Bond of Love (Letters From Home Series Book 3) Page 2

  A rare Sunday off from work, and I decided to drop by to see mom and dad. My stomach had felt queasy all day and hoped I wasn’t getting sick. My parents lived almost an hour away, but I knew dad would be piled up in his recliner watching baseball and mom would love having some company.

  As soon as I walked into their house, the scent of mom’s ambrosia cookies filled the air. “Oh, my God, mom!” I squealed, calling out a hasty hello to my dad in the living room as I ran into the kitchen. Grabbing mom around the waist, I hugged her tightly. “I love these and so will James! I told him you would send him a care package soon!” Her ambrosia cookies were chock full of raisins, chopped dates, oatmeal, and coconut. Thick and chewy, just the way James and I liked them.

  Mom twisted, throwing her arms around me as well, her eyes twinkling. “Hey, baby girl,” she said, her smile as wide as mine. Letting me go, she held me at arm’s length as she scanned me from head to toe and added, “You need to eat more, Alicia. I swear, that hospital job has you run off your feet.” She peered deeply into my eyes and cocked her head to the side. “Something seems off. What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve felt a little queer ever since I got up this morning,” I admitted. “And with my job schedule, I’ve lost a couple of pounds, but I’ll bet this will help,” I said, grabbing one of her cookies off the cooling rack.

  She attempted to smack me with a rolled up dish towel but had never perfected the act the way James could. When we were kids I’d have to run away when he was playing with a towel and trying to snap me.

  An hour later, as all the cookies had been baked and were now cooling, mom and I joined dad in the living room with tea and snacks. The lazy Sunday with my parents in the house I grew up in was the perfect way to spend a day off. Relaxing, fun, peaceful…except for my nervous stomach.

  One baseball game had finished and another one just came on when dad looked out the front window behind me, his face morphing from curiosity to a wide-eyed stare.

  “Dad?” I questioned before turning around to see what had captured his attention. A dark vehicle had pulled into the driveway and two men in Army dress uniforms alighted.

  Mom had walked over from her chair to look through the window and before dad could get out of his recliner, mom cried, “Oh, Lord, no!” and ran to the door as though if she got to the officers before they could make it to her porch, they would have no power over her. She threw her hands on the door, pressing them flat against it, chanting, “No, no, no, no,” until dad came up behind her and placed his hands over hers. I stood, rooted to the floor, my stomach twisting as my heart pounded, watching the trauma unfold before me.

  “Arlene, honey, let me open the door,” and dad gently pulled her back against his chest as he reached around and turned the doorknob just as the two officers stepped up onto the porch.

  Both men looked at my parents with sympathy and I felt the air leave the room with their words. “Sir, ma’am, are you Arlene and George Newton, parents of Specialist James Newton of the U.S. Army?”

  Mom’s head shook back and forth—not in answer to their question but with the same denial I felt. Dad nodded, his voice shaky as he replied, “Yes. Yes, we are. Please come in.”

  He pulled mom back further into the room, giving the officers a chance to step inside the house as well. I could not take my eyes off them, even as I gasped for air. I wanted to block them out, make them leave, scream that they were in the wrong place with the wrong people.

  But my wishes were not headed as the older of the two looked straight into my parents’ eyes and said, “We are sorry to inform you that your son was killed…”

  I never heard the rest of the words, the explanations, the special instructions…nothing. My dad helped my mom to the sofa before he turned to me, his hand outstretched. Shaking my head, I rushed out of the room, my queasy stomach rebelling as I threw myself onto the floor by the toilet, throwing up what I had eaten. A few minutes later, I stumbled back into the living room, kneeling at dad’s feet, my head on his knees as my mom collapsed onto my dad’s chest.

  Dad held it together enough to talk to the officers, with one hand on me and the other around mom’s shoulders.

  James…my brother…my twin…the one person in the world I had an unbreakable bond with was now gone.

