Living in the Pages, Page 2

  ‘It's really you? Is your hair really the color of amber? Are your eyes as green as I see them?’

  ‘See them? Are you stalking me? How are you doing this?’

  ‘No! No, I'm not a stalker, I swear. Look, this is going to sound completely insane. I mean, it is insane, but it's the truth. I have been having this dream. There's this Bakery, well, Deli over on Harris Street, it has tables outside with umbrellas and in the dream we are sitting at the purple table and you're telling me something that you're very excited about. You're smiling at me and then you slide your hand over mine and I wake up. I was going there nearly every day hoping you would show up and I could meet you, but you were just a dream.

  Anyway, I went there the day before I had to report for duty. It wasn't a beautiful, sunny day like it always is in my dream, but it was my last chance. As I got up to leave, I slipped on this journal. It's old and looks well worn from the outside, but the pages are all crisp and as far as I can tell, indestructible. I think the journal is doing this. If I knew where you were, I would have asked you to lunch. Is it really you? Have I slipped into a fantasy because my reality sucks?’

  ‘It's me. The picture you drew is me. My hair is amber-colored; my eyes are greenish, maybe sort of hazel. You're a soldier? What did I tell you at the table?’

  ‘I don't know. The dream is in color, perfect, beautiful color, but there is no sound. I can see how happy you are, but I don't know what made you happy.

  I am a soldier. Did you see that other thing I wrote? I intended to destroy that page. I wish your first impression of me wasn't that I was a coward.’

  ‘Don't say that. Don't. My father is a soldier. He also just left for duty. I feel fear and dread every time he goes. I go months wondering if I will ever see him again. I'm safe at home, but I'm afraid. I can't imagine what it must be like for you to get on that plane and know you are going into a war zone. And let me tell you this, it is enough to live.’

  ‘Maybe. You don't know my family. Who are you? What's your name?’

  ‘Is this real? Is this really happening? Because this seems like some kind of magic and magic isn't real, right?’

  ‘I don't know about magic. All I know is that there is something really peculiar about this journal. I found it when I wished I could find you. I drew you when I wished I could dream about you and somehow this book found you. Maybe I've already lost my mind and I'm imagining all of this, but I hope to God it's real. I hope with every bit of my heart that you are real because your face, the happiness on your face is what keeps me going.’

  ‘My name is...’

  ‘Why did you stop? Why didn't you write it?’

  ‘I did! It's right here!’ I told him. I even circled it and drew a big arrow.

  ‘It didn't show up on my page. I see a circle and an arrow. But no name.’

  ‘That is so strange! You try. Write your name.’

  ‘I did. It's right there by the frowny face.’

  ‘I see the frowny face, but no name. That's so bizarre. Why the frown?’

  ‘Well, I have a pretty ridiculous name. I was named after a soldier who was a friend of my father. The thing about soldiers is they all call each other by their last names, so I have a last name as my first name.’

  ‘What, like Rutherford? Schneider? Dickenson? (Ha, ha!)’

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, thank God it's not Dickenson! Look, I don't want to be a bother. I won't write in this book if it creeps you out. I didn't know anything like this could happen and you seemed pretty upset...’

  ‘Don't you dare! Don't you get rid of that book or I will always wonder what happened to the soldier with two last names. I want you to write to me. I want you to. I know you won't be able to write every day, but I will look every day. Maybe one day we can have that lunch at that Deli on Harris Street. That's what I'll call you. Harris.’

  ‘Harris is not that far off actually. I'll call you Amber. You're very beautiful. I'll write again, I promise. Good night, Amber. Sweet Dreams.’

  ‘Good night Harris. I hope you dream.’

  And that was how it started. I didn't know his name. I'd never seen his face, but somehow, he was mine. He was meant to be mine.

  All he had to do was live.

  7. Hendrix:

  Amber.

  I wrote to the girl, who lived in the pages of my journal, every night while I was still on the base. I did my best to only tell her the good parts of my day, to try to see the best in the situation.

  She told me about her classes and her strange love of Mondays.

  I liked that she had a sense of humor about that.

  She would draw little faces on the page that expressed her feelings and I had little heart bubbles bursting over my head because I was in love with her, the girl from my dreams who wrote to me in a magic book.

  But then the day came when they were loading us onto the plane and taking us to the other side of the world. I didn't write to her that day. I couldn't find anything positive to say and I didn't want to say goodbye.

  All I could think about was the time back when I was in Kindergarten and we had that career day. I wanted to dress up like a doctor. I was fixated on being a doctor. I used to give my stuffed animals check-ups. Our poor dog used to get band-aids all the time for imaginary injuries that I cured for him. Anyway, I told my mom that I wanted to be a doctor for career day and she said I could. I was so happy about it that I told my dad at dinner that night that we were having career day and before I could even get the words out that I was going to be a doctor, my dad said: 'That's great, you'll be a soldier.'

