Afterlife: Reincarnation

39

"So this will be over?" I asked, eager. "When you find her, she will be coming home?"

"Most definitely," he assured me. "Our main concern right now is finding them, and getting them out of that region."

I knew his assurance should offer me some comfort, but it did nothing to ease the pain I felt in my chest. She would be coming home, but first, she needed to be found.

"Have you been in touch with her family?" he asked, and I startled.

"No,"

"Would you like to call them, or do you prefer for me to?

Jesus. I hadn't even thought about calling her parents. I had only met them once. They probably didn't even remember me. How the hell was I supposed to call them up and explain something like this to them?

"I...I'm not..."

"That's fine," he interrupted, sensing my turmoil. "I will call them once I am off the phone with you."

"Thank you," I sighed, feeling so completely helpless and useless at this moment. I could do nothing. I couldn't find my girl, I couldn't help her, and apparently I couldn't even contact her fucking parents to let them know what may or may not have happened to her.

I was a complete shit.

"If I hear anything, I will be sure to contact you," he assured me, the tension in his own voice mimicking that of mine.

"Thank you,"

After hanging up, I felt no better for this contact. I had prayed, albeit stupidly, that he would have answers. It had been a little over an hour since I lost contact with Lane, and I suppose in that time I had assumed that someone from her team would have contacted someone. Surely, they had to reach out somewhere. And wouldn't word reach back to New York, providing updates on the team and their safety?

Yes, I was certain all those things would happen. But with time. Unfortunately, time was a heartless bitch, seemingly intent on doing nothing but tormenting me, causing me pain, and filling my ragged mind with horrific and frightening possibilities.

Leaning back against the couch again, I clutched the back with my hands. I could tell I was holding on a little too tightly, my knuckles turning white. But I didn't care. I needed to hold on to something. Anything. Because I felt like I was falling, drowning and dying, and if I didn't hold on to something I would just disappear.

What was I supposed to do? It was Sunday, and thank fucking God I didn't have to go to work today. I couldn't even think of trying to function at work tomorrow, or the next day. Or, if I was being honest, any day until I knew she was okay. Until I had her with me.

Quickly, my phone was in my hand again, dialing the number of my supervisor. We had been told to contact him if any concerns arose, and I figured this counted as a big assed concern.  The conversation was short, and I kept it to only the direct, important parts.

My girlfriend is in Somalia. Her camp has been attacked. I don't know where she is. I'm going back to New York until I get word from her.

Needless to say, my leave was granted without exception. I was certain that of all the excuses for absence he had ever heard, mine was undoubtedly a first.

The moment I finished that call, I was back on my computer, searching for a flight back to New York. Simultaneously, I was on the phone with Niall, telling him I would be back that night, and need to crash with him. His reaction was unmistakably Niall, a flurry of Irish accented curse words, worrying, and promises to 'clean all his shit out of my old room'.

By the end of the hour, I had a flight booked, and was throwing random items into a carryon. I didn't even have the time or patience to deal with checking a bag. I could make due living out of a carry on for however long it took. And if heaven forbid it took longer, I would just buy what I needed. My only concern at the moment was getting back to New York, knowing that once found, that would be where they would return.

Storming into my small bathroom, I started gathering the few items I would need. Razor, toothbrush, whatever. I could hardly even think straight, my mind a blur. I was foggy, unable to think of anything clearly for more than a few moments. My thoughts were intermixed with horrific images of unknown possibilities, flashed with whether or not I would need to bring that extra pair of jeans.

My arms were filled with all the annoying little items from my bathroom, as my phone vibrated in my pocket. I all but threw the razor, toothbrush and deodorant onto the bed, pulling my phone out quickly.

"Hello?"

"Harry?" an unfamiliar voice called.

"Yes?"

A small shutter sounded through the phone, and I furrowed my brow in confusion. "This is Cathy Jennings," she continued. "Lanes mom,"

Oh fuck.

"We just spoke with Mike Ward. He told us what happened."

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"He said you were talking to her...at the time,"

Clearing my throat, I tried to even my voice. This poor woman was clearly distraught. Just as I was. The last thing I needed was to make this worse for her, to show her my panic.

"I was,"

"Do you know what happened?" she asked, and I closed my eyes at the pleading in her voice. "Is she alright."

"I wish I knew," I admitted. "I just heard the gunfire, and the iPad was knocked to the floor. I couldn't see or hear anything more other than the fighting."

She stifled a sob, and I mentally smacked myself in the face. Nothing I said, if it held any honesty, would make this better for her. Because the truth of the scene was terrifying, and I had no answers that would offer her any support.

"I am flying back to New York now," I said, wanting to get off the image of Lane. "I want to be there when she comes home."

"That's good," she swallowed, obviously struggling. "She will want to see you." She was silent for a long moment, and I could tell she was trying to compose herself.  "She loves you very much."

The pain that stabbed through my chest at her mothers declaration made me weak, and I had no choice but to sit back onto my bed with a bounce.

She had talked to her parents about me. They did know how I was, and that I was a part of her life. As if this all didn't feel too horribly real, now I was also contending with the presence of her family, along side my own fear and grief.

How did I do this?

"Please let us know when you get to New York, son," she said, her voce only marginally stronger. "And if you hear anything from our baby,"

"I will," I assured her, the lump in my throat making it so fucking difficult to talk.

Hanging up from her mother, I sat on the edge of my bed. How had this day turned on a dime so God damn fast? This morning, I was planning a stupid romantic Skype date, swearing at the fucking wax streak on my wall, and worrying about my lack of vase.

Now, I was worrying about whether or not I would ever see Lane again.