The Midway Paradox

“You’re coming home?”

I could barely hear him when I needed to understand his words the most. Was he really coming home? Was this nightmare coming to an end? How was this happening? I walked into the house for better reception that I’d never find. In this technology-ridden age, I wouldn't have believed bad connections still exist on landlines. As I circled between two rooms, Chris answered my questions.


Before leaving, he explained that I would see him before his year was up. Deployed soldiers are usually given two weeks of leave time around the halfway point of their tour. I was expecting Chris home around February or March of next year for his “mid-tour leave.” In Iraq, Chris had learned otherwise. Because of his ranking, he would be sent home earlier than the soldiers above him¹. I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad that he’s coming home in November instead. Rather than waiting for two sixth-month periods, I would wait for three months and agonize over nine more once he returned to Iraq.


The rest of our conversation was spent describing our days. I recounted my ever-growing sleep debt and the inability to find enough things to keep myself distracted, while he reported on 16-hour patrols, raw sewage for bathing water, and his own sleep deprivation. He’d said so much more than I could hear, but of the broken pieces sent over a telephone line from across the world, there was one detail I certainly didn’t miss. Chris had an opportunity to read my blog. Without having to ask, he answered a curiosity I’d written about earlier. Before going to bed, Chris hears gunshots.

---

¹ Chris’ leave time has been scheduled within the early portion of a window of opportunity to send troops home. The timing has more to do with experience rather than ranking. Soldiers that are on their first deployment are generally sent home earlier because it is believed that seasoned troops have the endurance to stay out longer. However, scheduling can change in the event of a significant life event (i.e. the birth of a child). (Source: military contacts)

Out of Service, In Good Fortune

Photo by Balakov

I knew he was going to call today. I knew it as I left my house, clutching my phone in my hand. I knew it as I got on the highway and headed north, radio turned down low. I knew it because I was on my way to a place where cell phone service gets lost and can’t find its way. As luck would have it, Chris didn’t call me on my phone; he called somewhere else.

The phone rang and I’d just arrived. Distracted by the hugs and hellos, so many relatives in for the holiday weekend, I only heard a “guess who’s here” spoken into the receiver in the background. I couldn’t imagine that she was speaking about me. I ignored the comment and continued my round of greetings. When the phone transferred hands, I heard another snippet: “you’re coming home?” Definitely not Chris on the other end, he just left. As it turned out, I was wrong, and it felt good.

Chris didn’t know I’d be at his parent’s house just as I didn’t know he’d call the very moment I got there. I was happy. After what happened last time, I knew that it was possible to miss important calls no matter how close you keep your phone. However, when fate waves her magic wand, extraordinary things happen. I was out of service, but in good fortune.

It was my turn up. Chris’ dad handed me the phone and said, “He’s coming home.”

To be continued . . .

Stepping Closer to Away

Photo by slambo_42

Last weekend I spent time with Chris’ family. I remember pulling into their driveway, the aftershock of my last visit resonating from the gravel beneath my car. The last time I was on that patch of road, I’d just returned from the airport with his mother and sister. We’d sent Chris on his way to Fort Bragg, but it was our last time with him before Iraq. I remember the peculiar weather that evening. His flight was postponed more than a handful of times, as if the rain was fully aware of how much we all wanted him to stay with us. It was both a blessing and a curse.

The original plan was to drop Chris off. When we arrived earlier than scheduled, we decided to wait with him inside. I remember feeling awkward. Standing, sitting, walking, checking in—the routine airport song and dance—were not their usual distraction. The gravity of the moment hung thick in the air, tears flowing freely. Our embraces were both hurried and urgent—a scene that caused the security guard to explain that members of the military are permitted unlimited gate passes. Our smiles returned as we walked with Chris to the concourse.

Chris’ flight was delayed about six times. The hours were spent playing musical chairs: mother, sister, girlfriend, which two get to sit next to him? I felt the least important, a new addition to Chris’ life rather than a fixture. Out of courtesy, I wanted to move, but Chris insisted I stay by his side. After so much waiting, I found myself in a state of denial. He wasn’t actually leaving, he couldn’t be. If he were, he would’ve left already. Reality came knocking when the actual moment arrived. We each gave our love and watched him walk toward the plane, stepping closer to deployment, stepping further away from us. There we stood, mother watching son, sister watching brother, girlfriend watching boyfriend, all three watching together.

Fairy Tales Ending

It happened last night, so out of place and unexpected. I sat there, words stolen from me at the sight of him. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. Just an arm’s length in front of me, no longer on the other side of the world, Chris had returned.

It wasn’t the homecoming I’d pictured. We sat together quietly for a moment. I looked around the room that was too dim and too empty—curtains drawn, a flimsy 40-watt lamp somewhere in the corner, and a pile of crumpled sheets strewn across the floor. Chris looked at me, the scruff on his face as rough as his words.

He was home early, deployment cut short. He’d come to see me today to tell me that he couldn’t continue this relationship. Apparently, while he was gone, Chris had forgotten why I was "special enough to keep in the first place." His eyes were dark, his face motionless. The look he gave me was scarring.

He wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t anything I remembered. He wasn’t the person I’d waited for.

It has begun. The first nightmare has arrived, my fairy tale dreams chased out from under my sleeping lids. The one place I find peace has now become a corrupted stage, an open arena for the terrors only my wakeful mind has suffered. I must remind myself that it wasn't real, that rapid eye movement can oftentimes be deceiving. And yet, I cannot keep myself from worrying: which of my fears will play out next in my unconscious mind?

I am afraid. Awake or asleep now, I have nowhere to run.

---

Photo by Gabriela Camerotti

Author's Note: Dreams and wakefulness can also represent desires and a state of enlightenment, respectively. However, my usage of both terms is meant in the most literal and physical sense. With no initial warning of the events taking place in a dream, I hoped to convey the shock and sadness that was very real to me in my sleeping state. Chris is still deployed and we are still very much together.

Lobster Means "I Love You"

Photo by wader
I told my mother I wasn’t hungry—simple words and yet, they hold such magnitude coming from someone like me. I hardly ever have a problem with my appetite. Just as onlookers have watched great masters at their craft on television—from ballroom dancers to basketball players—friends and family have watched me eat. I’ve devoured whole pizzas, polished off ice cream by the carton, and cleaned plates of pasta made for two. For most of my life, I have been a master at voracity.

When my mom realized I wasn't eating she knew that something was seriously wrong. Immediately, she tried to address the problem. She offered favorite foods and attempted to color my imagination with all things dreamed from the grocery store. When I didn’t respond, she took her knowledge of her daughter and went to market with it.

I came home to the result of her efforts: an overstocked fridge with items loved by me, and a large pot on the stove, brimming with lobster. Apparently, even in these hard economic times, nothing can stop a mother’s determination to fix a troubled, withering daughter. Her mission was accomplished, the smells of the kitchen drawing me back to the piece of myself I’d lost when Chris left.

I told my mother I wasn’t hungry. In return, she told me that she loves me.