When I See You (11 page)

I want to shout: What do you
fucking know
about it, Father? But I don't. No. I giggle inappropriately at my silent wicked rant. Ashleigh gives me a crooked smile and squeezes my right hand.

It's my turn to go up and speak. I debated about this, of course, but now, I rise as if Ashleigh has implanted puppeteer strings within me and make my way to the lectern.

"Thank you all for coming. He would be so touched by all of you for being here today."

I stand up taller and summon courage. I hold my prepared speech in my hand, but the words are out of focus. I look over at Ashleigh and she just nods with encouragement for me. I try to smile.

"Ethan always liked a party, especially if it was for him." I smile out at the crowd and hear the faint rustle of hushed laughter from the large crowd. My smile disappears. I falter and clutch the sides of the lectern still tighter. "I don't know all of you well. He was always more outgoing than me. One of those the cup of life is half full people, while I was forever pointing out the empty part. My parents. My parents would have loved him." The onlookers snicker again and I draw a breath before going on. "I guess that's how it goes. Opposites attract. He was the sunshine to my rain. He could find the best in an ordinary day of clouds and I gravitated towards his rays. He taught me how wonderful life could be and he gave me so much. And for that, I am truly grateful."

All these people are crying. I'm disconcerted at hearing it and pause again. "But, we always want more. I always wanted more. It was simple really. I wanted more time." I''m transfixed and stare out at the crowd and single out Brock Wainwright and his all-white uniform. "We always want more." My mind drifts. I break away from staring at Brock and glance around the room. The minutes tick by. The crowd gets a little restless, a little uncomfortable.
The widow is over-sharing. The widow is me.

I smile with a great deal of effort.

"I wrote a poem. That seemed the best way to…remember him." I smooth out the piece of paper before me and begin to recite what I've written.

"The world seems to have stopped spinning on its axis,

Now, that you're gone.

I look to the sky for a sign

A sign of you

And there you are.

The sparkle in the sun's ray

The gleam in Max's eyes

The gentle breeze that blows in from the ocean

The splendor of you is everywhere,

And, in me.

I miss you.

In loving you,

Ethan,

I've found—

so many wonderful gifts.

Your magic is everywhere

Inside of me.

You are the promise in each new day

And the beauty in the stars at night.

You are life's perfection.

And, in loving you, to have had you touch my life, I feel truly blessed.

And now, I carry you inside my soul."

I hear all these people crying now. There's a concerted creaking sound through the crowd as mourners scramble for fresh tissues.

I concentrate on navigating the four steps that lead away from the podium and past Ethan's casket. I grasp Ashleigh's outstretched hand and slide in beside her. Then, I glance over and I'm taken aback when I see Brock stand. He holds on to the blond woman's arm and she leads him forward to the platform talking into his ear as they go.

What am I seeing? What am I missing?

Six weeks ago, this guy was so full of life, and today, I see nothing, but a broken man before me. I watch him grip the lectern and the blond woman continues to talk only to him. She finally moves a few feet away, but keeps vigilance.

"He's a better fisherman than me. We met in third grade at Quake Elementary. We liked the same girl, and it would seem we would come to blows over this, but the girl changed her mind and chose my first cousin, Tate, over the two of us. Ethan and I made up and forged our friendship at Logan's Pond, where I taught him how to properly rig a fishing rod, and we've been friends ever since. When I eschewed law school with only a semester left and signed up for Navy SEAL training, Ethan did the same. I taught him how to shoot a rifle at twelve and he became better at that than me at sniper school. The only thing he did without me was marry Jordan." He pauses, having captivated the entire church with the low timbre of his southern drawl and his amazing story. I hold my breath to keep from crying out as his pain of losing Ethan reaches for me.

"Ethan and I served in Afghanistan for the past three years. We are…were on our last tour together. He promised Jordan he was coming home. But I have to be honest; I'd grudgingly agreed to it being our last one, but I didn't really want it to end. We had this amazing friendship and we got to spend a lot of time together. As Jordan has just told you, Ethan was a special guy to be around. One of a kind." Brock stops talking.

He seems to have lost his place and I watch this incredible sadness come over him. He grimaces as if he's in deep pain. There's a peculiar thaw of the hatred I feel for him. It gives way, just a little, in witnessing his own devastation in losing Ethan. Then, the blond leans in and whispers to him. My hatred of him returns full force. I watch him nod. He grips the lectern and starts again.

"Sorry. It's hard to put into words what he's meant to me. Jordan asked me to be here and I'd told her I wouldn't be able to come, but then, I realized she's right; Ethan would have done the same for me. He was the bravest man I knew. His ability to stay in one place, not moving for hours, was amazing, in and of itself. He made me want to be a better soldier. A better man. Ethan loved his life—his wife, his family, his friends, his country. He touched everyone and I believe he made all of us better people for having known him and loved him. He touched my life in so many ways and I'm sure he's done…he did the same for all of you in some way. The world is a harsh place, but Ethan reminded most of us here, I would think, how truly wonderful it can be and, for that, I am so grateful for having known him, for having loved him." Brock's voice seems to falter at this point and he stops speaking.

There are tears running down everyone's face again, including Brock's. But, I sit dry eyed; watching him in this distant cold detachment. The anger begins to fill me up and work its way outward.

The blond takes his left arm and he grimaces, again, as if in tremendous pain. It dawns on me that he hasn't removed his sunglasses and I feel this intense resentment that he's wearing them, apparently afraid that people might see him cry. The gall of the man. I''m in a rage all at once. I abruptly stand as he moves past me.