  Hendrix Massey: Five years old, hopes crushed.

  I said, 'Yes, Sir.' And I pushed my dinner around on the plate until he said I could be excused. I think my mom knew I was disappointed, but she never said anything about it and neither did I. I stood on the stage with all the other kids who wanted to be firemen and artists and teachers. They were all smiling; the future was wide open for every one of them. I stood rigid, jaw clenched. Sadly, in the photo that my mother took that day, I looked more like a soldier than I ever thought I would look. That is probably my worst memory of any day of school.

  I still wanted to be a doctor. I taught first aid and CPR at a local community center, I trained lifeguards and parents of small children. I took all my pre-med classes, but I didn't apply to any medical schools. What was the point? I had five years of this to get through. Who could possibly know what kind of man I would be after that.

  Five years.

  Five years.

  It was only a few days before I wrote in the journal, but it seemed like so much longer. Adjusting to the time change seemed easy at first. The sun came up and I was awake. But halfway through the day my body clock began to protest and then my muscles seemed to go on strike. The heat wasn't helping either. I was so tired and everything seemed so heavy I began to wonder if the laws of gravity had changed.

  Anyway, I'd jumped forward in time ten hours and so even though it was night for me it was still the middle of the day for Amber. She was most likely in class. I didn't think she'd answer my message, at least not until it was night for her. But I wrote anyway.

  'Amber, I wanted to let you know that we made it to the camp safely. The flight was long, adjusting to the time was harder than I thought it would be, but I'm here. I hope you've been having a good week. I think about you a lot. I wish I was better with words. I...’

  ‘I missed you, Harris!’

  ‘Thanks, that’s nice of you to say. I wasn't expecting to see your words. I thought you might be in class.’

  ‘I am in class. I know it's crazy, but I've been carrying this notebook with me everywhere. I'm happy and relieved to see your words. My father never tells me anything about what happens when he's on duty. I think he probably thinks I'll just worry more, and he's probably right, but I don't know if he ever gets to enjoy the c
amaraderie or if it's all kill or be killed and it's scary to not know. Please tell me; please share your experiences with me. It would really help me.’

  ‘I can't tell you about the missions. I don't know what it's going to be like out there. I'll try, Amber, I really will. But there may be things I can't bear to write down.’

  ‘I'll help you through this. I'll just be a word away, Harris.’

  ‘You're amazing. I think you are the most amazing thing that will ever happen to me. You give me courage.’

  ‘That made my day! That’s the best thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you. What is it like there? What does it look like where you are?’

  There was sand. I didn't write that. I wanted to give her something better than that. The moon was a gleaming, silver, sliver resting on a pillow of clouds. I drew it for her because the picture was more beautiful than my words would be. And she was happy to see it. I didn't want the pages to be about fear. I thought if I could see some beauty, it would give me courage, and if I could make her happy she would keep me company on this journey.

  And maybe one day we would sit at that purple table.

  So that was how I reached her each night, I shared the best memory of the day; even if it was just the pure bliss of drinking water after a day in the hot sun. And she told me about her classes. She was a Biology major with a fascination for plant life. Her college career was about a million times more relaxed than mine was; she seemed to really enjoy her courses. It made me happy to see her words; it made me happy to know that her days were goods. She drew little pictures on the pages as she described her work. The whole experience was crazy, it had to be a dream, I had to be living in some sort of waking dream, but I didn't want to think about that, I just wanted to live that fantasy for a while because it helped me deal with my reality.

  8. Hendrix:

  And then reality came crashing down.

  We were traveling in a convoy. One minute I was sitting talking to the other guys, I sort of halfway stood, leaning forward to see a photo Conrad was holding. The next thing I remember was waking up in a ditch beside the road.

  The smoke was thick and the stench of burning plastic and flesh was strong, but it hid me from any eyes that might have been watching. I could not have been unconscious for very long. I looked up and all three vehicles were still on fire. I remembered hearing the explosion when the first vehicle was hit. The truck I was in swerved hard and I was thrown out just as I was standing to see a picture.

  There had been no warning.

  There was no one else down in the ditch with me, but I needed to see if there were other survivors. I tried to push myself off the ground. Pain shot down my left side. A quick assessment said my collarbone was definitely broken and my left shoulder was damaged. Inhaling hurt, which meant I had some cracked ribs as well, but I crept back to the convoy to search.

  Colonel Richardson was lying near the third vehicle. He was breathing but unconscious, he had a piece of metal protruding from his right side and he'd clearly lost a lot of blood. I moved him as gently as I could out of the line of sight and kept searching.

  I wished I could unsee the carnage.

  So much potential was lost in a single moment. So many young men and women died without ever seeing the face of the enemy who killed them.

  So many promises were broken in a single moment.

  So many lives were not lived.

