Come Back To Me (2 page)

Chapter Three

Tess clicked through her emails, her right toe perched on the ground, bouncing her leg up and down in short, fast motions. It had been six days since she’d heard from Beau, and she didn’t know if the burning in her chest was from worry or anger.   Now she understood what her mother had felt like when she’d stayed out overnight as a teenager without calling to check in.
Sorry, Mom,
she thought, missing her for the umpteenth time since she’d passed away.

Why had they been so damned frugal? They should have just paid for international cell phone coverage. She could have gone without her cappuccinos, hell, she could have gone without groceries if she’d known it would have meant going this long without contact. She pushed away from the computer and paced the small den. She’d expected a day or two without contact, but six? Six! All in a row? Her mind fabricated scenarios ranging from Beau wandering the streets of Iraq, unable to speak the language, lost and hungry, to his being holed up somewhere with a gorgeous young woman, using her wiles to entice him into a world of lust and debauchery. Her face grew tight. She hated when her mind strayed into ridiculous territory.
Great. I’m here waiting day after day, while you’re off gaining international exposure.

Tess stared at her reflection in the window. She lifted her hands to her hips, turned sideways, cocked her head, then faced the window head on again. She wrinkled her nose at her reflection. Her pursed lips and strained forehead looked more like an angry schoolteacher’s than a woman who had recently found out she was pregnant. Fatigue followed her from morning until night, but there was no other indication of a baby—no bump, no heavy breasts, just dark arcs under each tired eye. She could end this now, and he’d never know. Why should she give her body up to this baby if he didn’t even care enough to call her and let her know he was okay?

“Damn it, Beau!” she spat into the empty room. “Where the fuck are you?”

Tess rode her bike through the neighborhoods, her eyes trained on the strip of pavement before her. She peddled fast, weaving in and out of joggers and past other cyclers. She rode until every movement of her legs took insurmountable energy, panting, drenched in sweat.

Her legs ached as she peddled up the monstrous hill that led to her house. A car sped over the crest of the hill, catching air and heading directly toward her. She swerved behind a parked car. “Slow down!” she yelled. She’d been yelling at airborne teens for so long that it had become second nature. She usually raced down the street behind them, hollering, and secretly praying that they wouldn’t die right before her eyes. When they’d first bought the 1950s bungalow, she’d inquired at the county about putting in speed bumps and cautionary road signs, but the county had denied her requests, blaming budgeting and the poor economy.

She crested the hill and peddled into the driveway, propped her blue Schwinn up by its kickstand, and sat down on the concrete stoop. She picked a leaf from the ivy that had taken over half of the front stoop and rolled it between her fingers. Tall grass sprouted up through the patch of mulch around the weeping willow they’d fallen in love with when they’d moved in, four years earlier. Maybe Kevin could mow and weed the yard, she thought, and immediately chided herself for relying on a man. You’d think she’d never started her own consulting business or had a life of her own. She could do this. She’d mow the damn yard. 

Tess closed her eyes, wishing she could fall back in time—to a time before their five-year plan had been knocked out of the water.

By Sunday night, Tess had already straightened, vacuumed, dusted, and reviewed her files for the next morning. She sat at the round kitchen table and lined up her collection of coasters, a ritual that she’d used to soothe her anxiety since she was a little girl, first organizing them from light colors to dark, and then from largest to smallest. Anxiety still gnawed at her. Her feet tapped beneath the table. Tess opened the drawer with the take-out menus, leafed through them, and threw them back in, slamming the drawer much harder than she’d meant to, flinching in reaction.

She stomped to the living room like a child having a tantrum and sat in front of the television, flipping through stations. It was no use. Questions about Beau’s whereabouts riddled her mind. She went to the den and checked her computer for the fourth time in the last hour. Her fingers pecked quickly at the keys, nails chewed down to nubs. Skype worked. Email worked. She threw herself back from the desk with a loud sigh.

Tess had a love-hate relationship with Skype. She could tell when she looked in Beau’s eyes if he was paying attention to her or had his mind on something else. She’d seen people walking around behind him in the small internet cafe, and pangs of jealousy had ripped through her. She wanted Beau home—with her. She wanted him to forget his five-year-plan and embrace the pregnancy.

