No Strings Attached (16 page)

I stop hanging balloons and step down from the stool to walk over and embrace her in a tight hug “Look here, Lucy, don't you go gettin' all sappy on me now,” I pucker, using my best Ricky Ricardo impersonation - Dad did it constantly. “Kyle's fine. He's probably gettin' off the plane now and heading over to base. He'll be home soon,” I urge, squeezing her tightly.

She takes in a deep breath and nods her head “You're right. He'll be here shortly, so we better get busy.” She loosens our hug, backs away and makes her way into the kitchen. “Oh, and Allie, you call me by any name other than Mom again...I'll cut off all your funds,” she informs over her shoulder, her smile reappearing.

It's close to five thirty and people from our neighborhood begin to show up. The doorbell won't stop ringing! I decide to leave the door open so the guests can enter on their own. Entering into the kitchen with Mom and some of the guests, I help mix up Kyle's favorite punch. There's something about fruit punch, berries, sierra mist and rainbow sherbet that makes him act like he's five years old again.

Mom and I are stirring the punch when I hear the damn doorbell ring, again. “What. The. Hell,” I mumble, aggravated. I stomp towards the foyer to open the door when Mom pulls me back by my elbow “I counted the guests earlier, and everyone that had an invitation is here,” she states happily. Her eyes shine brightly, and she stares at me like I should know why she's giddy.

The doorbell sounds again and suddenly it hits me, “Oh my God! Mom! It's Kyle!” I scream excitedly, grabbing her hand, bouncing up and down.

She grips my hand and we sprint towards the door, eagerly opening it, ready to jump into Kyle's massive arms. But as our eyes come in contact with unfamiliar faces, we immediately freeze. Oh. My. Damn. It isn't Kyle greeting us. Instead, there are two men in uniform, and one of them is holding what appears to be a neatly folded American Flag. Now, I'm no expert at this military shit, but I'm pretty sure they aren't here to join the party.

I look over at my mom who is wide eyed and terrified. The soldier, who looks to be in his mid-thirties, steps forward and nods to my mother. “Are you Mrs. Lucille Anderson?” he asks.

All color drains from mom's face. She's speechless, and tears begin to pour down her cheeks. “Yes sir,” she stammers, clutching her hands to her chest.

“Ma'am, we're her to inform you that your son, Sergeant Kyle Kayden Anderson of the...” his voice breaks as mom screams out in pain.

“No, no, no, no, no! It can't be,” she repeats, gut wrenching sobs escaping her.

“Oh God...no,” I mumble, realizing what their visit here entails.

The soldier continues on with his speech, but I can't focus. I can't comprehend, and I hear very few words coming from his mouth. The words I take in are “killed,” “line of duty,” “flag,” “represents,” and I immediately drop to my knees. I feel like I've been struck by lightning.

It takes work to keep breathing. I can't see; I can't hear, and I swear someone's reached through my chest and removed my heart. I see what's happening, but it can't be true...can it? My mother's on her knees, elbows on the floor, head hanging, and her body is violently shaking. The soldier is crouched down trying to comfort her, but she's pushing him away. I'm completely paralyzed and useless to her. This is a joke, right? Kyle is punking me. He has to be; he promised...

The cold water snaps me back into reality. I immediately cut the water off and step out onto the rug to dry myself. Going over to the vanity, I brush my teeth and hair, preparing myself for the day. I take one last look in the mirror. “You'll survive.” If I can convince my brain that I'll be okay, maybe my heart will believe it too. I throw on some loose grey sweatpants with a white tank top and head downstairs to brew some coffee. No matter what's going on in my life, coffee makes it all better, for a few moments anyway.

As I step off the last stair that leads into the foyer, I stop dead in my tracks. The delicious roasted aroma overtakes my senses; it smells divine. After soaking up the coffee's delicious scent, I make my way through the living room to join my mother in the kitchen. For someone who buried her son yesterday, she doesn't look too bad. I mean, you can tell she's been crying by her red swollen eyes, but somehow, she has a peaceful look on her face. She's sitting at the island in the middle of our kitchen with a cup of coffee, reading her Bible.

“Morning love. Sleep well?” she asks, smiling up at me from under her lashes.

“No,” I admit, bemused. How can she be so calm after experiencing something so tragic? My soul is empty and a major piece of my heart's missing, and there's no way I could force a smile across my face. So, why isn't she mourning the loss of her one and only son?

“Figures. You look like crap,” she puckers.

“Way to brighten up my day,” I smirk.

She reaches over and pulls out the stool next to her. “Allie, come sit. There's something I want you to read.”

Walking to the counter across from the island, I pour myself a hot cup of black coffee. As the mug approaches my lips, I feel the heat from the steam; it's hot enough that it'll burn the hair off my tongue; however, it doesn't stop me from sipping it.

I enjoy the blissful feeling as the heat travels down my throat. Gently placing my coffee onto the counter, I slide into the stool beside her. “What ya got?” I hope she isn't going to shove her Bible down my throat. I was raised in a Christian home. I believe in God and all, but as you can imagine, I'm having a little difficulty in the faith department.

I'm not questioning God's existence. I just question his works. Our parents taught us that when two or more people gather in His name and agree on something, it'll happen, but what happened with my father? We laid hands on him and believed in his healing, but cancer took his life. Mom and I held hands each night and prayed for Kyle, and now, he's dead. So, I'm sure you can imagine my lack of faith.

Aw hell, here it comes “I came across this verse and I think it'd do you some good to read over it,” she insists, sliding her Bible in front of me.

“Mom, I really don't feel like reading that bullsh-,”

“Allie, don't finish that sentence!” she demands, cutting me off. “This isn't like you. Where's this attitude coming from, huh?”

“I haven't slept….my soul’s been shattered, and the last man to ever love me is dead. That's where this is coming from! What I want to know is how you can sit here reading that shit, acting like everything's fine,” I yell at the top of my lungs.

She slams her coffee mug to the counter and scoots her stool away from the island. “Okay, I'm going to let that slide because I know you're hurting, but if you ever talk to me like that again, and most importantly, if you ever call God's word “shit” again, I'll knock every tooth in your mouth loose. You got that?” She turns away and storms out of the kitchen leaving her Bible wide open in front of me, exposing the highlighted verses.

With a roll of my eyes and an exhale of breath, I take a sip of coffee and relax. As I look down at the yellow highlighted lines, they draw my attention. Ecclesiastes, chapter 3 reads, “A time to be born and a time to die. A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance. A time to keep and a time to throw away. A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.”

Ironic, isn't it. It's the story of my life. My eyes begin to shed unwanted tears and a lump forms in my throat. If there's a time to heal, why isn't it happening to me, huh? Why are my wounds ripped open before they're able to scar? Hanging my head, I let the tears flow freely.

Mom sneaks behind me, gently laying her hand upon my shoulder. “Let it out, love. You'll feel better. It's okay to miss him, but you can't be angry at Kyle or with God. We'll all go through trials and tribulations, but you've got to stay strong in faith and depend on Him to get us through this devastating time. God's in control. Remember that, Al,” she whispers.

Arguing with her is pointless, so I nod in agreement to avoid confrontation.

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