  The flag-draped casket stood in stark relief against the bright blue sky with only a few white clouds floating by. I tried to listen to the words of the Army Chaplain but all I could think about was how James was never going to come racing into the house again…or toss a dinner roll across the table at me when mom wasn’t watching…or threaten some guy who wanted to date me. I wanted to cry, but it seemed the tears had all dried up. The honor guard folded the flag and handed it formally to mom and the tears finally slid down my face once more.

  Mom sat between dad and me, leaning heavily on him with his arm around her. His hand would reach out and stroke my shoulder occasionally.

  Some of James’ high school friends that were still in the area came as well as some Army friends who were still stateside. Before I was ready to say goodbye, it was time. Standing, I waited as mom and dad approached the casket, laid their hands on it and bowed their heads. As dad helped mom back to the car, I followed their example. Laying a rose on top of the gleaming wood, I leaned over and whispered, “I’ll always love you, big brother.”

  Coming off an overnight shift in the ER two weeks later, I dragged to my car, wondering how I was going to keep going. I had barely slept since James’ funeral, but still worked my twelve-hour shifts. Driving home on auto-pilot, I was glad to pull into my driveway safely considering I had no recollection of the trip home. Even though it was almost eight in the morning, I realized I had not gotten my mail yesterday, when I saw a few envelopes peeking out the top of my mailbox. Grabbing them, I made my way inside tossing the mail onto the kitchen table. Staggering into the kitchen, I poured a large glass of milk and toasted a bagel.

  Tiger was making her usual figure-eights between my legs and I bent to rub her head. Her purring turned into meows and I knew it was her signal that she was hungry. Pouring some food into her dish, I grabbed my food from the counter. Sitting down a few minutes later, I nibbled my light breakfast and looked at the bills.

  I gasped at the sight of a letter, my address written in squiggly handwriting. Heart pounding, I picked it up, my hand shaking so much I could barely focus on the return address. It was as though my mind expected it to say SPC James Newton, but as I stared, I finally realized it was from SPC Benjamin Fowler.

  I lay the envelope down on the table, unwilling to open it now, the pain too fresh to share it with someone from the Army wanting to express condolences. Sucking in a shuddering breath, I placed my dishes in the sink and took a quick shower before closing my room-darkening curtains and falling into bed.

  My sleep, like every day, was fitful, filled with dark dreams and painful memories. Waking after a few hours, I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering when I would find the energy to get up. The room was cloaked in darkness even though it was the middle of the day. The weight on my chest felt heavy but I welcomed it. Grief had become my blanket—while it weighed me down it was a constant reminder of my loss.

  Rolling to my side, I heaved a sigh as I looked at the clock. Knowing I had not slept enough, I also knew no more rest was coming. Letting out a deep breath, I sat up with my knees bent and my head in my hands. The ever-present ache did not leave but then, I hadn’t expected it to go away. An errant tear escaped and I swiped at it randomly.

  Climbing out of bed, I wandered into the kitchen and fixed half of a peanut butter and banana sandwich, which was as much as I felt like eating. Taking my saucer into the living room I saw the envelope still laying on the table where I left it. I stood, my body taut, for a moment as I stared at the handwriting on the letter—not James’ and yet so similar. Knowing it would not get any easier, I had to admit that after resting I felt better equipped to cope with whatever the correspondence had to sa
y, so I flopped into a chair and tore it open.

  Dear Ms. Alicia Newton,

  I know you don’t know me, but I was a good friend of your brother, James. I want to say how sorry I am for your loss and to let you know that he is sorely missed here as well. He was a good soldier, a good friend, and a good man.

  I closed my eyes as I leaned back, irritation flowing over me. I know everyone who expressed their condolences meant well and I’m glad everyone liked James, but my heart ached so deeply, I wasn’t sure if I could stand one more person telling me what I already knew.

