Jordyn's Army, page 21
I rolled myself out of the shitty bed and walked to the dusty window of my room at the Visiting Officer’s Quarters (or the VOQ, usually called “the Q”). Everything was brown as usual – nothing had really changed since I’d been stationed there ten years ago. I guess in the grand scheme it wasn’t hell, but to me that morning, it sure felt like it.
My stomach rumbled for food, not giving a damn that I no longer cared about anything.
“Yeah, but starving to death isn’t exactly becoming to you, Major Jones, is it?” I said aloud to no one. Well, not exactly to no one. Sometimes, usually after too much whisky, I swore I could I hear her. Maybe her spirit was still around - she certainly was strong willed enough to haunt me. I chuckled at the thought, my face barely remembering how to smile.
It had been a year since I’d lost everything. A year and five days, to be exact. Missing her day after day felt like a knife in my ribs, twisting and turning but never actually killing me. And yes, I’d thought of that, too. Many nights I willed myself just to end it. If I believed in a heaven, I probably would have.
But I know my girl, and a woman like Rachel Elizabeth Morehouse Jones would not for a second ever forgive me if I did something so weak, so easy. No, she’d want me to fight. I could still hear her voice, her chant to me before countless deployments. “You are a fighter, my love, go do what you were born to do!”
Born to do, she’d say that all the time. And back then, before it all went to shit, maybe it was true. Lately, though, I was born to spiral into despair and throw my career as an elite fighter pilot down the drain.
And that sweltering July morning, without a home, without a will to do anything, I was at rock bottom.
“I miss you so much it hurts, baby,” I said to the empty room, as I had so many times before.
But this time was different. Every hair on my body stood up, and the crackle…no one will ever believe me. There was a charge, and like static electricity, I felt a jolt.
And I heard her. “Where are my roses, Jonah?”
I swear on everything, the voice was not in my head. Rachel spoke to me that wretched morning in that shitty VOQ room at Nellis Air Force Base. Out loud.
I swung around in disbelief – was I dead? Had I truly managed to find the courage to off myself and be with her the night before? Of course, the room was empty. Where are my roses, Jonah? I repeated in my mind.
“Rachel, I’m sorry. I love you so much – and I failed you. I killed you… I killed us…”
Once more, the soft lilt of her perfect voice filled the room.
“It’s time, Jonah. I love you, and it’s time. Go get my roses.”
And you might think I’m nuts, or delusional, or so drowned in my all-consuming grief that I couldn’t separate fantasy from reality. Think what you will, but I can tell you this, years later; that morning Rachel came to me with a purpose, and that purpose was Hannah.
I met Rachel Morehouse at a deli while I was going through pilot training in the tiny, sticky town of Columbus, Mississippi. Never did I want to meet some southern belle and fall in love during the all-encompassing turmoil that was learning to fly a military jet, and afterward, a fighter plane. But I did.
Then again, I didn’t decide. She did. I’d say fate, but I didn’t really believe in fate or destiny. I did believe in the power of her will. Over a mediocre turkey and swiss sandwich at a place called Peppers Deli & Market, we became inseparable. Despite the objections of my family, hers, and about everyone else, we got married months later. They all said she’d be a distraction, but the truth is that without her I’d have been lost. Rachel was my biggest cheerleader, the support I needed to truly excel.
I opened the door and squinted in the harsh Vegas sun. Despite all the time I’d spent there, that jolt of searing light always shocked me. I felt around my shirt for my sunglasses, like a vampire opening his coffin at noon or something.
Ray Bans on, I shuffled in my heavy boots outside to make my way down the road toward the Nellis Base Exchange, or BX as we all called it. Of course, I should have driven in that heat – but I couldn’t be bothered to find my car keys. And, let’s be honest, I smelled like a distillery and even I am not stupid enough to risk a DUI.
Seconds through the door of the sprawling mini-mall that was the BX, some asshole grabbed my arm.
“Oh hey, Danno – ‘sup?”
