First Chapter of Come Back To Me
A whorl in the glass distorts the picture, like a thumbprint smear over a lens. I’m halfway down the stairs, gathering my hair into a ponytail, thoughts a million miles away, when the blur outside the window pulls me up short.
I take another step, the view clears, and when I realize what I’m seeing, who I’m seeing, my stomach plummets, the air leaving my lungs like a final exhalation. My arms fall slowly to my sides. My brain fights my body’s instinct to turn and run back upstairs, to tear into the bathroom and lock the door. I’m frozen. This moment . . . this is the one you dream about, play over in your mind, the darkest of daydreams, one furnished by movies and by real-life stories you’ve overheard your whole life.
You imagine over and over how you’ll cope, what you’ll say, how you’ll act at that moment when you open the door and find them standing there. You pray to every God you can dream up that this moment won’t ever happen. You make bargains, promises, offer pleas, demands, desperate barters. And you live each day with the murmur of those prayers playing on a loop in the background of your mind, an endless chant. And then the moment happens and you realize it was all for nothing. The prayers went unheard. There was no bargain to make. Was it your fault? Did you fail to keep your promise?
Time seems to have slowed. Kit’s father hasn’t moved. He’s standing at the end of the driveway staring up at the house, squinting against the early morning glare. He’s wearing his Dress Blues. It’s that fact which registered before all else, which told me all I needed to know. That and the fact he is here at all. Kit’s father has never once been to the house. There is only one reason why he would ever come.
He hasn’t taken a step and I will him not to. I will him to turn around and get back into the dark sedan car sitting at the curb. A shadowy figure in uniform sits at the wheel. Please. Get back in and drive away. I start making futile bargains again with some nameless god. If he gets back in the car and drives away I’ll do anything. But he doesn’t. He takes a step, heading down the driveway towards the house, and that’s when I know for certain that either Riley or Kit is dead.
A scream, or maybe a sob, tries to struggle up my throat, but it’s blocked by a solid wave of nausea. I grab for the bannister to stay upright. Who? Which one? My brother or my boyfriend? Oh god. Oh god. My legs are shaking. I watch Kit’s father walk slowly up the drive, head bowed.
Memories, images, words, flicker through my mind like scratched fragments of film: Kit’s arms around my waist drawing me closer, our first kiss under the cover of darkness just by the back door, the smile on his face the first time we slept together, the blue of his eyes lit up by the sparks from a Chinese lantern, the fierceness in his voice when he told me he was going to love me forever.
Come back to me. That was the very last thing I said to him. Come back to me.
Always. The very last thing he said to me.
Then I see Riley. As a kid throwing a toy train down the stairs, dive bombing in the pool, holding my hand at our grandfather’s funeral, grinning and high-fiving Kit after they’d enlisted. The snapshot of him in his uniform on graduation day. The circles under his eyes the last time I saw him.
The door buzzes. I jump. But I stay where I am, frozen halfway up the stairs. If I don’t answer the door maybe he’ll go away. Maybe this won’t be happening. But the bell sounds again. And then I hear footsteps on the landing above me. My mother’s voice, sleepy and confused. ‘Jessa? Who is it? Why are you just standing there?’
Then she sees. She glances through the window and I hear the intake of air, the ragged ‘no’ she utters in response. She too knows that a military car parked outside the house at seven a.m. can signify only one thing.
I turn to her. Her hand is pressed to her mouth. Standing in her nightdress, her hair unbrushed, the blood rushing from her face, she looks like she’s seen a ghost. No. That’s wrong. She looks like she is a ghost.
The bell rings for a third time.
‘Get the door Jessa,’ my mother says in a strange voice, one I don’t recognize. It startles me enough that I start to walk down the stairs. I feel calmer all of a sudden, like I’m floating outside of my body. This can’t be happening. It’s not real. It’s just a dream.
I find myself standing somehow in front of the door. I unlock it. I open it. Kit. Riley. Kit. Riley. Their names circle my mind like birds of prey in a cloudless blue sky. Kit. Riley. Which is it? Is Kit’s father here at seven in the morning wearing his Dress Blues and his Chaplain insignia, to tell us that my brother has been killed in action or that his son – my boyfriend – has been killed in action? He would come either way. He would want to be the one to tell me. He would want to be the one to tell my mom.
Kit’s father blinks at me. He has been crying. His eyes are red, his cheeks wet. He is still crying in fact. I watch the tears slide down his face and realize that I’ve never seen him cry before. It automatically makes me want to comfort him but even if I could find the words my throat is so dry I couldn’t speak them.
‘Jessa,’ Kit’s father says in a husky voice.
I hold onto the doorframe, keeping my back straight. I’m aware that my mother has followed me down the stairs, is standing right behind me. Kit’s father glances at her over my shoulder. He takes a deep breath, lifts his chin and removes his hat before his eyes flicker back to me.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘Who?’ I hear myself ask. ‘Who is it?’
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