  Still I kept searching. I found another who was clinging to life. His leg was badly damaged and he either had head trauma or he was delirious because he was mumbling sounds that didn't quite seem to be words. His helmet was gone, and so were his tags so I didn't know his name. It seemed like he'd been thrown in the explosion; moving him was going to be hard, but I was not going to leave any man clinging to life, alone in this wreckage. I started surveying the wreckage itself. I rigged up a makeshift sled from the benches and some equipment that was salvageable. I cut away some areas of the canvas that weren't charred and I pulled this other survivor to where the Colonel still lay. I went back into the vehicles again. I found a first aid kit that was still intact; I took rope, backpacks and all the water I could find.

  As I was leaving I found a third survivor.

  Oh God, his burns were bad. I didn't know if I could move him without doing more damage. But I could not leave him.

  I have heard that in times of crisis, people sometimes find super human strength.

  I think I found super human will to survive.

  I had to move the others away from the convoy. I suspected that the men who shot the missiles would be back to loot the remains. There were probably more supplies I needed, but my priority was the men. I found a sheltered spot a little ways away where we would be hidden from the road. I moved the wounded and set up a triage area. The soldier with the burns had the worst injuries, but the Colonel had the best chance of survival if I could close his wounds. The area was not sterile, but luckily all of the first aid equipment had been sealed. The supplies must have been meant for the triage unit in the field; it was a blessing to have them, and even more of a blessing to know how to use them.

  By the time I was ready to begin Colonel Richardson was awake. I told him I was going to close his wounds. He grabbed my arm, “I have two daughters. Tell them what happened.”

  I shook my head. "You're going to tell them yourself. Let me do this, okay?"

  He gave me a short nod.

  I had to lay him on his side. I couldn't completely sedate him; I needed him to help me. The process was painfully slow, but at last I had the metal out and the wounds closed. I had to give him blood, my blood; there was no one else. I gave him water and I drank water, but I had to be conservative. When he was resting I set to work on the nameless man. His head injuries were worse than I thought and his leg had a compound fracture. His pain was going to be massive, but the head injury meant I couldn't completely sedate him or he might never wake up.

  I set the leg and splinted it as best I could with what I had to work with. I had no strength in my left arm, so while my hand was still usable, being able to apply pressure was hard. I cleaned and stitched his wounds, and used parts that I tore out of some helmets to immobilize his head and neck.

  Two of three were resting, but the third man was hardly breathing.

  His burns were probably covering three quarters of his body.

  I'd treated burns before, but nothing this devastating, a hand, a patch of skin, small areas, this was beyond my skill and the resources I had. The sun had to feel like he was just lying in the flames. I prayed that he wasn't aware enough to feel anymore. I covered him, I gave him some pain medication, but there wasn't anything else I could do.

  As the sun went down, I returned to the wreckage again in search of food and weapons.

  We needed food.

  I needed food. I was feeling lightheaded from the blood loss and exhausted from the strain of moving and treating the others. The convoy would have made it to our destination by dark, but I didn't know how long it would be before they sent men searching for us, or if they would look for us at all. In the meantime, I had to find a way to keep these men alive.

  And that meant I needed food and I needed weapons.

  I approached very cautiously.

  I could hear the voices before I could see the men. I drew my gun. They were looting the trucks and the bodies inside. I couldn't understand their words, but their laughter enraged me. It was inhuman to find mirth amid the sort of devastation that lay inside those vehicles.

  Anyway, I had to do something.

  I knew I could not survive without the food and weapons in that wreckage. I also knew the others would not survive without me to get them to safety. My shoulder was wrecked, which meant that just fighting the intruders was not an option. Most importantly, I absolutely could not be taken prisoner.

  I crouched in the shadows f
or a good while grappling with what I had to do.

  I had to take two lives to try to save at least three of us.

  I justified what needed to be done because they'd just slaughtered nearly three dozen soldiers without even giving them a chance. But it was a difficult justification. After all, this was their home and they were defending it. And yet, I knew we were here for a purpose.

  In the end, the decision was really more of an instinct to survive. One of the men jumped from the truck and in that instant, I shot him.

  I shot both men.

  I took back all they'd gone through the trouble of raping from the dead, all the guns, the food, everything that might have been useful. Then I put the two strangers inside and reignited the fire in the first truck to cover up the killing long enough to get away before others came to investigate.

  That night I lay on the ground and the reality of all that happened that day hit me. The waxing moon glared at me from a cloudless sky that was darker and more ominous than any sky had ever been. There was no heaven beyond that sky. Tears leaked from eyes that were beyond exhausted, and the pain I'd been ignoring seized its chance to claim me. But I could not give my body the rest it needed. I had to guard the others.

  I took the journal from my pocket and ran my hand over the soft leather.

  I wanted to write. I wanted to slip into my fantasy world, but what would I tell her?

  I should have been dead like the other thirty-two people in that convoy.

  It was only a fluke that I was standing at just the right moment and in just the right position to be thrown out of the back. I could have broken my neck in the fall, but I landed just a bit to the left and broke my collarbone instead.