Living in the Pages, Page 3

  It had to have been a miracle.

  Was it a miracle?

  I opened the book and looked at the drawing of Amber. I traced the lines of her face and imagined running my fingers into that honey-colored hair.

  Was it all just a dream? Could I wake up and give them all their lives back?

  I sat listening to the nameless man mumble and then begin to sob. He seemed to be a thousand miles away reliving a memory, but his words were only scraps and I couldn't decipher them. I gave him a few sips of water and gently wiped his face, and then he settled down or rather let oblivion take him in her arms for a while.

  I slid the pen from the binding of the journal and I wrote:

  ‘Dear Amber,

  I'm alive. Our convoy was ambushed. I managed to get three others to safety, but we are all injured and alone. Pray for us. I think there is one who will be in heaven before morning. I will try to tell you more when it is not so fresh. I have to close the book now. I must stay alert.’

  I slid the journal back into my breast pocket and buttoned the flap.

  I could feel it there, like a second heart pounding in my chest, so I just knew there were words inside waiting for me. She was waiting for me to reply.

  But I was sitting with my gun in my hand and a rifle at my side, as I scanned the darkness for men who were now my enemy. And I just couldn't read her words while I sat ready to kill.

  I just couldn't.

  9. Kyra:

  I was taking a test, well, maybe more of a quiz in my Economic Botany class. I was majoring in Cellular Biology, but trying to get my minor in Plant Biology. Economic Botany sounded boring, but it fit my schedule and, if I am honest with myself, I took it as a blow off class. I needed something easy because my schedule was pretty rough.

  Anyway, we were in the middle of a quiz on artificial selection when I started to feel strange. My heart was racing and my hands were shaking for no reason. The notebook that I wrote to Harris in, was sitting in my bag at my feet, and the urge to open it was ridiculously strong. Like the book was calling out my name.

  Of course, I was right in the middle of the quiz and opening a notebook was going to land me in huge trouble, so I had to resist.

  But it was super hard to concentrate when I just knew inside that I needed to open that notebook.

  At last I handed in my paper, returned to my seat and pulled the notebook out.

  That was a mistake.

  I should have waited for class to end.

  A strangled scream escaped my throat as I read Harris' words. Tears flooded my eyes and I got up and ran for the door.

  I stood in the hallway and wept.

  Harris was alive, and I was thankful for that, but my father may have been in that convoy. I mean, maybe he wasn't. He didn't ever give me any details and Harris hadn't been able to give me any details either. They could have been in different parts of the world for all I knew.

  But they left the United States at the same time.

  It seemed likely they were in the same place.

  Harris said he rescued three others, but not how many were lost.

  "Kyra? Are you okay? Is there something I can do?" Professor Geoffrey asked as he laid his hand on my shoulder.

  And a stupid thought crossed my mind as he spoke: he had two first names, James Geoffrey. Oh Harris, I wish I knew your real name. I wish I could just talk to you.

  "I'm so sorry for disrupting class, Sir. I just got a message that an Army convoy was attacked. I think my father was..." I couldn't continue. I just didn't have a word to finish the sentence.

  "I'm sorry, Kyra. I'm so sorry. If there is anything I can do, let me know."

  "Thank you. I think I am going to go back inside. I think I need to take my mind off it for a while."

  He nodded and walked away.

  I wiped my eyes and walked in a few minutes later.

  The notebook was still on my desk.

  I picked up my pen, but had no idea what to say. I sat staring at the words for a long time. And then the pen just started making words.

  ‘Harris, I am so happy to know you're alive. Please write to me. Please. You said you were all injured, can you tell me how you are? I think my father might have been in that convoy. I know this journal of yours won't let you see his name. I wish I knew your name. I really do. I don't know what to say, Harris. Write something. Anything.

  I know you said you were closing the book, but if you can feel it the way I can feel it when there are words inside, please write!’

  Nothing happened. He didn't write back.

  Class ended and I slid the notebook back into my bag and walked out.

  He said one of them wasn't going to make it to the morning. It couldn't be him. It just couldn't. He had to live.

  He couldn't just leave me, not when he brought magic into my life.

  I stopped at the corner by the bus stop and pulled the notebook out again.

  I wrote: 'Harris, I need you to keep writing. Please don't leave me. Amber’'

  But I couldn't feel him. And that scared me.

  10. Hendrix:

  The sun came up, a ball of fire in the pale sky.

  And still I sat, eyes watchful, gun tight in my hand and rifle pressed against my leg.

  "Massey," I heard the Colonel call softly, and I startled at the sound, but was relieved that he was awake and aware.

  "Yes, Sir," I answered as I moved closer to him. He was sitting up and his color was good. He didn't look ashen any longer, so I was optimistic about his chances.

  "You did a fine job. Thank you. Have you been awake all night?"

  "Yes, Sir, I have. How are you feeling? Do you need pain relief?"

  "I can manage the pain. I could use some water. That was some intricate surgery you performed, getting the metal out."

  I knew he was trying to gauge my experience. I wasn't sure why he didn't just ask me straight out. "I was pre-med. I also teach first aid and CPR. I was about half way through my EMT certification."