  I walked over to the refrigerator and poured a glass of water, drinking deeply. Dropping my chin to my chest as I leaned my hands on the counter, I sighed heavily. Licking my lips, I raised my head, staring out of the window across the room. The sun was indeed shining, the blue sky of spring sending its warmth into the room. Fortified, I walked over to the table and picked up the letter on my way to the sofa where I laid back against the cushions to continue reading.

  But I know that you are very aware of your brother’s good points. What you might not have known is what he shared with his squad members about his sister. He read your letters to us and we loved each and every one of them. He regaled us with tales of your work, which by the way, he was so proud of. He had us laughing with tales of your dates, and I have to let you know he trusted your judgment, even if he pretended to want to be there to threaten those guys to treat you right.

  Gasping, I sat up, my mouth hanging open. James read my letters out loud? How embarrassing! I felt my face flaming and if James had still been alive, I would have perfected the art of towel snapping just to make sure I nailed him good!

  Taking a deep breath, I leaned back and continued to read.

  He also shared your care packages with us, for which we were all grateful. You make the best chocolate chip cookies of anyone I know.

  The most important thing I want to say is this…James loved you so much. I don’t have any family so I used to joke that I lived vicariously through his family. So in a way, it’s a double loss for me. Anyway, I thought it was important for you to know that he thought the world of you and I wish you all the peace you need during this time. I miss him too.

  Yours truly,

  SPC Benjamin Fowler

  The tears came once more as I fell back on the sofa, the letter laying across my chest.

  Chapter 3

  (May – Ben)

  I walked through the large tent covering the line of trucks we were working on that day, making my way to the transmission repair that was my assignment. Roger rolled out from underneath the truck he was working on and peered up at me.

  “You doin’ okay, man?”

  Nodding, I curtly said, “Yeah, no worries.” But I knew they were all worried—hell, I was worried about myself. Not about cracking up or going postal, but it was as though all the joy had been sucked out of me when James was killed. Sarge even had me go see the psych doc, who just agreed with my assessment—good soldiers die in war, and people left behind grieve them. Hell, it’s not rocket science…just a fact of life.

  Kneeling to the ground where truck guts were spilled out everywhere, I got to work. This world was familiar—at least with the machinery, I knew what to do to make it run and function correctly, even if I didn’t have a clue for myself. I could take the pieces apart and put them back together again. I could find replacement parts and make them work when the original ones were no longer viable. But me? Hell, grief was tearing me apart inside. Closing my eyes for a moment, I thought of James’ family—how are they coping? If my grief for a friend was killing me, then how did they manage the grief of a beloved son and brother?

  I had sent James’ sister a letter to let her know I was thinking about her but knew I had no clue what she was going through. I knew the other men in our squad suffered as well, but James and I had been friends since boot camp. Grimacing, I forced the thoughts from my mind, instead focusing on the engine parts in front of me.

  Hours later, in the shower, I heard one of the guys call out. “Fowler…you got mail to pick up.” Mail? Me? Sighing, I thought about what might be there…my bills were paid automatically and I had no one to write to me. Probably junk.

  Heading to the DFAC with Roger, we walked down the main lane lined with look-alike tents. All tan and all bland. The sameness added to my desolate, morose feeling.

  Roger glanced toward me. “You gettin’ your mail before eating? They might not be open afterward.”

  “Probably just trash mail, but you’re right. No sense in them having it clutter their space. Save me a seat and I’ll be right over.” Gaining his nod, I turned toward the tent serving as the post office.

  Stopping inside I waited in line, trying not to be envious of the lucky fuckers who were walking out with padded envelopes, packages of all sizes, or letters. Scrubbing my hand over my face as I got to the front of the line and gave my name, the soldier turned and lifted a box from a shelf behind him and set it down on the counter. I looked up at him but his eyes were on the person behind me in line.

  He looked back at me, irritated that I was holding up the line and barked, “You gonna take your box or not?”

  “This is for me?” I asked, unable to keep the shock out of my voice.

