AN: So, this is the edited prologue and first chapter. Together, they're longer than any of the rest of the chapters in this story will be. And, yes chapter one is short, but so far, I'm really proud of this. There will be much more. Hope you enjoy. (:
PROLOGUE
Two children and their mother stand at the counter of an old blue farm house, baking. The woman is laughing, flour splotches cover her face, hands, and the apron she wears. She is tall, with honey brown locks tied in a loose bun. Her round face is set with bright hazel eyes framed by laugh lines. Her easy smile is radiant, her plump lips pulling up in the corners. Her chubby cheeks dimple.
To her left is little Emma, who has her grandfather’s skinny frame and blond locks. Her eyes are greenish blue, big as in deer-stuck-in-the-headlights big. She just turned five two weeks ago, and is very proud of this fact, although shamed that she still has to stand on a stool to reach the counter and sink. Emma is up to her elbows in batter, and her giggles sounding like bells.
To the woman’s right, is tall boy, who looks to be about thirteen. His serious brown eyes are lit up, and he is finally laughing. He hasn’t laughed since his dad left for another tour two and half months ago. His shaggy hair is a shade darker than his mother’s, and is always getting in his eyes. He flips his hair. “Rayne? Would you stir this, hon?” He his passed a huge bowl filled with cookie dough colored batter. Emma sits at the table now, licking her hands and giggling.
“What’re we making, Mamma?” She inquires for the tenth time.
She is not answered, interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up the drive drifting through the window. “Tell you in sec!” The woman calls over her shoulder, still laughing at the sight of her daughter as she reaches the door.
Its not like a movie, when time slows down, and the camera focuses on the laughing individual, about to get the shock of their life. No, time goes just fine until she reaches the door. Then, for her, it stops. She freezes, her heart skips a beat, her breath catches.
A big black car with the Navy symbol printed on the doors has parked behind her husband’s old Jeep. Two men – soldiers – step from the car. Two strangers. Tom, her Tommy, is nowhere in sight. The woman whimpers, leaning against the door frame for support. She knew this was coming, knew from the very beginning, but this knowledge did not ease the pain that was ripping at her heart.
“Mrs. Avery Long?” The man begins. “I’m Major Gordon, and this is Lieutenant Martin. We’re so sorry.” She is handed a nice, crisp, white envelope with the Navy emblem on it.
She can’t hold it in anymore. As Avery sinks to the floor, a great sob escapes her. Tearing at her throat, sounding almost animal-like. The packet falls to the ground beside her.
“Mamma?” Emma is calling, walking towards the front door, “Mommy, what’s wrong?”
Rayne instantly knows what’s happening. He grabs Emma and picks her up, turning her away from their mother. He’s seen this in movies, but realizes that those scenes are nothing, nothing compared to what is happening in his house at this moment. He doesn’t notice the tears streaming down his cheeks, ignores his squirming sister. He only sees memories of his father.
Avery is starting to gather herself together, for the moment. She stands with the help of the Major, and ushers her children over, placing a hand on their shoulders, kissing their heads, telling them to go play upstairs. The grown-ups talk in the dining room for almost half an hour, Avery’s voice constantly breaking and cracking.
Rayne and Emma listen in the hallway, only catching useless snippets of the conversation. They stand at attention when their mother shows the soldiers to the door and comes back to them.
She kisses both of them on the forehead, “Mommy loves you, and Daddy loves you too, more than you can imagine.”
Avery slowly climbs the creaky stairs to her room, a painful lump rising in her throat, her hand resting protectively on her growing stomach, the baby that will be Thomas Veach Long IV. He would not know his father, and his father had not known of him.
She reaches her room, collapsing on her bed. Her bed, not theirs. Tears spring forth, slipping slowly down her cold cheeks. She is cold, so cold. The sobs come; she rocks, back and forth, back and forth.
All she can think of now is the time he told her he would stay out of the Navy, stay home with their first child. But she had said no, told him to follow his life long dream. Why had she said no?
This crying will not stop. She needs to go down to her children, to comfort them, and try to explain what happened to Tom.
But she can’t. She cannot move from this bed, their bed. His smell still clings to his pillow.
The sobs slowly die down, her trademark rage taking their place. She looks up, her eyes search the room. There is his spare uniform, hanging proudly on the back of the door.
She picks up the closest thing to her–an alarm clock on the bed side table–and hurls it at the ensemble hanging from the closet door. It falls to the ground, the clock bursting into a million pieces as she curses at the uniform, curses the people who killed him,
Downstairs, the doorbell rings, and Rayne lets in his mother’s friends and neighbors, here to comfort, console, relate.
His Godparents come, while a neighbor stays to deal with the children.
