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Authors: Weston Ochse
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people’s lives.”
After a time when she'd cleaned up and they lay together in the bed, he'd thought about what she’d said and about what she'd gone through and what he hadn't and couldn't help but voice the words on his mind. "It’s easy to forget the living have their own weight to carry.”
She nodded in a way that reminded him of John Wayne in They Were Expendable , as if the knowledge had its own weight and brought his head low so he couldn’t look someone directly in the eye. The image was helped by her imitation of the actor as he said in his patented slow drawl, "Don't discount dumb luck. We've all seen assholes walking around that should have been killed at birth."
He tried to smile at the r emark, but found it difficult, wary that she might have been talking about him.
Seeing her mistake she smiled sheepishly and retracted some of what she'd said. "I mean that those who should have died are alive and vice versa. Not everyone is meant to live."
"So you don't believe in a higher power?"
"When it comes to living, maybe, but not when it comes to dying. I saw too many friends die." Then she'd told him the story of Jill and her other friends and the IED and how her best friend's foot had landed in her lap.
Looking towards the shore, he tried to spot the Black Dolphin where he'd sat just three days ago when he'd first seen the swimmers. He polled his thoughts. Was it all because of her? He'd been drifting in Mexico for months, looking for what he did not know. Yet look he did, moving and flitting like an ash caught on the winds. Was it she he'd been looking for? Or perhaps was it a reason for it all to be.
The shirt she'd worn that first day had drawn him to her more than her looks. He'd come to find out that she'd spent the previous two years off and on in various suburbs of Baghdad, trying to quell dissident factions and stay alive as a sergeant in the U.S. Army. On her last trip home to Spartanburg , she'd decided she wasn't going back to the war and had fled to Mexico . That had been nine months ago, six of which she'd spent in Puerto Peñasco.
After they'd seen the statue in the square, they'd found a coffee shop. She’d apologized for saying what she’d said, then had grabbed his hand and held it. Neither of them wanted to end the evening, so the warmth of the strong Mexican coffee was the perfect defense against the cold onshore breeze and the sleep that waited to ensnare them.
"Why is it you didn't go back?" he’d asked after she'd told him the story.
June shrugged, pausing only to blow on the surface of her coffee and push a few strands of her straw-colored hair behind her ear.
The next question was a minefield, so instead of asking, he spun it into a truism. "I know I'd be scared if I went back. There's so much death. So much random death. I don't know if I could take not being able to see it coming."
"Some people like that about death. They like it to be a surprise. They say the waiting and the knowing is worse than the actual event itself."
He looked at her and blinked. "Would you rather it was a surprise?"
"I'd rather not die at all." She smiled briefly. "But that's not your question, is it? There are those who are so worried that they want to control everything around them. You know the types. They even want to control death, as if such a force could be controlled. Me? I like to know what I'm getting into. Once I understand things, I can accept what fate deals me. Bottom line: do I care if I die? Yes. Am I going to spend all day thinking about it? No.”"
"So you believe in fate?"
“The word is too inadequate.” She shook he r head. "It's not that simple. I believe in signs. I don't know if that's fate, or G od, or what. You wanted to know why I didn't go back? I'll tell you. We were driving through Haditha District in our HUMMER, coming back from delivering medicine to a family who'd lost their father to a police station bombing when it happened. You know what I'm talking about,
After a time when she'd cleaned up and they lay together in the bed, he'd thought about what she’d said and about what she'd gone through and what he hadn't and couldn't help but voice the words on his mind. "It’s easy to forget the living have their own weight to carry.”
She nodded in a way that reminded him of John Wayne in They Were Expendable , as if the knowledge had its own weight and brought his head low so he couldn’t look someone directly in the eye. The image was helped by her imitation of the actor as he said in his patented slow drawl, "Don't discount dumb luck. We've all seen assholes walking around that should have been killed at birth."
He tried to smile at the r emark, but found it difficult, wary that she might have been talking about him.
Seeing her mistake she smiled sheepishly and retracted some of what she'd said. "I mean that those who should have died are alive and vice versa. Not everyone is meant to live."
"So you don't believe in a higher power?"
"When it comes to living, maybe, but not when it comes to dying. I saw too many friends die." Then she'd told him the story of Jill and her other friends and the IED and how her best friend's foot had landed in her lap.
Looking towards the shore, he tried to spot the Black Dolphin where he'd sat just three days ago when he'd first seen the swimmers. He polled his thoughts. Was it all because of her? He'd been drifting in Mexico for months, looking for what he did not know. Yet look he did, moving and flitting like an ash caught on the winds. Was it she he'd been looking for? Or perhaps was it a reason for it all to be.
The shirt she'd worn that first day had drawn him to her more than her looks. He'd come to find out that she'd spent the previous two years off and on in various suburbs of Baghdad, trying to quell dissident factions and stay alive as a sergeant in the U.S. Army. On her last trip home to Spartanburg , she'd decided she wasn't going back to the war and had fled to Mexico . That had been nine months ago, six of which she'd spent in Puerto Peñasco.
After they'd seen the statue in the square, they'd found a coffee shop. She’d apologized for saying what she’d said, then had grabbed his hand and held it. Neither of them wanted to end the evening, so the warmth of the strong Mexican coffee was the perfect defense against the cold onshore breeze and the sleep that waited to ensnare them.
"Why is it you didn't go back?" he’d asked after she'd told him the story.
June shrugged, pausing only to blow on the surface of her coffee and push a few strands of her straw-colored hair behind her ear.
The next question was a minefield, so instead of asking, he spun it into a truism. "I know I'd be scared if I went back. There's so much death. So much random death. I don't know if I could take not being able to see it coming."
"Some people like that about death. They like it to be a surprise. They say the waiting and the knowing is worse than the actual event itself."
He looked at her and blinked. "Would you rather it was a surprise?"
"I'd rather not die at all." She smiled briefly. "But that's not your question, is it? There are those who are so worried that they want to control everything around them. You know the types. They even want to control death, as if such a force could be controlled. Me? I like to know what I'm getting into. Once I understand things, I can accept what fate deals me. Bottom line: do I care if I die? Yes. Am I going to spend all day thinking about it? No.”"
"So you believe in fate?"
“The word is too inadequate.” She shook he r head. "It's not that simple. I believe in signs. I don't know if that's fate, or G od, or what. You wanted to know why I didn't go back? I'll tell you. We were driving through Haditha District in our HUMMER, coming back from delivering medicine to a family who'd lost their father to a police station bombing when it happened. You know what I'm talking about,
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