Captured(12)

My stomach twists into knots, and my heart stops beating. “They found him?” I don’t dare to hope. Don’t dare. Can’t.

He nods. “Yes. A patrol received reports of a Taliban outpost with two white males being held prisoner. They searched the area and found—found where Derek and Tom had been held.”

“Had been?”

“They’d been moved before our forces got there. But there was evidence they were there.” Sergeant Bradford blinks, hesitates. Swallows. “They combed the area and they discovered—they found your husband. He’s gone, Reagan. But they’re bringing his remains home for burial.”

I shake my head. Not in denial, but from the inability to accept what I’m hearing. “Tom….” It’s all I can manage.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Bradford touches my elbow.

“And Derek?” I swallow my tears. “Did they find him, too?”

Bradford shakes his head. “Unfortunately—or fortunately, no.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that they didn’t find his body with Tom’s, so he’s likely still alive.”

I don’t know what to do, or how to be. My emotions are on so much overload that I can’t even process them. “Oh,” is all I can say.

“I know that’s not a lot of comfort to you, though,” he says as an afterthought.

I try to shrug, and manage to lift a shoulder. “No, it’s good Derek’s still alive. Hopefully he is, at least. He and Tom were close.”

Bradford just nods. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, turning his hat end over end in his hands. “I wish I didn’t have to bring you this news. I dreaded it, honestly. But I felt I owed it to you to tell you in person.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Thank you very much.”

“I’ll be going. When Tom’s remains are back on U.S. soil, I’ll let you know, and we’ll make arrangements for a burial. I can take care of it for you, if you want.”

“That would be…helpful.”

“All right, then. Anything I can do for you?”

I shrug, and it turns into a shake of my head. “No. I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m only a phone call away, if you think of anything.” He hands me another business card.

He turns to go, and I find my voice. “Sergeant?” He pivots back, eyebrows raised in question. “Lieutenant Lewis’s wife. How is she coping?”

He doesn’t seem to know how to answer. “It’s an impossible thing, Mrs, Barrett. I don’t think you do cope. You just survive it, one day at a time. I wish I could say it gets easier, but it doesn’t. My dad died in Vietnam, leaving my brother and me and our mom behind. I was just a little kid, but I remember Mom….” He trails off, shakes his head. “It was hard for her. Eventually…you’ll find your way to okay.”

He leaves then, and I stand with the front door open, smelling the promise of a summer rain.

Eventually…you’ll find your way to okay.

Will I?





CHAPTER 5





DEREK





Afghanistan, 2010





I’m woken up by gunfire, shouts, and the sound of helicopters. Instantly, adrenaline rockets through me, supercharging me.

I’ve been a prisoner so long I’d forgotten anything else existed. My universe was in constant motion, never staying in any one camp for more than a few weeks, but I always managed to bring the letter with me, hiding it in my clothes. I don’t know what they want with me, but they don’t kill me, and they don’t let me go. They use me in what I assume are propaganda videos, and keep me fed just enough to stave off starvation. They keep me in constant pain, too, with regular beatings. The gunshot wounds to my shoulder healed long ago, but they still ache sometimes.

I’ve tried to escape a few times. The last time, they beat me within an inch of my life. Took me weeks to heal from that one, and I think I nearly didn’t. I’ll try again, but I’ve gotta get my strength back first.

My mantra sustains me: I know I signed up for it when I married a Marine. I knew from the very beginning that you’d go into combat. I knew it, and married you anyway. How could I not? I loved you so much from the very beginning, from the first time I saw you, all those years ago. The letter. I repeat it over and over again. I wonder what it would be like to have that kind of love. I’ve never known. Never will know, probably.

I’ve had plenty of girlfriends. Gotten lots of ass on my short leaves. It’s the uniform, and the fact that I ain’t ugly. Or…I didn’t used to be. Now, who knows? I haven’t seen myself in a mirror in who knows how long. I piss in a hole, shit in a hole, eat ground meat and pita and thin gruel from a wooden bowl. Rarely see daylight. So I might be ugly now, my face misshapen from all the boot kicks and fist blows, nose broken a hundred times, cheekbones cracked, lips split, eyebrows mashed, scalp ripped. They shave me every once in a while. To keep the lice out, I guess. But they shave me, very literally, with a rusty razor, so it cuts me up, leaving scars.

They use a cane to beat me sometimes. Just a big stick, but it hurts like a bitch.

Pain tells me I’m still alive, and the letter tells me why I’m holding on. Why I don’t just go nuts and make them kill me, I don’t know.