Now who will come over when my water heater goes out or my drains get clogged? And who’s going to help me install the cabinets that Dad and I spent all winter sanding and staining? Better yet, who will walk me down the aisle on my wedding day and teach my son or daughter to throw a perfect spiral?
I bat angrily at the tears rolling down my face, push myself out of the car and walk the few steps to my house. Quickly unlocking the door, I nudge it open with a loud creak and slam it behind me. When I flip the light on, the first thing I see is my dad’s coat still draped over the back of my couch. He left it here the day of the accident, and I just can’t bring myself to move it. If I do, then I’m losing a part of him all over again and I just can’t. Once has just about killed me.
Tossing my keys on the table, I grab my laptop and make myself comfy in my recliner. The second I power up my computer, there’s an email waiting for me from my lovely psychiatrist.
From: Dr. Carol Perry
To: Katie Devora
Subject: Soldier Pen Pal Program
Ms. Devora,
Attached you will find the list that I was telling you about. Pick any one and get started on your path to healing. Good luck. I’ll see you on Monday.
Sincerely,
Dr. Perry
I double-click on the attachment and a list of names pop up.
Casey Dean Becker
Patrick Eric Malone
Richard Lee Farnsworth
Jason James Newman
Paul Thomas Johnson
Jeremy Michael Wilkinson
Daniel Robert Gladney
Todd Wilson Blair
Jacob Matthew Dicenzo
Eric Robert Recendez
Maxwell Lucas Albert
Shane Emil Lopez
Blake Kenneth Haines
Christopher Marcus Holguin
Kevin Aaron Witte
Devin Ulysses Clay
I suck in a sharp breath at the sight of his name. “Impossible,” I murmur, sitting up in the recliner. There is no way that there’s more than one Devin Ulysses Clay walking this earth. It’s impossible. Right?
Scratching my head, I inspect the name, reading it several more times to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and a small shiver runs down my spine. No way. What are the chances of this?
I click on his name, but all it tells me is that Devin Ulysses Clay is a twenty-seven-year-old sergeant in the U.S. Army.
Well, I’ll be damned.
My eyes continue searching for any information I can glean, but it only provides me with a postal address. I grab a pen and paper to write it down. I don’t even bother looking at any other names because this is it. Devin is yet another connection to my past—a connection that still doesn’t feel resolved.
Closing my eyes, I tip my head back, letting the memory take over, a memory that I can drown my anger in.
I can’t believe he’s leaving. Tugging my comforter to my chin, I curl up into a ball and cry—really cry—over what all of this means. My mind sifts through memories, one by one, as though it’s putting them into tiny little keepsake boxes so I’ll be able to pull them out whenever I want.
The day we first met.
Falling out of a tree and sitting side by side in the emergency room as I got a hot pink cast put on my right arm and he got twelve stitches in the side of his face.
Dancing with him for the first time at my Junior Prom.
The look on his face the first time I told him I loved him.
One piece of knowledge keeps trying to fight its way in, so I battle it the only way I know how—with more memories.
Running … laughing … riding horses … swimming in the creek … snowball fights … skinny-dipping …
I’m not sure how long the memories cycled through my head but obviously long enough to put me to sleep. When I wake up to the sound of the rooster crowing, I haul myself out of bed, slip on a pair of jeans, change into a bra and t-shirt, and run through the house. Ignoring calls from both my mom and dad, I scurry out the door in a hurry to complete my morning chores. It takes longer than I’d like, and it’s close to noon when I slide into my car and drive to Devin’s house.
Last night I apologized, and I know that he accepted my apology because we sat in my driveway for nearly an hour discussing all of the ways we could make things work between us. We talked about letters, payphones, calling cards … anything and everything we could think of to stay connected until he can come back. And even though I know we’re standing on solid ground, that knowledge does nothing to suppress this weird tingling I have in the pit of my stomach—a tingling that tells me something is off.
Speeding through town, I nearly break every driving rule known to man. I need to see him, to see for myself that we really are okay. I want to kiss him, hug him, make love to him and remind him that I will fight for this … for us.
When I pull up in front of Devin’s house, I shove the car in park, pull my key from the ignition, sprint up the front walk, and bang on the door.
No one answers, so I bang again … and again. Running around back, I head straight for Devin’s bedroom window. My feet skid to a stop when the first thing I notice is that the curtain is no longer hanging in front of it. My stomach rolls, and on shaky legs I walk toward his house. Leaning in close, I peer through the cracked glass of the window.
A sharp pain is carving its way through my chest, and I can’t help but imagine that this is my heart breaking. The pain rips through me, leaving a trail of shredded flesh in its path, and I clutch my hand over my chest. Panic grips me, adrenaline pumping through my veins, and I drop to the ground in a gelatinous pile of arms and legs. Curling myself into a ball, I bury my face in my arms and sob.
I lost a part of myself that day. Most people would say I was too young to really know what love is, but I disagree. Admittedly, I’m not sure what part of myself I lost—or how permanent the emptiness is—but I’m sure it must’ve been significant if the gaping hole inside my chest is any indication.
“I can’t believe this,” I whisper to no one but myself. What are the chances that his name would show up on a pen pal list that my psychiatrist sent me? It’s a passing thought, but one that I can’t ignore.
What if his name was meant for me to see? It wouldn’t surprise me, considering that Devin was always the one person who could help me work through my problems, however big or small they were … at least until the day he decided to leave me without a word.
Bitterness seeps into my veins, but I fight against it because there is no way in hell that I will allow Devin Ulysses Clay to have that kind of control over me, especially after the way he left. And now I have to write him, because if I don’t, I’m letting him win—I’m letting the bitterness win—and I’m tired of fucking losing.
No, there is no reason at all that I can’t write him a letter. A measly little letter. Who knows? Maybe it will be good for me.
Without giving it much more thought, I open up a Word document to start typing my letter when I remember what Dr. Perry said. “Damn it,” I mumble. Shutting down my laptop, I grab the paper I wrote the address on and the pen lying next to it.
Now what? My fingers twirl the pen as I contemplate what to write.
Fuck you! I laugh out loud when I scribble the words on the paper. Then I quickly scratch them out, because as much as I’d like to write that, I’m not that big of a bitch.