“‘Drop your dick, Storm. We’re going to Fallujah. Palomino’s got Q fever and Morton’s on his period or something. We’re switching patrol. Do some recon on the city pipes that lead to the hajji market.’
“So we got ready—my entire squad—battle rattle, groin protector, eight magazines of ammo each, knife, two bologna sandwiches, bag of Ruffles. Marshall had this ritual before every mission—he’d sing ‘I’ve Got a Woman’. Day or night. Didn’t give a fuck who was sleeping. So we belted it out while I skimmed the pipe map, and we set off. On foot of course, how else do you survey pipes?
“God, they reeked! Pitch black. In some elbows, we had to crawl, me at the helm because I remembered the way.
“‘Storm, your brain’s the best fucking thing that’s happened to this platoon,’ Marshall laughed.
Aiden swallows and for a long moment, he doesn’t speak. Nor do I, now that I realize why he morphed when I spoke those very similar words.
“Anyway. We came out by a middle school, close to the central city market, cammies soaked in sweat. All seemed normal. It was still early. Some kids were out in the schoolyard, playing soccer with a Marine helmet. Then, boom!” He whispers the last word. “The yard imploded. The street. The market. Boom, boom, boom!
“A little torso landed between Cal and me. No bigger than that green bucket. Rib cage apart, bits of lung stuck to the ribs like sponges…” He pauses and swallows hard, as though bile rises in his throat.
“We dug out of the rubble—coughing, spitting, puking. Hendrix kept shouting for us to get back to Volturno. ‘In fifteen minutes, we’ll have hajjis on our ass, Storm. They’ll skin us alive and sell our balls for falafel.’ …But how do you walk away from something like that? How do you at least not check to see if a single child has survived? There’s honor even in the way you wage war.
“So we spilled into the yard, searching for life. Nothing but bodies smattered on rubble. We tried putting some together—you know, for the mothers to bury.
“It was easier for me to match the body parts. This hand’s skin looks like that foot’s. This arm has the same striped shirt as that arm…” His throat convulses.
“That’s when they found us… A guerilla band of insurgents, three times our number. They fired on sight, two Marines down on the same bodies they tried to save. We retreated inside the school—Marshall and I in a classroom on the second floor, Cal and Hendrix on the third.
“We were firing out into the yard, giving cover to Jazz and the others. Then—”
He stops abruptly, his gaze never leaving my jawline. His eyes are dark midnight still, but a fleck of turquoise glimmers here and there, like the light is battling the dark. He presses his back firmly against the bench, shoulders more rigid than I’ve ever seen them. Still, he does not speak. I don’t know for how long.
“Then what?” I whisper at last, gripping the crook of his arm.
He shrugs. “I don’t remember.”
“What?”
“There are a few minutes—ten, maybe fifteen—that I don’t remember. The last thing I recall is a sharp crack in the back of my skull, then nothing. Nothing until I opened my eyes—or rather one eye, this was swollen shut—and saw the clusterfuck we were in…
“Seven insurgents. Three restraining me. Four playing Russian roulette with Marshall’s toes. They had tied these steel cables around me, twice across the shoulders, three around the elbows behind my back. You get the idea. Then they unleashed themselves on Marshall…”
Another long, immeasurable silence. When he speaks next, his voice is gravelly.
“They did things to him I’ve never seen done to an animal, let alone a man. If I fought them, they’d cut off some body part. If I behaved…” He shudders.
“I started bartering with them in Arabic. What did they want? Let’s talk. They wanted a live Marine to sell to al-Qaeda. ‘Big money for Marines.’ I said, ‘Fine, let him go, I’ll come with you. I speak Arabic, Farsi, was trained in intelligence. I’m the man you want.’ They started whispering to each other and finally said yes. Untied Marshall, kicked him, ‘Go, pretty boy.’
“He wouldn’t leave. I begged him to leave. ‘Goddamn you, go. You’ve got a woman. Two sisters, a mother. Go…’
“He started crawling to the classroom door, inch by inch, streaks of blood behind him. Then he turned to look at me. I couldn’t see his nose anymore. Or his lips. But I know he smiled…” Aiden’s lips lift into a small smile and he closes his eyes. Even though I’m shivering, I smile too. They both made it, somehow. If that doesn’t make a scientist believe in providence, nothing will.
He opens his eyes and grips my hand.
“They shot him.”
“No!” My gasp rends the air as my hand flies to my mouth.
He nods. “Seven times…one bullet each. He was gone with the first. Has been gone ever since…”
In the long, deafening silence, I replay all the times I’ve mentioned Marshall’s name and see his reactions with new eyes. His flashback. His thousand-yard stare. He always cut me off or changed the subject. But he also never lied. Marshall is still alive to him. Still his best friend.
“Who saved you?” I mouth, all voice gone.
“Cal and Hendrix.” He shrugs as though this should not matter. “We destroyed them all…”
He skips everything they must have done to him, all the terror for himself, and for the first time, he looks away from my jawline and into my eyes.
“That’s the kind of man you’re with, Elisa. The one who killed his own brother.”
Because of me, he said when I asked why Marshall wasn’t going to the cabin.
Abruptly, I’m furious. Claw-through-the-earth-to-the-desert furious. At everything. At everyone who did this to him. “Aiden, you didn’t kill anyone who didn’t deserve it. You didn’t kill Marshall. You—”
He puts his index finger on my lips. “I made the call for us to stay in that schoolyard. I didn’t bargain right. I didn’t rip through those cables fast enough. I— Believe me, Elisa. This is all on me.”
“No, it isn’t! This is not your fault. Baby, even your startle reflex—which obviously resulted from this torture—was not out of fear for yourself. It was out of fear for a friend. And you live with it every day.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“It changes everything! Everything. This was not your fault. You bartered with your own life. What else could you give?”
“Stop, please.”
“No, I won’t! I will never stop telling you this. No matter where I am. This was not your fault.”
“Elisa.” His voice is low, almost defeated. At the new timbre, I realize what a fighter he is. About everything but this. And because of that, for the first time, I want him to be furious. Yell at me, rip this whole garden from the roots, do anything but this surrender.
“Marshall would not have wanted this. You’ve got to live, Aiden—live for two, not for none. Remember what you told me about my parents?”
He doesn’t answer.
“You said I need to start living my own life. Sweetheart, you have to do that too.”
“Elisa, baby, please…one step at a time.” He looks at his black sneakers.
At his weak voice, I lose all fire. My stomach starts twisting but I relish the pain—what else can I give to him that he will accept? I shove my fear and anger aside so I can use them later to fight this with him. Then I take a deep breath and, very slowly, wrap my arms around his neck.
He looks up. His eyes are lightening. Slowly but surely. I want to tell him I love him. I want to shout it. The only thing stopping me is that his memory will associate my I love you with this painful moment for life.
“I’ve never been more in awe of you,” I tell him. “Nothing you’ve told me changes my feelings. In fact, it makes them stronger.”