Page 2 of To Save Him

It was probably the postal carrier with a package or something.  That guy was usually the only person who stopped by for me anymore.  Most times, if the doorbell rang, it was one of the kids’ friends and it was later in the day

But I answered the door to a striking young man, one I’d never met before.  I was certain of that, because he had the kind of face I’d never forget.  Dark brown hair, shoulder length, with deep brown eyes, the color of rich coffee, cheekbones a model would kill for, and a smile in those eyes that his lips didn’t show.  There was also a deep sadness in them, beckoning me to ask why.  But that probably wasn’t for me to know.

“Mrs. Morton?”

Oh.  Should I know him?  Or was this maybe a ruse—another bullshit move by my ex?  Was this young man getting ready to serve me with paperwork?  I steeled myself for the inevitable.  “Yes—er,no.”

“Oh.”  He started to turn away.

“It hasn’t beenMrs. Mortonfor a very long time.”  Something I’d seen in his eyes told me I could trust him.  “Iusedto be Mrs. Morton, though.”

He turned to face me again, nodding as a look of relief softened his features.  “My name is Brandon Abbott...and I served in the Marines with your son Gabe.”

Those words alone pushed what little oxygen I had in my lungs out of them where it evaporated and mingled with the air of the planet.  I tried to take in a deep breath but it caught in my throat.  Seconds later, I felt dizzy.  Worse, my heart felt a familiar ache, one that had dulled as time had passed and I’d accepted that I’d never see my son again.

This young man, though—he might have been one of the last people on this earth to see my beloved firstborn alive…and I had to know more.  “Please come in.”

I stepped aside and young man named Brandon said, “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Please—noma’am.”  It made me feel old to be calledma’am, but I didn’t want to voice my reasons.  And, before he then took to calling meMrs. Mortonagain, I told him what I wanted in an effort to bypass the awkwardness that could have ensued. “Call me Kimberly.”  He seemed a tad uncomfortable with my directive, but he nodded just the same and walked through the doorway.

I noticed his clothing as he passed by me.  He wore faded blue jeans with black boots and a red flannel shirt over a black t-shirt.  He also wore a chain around his neck that disappeared under the shirt, but that was the only jewelry he wore.  Once I closed the door, I led him into the house proper.  “Please have a seat,” I said, waving my hand toward the living room furniture.  It didn’t matter to me where he sat, but I wanted him to be comfortable.

He chose the stuffed gray chair next to the window, and I examined his face once more.  I tried to picture him and Gabriel hanging around together.  My sweet, steadfast son Gabe—I tried to see in my mind what he would have looked like today.  My eldest son had had his father’s dark brown hair paired with blue eyes, but he’d inherited his heart-shaped lips and apple cheeks from me.  I felt another pang of melancholy as I looked at this young man named Brandon, and envy tugged at my heart.  Gabriel had been my rock—solid, steady, and empathetic—when his dad had left.  Gabe had just been starting his freshman year in high school and could have used his dad’s support as well, but he instead becamemypillar, and he likely had only felt capable and strong because of his basketball coach, a man who had become my son’s mentor and continued to be throughout the remainder of his days in school.

So I drank in the vision of this young man, this Brandon, one of the last people on earth to ever have the opportunity to enjoy my son’s company, and I swallowed hard, willing the tears back.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

I lied.  “No, not at all.”  It might not have been a bad idea (and, thus, I wasn’t telling a complete lie, but the truth was I was having a hellish time handling all the emotions bubbling to the surface).

And he knew it.  “It seems like my presence is upsetting you.”

“No.  It’s not you.  It’s just—still hard to accept that he’s gone.  He was…mybaby.”  Brandon nodded but said nothing else.  “Please…” I said, my voice trailing off.  I wanted him to speak, but I couldn’t find any more words with which to encourage him.

