Captured(9)

And Tom? He’s got something to live for, a woman who loves him like hell, waiting for him to come home. Except he won’t.

“Read it…again.”

“Play it again, Sam.” I do a really bad fake James Cagney or whoever it was in that movie.

Tom laughs, which makes him cough and wince. “Idiot. That’s…not the quote. It goes…‘Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By.’” He blinks his eyes, licks his lips. “Reagan hates that movie. Her grandma…used to make her watch it with her every weekend when she was a little girl. Over and over. She made me—she made me watch it once. On leave, between Iraq and here. She watched it three times in a row with me.”

“I don’t even know which movie that is, honestly,” I admit.

“Casablanca.” He turns his head to look at me with one eye open. “Now read the f*cking letter.”

So I read it again.

And again.

Eventually, he passes out.

He wakes up when the glow of light through the cracks of the door is golden, indicating evening. “Read the letter, Derek.”

God, Tom. You know why I remember every single moment? Because for most of our ten years together, you’ve been deployed. Three tours in Iraq, about to ship out for your third in Afghanistan. I miss you, Tom. Every day, I miss you. Even when you’re home, I miss you, because I know you’re always about to leave again.

I read the letter to him again. Each time I read it, I feel guilty. Because I’m not reading him the whole thing. I can’t bring myself to read the news at the end. I skipped ahead the first time I read it to him, and skipped from I don’t think I could handle it if that happened to you to Please come home to me, Tom. I omit the reference to the baby, omit the to US.

I just can’t tell him. Not now. He’s unconscious more and more.

He makes me read the letter over and over, until it’s all I do during his waking hours. Read the letter. Read the letter.

Eventually, after four days have passed, I can recite it word for word without looking at the paper. I stare at the words on the page—which is now brown and stained with dirt and blood and, yes, tears—and pretend I’m reading it. He knows it by heart, too. He mouths the words along with me.

We say the ending together: “I love you so, so much, Tom. More than I’ll ever be able to say. You’ll be fine. You’ll come back to me.”

And then Tom will pause every time, and whisper, “I love you, too, Ree.”





*





A week later. He’s almost gone. He’ll wake up for an hour or two here and there. Gasp for breath. Groan. Now all he can do is mutter “letter….” It’s all he has the strength for.

I read it, and I skip the news. I lie to him. I don’t tell him he’s a daddy.

I’m a coward. He deserves to know, but I just…can’t tell him. I fall asleep, cursing myself for being a coward, for being a sick f*ck. But I never tell him. Because it’ll be too hard. He’ll fight. He’ll try to hold on, but…deep down, I know he’s not gonna make it. He’s gonna die any day now.

They leave us alone. Feed us every once in a while, just enough to keep us from starving. Tom has been refusing food lately. Telling me to eat it, that he doesn’t need it anymore. So I eat it, because….

Because I still want to live. I still have hope that the guys will come for us. That they’ll show up in the Hueys and SuperCobras with guns blazing and take us home. Save Tom.

And then he’ll kick my ass for lying to him about his baby.

But as the second week fades into the third, his wound going septic and stinking, my own getting infected and nasty, I just know the day will come when he won’t wake up and ask for the letter.

Shitshitshit. I don’t want him to die. I’d die instead of him, if I could.

Take his place at death’s door.

Instead, I read the letter, and skip the last few words.





*





“Der…Derek.” A whisper from the darkness.

I blink awake. “Yeah, buddy.”

I feel his fingers digging in the dirt. “Going…now.”

I take his hand. “Don’t, man. We’re going home.”

“Liar.”

I choke. “I’m here, Tommy.”

“Reagan…you gotta get home. Tell her…tell her I love her.”

“Jesus, Tom. Come on, man. You tell her.”

“No.” He squeezed my hand. “I won’t. You know it. I know it. Bring her the letter. It’s all—all I got to give her. Tell her it—kept me going.”

“I’ll tell her.”

He coughs, weakly. “Tell her…she’s my everything. Those words.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“Swear.”

I squeeze his hand as hard as I can, blinking away tears I refuse to shed. “I swear. On my soul, I swear.”

“She has to know I went out thinking…of her. I held on…wanted—I wanted to go home to her. I fought for her. She has to know.”

“She knows. I’ll make sure.” Something wet and hot trickles down my cheek. Not a tear, because I’m a goddamn U.S. Marine, and I don’t cry. I haven’t cried since second grade.