The last time they’d Skyped, she’d almost told him about her period being late and her upcoming doctor’s appointment, but she hadn’t wanted to make him feel guilty for being away, just in case she was pregnant. This was his chance at international exposure and no matter how difficult it might be for her to wait for him, he’d worked hard, and he deserved the chance to gain the recognition. The desire to blurt out her secret had taken all of her concentration. By the time they’d signed off, the mantra, “Don’t tell him,” raced through her mind, their conversation swiftly forgotten. Had she misunderstood? Could he have told her it could be a week or two instead of a day or two? She stifled the urge to scream and checked her hair in the mirror. Mousy brown and fine as thread, she knew any amount of coiffing was useless. Tess turned her back to the mirror and leaned against the porcelain sink.

“He’s in a war zone and you’re the one stressing?” she said aloud. She rolled her eyes at her ridiculous insecurity.

In the bedroom, Tess pulled a journal from her underwear drawer and opened to a clean page. She wrote the date and pressed the pen against the paper, but no words came. She flipped backward through the pages, skimming through the first few days he’d been gone. Waking up alone had been a guilty pleasure of which she’d quickly grown tired. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d picked up the phone to tell him about a new client, or a big contract, and then remembered that he wasn’t reachable. She flipped backward through the journal and read an entry about a silly fight they’d had.
I wish Beau would just go away so I wouldn’t have to look at him!

Tess slammed the book closed, her chest burning. If only she’d told him about the baby. Maybe he’d have left Iraq immediately, photography assignment be damned. Maybe he’d have been happy to change his five-year plan.

Chapter Four

The clock in the living room chimed midnight. Tess sat nestled into the couch in the den, her laptop across her legs. She gnawed on a fingernail and made a conscious decision not to allow any more negative thoughts into her mind. He’d Skype, and she’d tell him about the baby. Why wait until he came home? Surely he’d profess his excitement and possibly come back early from Iraq. Tess convinced herself that it would be as easy as that.

The green Skype icon by her name,
ConsultGirl,
was bright, indicating that her account was online. The icon next to Beau’s screen name,
BethesdaShooter,
was white, offline. Tess sighed. She closed the top of her laptop then settled into the cushions and leaned her head back, eyes closed.

Tess wiped away the crust of sleep from her eyes and eyed the clock, 2:23 A.M. The persistent knocking that had awakened her continued. Tess groaned, moving cautiously through the darkened living room. She peered through the front curtains. An unfamiliar dark car was parked in her driveway.

“Who is it?”

A deep, male voice with a familiar accent answered, “Mrs. Johnson?”

“Who’s asking?” Tess’s heart raced. She pulled Beau’s shirt tight across her chest and crossed her arms, looking around for her cell phone.

“Ms. Johnson?”

His serious tone sent a chill down Tess’s spine.

“It is I, Mr. Fulan.”

Mr. Fulan?
“Do you have identification?” she called through the door.

After a moment, a driver’s license slapped lightly against the sidelight.
Hakim Fulan, 5200 Abercombe Street, Washington, DC
. Tess’s heart sank. Another identification card appeared against the window above the last,
Amira Fulan,
his wife. Tess’s throat closed, her body trembled.
Beau.
She flipped the deadbolt and threw the door open.

“I haven’t heard from Beau. Is something wrong?”

Mrs. Fulan dropped her gaze, her eyes damp and red, tissues clutched in her hands. Mr. Fulan cleared his throat, “May we come in, please?”

“What is it?” Tess led them to the living room. “Is something wrong?” Goosebumps riddled Tess’s arms. Tormented by the silence, Tess sank to the couch.

Mrs. Fulan sat next to her and folded her hands in her lap, her eyes conveying a silent, horrific message.

Tess shook her head. Her chest was being squeezed by a vice. She didn’t want to hear what they had to say, and at the same time, she needed to know immediately. Every second became a torturous abyss, until she couldn’t take it any longer. “Wha—”

“Mrs. Johnson,” Mr. Fulan interrupted in a serious, yet gentle tone, “I am sorry for what I must tell you.”

Tess silently pleaded for his words not to come.

Mr. Fulan stood before her, his shoulders pulled back in his perfectly-pressed suit. His musky smell filled the room. Mr. Fulan took in a long, deep breath. Mrs. Fulan reached for Tess’s hand.

“Beau was traveling in one of our corporate helicopters, with our most trusted pilot,” he began. His words faded into the sound of the ticking clock. Tess tried to concentrate. She couldn’t breathe, the musk was suffocating her.

“Helicopter crashed…bodies burned…”

Tess’s body shook. Her teeth began to chatter.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Fulan whispered.

