Page 127 of One More Heartbeat
The mission where I failed to protect them.
The woman newscaster on the TV is explaining that First LieutenantPhilip Tyson died during a militia attack in Syria. His funeral is scheduled for next week in Alabama.
Heart heavy, I turn off the TV and pull on my everything-is-fine mask. For my daughter’s sake.
Athena removes a casserole dish from the oven and places it on the granite counter. Peony removes a plate from her toy oven and puts it on the toy counter.
I crouch next to her. “Mmm. Dinner smells delicious.” I point to the empty toy plate. “Did Zara teach you how to make that?”
Pride beams in Peony’s smiling face. “Zawa.”
“That’s right,” Athena says. “Just like she taught me how to make Southern baked mac and cheese yesterday, when Peony and I went to her apartment.”
Cooking seems to be the only common ground between Athena and Zara. The cooking lesson—Athena’s suggestion, not mine—was a tiny step toward them possibly becoming friends. Eventually.
I straighten to my feet. “Mmm. It smells good.”
I help to set the table and buckle Peony into her booster seat. “How are things going with getting your replacement ID and Social Security Number?” I ask Athena. It’s been almost two months. “Any word on them yet?”
Athena places the casserole dish in the center of the table. “Nothing yet. You know how bureaucrats are always getting tangled up in red tape? Guess this time they used duct tape. And that stuff’s impossible to untangle.” She slides me an amused smirk and returns to the stove. “I’m sure they’ll get around to them soon enough.”
The early eveningsunlight kisses a warm glow on Zara’s face, highlighting her beauty. After hearing that Tyson is dead, more than ever, I crave to get lost in one of her kisses.
But Peony is sitting in her car seat, waiting to be removed, and I don’t need her to witness me kissing Zara. It might not mean anything to hernow, but there probably will come a point when she’ll wonder about why Zara and I kiss.
Maybe not now.
Maybe not next month.
But it will eventually happen. And the reason I’m kissing Zara is a discussion I’d rather not have with my daughter. At any age.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of walking here.” Zara closes her eyes and tilts her face to the sun. “It’s so peaceful.”
“It is.” The quiet that’s only experienced when surrounded by nature—the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze, the drone of a flying insect near my head—fills me with the same peace. It’s the tranquility only felt in the mountains or by the lake or on Wilderness Warriors property.
I unclip Peony’s harness and remove her from the car seat. Her attention is on a bird of prey circling over the meadow.
She points at it. “Bird.”
“That’s right. The bird is looking for dinner.” Likely a poor unsuspecting field mouse hiding in the wild grass. But I’m not planning to explain that circle-of-life lesson right now to my daughter. Let her learn it fromThe Lion King.
I set her up in the carrier and hoist it onto my back. I adjust the shoulder straps and snap the chest strap into position. Peony rocks in the seat, hinting for me to get going.
Zara and I begin our hike on the dirt path that cuts through the meadow. The path is wide enough, in most places, for us to walk alongside each other.
I brush my knuckles across Zara’s hand, needing her soft skin to ground me against the memories that haunt me when I least expect them. Peony happily chats away, oblivious to the physical connection between Zara and me.
“Is that so?” I say, pretending we’re having a conversation. Her chatter is an endless babble of incoherent words, along with clearly spoken words and ones I can easily decipher.
But as much as I try to remain present, to listen to my daughter, to remind myself I’m on U.S. soil, not enemy soil, my thoughts return to the smoke-and-dust-filled Afghan house, when I watched the light inClarke’s eyes extinguish. I had begged him to hold on, told him help was on the way…
Warm, soft fingers squeeze my hand. “Are you okay?” Zara’s smooth, honeyed voice eases into my thoughts. Her voice doesn’t banish the memories grinding in my head, but it does quiet them for a beat.
I nod, my gaze on the path.
She squeezes my hand again. “I’m here if you want to talk.”
The memory tightens around my chest like a band of fire. Its smoke pours into my lungs, fills the empty spaces. Suffocates me. I stop walking, close my eyes, and draw in a lungful of pine-scented air, grounding myself for the first time since learning Tyson is dead.
