The Album: Book One (13 page)

I move on to the next box from Aunt Patty. She bought me a digital camera with 2.0 megapixels – fuck yeah! I also find Mom’s old PDR from med school with an inscription on the inside cover.

Beer before liquor, never sicker.
Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear.

Aunt Patty also sent a tin of cranberry oatmeal cookies. They taste a little stale, but I manage to throw a few back.

The last package is from Natalie. I want to rip it open but I also don’t want the excitement to disappear. It’s the same feeling I’d get on Christmas morning as a kid – tearing through present after present of Transformers and Nerf guns only to realize that true pleasure is defined by what’s to come.

I slowly slice open the twenty layers of tape with my knife. I dig through the sheets of pink tissue paper and pull out a large, folded paper. I quickly look around to make sure no one’s looking or hovering over me because I’m pretty sure I know what this is . . . yep! The poster of Mario Lopez that used to be hanging in Nat’s old bedroom is now in my possession.

“Jesus Nat, what am I going to do with you?” I say out loud.

I open her handmade Christmas card with a crayon drawing of us completely naked except for some Santa hats.

Santa baby,

Mario really wanted to see Afghanistan ... and he misses your junk.

Come home to me.

XO
Nat

There are a dozen of Christmas cards from family members and college buddies and I take my time reading every single one.
Take what you can get and hold on to it.

“Lieutenant Parker? I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a new shipment of flu vaccines that need to be catalogued.”

I gather all my stuff and address the young Navy officer. “Sure, let me drop off my things first. Cookie?”

1400 hours

Label, scan, pack. Place the lotion in the basket. Label, scan, pack. It places the lotion in the basket.

Break time. I take my laptop and retreat to my closet of supplies and silence. There must be fifty emails from friends and family and even one from
Best
Buy
wishing me a Merry Christmas, but I scroll through them until I reach the one that matters.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Holy shit!

Showoff! I send you a crummy poster and you get me DIAMONDS? From Tiffany’s?

The earrings are gorgeous! I can’t stop looking at them. In fact, I’m going to keep them in the little blue box so I can open it over and over and experience that amazing feeling as many times as I want.

Do you know what I would do to you right now? Do you have any idea? I would be your dirty slut, Zach Parker. Whatever you wanted, as many times as you needed it – and then I would feed you gelato with my fingers.

Chloe says “hi!”

You know that little spot between your nuts and asshole? Lick, lick, lick.

Shit, Mom is standing over my shoulder. She wants to know if you got her package? Speaking of package . . . I miss yours.

I love you Zach Parker. Merry Christmas!!

Her email is from last night. We have eight hours, 6,000 miles and two continents between us. If I close my eyes, I can see her radiant smile. I can smell her lavender shampoo. I can hear her explosive laughter. I can taste her peppermint tongue . . .

But, I can’t fucking touch her. I can’t feel her. I can’t hold her. Je n’ai pas rien.

1815 hours

“You up for chow, Fisher?” I ask while playing Tetris on my bunk.

Fisher jumps out of bed and puts on his shoes. “Homey, I’m always ready for chow.” He digs in our Rubbermaid dresser and tosses a present on my lap. “I wanted to get something special for the dumbfuck in my life. Open it!” He sarcastically squeals and claps his hands.

I remove a cardboard box from a plastic bag and shake my head. “A fake Rolex? It will look divine with my black boots.” I reach in the bottom drawer of the Rubbermaid dresser and throw Fisher a
very
similar plastic bag. “Merry Christmas, motherfucker.”

Fisher opens an identical box and laughs. “A fake Rolex? And all I wanted for Christmas was a Red Ryder BB gun,” he whines as he slides the shiny gold watch around his wrist. “Now we’re like watch buddies! C’mon, let’s get some ham and sweet potatoes.”

“You know what? There’s something I need to do. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Shit Parker, I thought we had a no whacking-off policy in our bunk?” He jokes.

I wave him off as he puts a sock on the outside door handle before joining some more guys in the hall. “Parker needs some private time.” Idiot.