But he didn’t need that.  He sucked down a deep breath before he spoke again.  “Your son and I were in the same platoon, and some things happened to us that have forever bonded us as brothers.”  He paused and I could practically tell by the way his eyes lost focus that he was experiencing the moment as if it was happening in front of me.  “The day before he passed, Mrs.—Kimberly, we were talking about our families and how badly we needed to go home, be with the ones we love, and it was clear to me the bond between you and Gabe.  He said you had the most beautiful soul he’d ever known.  He said you were his ‘recharge.’  He talked about you so much that night that I felt like I already knew you.  And then…when Gabe died, I knew I had to meet the woman who’d given birth to such an amazing human being…and I had to let you know how very much your son loved you.”

Oh, God.  His words were like a knife plunged straight into my heart.  I could feel the water welling up in my eyes, see them blurring my vision.  The tears were dangerously close to dropping, and I didn’t want to cry in front of this stranger, so I clenched my hands together, digging my nails into my palms, and drew in a deep breath before asking, “Can I get you something to drink?”

He was a sweet young man, understanding that I needed a few moments alone.  “Sure.”

“Iced tea?”

“That would be nice.  Thanks.”

I nodded and stood, smoothing my hands on my jeans, and then turned around to walk toward the kitchen.  I managed to not sob out loud, but the tears starting pouring as soon as I started walking out of the room.  By the time I was in the kitchen, the tears were out of control.  There would be no iced tea until I could let go of the overpowering emotions that had taken over my heart.  I snatched a napkin off the table and held it up to my eyes, my chest heaving as I let the tears flow.

Several minutes passed before I could get any kind of control over myself, and I knew it was because I was holding back from a full-on emotional onslaught.  I didn’t want to sob loudly, but the potential to do so lay dormant inside my chest.  I sighed, letting it go for the moment, and then I blew my nose into the napkin playing makeshift tissue.  After tossing it in the trash, I ran cool water in the sink, splashing it on my cheeks and under my eyes, hoping to alleviate the certain redness and puffiness my crying jag likely caused.  Then I quickly threw a kettle on the stove, hoping the fire would bring the water to boiling in a hurry, and, while it heated, I gathered everything else I needed—glasses, sugar, spoons, a tray—and debated if I wanted to pair a snack with it.  I decided against food and, after another few minutes, I was finally heading back to the living room.

Oh, God, please don’t let the evidence be on my face.  Actually, though, I knew it had to be.  Instead,please don’t comment.  Please let me grieve in private.  I can’t share it anymore and I’m not ready to.

Brandon stood in front of the couch, his back to me.  He was looking at the pictures of my family on the wall.  He heard me set the tray on the coffee table and he pivoted.  “Are these all your kids?”

He was looking at the last formal photo my kids had taken together.  Before then, we’d had pictures of all five of us together—me, Mel, and the kids—but since the divorce, I only had the kids in pictures together until I’d simply stopped thinking about it.

The particular picture Brandon was looking at showed Gabe as a freshman in high school holding his brother on his lap, and both were slightly in front of their sister who was standing.  Annabel had been in second grade at the time and Melvin Jr. wasn’t even in school yet.  The enormity of how time passed by faster and faster every year made my shoulders feel heavy.  I glanced at the photo of my children’s faces again, marveling that there was no mistaking that they were siblings. They had the same dark hair, same light eyes, the same oval face.  Gabriel, though—he always looked serious, choosing to shoulder more responsibility than he needed to.

Oh, my boy.

“Yes,” I answered, recognizing the catch in my throat for what it was—more emotion threatening to gush.  I swallowed to regain my composure.  After all, I did have two other beautiful, healthy,livechildren who needed my continued love and nurturing.  “That’s Annabel and JR.”  I wasnotgoing to explain how I refused to call my son by his given name, considering he was his father’s namesake.  That my husband had bailed before his youngest was old enough to walk created a need for me to refuse to say his name except when necessary, especially when an innocent, sweet infant could potentially sense how much I loathed it. Little Melvin Jr. had become JR—as in the two separate initials, as if they stood for something likeJames RichardorJohn Robert, but they instead symbolized my refusal to call himJunior—before he had his first birthday cake.  “They should be home from school in the next hour.”

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