His Godfather, Coby, gently takes Avery by the hand; his Godmother, Hanna, hugging her, and bringing her to sit on the bed. They comfort her, tell her everything will be alright. She could yell at them, tell them no, everything won’t be alright. She doesn’t. Just sits, staring now, blank, tears still falling down her cheeks, as if they will never stop.
The pain in her chest is still there, aching, ripping. It will not leave. The pain will ease eventually, but her Tommy would always be there.
And as she finally drifts to sleep, she hears his voice in her ear, murmuring his love. “I love you, boo. I’ll love you forever, until the end of time. Never forget that. Don’t ever forget...”
And as she dreams, she feels his lips on her forehead, her cheek, her lips.
She wakes with tears still falling.
ONE
There are too many casseroles for the fridge. They cover the counters, the island, the dining room table, as if they are substitute for the one we’ve lost. The line of visitors, family, and friends is never ending. The Navy Wives are constantly consoling, babysitting the children, buying the groceries.
But I have gone numb, except for the tears that fall when I’m alone. I can still bring out my famous smile. It’s harder now though, as if it takes twice as many muscles to pull up my lips, to show these strangers my teeth. I do not feel their hugs anymore, do not care for their words of “comfort.”
My heart never stops hurting. It’s not the aching of a broken teenage girl’s heart. In fact, it is not only my heart that hurts. It is my whole body, my whole entire person. It is a pounding, throbbing, agonizing pain. And this pain is always egging me on, always keeping the tears pooling in my eyes. But I show the pain whose boss. I swallow the tears. Tom would not want me to hurt over him. He told me that if he were not to come back, that I should find someone else. I know in several months, my friends and family will be telling me to do so, too. But I can’t. I wanted him, and him only.
The funeral was depressing. There was more people there than Tom would of ever expected when he first entered the Navy. He was talkative and funny; likable, even though he didn’t realize it himself. The flag, in its triangular box, hangs in the living room. I don’t remember the formal presentation it got.
When the house is blessedly empty, and the children are off to school, I sit at the worn old dining room table; staring at the wall. And then, when I am alone, the tears will fall. I draw into myself, and let out my pain. I stare at my wrist. The scars there are so very faint now. The Pain reminds me of the scissors on the counter, the razors in the garage, the knives in their block.
No! I am arguing with myself now.
You promised Tom you would stop.
But it hurts! Oh God, it hurts.
The morning after ‘The News’ as I’ve started to refer to it, I awoke, and remembered the previous day’s event. I vomited all over the carpet. The pain is sickening. I cannot eat. The Wives are always commenting on my weight loss. They make jokes. Hanna worries, constantly worries.
In the first week, I broke three of my knuckles on my right hand. I had punched the kitchen wall. Hard. A wind up clock hung on the wall fell to the floor, springs and gears scattering and skittering across the floor. When I had finished nursing my hand, I laughed. Tom had always hated that clock.
I am constantly reminding myself to think of the children, to be brave and strong for them. But Emma looks so similar to him. On bad days, I cannot bear to look at her.
Rayne is old enough to take care of himself. Emma stays at Hanna and Coby’s without complaint. She plays with their daughter, Karliegh. But my belly is growing. I’m almost five months along. It’s been over a month since Tom “passed.” Passed into what, to where? Tom didn’t believe in anything. My religion says he’s gone to hell. But I know he hasn’t.
Little Tommy has started kicking. Every once in awhile, there’s a fluttering in my stomach. Only then do I really smile, does a tiny flicker of happiness emerge.
My mind constantly wanders, and I drift in and out of the conversations I’m having. It is worse than when I was child, constantly distracted by things from dandelions to shopping carts. Everything is frustrating, difficult. The mood swings and added hormones from the pregnancy make it all worse.
The best way to describe me now is miserable. I am surviving off of my dead husbands life insurance, cheap books bought off the internet, and Ben&Jerry’s.
I want to run. I want to put on my sneakers, my running shorts and one of Tom’s old T-shirts, and run. I want to run until the world disappears. I want to run all the way into the North Carolina corn fields. I want to get lost in the rows and rows of green. All I want to hear is the steady pounding of my shoes on the pavement, in sync with my breathing, my heart beat.
But I can’t. I must stay put in this stupid, stuffy farm house, ironically located near the ocean, to be plagued with annoying Navy Wives and mourning relatives. And I must think of the baby. For the next year I must take care of myself to take care of him. Sometimes I hate him. Hate him for the restrictions he has given me without knowing it.
Emotions run high in the family now. Rayne is more disruptive than he used to be. He yells. Yesterday, he back talked. Back talked! Rayne has never talked back to me, ever. His teachers tell me he talks out in class and hardly ever turns in his homework. Emma asks me where Daddy is.
“Why did you do this to me?” I breathe. “Why the hell did you leave me!” I’m screaming now. “I can’t do this alone.” I whimper. My eyes close, the perpetual tears squeezing through my eyelashes.