Yeah, he didn’t like that one bit. Although I was at Nellis because of my connection with my commander, the second in command, our DO (aka Director of Operations) Lieutenant Colonel Daniel “Danno” Mortensen wanted me flayed open with a dull Spork and slowly nibbled to death by buzzards.
“’Sup, dickhead, is that you look like shit.”
I glanced down – yeah, my outfit was sketchy at best. “Jeans, boots, what’s wrong?”
He puffed out his beer belly, presumably to show me his crisply ironed polo shirt. “You reek of bourbon for one thing.” He took a long, exaggerated sniff at the air.
“Meh,” I said, swatting at the air as if it were full of gnats. “I don’t drink—”
“You aren’t Major Jonah Jones, known colloquially as Whaler, who happens to possess two alcohol-related LORs and an Article 15?”
I waved him away again, as if my paperwork was trivial. (It wasn’t.) “I was going to say, I don’t drink bourbon. That’s pure scotch you smell. Must’ve spilled some on my jacket last night.”
He glanced at my jacket with a sneer. “Speaking of the jacket – in July, no less. As an officer in the United States Air Force, next time let’s wear seasonal clothes on base in public. Even in our civilian attire, we should reflect the dignity of our rank.”
“Seasonal? Is that in the regs?” I looked down again – refusing to acknowledge the absurdity of heavy Doc Marten boots, a leather jacket, and yesterday’s jeans in the middle of Nevada summer. It was all that was within reach that morning, and I’d been far too queasy to dig through the suitcase that I’d never unpacked for a change of clothes. Again, I really didn’t care about much of anything and didn’t particularly plan to live long enough for it to matter.
“Major, I dare say if you don’t clean up your act, trouble will find you.”
I tried to casually chuckle, but it came out louder than I expected. Three ancient ladies wheeling carts full of their tax-free treasures craned their necks to steal a glance at the scene.
With a cough, I cleared my scratchy throat. “Danno, you and I both know trouble’s already found me and stomped on my naughty parts with stiletto heels.”
He glanced around like the snake that he was and hissed (yes, hissed) these words in my face. “I’m taking you down. I’ll have your wings, and then after that, Jones, I’ll have your commission.”
I felt a jolt of anger, and then decided anger was too much emotion. “Screw you,” I spat out, my fingers forming a fist. (But I didn’t say screw – I said the much stronger word.) If I just hit this jerk in the middle of the BX, it would all be over. Yeah, a great way to go out, I thought. Worth it, totally.
Jonah, where are my roses? I heard again.
“What?” I demanded.
“Huh?” Danno asked, clearly confused.
“Oh, uh, I thought you just said…” Rachel was determined to drive me to the insane asylum.
“I said,” he leaned in close. “You’re done soon, Bro. One slip and it’s all over.”
“It’s already over, asshole,” I grunted.
“What did you say?” He leaned in closer, as if he couldn’t believe my level of apathy.
“I said I’m late for church. If you’ll excuse me, Sir.”
I brushed past him, determined to get this quest over with so I could find peace.
2
I circled the BX three times, no roses. Finding someone in a blue vest, I decided to just ask.
“Roses?” she repeated with a squint.
“There was a florist here once, where’d it go?”
She shook her head. “Not anymore. You could try the commissary, but they’ve downsized it as well. You can still find cartons of tax-free Camels, but not really flowers and such.”
“Thanks,” I said, heading toward the exit. It looked like I’d be Ubering off base. I had no choice – roses seemed to be the only thing between me and complete insanity.
Deciding to grab a bottle of whisky while I was there, I stumbled upon a small vendor stall. And then I froze.
Roses for Rachel. There was my sign, clear as day.
My entire body shook – and not from chronic dehydration. It was one of those little felt signs where you stick plastic letters into it, and it said Roses for Rachel, $25 each.
Behind a small table, she sat.
