors. That's how glorious it was.

She remembers his little voice and how he would ask her questions when he was just a few years old.

Those little mounds of cheeks. Those unwavering eyes like his father's.

A lifetime of memories flows through her.

The doorbell rings and she shivers.

Beth can feel her heart racing.

She tries to stand but feels light-headed.

All this time and I'm still not prepared? I'm still not ready? I'm still not willing to get up and find out?

She tries but she can't.

It doesn't matter if it's been two months or two years.

For nine months she waited and wondered and worried and then he was born. James Nathaniel Thompson.

For the next eighteen years, she watched and wondered and worried like any mother. She prayed and hoped and thanked God for every tiny miracle. Every step, smile, joy, and heartache.

Then he went into the army.

Beth has always known this: every soldier has a mom. And every mom can't help but worry and wonder. Mothers march with their children in battle. They are there in spirit. Even if they don't pray or believe in God, they're holding on to hope. Their hearts leave when their children are deployed. And they surely wait every day.

What's worse, the fighting or the waiting?

The doorbell rings again, prompting Beth to stand up.

He was a gift and it was his time and I'm finally going to know.

Then the door opens and she sees someone and shakes her head.

It's another dream. She must be in her bed taking a nap and dreaming. The man in the officer's uniform looks like her husband, except not really. He looks like both of them, the way James used to look, the way he appeared after coming back from Iraq, the boy who had blossomed into the man who would always and forever be her James.

“Mom?”

She feels her hands on her chest grabbing at a heart that might just explode.

Please don't let this be a dream, please, Lord, please.

“Mom, I'm home.”

He comes to her side right before her legs give way again. He scoops her up and then embraces her.

“It's okay,” he tells her.

“Tell me.”

“Mom, it's okay. I'm here. I'm really here.”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me you're really there.”

“I am.”

She looks up at James and sees his eyes and she knows. Dreams are never this vivid and this hopeful.

“I'm here, Mom. And I have several hundred letters to prove it.” He smiles.

Something comes out of her but she doesn't know exactly what it is. It's not a distinguishable word or a sigh or a cry. It's something deeper.

Something comparable to gratitude.

You brought him home, Lord.

Beth goes to embrace her boy yet suddenly finds nothing there to hold on to.

She reaches out and her hands search in vain.

Suddenly the sound of the phone rings from all around her, and the picture starts to fade away.

No.

She opens her eyes and realizes the truth.

The undeniable, unrelenting truth.

No.
The phone keeps ringing as she blinks and manages to sit up off the couch she's been sleeping on. It's Friday afternoon.

That's Marion on the phone.

She picks it up and clicks on the cordless without another thought.

“You're not going to believe the dream I just had,” she tells her friend without even saying hello.

“Mom?”

It's Britt, speaking in a choked voice, on the phone. It wakes her up and makes her stand.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“Mom—they—I just heard—”

Her voice quivers and Beth opens her mouth slightly, knowing what her daughter-in-law is going to say, knowing that this is finally when the truth has arrived… and it is going to hurt.

“They found him. James. They found James. Mom—he's alive.”

The engines roar to life and with the sound comes a sense of promise.

Yes, indeed, anything can happen.

“How are you doing?”

She could ask Britt the same thing.

“I could get used to this,” she says from across the aisle. “Nice way for Richie to fly for the first time.”

They're sitting in first class after a whirlwind twenty-four hours. On Beth's side next to the window is Emily.

The 747 they're on is headed to Frankfurt, Germany.

“So who would have thought
this
would be the way we got to Europe?” Emily says as she looks outside.

Beth clenches her hands and keeps hoping not to wake up. Yet she knows this is no dream, not like the one right before Britt called her to tell her they had found James and Francisco. They were alive, safe, and in stable condition.

Britt wasn't sure what “stable” officially meant, but
that's all the army had told her. They said they would be sending someone out to go over more details, which had happened yesterday at Britt's house while Richie and Bailey roamed around them making noises and acting like nothing was the matter. They had no idea that Richie's father had been rescued. They had no idea that he was now recovering at the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center near Landstuhl, Germany, along with Francisco DiGiulio.

Beth and Britt had embraced and the tears had seemed to never stop. Beth slept very little, first going to pick up Emily from college and then proceeding to tell family and friends. So many people—almost everybody, it seemed—told her how they had been praying.

Those prayers had been heard.

As the plane took off, Beth once again thought of the detailed plans of their trip. The army had managed to issue emergency passports for all of them, had given them a per diem to use while in Germany, had even covered all the bases like plans to pick them up from the airport and bring them to a place called Fisher House where they would stay.

“Mom?”

“What is it?”

“Why are you so quiet?”

“Just going over details.”

“Isn't that why the army goes to the trouble of
doing it themselves? So type A personalities like yourself don't have to?”

“I'm not a type A.”

“You are but you use that sweet southern charm to hide it.”

Beth shakes her head. “You're such a smart aleck.”

“And you love me.”

She takes Emily's hand. “Yes. I do.”

“I'm already nervous.”

“I am too.”

“All this time… I just hope he's okay. You know?”

She nods.

A part of her doesn't want to think about that.

There are so many things
to
think about. She's joyous and thankful and cautious and concerned and fearful and overwhelmed with humility.

Emily leans back in her chair and pops in earphones.

And for a while, a long while, Beth waits.

She knows there's something that she has to do.

It's time and she knows it.

Several hours into the flight, as Emily sleeps and Britt plays a movie for Richie on her laptop, Beth decides that it's time.

There was always hope when she read the letters
from her son. Always a tiny shred of hope that one day he would step back through her door.

Yet as Beth finally slips the letter out of her purse, she knows these will be the last words she will ever hear from Richard. On this earth and in this time.

Perhaps that is why she's never read the letter.

Now. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not next week.

We're not promised tomorrow.

She opens the letter and sees the familiar handwriting and feels as if Richard is right next to her, penning this letter as she stands over his shoulder.

They enter the ward with the chaplain on one side and the military service liaison on the other. Britt is pale and won't let go of Richie's hand. Emily keeps looking at her and seems hesitant to move any faster than she does. They are quiet. So much has been said and talked about, but all they want to do is see James. They want to touch him and make sure he's real, he's okay.