Broken Beautiful Hearts(110)

“Everything.”

“All right.” Hawk stays quiet for a moment. This can’t be easy for him to talk about. “We were doing a BDA—a Battle Damage Assessment—in the basement of a hotel in Fallujah that had been firebombed. The insurgents were using the basement to house guns and supplies. An air strike had already leveled the area. It was a routine mission for us. That’s what we thought anyway.

“We went in as a five-man fire team. Your dad as team leader and sniper, Rudy as point man, Mad Dog on the radio, and Big John as our gunner.”

“Why weren’t you in the tunnel with them?” It’s the only reason my uncle is here to tell the story.

Hawk’s eyes cloud over and he clears his throat. “I was guardian angel that day. That’s what we call the team member assigned to overwatch.”

“What does that mean exactly?” I was used to listening to Dad talk shop with Hawk and other recon operators. On a good day, I understood about half of what they were saying. Force recon was such a tight-knit brotherhood that the men had developed their own shorthand for everything.

“My job was to find high ground and use optics to keep eyes on the area—watching for unfriendlies and anything out of the ordinary. I also manned the comms between our team and base. Mad Dog was on the radio giving me the rundown of what they were seeing, and then I relayed information to base. Mad Dog was on the radio with me when it happened.”

A knot forms in my throat. “What happened?”

“One minute everything was going according to plan. Then, out of nowhere, there was an explosion. The basement must’ve been rigged. The insurgents had buried Howitzer munitions under pressure plates in the floor. We’d seen that kind of thing before. When those bitches blew, they could take out a Humvee.”

“So Dad probably died right away?”

“In close quarters, with an explosion that big, I’d bet my life on it. Once the area was secured, I went in with the rescue squadron to recover—” Hawk looks at me.

“The bodies,” I finish for him. “It’s okay. You can say it.”

My uncle nods. “We had to dig them out of the rubble. Your dad had two things on him that weren’t Marine Corps–issued—a blue string tied around his wrist and a picture of you. The day we left for Iraq, your mom cut a piece of string in half, and she tied one half to your dad’s wrist and the other half to hers. She said the string would keep them connected. The string was something new, but that picture of you wasn’t. It was falling apart, because your dad carried it in his pocket on every mission. I’d like to think that in the end, he found peace knowing that he had a little bit of you with him.”

I think back to Tim O’Brien’s book and Miss Ives’ assignment. The soldiers in the novel carried tangible and intangible things—photos and pebbles, hope and fear. That’s when I realize what the picture of me really meant.

I’m the thing my dad carried.

I kept him grounded and got him through the rough times. The way he helped me in the tunnel.

A moment later, I hear footsteps on the stairs. Then the Twins wander into the kitchen.

Christian holds out his wrists for Hawk to see. “Check out the bruises from the handcuffs. I bet they’ll last until Monday.”

Hawk takes a sip of his coffee. “Most people wouldn’t be this happy about getting arrested.”

“I was helping Peyton. That’s all that matters, right?”

Cam makes a fist, and Christian taps his fist against his brother’s.

“Well, you might not be as happy about it once Coach gets ahold of you for walking off the field,” Hawk says.

“Are you saying we shouldn’t have left?” Christian asks.

“Of course you should’ve left. I’m just saying I don’t think Coach will see it that way.”

Cam opens the fridge and takes out a milk carton. “Christian is getting pretty good at push-ups.”

Christian balls up a kitchen towel and pelts Cam with it. “Shut it. No one asked you.”

Cameron raises the carton as if he’s about to do his usual. But then he stops, opens the cabinet, and takes out a glass.

Progress.

Christian walks over and squeezes my shoulder. “You okay?”

“I’m good.”

“Have you talked to your mom again?” Hawk asks. “She should only be a few hours away.”

“I called her from the police station.”

Hawk’s expression turns serious. “That boy is lucky I didn’t get my hands on him.”

“Don’t worry, Pop. We took care of it.” Christian pushes past Cam and rifles through the fridge. He takes out a carton of eggs and stares at them like they’re an alien food source.

I wait for Christian to ask me to make scrambled eggs. He looks over at me.

Here it comes.

“Go ahead, ask,” I tell him. After the Twins walked off the football field to come after me last night, I’ll cook them anything they want.

“I was just wondering if you’d … teach me how to make scrambled eggs,” he says sheepishly.

For a second, I’m not sure if I heard him correctly. But then I see the shocked expression on my uncle’s face.

“You want me to teach you how to make them?”