Page 40 of No More Heartbreakers

“Oh. No, I call her ‘Mom.’”

This was good, two co-workers making small talk. At peace.

Because of a gorgeous bunch of roses I could still smell somehow and couldn’t stop thinking about.

Stop thinking about them.“What do you call yours?”

“Lillemor,” he answered. “It’s Swedish. It means ‘little mother.’ And sheislittle.” He glanced over at me with a grin. “Like you. She’s had to stand on a stool to scold me since I was twelve.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t stop the swell of delight rising from my toes to the top of my head. “Lillemor.That’s nice.I like it.”

He’d been talking to his mom on the phone yesterday,notto a girlfriend. Hmm.

Thankfully I didn’t have much time to dwell on that because we’d arrived at our destination, a one-story brick ranch house in a neighborhood a few miles outside the Peachtree Valley city limits.

It was the home of a local woman whose soldier son had been killed in a terror attack overseas. I was really thankful to have Aric along to shoot the video. Stories like these were brutal to do alone.

You wanted to make a connection with the person you were interviewing, show them the empathy and concern they deserved when pouring out their pain. That was difficult if you were worrying about their audio levels and lighting and whether their head moved out of the shot when they spoke or gestured… or cried.

Based on the results of our interview with the snake bite victim the day before, I had total confidence Aric would shoot this story expertly.

We walked up a path lined with mums to the front door where a fall wreath hung and a hand painted folk art sign read “Welcome Friends.” I knocked on the door.

A middle-aged woman answered almost immediately. She wore jeans and a sweater, typical mom-clothes. Her black hair was neatly styled. But the bags under her eyes and her drawn, sunken cheeks told me it had taken Herculean effort for her just to dress and make herself presentable today.

Her son’s body was due to arrive at Robins Air Force Base later this afternoon. Colleen was assigned to go film the flag-covered casket being unloaded.

“Hi. Mrs. Dixson? I’m Heidi. This is Aric.”

“Yes. Y’all come on in.” The woman stepped back and held the door open as Aric and I entered her small living room.

It was cluttered but clean. The fireplace mantel and sofa side tables held collections of small figurines and many framed photos of a young man in uniform. He looked around my age, maybe younger.

“Thank you for agreeing to do this today,” I said.

“Well, I want Jeffrey to be remembered. I want it to mean somethin’.” Her voice was soft and a bit ragged, as if she’d spent more time crying than not in the past few days.

I nodded. “Where would you like to sit and do the interview?”

“Right here, I guess. The sofa? Can I get y’all something to drink? Some tea?”

“That would be great,” I said.

Aric followed my lead. “Yes. Thank you.”

I’d accepted so she’d have something to do other than get nervous while we set up the camera and stand-light. As Mrs. Dixson scurried off toward the kitchen, Aric positioned the light and tripod and rolled a few minutes of video, getting tight shots of the various photos of Jeffrey.

I picked up one of them. He was so young. It was hard to believe he was dead. I couldn’t imagine how his Mom felt. I found myself blinking back tears.

Aric’s big hand settled on my shoulder. “All set. You okay?”

I nodded and touched the glass over Jeffrey’s face. “Yeah. It’s just—he barely looks older than Gordy.”

Mrs. Dixson returned to the living room with glasses of iced tea. Aric and I thanked her. I took an obligatory sip and invited her to sit beside me on the sofa.

Aric positioned himself at an angle so she’d be facing the camera lens as she answered my questions. After a minute, he told me he was rolling.

Mrs. Dixson had seemed fairly calm, but now she made an uncomfortable sound. “I never been on camera before.”

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