What I hadn’t expected was the ten seconds I got to make one phone call to tell my family I had arrived.
One call.
I had to choose between Mags and my mom. I know that whoever I called would talk to the other, and while I was already homesick for Magnolia, desperate to hear her voice even though I had just left her warm bed a few days prior, I knew my mom wouldn’t understand if I didn’t call her.
We lined up for the rows of telephone banks with a script shoved in our hands. As soon as I heard my mom’s voice on the line, I rattled off their script, letting them know that I had arrived, their son was ready to become a Marine, and that I would send a letter with my address at a later date. I pause, barely glancing to the side to see if the drill instructor was listening. He saw my hesitation, and started yelling obscenities in my face, but I risked it anyway. “Call Mags and tell her I love her,” I spouted before hanging up, accepting my punishment in stride.
We went seventy-nine training days without regular contact from the outside world. No phone calls. No television or music. We were told when to eat, when to drink, when to piss. They monitored us in the shower, instructing every task as if we were children.
Each day when I woke up, I wondered if Magnolia was still sleeping, or if she was already awake with a cup of coffee steaming on the ledge next to her as she started her morning stretches.
When we scarfed down lunch in the mess hall, I wondered if she was eating, too. I imagined her making her famous purple smoothie, swearing to me that you could hide the spinach in it and not taste a thing.
And when I crawled into bed at night, exhausted from the day and overstimulated from all the fucking noise, I’d roll overand stare at the wall, wishing she was next to me with her sleepy chocolate eyes fluttering, and a soft, “I love you,” falling from her lips before she fell asleep.
She would have already moved to France by now, and I hope she’s somewhere safe. I hope she’s spending her free time eating raspberry sorbet and wandering cobblestone streets looking for something to spoil herself with. It’s been a slow poisoning, having to spend every day not knowing what she’s doing, orhowshe’s doing.
Tonight, as I sit on the steps of the barracks, staring up at the night sky, I send out a silent prayer, or wish maybe, hoping it gets to Mags, hoping she feels how much I ache inside not being able to talk to her.
“Hart!” someone shouts from inside the barracks. I exhale a breath, watching it dissipate in the cool night air before standing, shaking my head back and forth as if I could physically right myself.
Moving back inside, I see the drill instructor standing there with stacks of mail and letters in a cart. Recruits are standing idly by and waiting to see if they are going to hear from home.
I gather around, anxiously looking at the writing on the stacks of letters, wondering which one is waiting for me.
My drill instructor turns while rifling through the stack of envelopes in his grasp, handing two over to me. I greedily snatch them away, tucking them to my chest as I weave through the group, moving toward my bunk.
The handwriting on the top of the first letter has the bridge of my nose stinging, knowing that her hand was resting on the envelope as she wrote my name in perfect cursive. The return address says Paris, France, and I smile down at it, knowing she’s living one of her dreams right now.
I rip into the envelope, my heart thumping in my chest as I hold the pages in my hand. Choking back a flurry of emotions, Iscan the letter, nearly unable to read the words slow enough to properly understand them.
Everyone is excited for mail. Those that received care packages are rifling through their contents, already making plans to trade certain items with someone else. It’s so fucking loud I can’t think. I peek up at the clock, seeing that I have seventeen minutes left until lights out.
Folding the paper and letter from Magnolia, I tuck it into my back pocket. I place the letter from my family into my locker to read later. And then I leave the barracks, taking the steps at a near-run, heading toward the mess hall, opting to stop at a solitary picnic table underneath one of the overhead lights.
My fingers tremble as I pull the envelope from my pocket again, sliding her folded letter out and resting it on the table. I smooth it flat with both hands, pressing the sheets to the splintered wood.
My dearest Lukas,
My vision instantly starts to blur. I swipe at my eyes with the palm of my hand, looking around to make sure I’m alone. I’d never hear the end of it if anyone caught me crying over a letter from my girlfriend.
It feels so weird to be writing you a letter. It’s kind of like the notes we used to write for each other when we weren’t in class at the same time, and I kind of love it. It’s not the same as picking up the phone to call you whenever I feel like it, or anytime I need to hear your voice, but it will do for now.
It’s kind of romantic, like some old-timey movie where I have to send a letter via a man on horse, or a courier pigeon, or something, and it’d take months to get to you.
Your mom said that mail might be a little slower to reach you. By the time you’ll get this, hopefully we have been able to talk. Soon I’ll be one of the seasoned military wives, not even phased by delays and poor communication and deployments.
On second thought, I hope I never get that seasoned. I’d rather spend every minute of my days missing you, because that’s how much I love you.
If you can’t tell by the return address, I made it safely to France! I didn’t know what to expect with this junior ballet program, but it feels the same as when I was with The Ballet Theater. We’re touring right now. Most of the performances are around France, but there are plans to perform in London and Spain. I’ll get a small break in May before the summer tour begins, and gosh I hope I get to see you. I’m already a little homesick, and missing you like crazy, but I’m sharing a small flat with two roommates, one who is also American. Together we’re making it feel like home.
I swipe the wetness from my eyes, cursing under my breath at the distance. The flight to and from France would probably take up most of my leave if it was approved anyway. It might be a full day of travel each way for either of us, and if I went there, one entire day could be spent waiting for her to come home from rehearsal. But fuck, it’d be worth it to get to hold her again.
I’d love to come see you on base. To see where you are and try to put the picture in my mind of what you’ve been doing these last few months. I pray my break in May lines up with your schedule. I’ll fly to wherever you are, if you’ll have me.
Do you remember what you said that night you came to visit me before you left? You said that whether it was one hundred or ten thousand miles separating us, we’d make it work. I’ve been clinging to that hope like crazy.
I’m not going to pretend that these next few years will be easy for me, because they won’t. I’ve already cried myself to sleep some nights. I think it’s the not knowing, the wondering. What I wouldn’t give for you to be here, to have you rub my feet after a long practice. But like you said, some day we will look back at the hard times and laugh, right? A few years is just a drop in the bucket when compared to a lifetime together.
