ECHO // #Wattys2017

CHAPTER 7 ~ VIOLENT SHOVES

 
Evie helped me to the couch where I sat staring blankly ahead. Before me stood a Navy chaplain, and to his right an impeccably manicured Marine Corps Staff Sergeant in full dress blues with all the ribbons, medals, and badges to which I'm sure he was entitled.

"Katherine Mica Wheeler? Daughter of Michael Abraham Wheeler?"

No words would come, so I nodded.

I took in the sympathy that betrayed the Marine's eyes as they met mine. I resented him for it. He passed me a white envelope bearing the Department of Defense logo, and then, the cherub-faced Marine spoke the most unhinging words.

"The Commandant of the Marine Corps has entrusted me to express his deep regret..." And by those very words, my revolving universe collapsed.

I could faintly feel Evie's arm wrapped around my shoulders as the Marine nervously cleared his throat and continued. "Your father, Master Gunnery Sergeant Michael Wheeler, was regrettably killed in action in the Washir District of Afghanistan on June seventeenth."

            Three days is how long it took for them to notify me? It had been three days since my dad died and I hadn't heard a word from David.

"Three days," I heard an unfamiliar voice declare my thoughts.

"Pardon me, Ma'am?" The Marine said, confused.

            I shook my head and shot to my feet in panic.

            "David. Where's David?" I demanded.

Constance immediately interjected, "David's fine, he'll be home in a couple of days."

            That one comfort allowed me to take a relieved breath as I sank back down to the couch.  

"Only the dead have seen the end of war," Plato said, and occasionally my dad. I cringed, resentful of the memory's ironic and untimely intrusion.

I listened to the Marine as he continued with his well-rehearsed Department of Defense-endorsed notification. I listened to the watered-down version of how my dad died, but I didn't actually hear any of it until later, when the front door closed behind the Marine and chaplain. It was then that each word reverberated in my mind like the percussion of an exploding grenade. The words rang long after the men had left, and still they rang, until I could hear nothing else.

            The days following passed as unrecognizable blurs. My mind rejected faces and condolences, unable to retain anything more than my own all-consuming grief. I offered up my best standard issue smile, which I saw by the returned expressions that my guise was transparent. Sympathetic gestures, lingering touches on the shoulder, and the general uneasy feeling when entering a room, made me wish everyone would leave.

            I lost a couple of days entirely. I couldn't recall boarding a plane with Evie to Washington, D.C., or speaking with David on the phone before he flew out of Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany, or much else in between. During fleeting moments of lucidity, Evie would fill me in on what details I missed. It was awful and pathetic that Evie had to babysit me. My dad would've been disappointed. The thought only made the pain worse.

It was unseasonably cold the morning my dad came home. Thunder rumbled through the slate clouds, threatening rain. How cliché, I thought.

"Miss Wheeler?" I heard as the car door opposite me swung open. I didn't reply. I didn't even turn to see who it was addressing me so formally. A moment later the same resolute, male voice announced his presence again. "It will be approximately five minutes. Will you be joining the Marines on the flight line?" Again, I refused to acknowledge the addresser, I simply continued my million-mile stare out the passenger window and shook my head a resolved 'no'. Without another word the door quietly closed and a rush of cold, damp air forced a shiver.