  He tapped his finger on the address label and said, “If you’re Specialist Benjamin Fowler, then yeah, this is for you. Now take it and move on outta the queue! Others are waiting.”

  Stunned, I picked up the box, staring at it as I walked back out into the stifling hot, evening air. Turning the box around in my hands, I looked at the return address. My heart skipped a beat before my hands broke out into a sweat. Alicia Newton. James’ sister? James’ sister sent me a package!

  The others from my squad had gone to get their meal, but I hurried back to our tent, wanting to open it in private. Entering, I breathed a sigh of relief that the tent was empty. Sitting on my bed, I ripped open the box and pulled out the packing material. Inside were three plastic baggies of chocolate chip cookies. Jackpot!

  Tucked to the side of the cookies was an envelope and I carefully pulled it out. It seemed strange to see my name written in the familiar handwriting that had always been to James. Sucking in a deep breath, I let it out slowly as I pulled out the sheets of paper.

  Dear SPC Benjamin Fowler,

  I want to thank you for your beautiful letter. So many people at work give me their condolences, which is nice, but since they didn’t know him, I find myself longing to talk to someone who did. My parents are struggling, especially mom, and I don’t want to add to her burden.

  It’s still hard for me to realize he won’t be coming through my door at the end of the tour. I lay in bed and think of him and wish—well, I suppose that does no good. Sorry, I didn’t mean for the letter to be depressing.

  I admit, when I first read your letter and discovered that James had been sharing my letters to you all, I was mortified! I might have even cussed a little. But then I realized that by sharing my letters with you all, it meant you were trusted by him. And if my dating misadventures gave you all some pleasure, then I suppose it was worth it!

  I also wanted to send some cookies to you. At first I thought I would be too sad to make chocolate chips cookies ever again, but then I knew that James would want me to take care of his buddies.

  I know this might sound strange but if you ever get a chance to write to me again, I’d love it. I find that I really want to hear stories about James…the James you knew. I have all my memories and I play them over and over in my head when I lay in bed and can’t sleep, but I’d love to know more about the James that was your friend. If it’s an imposition, please don’t feel obligated!

  Anyway, I can tell you that he always spoke highly of you and when I read that you didn’t have a family to write to you, I decided to send my cookies to you.

  Please stay safe and you may tell James’ other buddies hello from me and share the cookies if you want. Thank you again.


  Yours truly,

  Alicia

  I read the letter three times, each time feeling a warm place deep inside that I hadn’t felt since James died. I decided to share the cookies with the squad, but the letter was all mine and I had no desire to share Alicia with the others. After tucking it safely into my footlocker, I jogged toward the DFAC. I knew it was selfish to keep her all to myself since James so easily talked about her, but all I felt was a possessive yearning to bond with someone struggling with the same grief that held me captive.

  The call came in for wrecker duty and I was up. Jacob Balston, one of the other mechanics, and I set out. Leaving base in a large, armored five-ton wrecker, we slowly made our way along the directed road. The M1089 was designed to recover damaged, immobilized, swamped, stuck, or overturned vehicles and could also tow them back to the maintenance area. Driving such a powerful vehicle could be a heady experience except for the overriding fear of what the enemy could do in their efforts to keep us from our destination. Focusing on the road, I occasionally wiped my palms on my pants as we bounced along the rutted tracks.

  The Afghanistan sun was already beating down and the inside truck cab became a broiler with our full uniforms, boots, weapons, helmets, and armor-proof vests. We followed another convoy that was moving in the same direction. The road dust kicked up and only the lead vehicle was somewhat immune to the lack of visibility, as well as breathing in the ever present Moon Dust. Wiping my face, I cursed.

  “This place is fuckin’ miserable already and it’s only May,” Jacob commented.

  Nodding, I concentrated on driving directly behind the vehicle in front of me hoping not to become a casualty while sweat dripped down my face.