Suddenly, I wish his mother were here. If anyone knows how this feels, it’s she.
“Is there anything else I can do to help?”
“Well, he’ll feel profoundly guilty when he wakes up and realizes what happened. Let’s wait for clues from Aiden on how to handle it.”
“How will he be when he wakes up?”
“The drug I gave him—Versed—represses memories. He won’t remember anything after the drug, but he will remember everything before. It’s hard to predict how he’ll wake up. Sometimes, men are violent. For others, it exaggerates their real traits, like they lose their inhibitions. Often, they’ll be confused and frightened. We’ll see where Aiden falls.”
We debate back and forth and settle on a plan.
“Now if you don’t have any other questions, Elisa, may I suggest you get some sleep? I can prescribe something if you wish.”
“No, I’m fine, thank you. May I see Aiden now? May I touch him?”
“Yes. Nothing will wake him until Versed wears off.”
I sprint to the bedroom—feet fast, brain slow. The door is ajar. Benson is in the chair in the corner but my eyes are riveted on the bed. I lean against the wall, my legs unable to support me at the sight.
Aiden is on his back, his hands resting on his abs. His lips are parted. His chest rises almost imperceptibly—the only sign of life. The rest of him is inert. That vibrant life force he wields is absent.
Tears spring in my eyes, and I kneel by our bed. I place my hand over his heart. He doesn’t move. But his heartbeat is thudding at its regular, vital rhythm. It brings some air to my lungs. I explore his skin with my fingers. I kiss his forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, throat, saving his lips for last. When I kiss them, his weak breath caresses my mouth.
His skin is sticky and slightly cool. I can’t allow it. I take off his clothes, vaguely aware of Benson’s unobtrusive help. We don’t talk. I soak a washcloth in warm water and wipe off Aiden’s body. I dry him off and we dress him in his favorite navy pajamas and T-shirt. I don’t want him to wake up naked and exposed or in the same clothes he wore when he attacked me. Either will make him hate himself even more. When we finish, Benson puts his hand on my shoulder.
“I’ll give you a moment, Elisa,” he says, and slips out on the patio.
I leave the glass door open for air and sit at the foot of the bed. What will Aiden be like when he wakes up? Is he still going to want to fight for us? Or will he exile me like his mum? My stomach throbs more sharply than my arm. Mad for movement but unable to be away from him, I trudge to his closet where his scent is the strongest.
As always, my eyes find the beautiful wooden box on the tall armoire. Light shines upon it again, except it’s closer to the edge this time, as if someone looked at it recently. I rise on my tiptoes and pull and prod until I have it in my grip. Without breathing, I run my fingers over the ornate carving and open the burnished copper clasp.
Oh!
Tucked deep inside the navy velvet folds, are Aiden’s dog tag, his Purple Heart and a stack of yellowed, sealed envelopes. No marks, no dates, no stamps, not even an inkblot. Their paper is rough, gritty. Strange—the flap on the first envelope is torn open.
I lift the flap and fish out a scrap of paper folded in half. A trickle of sand spills from the fold onto my palm—different than other sand I’ve seen. Reddish, darker, coarser. I swirl it with my finger, forming a vortex like the one spiraling in my chest, and tip it back into the empty envelope. Then I open the letter. And I sink on the closet floor.
April 13, 2003
My All,
I thought I’d feel idiotic writing to an imaginary woman. I was right. And wrong. To whom else does a man write on a night like this? Not to his mother—she would only weep. Not to a friend—he already knows. He writes to his woman—because she forgives.
It’s done, love. Baghdad is razed to the ground. No bridges. No library. No zoo. I don’t know how many men, women or children are dead, or how many of them from my hand.
Marshall asks God and Jasmine for forgiveness, but I don’t do well with God, so I’m creating you. You walk in beauty like the night…(even Byron doesn’t do you justice).
In a different letter, I’ll tell you what I’d rather do with you instead of writing. But—real or not—a man has manners. I’ll save that for our second date. For tonight, I only ask one favor, love. If you could just lie next to me and breathe—I want to synchronize my lungs to yours. Until I smell your skin instead of gunpowder, hear your sighs instead of sirens, hold your body and not my rifle.
All right, maybe we will do it on our first date (which is a real feat given my current position in a sand ditch, wearing a groin protector). After all, you are mine and no one else’s. Your body rises and trembles in my hands. Your breathing changes—fast, gusty like the shamals. Then it stops! And it becomes a single word. My name. That’s how you come. That’s how you go. With my name on your lips, blindly and for me alone.
As you fall asleep on my chest, your breathing slows. Deepens. I listen to it and drift. Finally calm.
Yours,
Aiden
I know I have felt déjà vu, but I never knew what it means to be it. But now that I read his assertive handwriting—and see us in every word—I have an odd sense of self, looking back at me.
I bring the letter to my lips and kiss it. It doesn’t fill Aiden’s absence, so I take out his dog tag and put it around my neck. Then I throw on one of his T-shirts and my sweatpants—ignoring the first patches of mauve on my skin. I stumble to our bed and lie next to Aiden, resting my head on his chest. The terror of the last two days overpowers me and I fall asleep.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Allies
A change wakes me. Aiden’s breathing is faster against my cheek. It’s time. In minutes, his lashes flutter. Corbin and Benson wait out of Aiden’s line of sight. I take the chair Benson must have put at the foot of the bed. The sapphire eyes open.
He comes to slowly. He opens and shuts his eyes with heavy lids. The deep V folds between his eyebrows. He tries to lift his head but it lolls back. He looks around like he doesn’t recognize how he got here. His breathing speeds up and his eyes widen. He moans. Then he sees me. Fear disappears instantly, and his eyes become vernal. The clearest turquoise. He looks like he is having a pleasant dream.
“My love.” His first words are soft and slow. I scoot closer. He tries to lift his hand to touch me but it won’t obey. He panics and tests his body for control but it doesn’t respond so he searches for my eyes. Instantly, peace floods his face.
“I know you.” He smiles. “You are my life.”
“You’re mine too.”
“Why are you crying, love?”
“Because I love you.”
“You’re my life.”
I remember Corbin’s words about how some wake up from Versed. Here is Aiden’s essence, uninhibited.
“No tears, love. I live for your smile.” His words are garbled. He reaches for me, too weak against his inert body mass. Before fear assaults him again, I place my hand in his. He sighs like he does when we make love.
“I love you,” he slurs. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He fades in and out several times, going from confusion and panic to peace when he sees me. The more he wakes, the more loopy his grin. I lean in slowly and kiss his lips. He watches me in bliss.
But slowly, his eyes start to change and recede. And then I see them: the tectonic plates start shifting. Something is trying to break through.