Coming Home

romance and loss

"Not today, don’t let it happen today. Turner is coming home," Megan thought, falling out of bed. She stayed on her knees for a few moments, her forehead resting on her crossed arms along the rim of the bed. Not praying, though, maybe she should try. The familiar sensation crept through her body, lodging in her brain like some jungle parasite.

What would Turner want me to do?

Pushing to her feet, she went into the bathroom to relieve herself. At the sink, she washed her hands and studied herself in the mirror. Searching her brown eyes, she saw nothing there, just fathomless darkness filled with sad resignation.

Turner always says, "We get what we choose." If I got what I chose, I would never

again wake up in this darkness, she thought.

Time and time again he had said,"Woman, everyone has a dark hole to contend with. You can sink into it or face it and refuse to be overcome."

I don’t know how he would know, she thought.

He seemed to always get what he wanted, and to know what that was. He slipped through school with a 3.0 average even while keeping a job. If he needed money, he could invariably get his folks or one of the many who always seemed to owe him for some past favor to come up with what he needed. People clamored to be the one to help Turner out. Even her.

She rarely spent much of her wages. She did not mix with people, preferring to be alone. She had to study a lot harder than he did to keep her grades. He said, "If you’re afraid to go out and have a good time yourself, then you owe it to the world to fund those who did. Anyway, money is not important in itself but only as a means to a hoped for end." And he always paid her back.

Turner loved people, and they were always hovering around him. She didn’t know why he bothered having her as a friend, with all her issues.

"One day, you will come out with me," he had promised her, and she had. He wouldn’t leave her alone to brood, constantly drawing her into his circle of friends until eventually she had become one of the group. Coffee, she needed caffeine, or she’d never get going. 

　

Megan put the coffee on and presently the nutty smell of her bed and breakfast blend was permeating the air as she went in to shower and dress in her black skirt and black Tommy Hilfiger shirt.

On second thought, she pulled the black shirt off and tossed it in the pile of to-do laundry, in the corner of the room. Turner said she needed to wear more color, especially when she was feeling this way.

Megan sifted through her drawers until she found the shirt he had given her, a tie-dyed multi-colored tee shirt. He’d said it reminded him of a rainbow, and God made rainbows to give people hope. He said she was to always remember that...

She slipped it on, studying herself in the mirror. It did add a bit of color to her face, which had seemed ashen when she’d awakened. She would wear it for him.

The black moods always felt the same and seemed to came from somewhere

unexpected. Sometimes, like today, it was just there when she woke, the sick feeling of dread. The certainty that some evil was rushing around the corner perhaps with her next breath.

It never did, but the anxiety was still real, and while under its spell she could not

find, in any corner of her mind, a good word that she could allow herself to believe. In fact once she’d have let her black mood take her where it would until it left on its own.

Not any more. Turner hated that. He didn’t let life just happen to him. He said she needed to take it in both hands and demand submission, gleaning the best it had to offer.

When she had felt like she could not take any more and wanted to follow the darkness to its inevitable end, he had become angry and told her that was the cowards way, and She was the bravest person he knew. She thought he’d said that just to make her feel better, but it had worked. A tear slid down her cheek. He never permitted her to wallow and she wouldn’t allow herself to indulge, not today.

The coffee smell was over powering, the gurgling sound of the pot told her it was finally done. That pot was getting slower everyday. Maybe she would go out and buy a

new one. Spend some money on herself for a change. Buy something she needed. Turner would approve, she was sure.

She swiped Peony red lipstick across her mouth. The added splendor gave her eyes the spark of rebellion, an untamed spirit, she thought.

"I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul." She spoke aloud the words . These words from ‘Invictus’ Turner’s favorite poem by William Ernest Henley.

What had Turner said when he had read it to her the first time? "You need a motto to remind you who’s in charge." And he had written the words down and pasted copies to her bathroom mirror and her fridge. She couldn’t resist his enthusiasm and had found it truly did help, reading them everyday. She had used those words to shine light into the darkness time and again. Turner would be proud of her. Yes, he would.

Megan poured a cup of the steaming brew and added all the condiments. She smiled when she recalled Turner screwing up his face, saying " you liked a little coffee with your cream and sugar!"

She thought about the first time she had seen him, sweeping into their psychology class after it had already started. Swirling through the door, he had chosen a

front row seat, got out a notebook and pen and looking around at the class said,"Sorry, lost, shall we get started?"

He had looked so serious that we all, professor included, just moved on. That was the way it was with him. You couldn’t be angry, because he was always totally with you.

She remembered the way he always asked questions that none of the rest of them would. With him in the class the professors were always on their toes digging deep into their reserves of knowledge to feed a hungry mind. He validated their calling. It wasn’t just another job with Turner there, and everyone had benefitted.

When the war started in Iraq, Turner said it would not be over quickly, like everyone hoped.

"These people have been suppressed too long. They need help to learn new ways.

They’ve never known the freedom we live with daily. They can’t comprehend."

Then one day there had been a knock on her door. When she opened it, he was standing there wearing a U.S. Army uniform.

"Megan, I’m going to Iraq." His clear eyes were asking for her understanding.

"You’re leaving? What about me?" Even as she said it she knew she sounded like a weak, spoiled

child. She wasn’t his responsibility.

"Megan, you are stronger than you know." He’d hugged her then, looking her in the eye. "We get what we choose, Megan, but those people never got a choice."

"But Turner." Tears had poured down her cheeks.

"I know. Me too." He had held her away from him and looked deep into her eyes. "When I get back, we’ll talk. Don’t forget the things I told you...or me."

"That couldn’t happen," she’d said.

Now he’d been in Iraq for almost a year and she was sure he had helped those poor people just as he had helped her. Over the months she had learned to cope with her enemy just as he said she could. Sometimes she still woke up in the darkness, but she knew she

didn’t have to stay there anymore. She could deal with whatever life held for her, thanks to Turner.

His letters were filled with hope, both for her and for the Iraqui people. He said their eagerness to overcome and cope in the face of daily terrors would inspire anyone, and they had. Their months apart had made her steady.

She felt the darkness slip suddenly away. It always did when she thought of him.

Thank you Turner, she thought, as she often did each day.

Checking her watch, Megan noted that she needed to hurry if she wasn’t going to miss his plane. She gulped down the last of her coffee and set out.

How had the two of them become so close? She’d known him for two years, a planet orbiting around his sun, just one of many who found his proximity inspiring, and his words worth hearing.

"Look how I got through the darkness this morning. You would be proud of me Turner." She felt him there with her.

At the airport, she stood with others, waiting to greet him. His parents and it seemed, half their class were there.

Suddenly the door of the plane opened and two soldiers in full dress uniform came down the steps standing at attention as the flag covered coffin was carefully unloaded from the baggage hold.

Megan’s lips trembled, and she finally allowed the tears to fall,Turner was home.

Author's Note

I wanted to publish a book of short stories, but someone told me this was not something people would want to read about. I like to paint an emotion in each of my stories. would this story offend peoples senses?

Reviews

[D_McCreery]

It's a very good story. You really get a feeling of who Megan is and what she is feeling. It may be because I can relate to some of those feelings and issues whereas others who haven't might not. I'm not sure on that. It's well written but there's a few confusing parts, mostly with some grammar issues. I'd also watch the commas - they're great for adding in some breaks but they can completely halt the momentum of your writing at times. Great ending, though!