doesn’t matter if he’s the enemy, and it doesn’t matter
if I was acting in self-defense. I killed a man; I took his life like I had a
right to. I couldn’t wrap my head around that. I couldn’t understand that.”
Lizzie looked at me with those sad, blue eyes of hers and I knew
instinctively that she understood what I was saying. She had always been a
pacifist. She had always been the girl to stop a fight, to make peace, to swallow
her own pride simply to avoid an unpleasant situation.
“I know,” she said and I
felt better instantly. “And it’s ok to feel like that.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever said that to me,” I said with a
small smile. “I’ve tried explaining that to a few people and it doesn’t matter
who they are. They’ve always tried to explain away my feelings. I just wanted
them to understand those feelings.”
“I do.”
“I wish I had spoken to you then like I’m speaking to you now,” I
said with a sigh that went ten years deep. “But at the time, I couldn’t talk to
anyone. I retreated into myself and I didn’t resurface for a long time.”
“You send me a letter a
few months into your deployment,” Lizzie recalled. “Do you remember it?”
I searched my head but it
came up blank. “No I’m sorry,” I said.
“I still have that letter,” she admitted. “I cried the first time
I read it … not because there was anything definitive about us in it. You
didn’t mention that you needed time or you wanted to take a break from us. You
just spoke about your first combat mission and I could tell from the way you
wrote that … that you had lost yourself.”
“What did I say in the
letter?”
“It was this one line in particular,” Lizzie said. “You wrote ‘I’m
tired, Lizzie, my body aches but it’s bearable compared with the ache in my
conscience, my soul. I don’t know why I’m here ... not just in this war-torn
place but also in this world.’ I memorized that line because I knew there was a
secret hidden in it somewhere. You were confused and you were alone and I knew
I couldn’t help you. So when the letters stopped coming, I guess I wasn’t
surprised.”
“I didn’t know what to say anymore,” I admitted. “Bastrop seemed
like another life. I felt as though I wasn’t a part of it anymore. I felt that
if I came back, I would taint it somehow, I would ruin everything beautiful
about it: including you. I’m not trying to justify anything, I’m not trying to
pretend like I stopped writing for some noble reason. The truth is I was
confused and alone and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I just …”
“It’s ok Dylan,” Lizzie said squeezing my hand. “You were so
young, we both were. We weren’t supposed to know the best way to deal with
things.”
“I know,” I replied. “I just wish it had been different. I wish I
had never stopped writing to you, I wish I had never given you cause to
question my love for you. I wish I had chosen differently.”
“Don’t do that, Dylan,” Lizzie said immediately. “Don’t look back.
It’ll only drive you crazy; trust me I know. I did it during the worst moments
of my marriage and it only made things worse. Things happened and there’s no
way to change it, so why go through the torture of thinking up all the
alternate possibilities? There’s no alternate. These are our lives.”
She had always been wise beyond her years; it just reinforced how
much I had missed her and how quickly she was able to talk me off the ledge. I
remembered that she had been through things too. She had lived a life while I
had been away and that had taught her things that had nothing to do with me.
“What made you marry
Paul?” I asked.
She smiled. “You already
asked me that question.”
“I didn’t believe your
answer,” I replied.
She looked down and I knew I was right. “He left for college,”
Lizzie said. “And he moved back into town six
if I was acting in self-defense. I killed a man; I took his life like I had a
right to. I couldn’t wrap my head around that. I couldn’t understand that.”
Lizzie looked at me with those sad, blue eyes of hers and I knew
instinctively that she understood what I was saying. She had always been a
pacifist. She had always been the girl to stop a fight, to make peace, to swallow
her own pride simply to avoid an unpleasant situation.
“I know,” she said and I
felt better instantly. “And it’s ok to feel like that.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever said that to me,” I said with a
small smile. “I’ve tried explaining that to a few people and it doesn’t matter
who they are. They’ve always tried to explain away my feelings. I just wanted
them to understand those feelings.”
“I do.”
“I wish I had spoken to you then like I’m speaking to you now,” I
said with a sigh that went ten years deep. “But at the time, I couldn’t talk to
anyone. I retreated into myself and I didn’t resurface for a long time.”
“You send me a letter a
few months into your deployment,” Lizzie recalled. “Do you remember it?”
I searched my head but it
came up blank. “No I’m sorry,” I said.
“I still have that letter,” she admitted. “I cried the first time
I read it … not because there was anything definitive about us in it. You
didn’t mention that you needed time or you wanted to take a break from us. You
just spoke about your first combat mission and I could tell from the way you
wrote that … that you had lost yourself.”
“What did I say in the
letter?”
“It was this one line in particular,” Lizzie said. “You wrote ‘I’m
tired, Lizzie, my body aches but it’s bearable compared with the ache in my
conscience, my soul. I don’t know why I’m here ... not just in this war-torn
place but also in this world.’ I memorized that line because I knew there was a
secret hidden in it somewhere. You were confused and you were alone and I knew
I couldn’t help you. So when the letters stopped coming, I guess I wasn’t
surprised.”
“I didn’t know what to say anymore,” I admitted. “Bastrop seemed
like another life. I felt as though I wasn’t a part of it anymore. I felt that
if I came back, I would taint it somehow, I would ruin everything beautiful
about it: including you. I’m not trying to justify anything, I’m not trying to
pretend like I stopped writing for some noble reason. The truth is I was
confused and alone and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I just …”
“It’s ok Dylan,” Lizzie said squeezing my hand. “You were so
young, we both were. We weren’t supposed to know the best way to deal with
things.”
“I know,” I replied. “I just wish it had been different. I wish I
had never stopped writing to you, I wish I had never given you cause to
question my love for you. I wish I had chosen differently.”
“Don’t do that, Dylan,” Lizzie said immediately. “Don’t look back.
It’ll only drive you crazy; trust me I know. I did it during the worst moments
of my marriage and it only made things worse. Things happened and there’s no
way to change it, so why go through the torture of thinking up all the
alternate possibilities? There’s no alternate. These are our lives.”
She had always been wise beyond her years; it just reinforced how
much I had missed her and how quickly she was able to talk me off the ledge. I
remembered that she had been through things too. She had lived a life while I
had been away and that had taught her things that had nothing to do with me.
“What made you marry
Paul?” I asked.
She smiled. “You already
asked me that question.”
“I didn’t believe your
answer,” I replied.
She looked down and I knew I was right. “He left for college,”
Lizzie said. “And he moved back into town six
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