  "How in the name of God did you wind up in Infantry?"

  "That's where they assigned me, Sir. I was highly rated in weaponry. I applied to the medical units but was told I could not get that assignment until my second year."

  "Christ, is this your first tour?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  He shook his head. Whatever he was thinking he kept solemnly to himself. "What about the others?"

  "I don't know either of their names, Sir. One has head trauma and a compound fracture in his leg. I set it and closed the wounds as best I could, but my collarbone is broken and I can only hope it's enough to get him somewhere. The other has severe burns. He was still breathing an hour ago, but I don't think he has long. I don't have the supplies to treat him."

  "It's in God's hands, Massey. You did all you could."

  "Yes, Sir," I answered, but it didn't make me feel any better.

  "You should get some rest. Give me the guns, Son. I'll keep the watch for a couple of hours."

  "Shouldn't we move, Sir?"

  "We should. But there is only one of you and you can't move three of us. Get a couple hours of sleep and then we'll make a plan. You might want to get that arm into a sling too."

  "Yes, Sir. I'll check the others and bring you some water."

  He nodded.

  I walked away.

  I did as I said I would, and then I lay down near the guy with the burns. His breathing was coming in short gasps and I could not rest knowing his soul was about to leave this world.

  I took out the journal.

  Amber wrote words to me.

  Good God, what did I do to this poor girl? She was already afraid for her father and now she was worrying over a stranger. I never should have picked up that book. Her life would have been better without me.

  But mine would be worse.

  I looked at her picture for a long time and the
n I read her words again.

  And I had to write because I felt terrible guilt for leaving her hanging like that.

  ‘Dear Amber, I am so sorry. I probably should not have written any of that to you. I never should have told you something so horrible when all I want in the whole world is to someday see you smile.

  I am doing okay. I have a broken collarbone and probably a few cracked ribs, but nothing serious. I wish I could tell you something about your father, but I just don't have an answer. We survived the night. It's strange how loud the night can be.

  I don't know what I should say. I can feel it when you write. The journal is in my shirt pocket and it feels like another heart beating against my chest. I want so badly to stare at your words and forget about the rest of the world, but I have to care for the others. I'm tired and hungry. We need to move but I'm not sure how I can move three injured men.

  I should be resting, but I can't. The sun is up and...’

  The man beside me gasped. It was a frightful sound.

  It was the last sound he was ever going to make.

  I closed the journal and slid it back into my pocket. I closed the man's eyes and said a prayer for him. The Colonel said we should just leave him where he was, but I just didn't feel right leaving his body exposed. I took him back to the convoy. I put him back with all the others. It was the best I could do for him.

  When I returned the other man was struggling. He was awake, but not aware. The Colonel was trying to keep him quiet, but he was clearly reliving something that caused him great pain. I grabbed the medical supplies and dropped down beside him.

  "Wasps, Andi," he was screaming. Well, he would have been screaming if his voice hadn't been so hoarse. "Get the baby! Get her away!" he cried out as he twitched and flinched like he was being stung over and over.

  I gave him morphine. I spoke to him softly, assuring him there were no wasps. He was gasping like he might go into anaphylactic shock, but the morphine hit him pretty quickly and he calmed down. I gave him water, very slowly.

  "You'll make a very fine doctor, Massey," the Colonel said as he stretched his shoulders and winced just a little.

  "Thank you, Sir."

  "He was muttering all night about his father. From the sound of it, he died of cancer. Seems like the head trauma is causing him to relive his worst memories."

  "That's terrible. I wish I could do more for him."

  "Well, when the sun starts to go down, we'll move. I think we should go back the way we came. There will be more resources in the camp than in the field."

  I nodded. There really wasn't much to say.

  11. Kyra:

  'And what?' I wrote. 'What happened? Why did you stop in the middle of the sentence? Are you okay? Please tell me that you are okay. I mean, don't lie to me. Don't say you're fine if you’re not. Just tell me you're alive.'

  It was past midnight.

  Harris wrote, but he just stopped in mid-thought and I sat there waiting for him to continue. All I could think about was these injured men being attacked. I wished I could have had the dream that Harris had of the two of us sitting at his deli, talking face to face. I wished I could see him and know that he was going to be okay and it was all going to be fine in the end.

  But I fell asleep clutching the notebook to my chest and dreamt of the time when I was six and my dad came back from his tour. Grandma had been telling me for days that he was coming. She was going to drive me to the base to be there when the plane landed, but I threw a tantrum. I did not want to go.

  "Your daddy is coming home today, Kyra. Today you get to hug him and tell him that you missed him and that you love him," she told me.

  I glared at her. "No. I won't hug him. I won't love him anymore. He always leaves when I love him."

  I didn't mean that, Daddy. I never meant that. I just want you to come home again, just one more time. It was supposed to be the last time.

  I want you and Harris to come home.

  I awoke with tears crusting my eyes closed. I rubbed at them, which did not do a whole lot, and I dragged myself to the bathroom so I could wash my face. I stood looking at myself in the mirror. My hair was the color of amber. My eyes were sort of bloodshot which made them look greener than I thought they were. There was a man out in the world who thought I was beautiful.

