Letters from War (25 page)

I want to make sure he doesn't go anywhere ever again.

Beth doesn't think of the days that lie ahead. The celebrations and the parties and the ceremonies and the awards. The reunion with Marion and her family when they arrive later today to see Francisco. All she thinks about is this hallway and the room they're headed toward.

She can hear their footsteps on the floor.

Two years.

It's been two whole years.

“Richie, stay here,” Britt says.

Yet Richie breaks free and starts running down the hallway.

They turn and then see the figure walking toward them.

For a second she doesn't recognize him. Not because James looks different, but because she's expecting him to be in a bed waiting and resting.

Instead, he's in his cargo pants and a long-sleeved army tee.

For a second, he stops, just as they do.

Britt gasps as Emily says his name.

James just stands there, tall and strong with a face that is more than surprised.

He's not looking at them, not just yet. He's staring at the boy who's racing toward him, a boy unknowingly racing toward his father.

I've died and gone to heaven.

The familiar phrase echoes in his mind and James really, truly believes that everything from that dusty day of hearing the gunshots to being lifted up in the air and soon tended to by men and women who spoke English was just a dream.

I passed away in some silent stretch of Afghanistan and this has been my journey toward the great beyond.

It's what he always imagined heaven would look like.

It's not the brilliant lights above and the glow of white surrounding him, though he is bathed in both.

It's the faces he sees coming down the hallway to greet him.

First he sees her, more beautiful than she looked on her wedding day, her eyes swollen with tears and emotion and love. Just waiting to be in his arms.

Next to them are the awestruck eyes of his little sister, who he's forgotten has turned into a young woman. The same little gaze that used to follow him everywhere and has managed to follow him here in eternity.

Then, of course, there are his mother's eyes.

Full of disbelief and hesitation. Yet also full of boldness and strength and resolve.

These three women walk toward him and he wants to bolt toward them with his arms open wide to embrace all three at once.

Yet he can't.

Because in front of them runs a face he recognizes.

In front of them bolts a little boy who must be somewhere around the right age.

A sweet angelic face that looks a lot like James's.

God, please let this be real.

The figure reaches him and for a moment James wonders if it's going to pass through him like a ghost, like those dreams he had on the field in the dead of night, when the angels would come and visit and tend to him, perhaps only in his imagination.

That touch and that giggle and that sweet precious little soulful voice are not in his imagination.

They are real.

James tries to say something but he doesn't even know the boy's name.

“Richie, this is your father.”

The tears now feel heavier than they should, his vision covering for a while. He doesn't wait for the boy to come to him. He wraps his arms around the boy and starts to bring him up, then realizes something.

He is on his knees.

All this time and all these miles and all these prayers and all the strength it took to survive.

Yet here he is in front of the real warriors. And the angel accompanying them.

“Your father is home, Richie. Your father is here.”

Heaven will have to wait a little longer. But hope is here to stay.

Britt left with Richie half an hour ago after the boy was sleeping in her arms. They won't be gone long, she tells them. Emily decides to go with them, leaving Beth alone with James. They've already been with him for three hours, listening to his story while sharing their own sagas of the past two years.

“I can't believe how big he is,” James says. “I can't believe I actually have a son.”

“He's been an amazing source of joy during all this.”

It seems that “this” is something that James is still trying to wrap his brain around. He's told them some stories but been vague about others. The scars on his left cheek and neck reveal there's more to the story.

I wonder what scars remain deep down, hidden and unseen.

James sits on the edge of the bed, a television in the
corner playing news quietly. For a moment he looks at her as if trying to study her for the first time.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I never knew.”

“You never knew what?”

“Do you know that when I got here, the first thing I did was start reading all those letters? They wouldn't let me call you but they gave me those letters.”

“I sent a lot.”

He shakes his head, then wipes tears from his eyes.

“I just knew,” James says. “I kept telling myself that you guys hadn't forgotten about me, that you hadn't given up.”

“We hadn't.”

“There were times—oh man—but every time it seemed like a wave of peace would come. That if I was going to die, so be it. But I didn't dare just give in.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“All those things you said about you and Dad, about growing up, about losing him. The stuff about your faith in God. Man, Mom.”

“What?”

James shakes his head. “How in the world am I ever going to be a parent like you?”

“You already are.”

“No way. I just learned I have a son. It's still—this is all a bit surreal.”

“You learn by doing it. What if someone asked how they were ever going to be a soldier like you? Someone who would give his life for another without a thought? That would be intimidating.”

“It's different.”

“No, it's really not, James. It's what's inside of you. It's your character. You just do what needs to be done.”

“You know that I'm going to be an old man by the time I read all those dang letters?”

She sits on the bed beside him.

“I remember thinking after your father passed how much you changed. You weren't allowed to grow up slowly. God had other plans for you. I guess He had other plans for us all.”

“One day I want to ask about those plans,” James said.

“Me too.”

She holds his hand and just lets the moment sink in.

After all the words she's written and shared, and all the moments she's sat and prayed, Beth now just sits in silence.

God brought her boy home safe and sound.

She wants to believe that Richard did what he said he was going to do in his letter. That he was watching out for James in whatever way he could.

One day I'll share that letter and that story with James. But not just yet.

“Thank you, Mom. Thanks for being here.”

“Nothing was going to make me stay home.”

“No. I mean—thanks for never going away. For never giving up on me. For staying close before, during, and after, no matter what happened.”

THE FIRST LETTER

How did you come to write the song “Letters from War”? When did you first have the idea of using the song as the basis for a novel?

My great-grandma had three sons involved in World War II. My great-uncles have always been heroes to me. Several years ago as we were cleaning out her attic, we found the letters they had written her as well as her diary from the 1940s. Several of the entries brought me to tears, and I knew that I wanted to write a song that would honor both my great-grandmother and her sons.

What was your involvement in the U.S. Army's Be Safe—Make It Home campaign? Why was it important for you to be a part of the campaign?

The army approached me with the idea of making a video for “Letters from War” so that they could show it in conjunction with their Be Safe—Make It Home campaign for the soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. It was an amazing experience, and it has also allowed us to perform at the Pentagon as well as at several army bases around the country. Those concerts have been some of the most memorable of my career.