I didn’t even speak – I just stared at her. She was tiny, maybe four-foot-eleven, max. Her lean hand held a pair of pliers, and her tongue poked out over her pink lips as she worked. She was crafting copper roses – the most exquisite things I’d ever seen. They were feminine, beautiful, and infinitely strong – just like Rachel. And, I somehow knew, just like their freckled-face creator.
It took several minutes for her to look up at me. A great salesperson she wasn’t.
I was lost in her pale hazel eyes. Her hair was just shy of auburn with a wild wave to it, and she wore no makeup. When she smiled up at me, I knew I’d never be the same.
“Oh sorry, Sir, I uh, get sort of preoccupied sometimes. Can I help you?”
Yes, you can, the voice said. Her voice – Rachel’s voice. I felt my knees go weak.
“Rachel,” I said, barely able to get the word out. I pointed to her sign.
She raised an eyebrow, confused for a moment. “Oh,” she chirped, standing up and gesturing toward the small sign. “My mother-in-law, Rachel Green. Everything I do is for her.”
We stared at each other in awkward silence until I finally reached for one of the roses. “I usually get her yellow.”
“Oh, these are just copper colored. Not really anything I can make yellow…”
“Oh, uh, yeah, of course.”
“So would your wife like one?” She glanced at my wedding band.
“One what?” I was so lost in her eyes that I couldn’t focus on anything else.
“A copper rose. All sales go to support my mother-in-law and her struggle with Alzheimer’s disease.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s uh…terrible.” I scrounged through my jacket pocket and managed to pull out two twenties. “A rose, please. Here, keep the change.”
She smiled wide. “Thank you. I hope she likes it!”
“Yeah, me too,” I mumbled.
It was after our first major fight that I started the tradition of the roses. It was an immature spat, something about Rachel spouting off to the commander’s wife. She was always feisty, and I was obstinate. We yelled, we threw a few things, and I stormed out.
Stuck in the squadron for hours, in the vault with no cell phone, I asked the squadron admin to send my girl roses. When I arrived home at two in the morning, a giant bouquet of yellow roses sat spilling from a too-small Mason jar on our tiny kitchen table.
“Hmm, yellow,” I remember worrying aloud. But when I climbed into bed next to her, exhausted, she wrapped me in her arms.
“You smell like cookies,” I whispered into the dark room. It was nearly Christmastime, and I assumed she’d been baking.
“Bath and Body Works on sale – Vanilla Bean Noel, I think it’s called. Too sweet?”
“You are,” I said. “And I’m sorry for earlier.”
Her legs wrapped around my waist. “Me too. Thanks for the roses.”
“I told her to send red – but we were in the vault. I’m sorry, baby.”
“I didn’t have a vase. Let’s get one, and whenever you bring me roses, I’ll know it means you love me.”
As I sank into her, I said into her ear, “Roses every day for you, Rachel, because I love you every single day.”
From that day forward, no matter where I was, I managed to send or bring Rachel some sort of rose. Even if it was in an email, a text, or scheduled from our florist, every single day she received a rose from me. And, always I hoped, she knew that regardless of how tense things might be between us, I loved her.
At her funeral, wracked with grief and stoned out of my mind, I dropped a dozen yellow roses on her casket. And then my spiral downward began. I continued to fall into the abyss until once again, on that fateful summer day, she saved me.
That night in my room, I stared at the popcorn ceiling, a giant crack snaking across it. The memory hurt so badly that once again, as I had so many times, I wanted to end it all. If only I believed in an afterlife, that I could be with her.
Instead, I feared, I’d only leave this body with her memory and nothing more.
I clung to that copper rose and the hope of a future where I could love again, and it kept me from going to the dark side until dawn.
3
The next night, I decided to wipe away the cobwebs and finally go to the Club with the boys. Staring in the mirror, under the florescent lights, I saw myself as I was. Not how I used to be – the debonair, cocky fighter pilot ready to take on the world. Back then, I was everyone’s heartthrob. There was no one I couldn’t charm. And better yet, I was the best fighter pilot on the planet.