  Me.

  And in his dream, I was happy.

  Me. Happy.

  I never thought I could be with a soldier.

  I lived the life for too long. There was too much uncertainty, too much fear. But maybe I was wrong. I needed this man, who thought I was a dream, to live, to come back and find me. I needed to have that lunch and be happy.

  As I stood thinking about him, I got that nervous feeling, that pounding in my chest.

  I raced back to my bed and threw open the notebook.

  'Amber, I'm sorry. Forgive me. I hate that every time I open this book I am having to apologize to you for the last entry. When we first started writing I promised myself that I was not going to take you into the line of fire with me, that I would write only things that gave me hope, things that were, I don't know, wonders, small moments of joy.'

  'Harris? Are you still there?'

  'Yes, I'm here. It is getting near sundown and we will be on the move. Luckily it is cool when the sun is down. The days are very hot.'

  'What happened this morning? Why did you just stop in mid-sentence?'

  'Telling you what happened is going to make you sad. I can't bear to do that.'

  'You are alive. I’m happy. Please tell me, Harris, let me help you through this.'

  'You are so wonderful to want to help me. I am afraid that I am not going to be the sort of man...'

  'Don't! My father is a soldier. I know things happen, things he never tells me. I also know he's a good man. You're a good man too, Harris.'

  'I had to take two lives to try to save us. They were looting the destroyed trucks. I needed the supplies. There was no other way, I swear it. This morning...'

  'Please, Harris. Please.'

  'He died, Amber. The soldier with the burns. His injuries were too bad, there was nothing I could do for him with the supplies I had. He died as I sat beside him. I prayed for him. The others said I should leave him, but I just couldn't leave him exposed out here, where no one would ever know who he was or what happened to him. I carried him back to the convoy and let him rest with the others. My heart hurts. I need to save the last two. I can't fail them. I can't.'

  'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I wish I could put my arms around you right now. I wish you could be safe here with me.'

  'I wish I could have that dream again. I wish I could see you smiling at me. That smile keeps me going. I have to go. We have to move. We need to head back toward where we came from and I have to go as far as I can while I have the strength to do that. I will try and write again when we find shelter.'

  'Be careful, Harris. I will be praying for you.'

  And I did pray for him. But I also prayed for me. I prayed for God to watch over him and bring him back to me, which was ridiculous because I'd never even met him.

  But I loved him. I knew with all of my heart that I loved him.

  12. Hendrix:

  "I can walk, Massey."

  "It would be better if you didn't, Sir."

  "I'm not a Goddamned invalid. I'm not unconscious..."

  His tone was getting on my last nerve. Yes, I understood that there was a certain indignity in being towed along, but it was for the best, and I was doing all I could. He just wouldn't give it a rest.

  I stopped walking. I turned and saluted him briskly, jaw set, eyes forward. "Permission to speak freely, Colonel, Sir."

  "Granted," he snapped back.

  "I may not be a doctor, but I know damned well that if you get up and you try to walk today, you are going to be in excruciating pain. I know you�
€™re thinking that pain is tolerable and you can handle pain. I don't doubt that you can. I am telling you that you have nearly a hundred and fifty stitches. I took four inches of metal out of that side. You open up those internal stitches and you will bleed out before daybreak. You can accept that you have to go this way or I can give you enough morphine to sedate you, but I am not letting you kill yourself."

  He stared hard at me for a long moment.

  I didn't budge.

  Then he nodded and sort of smiled at me. At least I thought it might be a smile. He might have been snarling. It was getting dark quickly.

  "Alright, Massey, I like your passion, Son. You stick to your guns. You'd probably be a great commanding officer, but I have a feeling that following orders is not your strong suit."

  "I follow orders to the letter, Sir. But this is not a mission, it's not training and it's not a drill. The only objective is to stay alive and keep the two of you alive. That's what I intend to do."

  I turned back away from him and continued walking.

  I could hear the other man as I walked:

  "I should have started smoking cigars earlier. That was what he was laughing about while I put pressure on hole in his chest. His life was draining away beneath my hands. God, he hated General Smits. We all did, but Kyle more than anyone. The guy was a prick with his cigar, his condescension and his good ol' boy accent. You call that a shine on them shoes, Boy? I've seen better polish at my wife's bridge club. What the hell did that even mean? It was funny as hell though when Kyle said it," he stopped.

  Colonel Richardson snorted a little. "Everyone hated Smits. He said stupid shit like that all the time. Calling him a prick is a massive understatement."

  I tried not to laugh. I was tuned in to the story, and the teller didn't acknowledge the comment.

  "You hang on, Kyle, help is coming. Help is coming. Where the hell are they? The blood was so hot squeezed between my fingers. He started to laugh. He was laughing. This is a fucking mess, a big fucking mess. Worse than the latrines after fucking chili night. He was smiling at me. He choked and gasped. I'm glad I won't have to clean this up was the last thing he said. You weren't even supposed to be there, Kyle. Why the fuck would you follow me? You stupid bastard. You weren't supposed to die. I took you off the rotation! You weren't supposed to fucking die! I still feel the blood on my hands..."