"Brock, thank you for coming," I say with barely contained anger.

He turns his head toward me, but keeps moving.

"I'm so sorry, Jordan."

"You should be," I say. The Austin crowd all around us gasps at my outburst, but I'm undeterred. "I think you should go."

He nods, turns away from me, and doesn't say anything more. The blond woman keeps her arm around him, glares back at me, and then leads him back up the aisle and out of the church.

I glance at Ashleigh. She moves in close and holds me by the shoulders.

I shake my head, back and forth. "He promised me."

Ashleigh whispers, "Promised you what?"

But now, I'm too distraught to answer. The inconsolable tears of grief I've been calling upon for days finally fall.

*≈*≈*

Chapter 7. I'll see you soon

Brock

Blindness tests all of me. My ability to depend on others has always been suspect. The only person I ever fully trusted was Ethan. Now, I'm among strangers all the time. My unit still fights in Afghanistan and other than a quick visit from my commanding officer, Captain Thomas Stein, telling me how sorry he was, I've got no one. Not all true. I sent my parents packing after their two-week vigilance at my bedside after my foolhardy return from Ethan's funeral, which led to a collapsed lung because of a wayward bullet fragment and almost cost me my life a second time. After another fourteen days in the continual darkness, my mother's lyrical reassurance that everything was going to be fine and my father's stoic silence was more than I could handle.

I'm on my own.

Still alone. Still blind.

Fully immersed in the company and care of strangers, I've become close to Major Kate Richards. I live for her voice, her perfume, the familiar click of her shoes as she taps her way across my hospital room floor, and her seductive voice when she asks me how I'm feeling every day. It's part of her nature, part of her job. I never would have given a psychiatrist a second look in my former life. But, in this one? Kate Richards has misted her way into my psyche, both professionally and personally. Maybe, it's the vulnerability of my situation. I can't see, so I'm more dependent upon the only person who seems to understand me these days. Never mind the incessant and endless questions she has asked me from my personal life to my time served in Afghanistan. The woman has left nothing to chance as she tries to undo my mind's prison that holds onto my sight.

"Will I ever see?" I finally asked her a few weeks ago.

"I don't know. There's no physical reason that you can't see. It's something psychological. Perhaps, something you've put on yourself that keeps you from seeing. But, Lieutenant, the longer it goes on…there will be permanent damage to the nerves." I detected the worry in her voice. I felt the acquiescence in her demeanor, even though I couldn't physically reach out and touch her right then.

"Who wants to be with a blind guy like me?"

She didn't answer for a long time and then, when she did, it changed everything between us. "I do."

≈ ≈

The door to my hospital room opens and I automatically look up toward the direction the sound came from. I sigh at my own reaction.
Will I ever get used to this darkness?

"Lieutenant Wainwright," Kate says to me.

"Major," I say in my most seductive voice.

"They're releasing you. Your wounds are healed enough…"

I grimace at her sudden hesitation. "Go on. Get it over with."

"The blindness appears permanent. As you know, we haven't made any more progress in prompting your memory."

She stops again and clears her throat.

I wait.

"I've made arrangements for you to attend the Criss Cole Rehabilitation Center in Austin. It's out of process, but I've convinced them to take you. That way you'll be near your family there." Her tone takes on this consoling bedside manner. I frown in her general direction as she sits down beside me. "You'll learn to better cope with the blindness," she says. "They'll teach you Braille, how to use a walking cane, help set up your permanent residence, assist you with your career choices, get you a guide dog—"

"So, you're giving up on me," I say with a sardonic tone. Her body shifts next to mine.

"No," she says in a low controlled voice. "It's the best way, Lieutenant."

"Major, don't tell me you're about to break protocol."

Her breath comes faster. I smile.

We have been playing around with this growing thing between us for a couple of months and I am suddenly more than ready to take it to the next level, desperate to take it to the next level, even.

"Stop flirting with me, Lieutenant," she says. "I'll come visit." Her tone gets more serious. A hint of caution seems to play in her tone. She sighs before saying, "I can't…be your psychiatrist anymore, Brock."

She lightly touches my hand with hers and then she moves off the bed and away from me.

"Kate, wait. Don't go."

"Have to." Her silky voice is farther away and I wave my hand through the air hoping to reach for her somehow.

"Kate."

The sound of the door clicking closed is my only answer. Another door, like so many in my life, seems to have closed.

≈ ≈

With the voice command feature on my cell phone, I place my sixty-fifth phone call to Jordan Holloway's home number. It's been just over four months since Ethan's death, but Jordan has yet to take or return any of my phone calls to her. I'm prepared to leave another message when she answers on the third ring.

"This is Jordan."

I'm taken aback at just hearing her voice. Her breathing comes in a rush as if she's been running or doing stairs.

"Uh, it's Brock Wainwright. Don't hang up! I
really
need to talk to you. I wouldn't be calling you if it wasn't important."

"I have nothing to say to you, Brock."

I wince at hearing her barely contained anger.
She hates me. She blames me. And, why not? I blame myself.
I hang my head.

"What is it? What do you need to tell me?"

"Look, I'm the executor of his estate. Like it or not," I say gently. "We need to talk about some things."

"When? Where?"

Panic sets in. I wasn't planning on meeting her in person. She still doesn't know I'm blind and I want to keep it that way.