I sit down at the small desk built for a teenager and begin to write the first of many letters. It’s kind of surreal actually. Love letters are from a bygone era – from desperate men relaying the brutal honesty of war to anyone that would read it. But I think soldiers actually wrote letters as insurance, documenting their love and life as if it were their last. And there’s always a
last
letter, either upon the safe return of a changed man, or to be packed away in a box of memories.

Whatever my destiny, Natalie deserves my love letters. And my last letter will need to be epic.

December 25, 2002

Ma femme,

My first night on base, I looked to the sky and claimed the brightest star. I made her mine and gave her a name. Natalie winked at me. Natalie laughed with me, and Natalie reminded me that stars are always present.

Sometimes the night is too dark. Other times, the heavens are filled with ominous clouds. The daylight likes to play tricks on a wanderer’s eye – the blinding sun demanding all the attention.

But stars are relentless. Constant. Endless. Truthful.

Natalie is my beacon calling me home.

Do not be sad, ma femme. I will come home to you.

Love,

Zacharie

2002-12-28
1130 hours

Label, scan, pack. Label, scan, pack.

“Yo Parker.” Fisher knocks on the glass window outside my monotonous mountain of never-ending doom. “Hoops! Champ-ions,” he chants.

“Dude, you have like the easiest schedule on base. I’ll be there in an hour – go practice your sorry ass layup.”

Fisher spins the basketball on his middle finger until it comes crashing down on all my boxes. “Oh, fuck,” he sputters.

“Jesus, Fisher, you idiot. Get out!” As soon as Fisher leaves, I sneak back to my sanctuary.

Break time. Closet. Chair. Laptop. Emails.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Re: Thank you

Hey Zach! I’m so glad you enjoyed the cookies! I followed one of Claire’s recipes and I hope I didn’t screw it up. Just so you know, the recipe called for two sticks of butter! Only the French.

The PDR book was a great little find. She highlighted all the douche references – be sure and check that out. Claire was such a character back then! I found a box of her stuff in a downstairs closet and I had a blast looking at all her oddities. There’s a peculiar glass bowl, either a bong or a beaker that you will get a kick out of!

Stay safe Zach and take lots of pictures! Uncle Bruce and I love you very much and we know it kills you to be away from your mom.

Love,
Aunt Patty

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: I’ve got a secret

Hi Zach! I’m Chloe, the awesome cousin to the amazing, highly hysterical, Natalie LeGrange! First off, those earrings are the shit. How did you guess Nat would like something so carbon-y? Secondly, I’m single and looking . . . catch my drift?

Natalie likes you. She really, really likes you. And you make her incredibly giddy and for that, I really, really like you!

I will try to email you as much as I can. I can talk about almost anything – the more random the better!

Be safe.

Love,
Chloe

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Dropping the Ball

Zachy Wacky Poo,

You know what this country needs, besides a legitimate hockey team? Boxing Day. How is a girl supposed to buy a fabulous spring wardrobe when the only things left on the shelves are gloves and ugly sweaters?

I had to stop by work today because my clients fired their NYE caterers. Seriously, does it matter what the food tastes like? Just keep the champagne flowing and the slutty girls blowing . . . party success. Speaking of crazy parties, I think I’m going to host one in the apartment for New Year’s. I need to be surrounded by people and mindless distractions.

If I haven’t told you, I miss you. You should be here kissing me when the ball drops. You should be here cuddling with me on the couch when Season 2 of
The Bachelor
starts. You should be here with me to build an anatomically correct snowman.

I understand that you can’t, but it still sucks.

I love you, Zach Parker.

Come home to me soon.

XO
Natalie

I quickly check the time stamp on her email and write her back.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: RE: Dropping the Ball

Natalie, my sexy, snarky siren,

I want nothing more than to cuddle with you on the couch and watch the most repulsive show in television history. It’s the thing I dream about most.

The Rangers are fucking fantastic, do not doubt US hockey.

Party? Yes, go for it – invite everyone you know. My survival depends on your happiness so plea|

“Lieutenant Parker? Sir?”

