He smirked at me.
“Sebastian,” I said, my voice serious, “if it hadn’t been for me, you would have gone to college, gotten your degree…”
I waved away his denial.
“We both know that’s true: well, here we are—I can pay off the mortgage, you can use the GI bill, go to college, get your degree, if that’s what you want.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “It doesn’t feel right, Caro. Let me think about it.”
He was so frustrating, I wanted to hit him. Or kiss him. Probably both.
And, as we were on a roll, I decided to tackle one more task that we’d both been putting off.
I took a deep breath.
“Sebastian,” I said, gently, “it’s time you decided what you want to do with your uniforms—and your medals.”
His sudden, sharp intake of breath showed how hard he found this, but he nodded slowly, staring at the floor. Then he squared his shoulders and met my steady gaze.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
We stood up and I took him by the hand, leading him into the spare room. He leaned against the door frame, his arms folded tightly across his chest. I gave him a quick, encouraging smile, then pulled out his duffel bag and backpack from under the bed.
His Dress Blues and khaki Service Uniform were crumpled and rather sad when I dragged them out. There was no sign of his desert utility uniform; I didn’t want to think about the reason why—I assumed the doctors would have had to cut him out of it when...
He stared at the clothes coldly, keeping all his emotions tightly contained.
“Get rid of them, Caro. I don’t want to see them again.”
“And the medals?”
His Service Uniform was festooned with an array of colorful ribbons and medals. I ran through them in my mind, as I touched them one by one: his Afghanistan Campaign Medal, Marine Commendation Medal, Meritorious Service Medal, Navy and Marine Corps Overseas Service Ribbon, National Defense Service Medal, Defense Meritorious Service Medal, and a Navy and Marine Corps Medal. And, still in its presentation box at the bottom of his backpack, his Purple Heart, for being wounded in action.
As Sebastian watched, I opened the box, stroking the ridges of silky ribbon, and ran my finger over the embossed words, ‘For military merit’.
“Do what you want with them,” he said, his face creasing with pain. “I don’t want to see them. Ever.”
I took another deep breath.
“You don’t want to save them to … maybe … show our children … if…”
He looked up suddenly, a smile hovering around his lips. “You … you’d try?”
“Yes, Sebastian … we will try.”
He let out a shout of pure happiness and scooped me up, twirling me around.
“Let’s start trying right now,” he breathed out onto my skin.
“I’m still on the Pill!” I laughed.
“Doesn’t matter,” he murmured into my neck. “I want to practice.”
I kissed him hard, as he walked me backward into our bedroom.
As Sebastian had once said, if children happened, we’d welcome them, if not, well, that was okay, too.
We had our whole lives ahead of us.
EPILOGUE
When a woman reaches forty, she is no longer young, but not yet old. My friends had offered this piece of wisdom on my birthday seven months ago.
And yet, it seemed that my life was starting again, or, perhaps I should say, entering a new phase.
Surrounded by love, my beautiful 28 year old husband stood at my side, and in front of our friends, we were joined together by the sacred vows of marriage.
Marc, between assignments, had flown in from France and we’d had an evening drinking to Liz’s memory, recalling her humor and craziness, her warmth and strength—crying just a little. And the day before, Ches and his family had arrived from San Diego. His children had peered at me shyly until they spotted Sebastian, and then they’d tried to throw themselves at him, their mother gently restraining them, afraid they’d hurt him. He waved away her concerns and let them climb all over him. It was a wonderful thing to see and my spirits soared, full of hope for the future.
Mitch and Shirley had arrived from South Carolina, and Shirley wept copiously, apologizing over and over. I finally realized that she was apologizing for not having received my letter seven years earlier. We cried together and hugged each other, and agreed to leave the past in the past. Even Donna had flown up for our special day, although Johan had been too ill to travel. Donna had written to us with their congratulations as soon as Shirley had given them the good news. It was strange to see her after all those years, but having her there—smiling with maternal pride—somehow everything had come full circle.