Tess shook her off. She lifted her swollen eyes toward Mr. Fulan. “No,” she shook her head, “there’s been a mistake. He wasn’t on the helicopter,” she cried.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Tess gritted her teeth. “You’re wrong. He’s supposed to Skype me. There’s been some mistake.” Her voice escalated, “There’s been a mistake!” Tess leapt to her feet. “He said he’d come back!” She pounded his chest with her shaking fists. “No! You’re wrong! Why are you doing this?”

Mr. Fulan put his arms around her and held her to his chest as she shrieked, flailing her arms, trying to beat away the news she couldn’t bear to accept.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “He’s gone.”

Iraq

The man lay before Suha on the cleanest blankets they could find, his head just inches from the dune wall. Without running water, cleaning wounds well was nearly impossible, and she worried infection was inevitable. The trek to the river and back would take nearly a day, and it was dangerous. But what could she do? She and Samira could not go back. They would not go back, not even to save the life of the American man who lay before her. She glanced behind her at the two sleeping children: Edham, who, at seven had begun sucking his thumb again. His flawless face looked so peaceful that it brought a prayer of safety to Suha’s lips. His younger sister, Athra, lay curled against his back, her own little thumb tucked deep into her mouth. The sight of sweet Athra renewed Suha’s strength. She knew the terror that lay behind them, and she couldn’t fathom the thought of Athra being exposed to those dangers.

When she looked at Samira, she found it difficult to look away, she was so beautiful—and yet so full of anguish. Her eyes held horrors beyond her twenty-two years. Suha listened to Samira’s hushed argument with her nine-year-old son. Zeid, the mirror image of his wretched father, Safaa, argued daily with his mother. He wanted to go back to their home, back to the fighting, and stand up for his country. He was as fierce as he was intelligent and belligerent.  Suha shook her head. That boy would be the death of them all, as uncontrollable and angry as he was. Suha knew what she had to do, and she was petrified; not of telling the child what to do, but of what the child might choose to do once outside the confines of their tent. Zeid held all of their lives in his hands, and if he chose to go off on his own, they’d surely be killed—or worse.

Suha spoke in a harsh tone to Zeid, hoping his respect for his elders would take over his misguided youth. “Stop arguing with your mother, the woman who bore you, fed you, changed your rancid diapers.” She told him that he was despicable, the way he talked back to his mother.  A mother, she said, was the soul of the Earth, to be respected and praised. Suha unloaded her misdirected anger at their situation on the boy, and couldn’t help but set his loyalties straight. “Iraqi men are mistaken in their abhorrent treatment of women! If not for women, the men would not exist!” she spat.

Zeid’s jaw dropped open. He’d never heard a woman speak in such a way about men. If his father were there, he advised Suha, he’d put her in her place.

Suha approached the slender boy, his eyes as large as hard-boiled eggs, his short dark hair rising in unwieldy sprouts from weeks without a proper cut. She loomed her ample body above him, knowing it would cause him discomfort, and she told him, in an even, stern voice, “Your father was not a man at all. He was a pathetic coward of a man who abused women to make his small manhood appear larger.”

“Suha!” Samira was quick to her feet, placing her body between Suha and Zeid. “Do not say such dreadful things about his father.” Though her words were strong, her voice betrayed her, trailing off at the end, sounding weak and unsure.

“You speak those words out of habit,” Suha implored. “That man beat you. He used you like a dirty rag and left you to bleed to death.”

Samira took Zeid by the arm and dragged him to the far corner of their shelter, away from the ugly words Suha spoke.

“You will not go back—ever. You have seen the abuse by your papa. Think of your sister. It is your job to protect her,” Samira ordered.

Zeid stared at her with hardened eyes. His father had spoken of his role as the protector, but he’d also seen the treacherous treatment of his mother and other women at the hand of his father. It had plucked at the recesses of his mind when he was younger, but he’d learned at a very young age that standing between his father and his mother would only lead to a heavy hand used on his own body. The need to make his father proud had become stronger than his need to protect his mother. In the end, he’d relented, and the elitist attitude of his father had become his own.

Suha watched a saddened look wash over Samira. She knew Samira recognized the cold look in Zeid’s eyes. Samira had seen it many times before, from an older set of eyes. Suha wondered if Samira felt the need to break Zeid of his father’s beliefs, and if she understood that now, with the absence of his father, was her chance to erase those beliefs and patterns from her son’s young mind.

Zeid stared through her, his jaw taut and angry.

Guilt coursed through Suha. The boy needed a stronger hand if he was ever going to break out of his father’s mindset. The shame of wanting to break a young child of paternal ways coalesced with the belief of how right she was to do so, and she shook her head, as if to shake the conflicting thoughts away.