21
Wyatt
2012
The thing about doing the right thing is that it always comes at a cost. The price tag is high enough that you know upfront it’s out of your depth. When you’re left with a choice between what your heart wants and what your conscience dictates, there will be casualties. I knock once at the door of the small house on a quiet street.
“The kind of street you see and just know you’re going to raise a family there.” Josh’s words make me look around more astutely. It’s quiet, with just a few kids riding bicycles. That alone makes me understand what he meant. The world is no longer a safe place, yet being here is like stepping into a time long ago. The kind of world my folks spoke of.
I look around me. The lawn is overgrown and the garden full of weeds. It didn’t look like anyone lived here, but I know someone does.
A young woman pulls the door open. She has sorrowful eyes and a sad smile. Her black hair is cropped to just above the shoulder. Her grey dress matches her eyes. Her eyes are what he spoke about every night in our tent. He said they were the color of the clouds before a storm, and he was right.
“Erin?”
“Yes.” She nods tentatively. “May I help you?”
“I’m Wyatt Barnes. I served . . .” I can’t bring myself to say any more. Her face falls instantly, and she places a hand on the doorpost to steady herself, her posture drooping straightaway.
“Oh . . .” The words are gentle. “Please, please come in.”
She steps aside almost weakly, and I have the urge to carry her. I catch a whiff of alcohol on her breath. On closer inspection, she looks frail. She can’t be more than two years older than me. Josh was. However, this woman in front of me has aged.
“We can talk in here . . .” She trails off. I follow her, and she leads me to what must be a living room. I expected that being here would be hard, but tears well up when I see pictures of my friend on the wall.
“Would you like some tea?” She fumbles with her skirt. Her hands tremble slightly.
“No, I’m all right.” I gather my emotions. It took me a year to do this, and I have to do it right.
“Would you mind if I had some? I need to steady my nerves.”
I nod, and she stands, making her way out of the living room. Unsure what to do, I follow behind her and find myself standing in her small kitchen.
Everything is neat and in its place. It’s decorated in yellow and grey, an unlikely but comforting combination.
“Please sit,” she offers. I pull out a chair and do as she says.
She turns on the stove absentmindedly, but instead of taking a teacup out of the cupboard, she removes a glass and bends to retrieve a vodka bottle from another cabinet.
“I knew you’d come someday,” she starts. I watch as she pours herself a stiff portion. “He mentioned you a lot in his letters . . . Were you there . . .?” She turns to look at me, trailing off.
I watch her. Not sure what to say.
“Were you there . . . when it happened?”
I nod in affirmation. I knew the question would come up, but I’m not quite sure how to answer it.
“I was there. He–” I feel deflated. “Josh saved my life.”
Erin knocks back the contents of her glass and wraps her arms around her small waist. “He was always the hero.” She smiles at the memory. “It’s how we met, you know. He was a young cadet, returning home on leave. I was in the supermarket, the fresh produce aisle when—” She laughs, a small laugh that doesn’t sound or feel like a laugh.
“He was,” I agree. I didn’t know him the way she did. I didn’t love him the way she did. However, I knew that much. He would risk his life no matter what.
“Have you been getting my letters?” I ask.
She nods. “I didn’t have the heart to respond to them. To write to someone else. It just didn’t feel right.”
I understood what she meant.