Now – well, I was still the best fighter pilot on the planet. But the eyes were a bit hooded, the face a bit drawn, the shadow a bit past five o’clock. Sure, I still had the same piercing blue eyes, the dirty blond hair, the square jaw that exploded ovaries. But I could see the effect of a year of binge drinking, a year of not giving two shits about myself or anyone else. A year of being consumed with grief, and even worse, of guilt, over Rachel.
I was slowly killing myself. And now, it was time to get myself together and be the man she wanted me to be. As far as the copper rose girl, I was headed back there the next day.
“Hey, she’s kinda cute, right?”
I scanned the dark Nellis Club for the source of Razor’s attention. “Who?”
“Widow of that two-striper, the guy who got shot up in Afghanistan last year.”
“Airman’s wife?” I raised one eyebrow.
Razor pointed toward the side of the room. “Airman’s widow, asshole. Big difference.”
“Yeah, still,” I said with a sigh. “Not worth even the…”
And then I saw where he was pointing. Or to be more precise, who he was pointing at.
It was her; the beautiful amber haired angel from the rose stand at the BX.
The day before, I’d left with one of her exquisite creations wrapped in tissue paper. Back in my room, I’d poured the whisky down the drain and listened for her.
Nothing.
The room darkened around me, and still I sat in silence.
“Rachel,” I begged. “Please talk to me again.”
In the empty room, there was nothing but harsh silence. She was gone. But what was also gone was my craving to end it all and fly away to her. Clearly she wanted me earthbound a little bit longer.
I’d fallen asleep in my boots that night, the copper rose wrapped in my hands. Maybe she wanted a real rose – yellow, her favorite. But I knew better. My darling Rachel sent me straight to Hannah Green that day.
For the first time since the day I saw her mangled body in the carnage of her SUV, I slept without nightmares. I’d never forgive myself for her death, but maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t done.
“Hey, Whaler, back to earth. Should I go hit on her?”
“What?”
“Gee buddy, what exactly are you on?”
“Eh, just tired I guess. She’s the bartender?”
“Slow on the uptake. Yes, the freaking bartender. She’s not my normal type.” He made a curvy sign with both hands. “But she’s cute. I could deal with an A-cup for a night or two.”
“Uh, that’s Hannah Green. I met her the other day, Bro. We sorta had a connection. Give me dibs on that one.”
He shook his head, bewildered. “You haven’t looked at a woman other than…” He paused, unable to speak of her. Razor lived around the corner from us during fighter training, and he’d adored her, too. Rachel and her epic southern cooking had always been popular with my buddies.
“No, she was the only one for me. But this girl,” I gestured toward Hannah, who was serving a round of shots to some unruly flight students. “Something between us just connected.”
He shook his head. “Wow. I did not expect that. I’ll give you two weeks then I’m moving in.”
“Two weeks, mighty kind of you. I think, however, there’s no time like the present.” I set my beer glass on the sticky table and walked toward the bar.
She looked at me from the cash register, her face draining of color as if she’d seen a ghost. “It’s you,” she said in a whisper.
“It’s me.”
We just stared at each other, the chemistry between us like the crackle of static electricity.
“Well, uh,” she glanced toward the nametag on my flight suit. “Thanks for being so generous the other day, Major Jones.”
“Jonah.”
She nodded. “Jonah.”
“Listen Hannah,” I said. “Do you think we could talk? I know it’s crazy, but I just feel like…”
“Like you should go home to your wife?”
I raised one eyebrow. “Wife?”
“Oh my God,” she said, throwing her hands in the air. “You were buying her roses! My roses!” Pointing at my wedding band, she let out a long sigh.
“She’s been gone a year. Car accident.” I glanced at my platinum band. My fourth wedding ring, actually. I’d managed to lose the first three, and it had become a running joke between us. Every time I got a new one, it was substantially more expensive than the plain sixty-dollar band we’d said I do with.
“I haven’t been able to bring myself to take it off. But no, I’m quite single.”