I hear Michelle’s voice outside the closet so I hastily shut down my computer and pretend to organize boxes. She opens the door and I smile.

“Hi Michelle, what’s up?” I say as nonchalantly as possible.

She looks past my shoulder to the chair, so I move from the closet and shut the door.

“Oh, um, you have a phone call. Captain Thomas is waiting for you in his office,” she says.

Fuck.

“Thank you,” I think I say. Everything is a complete blur as I follow Michelle through the medical unit. Captain Thomas is standing in front of his office, and as I approach him, his stern expression changes to compassion. He places a hand on my shoulder and smiles.

“Lieutenant, I’m very sorry. Please feel free to use my office for privacy.” He ushers me in and then shuts the door behind me. I look around at the sparsely decorated room and pick up the waiting receiver.

“Lt. Parker,” I say nervously.

“Zach, she’s gone. Claire is gone,” my father sobs into the phone. I cannot, I will not listen to him cry. Our pain is different.

“Thank you for letting me know. Goodbye.”

“Zach! I—” he howls as I place the receiver down on the desk. I walk slowly out of the office and nod at Michelle – she’s the only person on base that knew about Mom. Captain Thomas looks confused as he places a hand on my shoulder.

“Lieutenant, would you like to see a counselor? Major Jackson of the Army is an expert with grief therapy.”

“No thank you. May I go to my barracks?” I ask.

“Yes. And Lt., consider making an appointment with Dr. Jackson,” he offers.

“Okay, thank you. I’ll be in tomorrow to finish up the shipment.” I walk back to my office dazed and bewildered. I knew this moment would come – I’ve actually prepared myself for her death for the past year.

It’s early morning on the East Coast, so I grab my jacket and laptop and head back to my bunk to start the necessary round of emails.

To: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Claire Dumas Parker

Mom found her salvation.

-Zach

2003-1-3
1600 hours

“Lieutenant Parker, congratulations! You hold the record for the most mail in one day! Is it your birthday or something?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” I shake my head and shrug my shoulders, not fully sure of how to react to the questioning. The officer on duty hands me a stack of cards and letters and a single package with Natalie’s handwriting. I smile awkwardly and back out the door.

Once I’m settled in my favorite spot near the canteen, I gaze up at the dozens of stars flickering in the night’s sky. Stars have always amazed me, not in the physical sense – they simply remind me that there’s always more.

I open a few condolence cards but they’re all the same, the same underlying message – that I should have been home for her funeral. People don’t get it. They don’t understand that the easiest things are not always the right ones – it’s accepting the difficult tasks that make things right.

I open Natalie’s letter last. Her letters will always be my last, my insurance.

December 30, 2002

My dearest friend,

Dr. Claire Dumas Parker died peacefully in her home at the age of sixty-three- years old plus or minus one. She was the epitome of feminine strength and courage and her accomplishments will forever be remembered. She is survived by her tennis-playing husband, Raymond Parker of Greenwich, Connecticut and her handsome, evil-genius son, Zacharie Dumas Parker of Kabul, Afghanistan. (Obviously, this is my interpretation.)

Zach, you are so amazing. So selfless, so loving, so ... bad at lying.

It took me a few minutes to actually put my finger on it, but when I saw the large photo of you and Claire with identical crooked smiles, it all became very clear.

From the room full of pink flowers and “Ma Vie en Rose” playing in the background, there was absolutely no way in hell Raymond Parker arranged that funeral service.

That’s when I decided to ask Jack.

Your trusted attorney sold you out! Granted, I can be extremely charming, so it was rather easy to get all the details.

This is what I know:

Sometime in the month of September – for fun, let’s pretend it was the day we met on the train – Jack paid a visit to your house. During this visit, funeral arrangements were made as well as the inception of the most creative coup in the history of “what the fucks?” Did I mention how brilliant you are?

So on this day, prior to our fantastical meeting, Claire signed a document giving you 60% ownership of Parker and Parker ... and then you sold it. You’ll be glad to know that as of 10:00 p.m. last night, Parker and Parker has officially changed to Parker and some drug research company in Jersey City. Raymond is going to be PISSED!