The first letters he sent weren’t much, just blue pages saying how much he missed my mom. They’d always start with “Roseanna baby,”and they’d always end with “All my love, Pete.” That first deployment was directly after 9/11, and his unit was one of the first ones in—mobile and unestablished—so we couldn’t call. Couldn’t send mail. We could only receive it. He’d send small letters for me, too, but they weren’t much, just enough for me to read that he missed me.
The deployments weren't long, but they were back to back, and in a two year span he did three deployments to both Iraq and Afghanistan. My mom had been glued to the television, watching reports as hostages were rescued and bombs were detonated. Each time the doorbell rang, she would go pale, and now I know what she was waiting for, but at the time, it was usually just my friends coming over to play. I didn’t understand her anxiousness until I got much older.
He was on his final deployment when it happened. A car bomb at a check point. You’re not allowed a lot of information, and they keep secrets about plenty of things that happen overseas, but the way my father died was heroic, and they were sure to tell me that at his funeral. That he’d died running toward the other men in his unit, trying to save their lives. His name lives on, printed on silver bracelets that his friends wear in his memory, along with the five other men that died that day.
He left behind a grieving wife, a confused eight-year-old son, a box of letters, and a photo album full of pictures of him in Afghanistan with people he considered his brothers. Face covered in dirt and sun beating down on everything. He was proud. He was doing something.
Part of me hopes that by doing this thing for Audrey, that maybe I’m doing something, too. Something my dad would be proud of. He’d always been so supportive of my interests and how my brain functioned, my love of building and how I wanted to know exactly how everything worked. I’d spend hours building Legos and wait until I could barely keep my eyes open just to hear him come through the door and tell me that I was the best builder he’d ever seen.
My game is not in memoriam. It’s in his honor.
Sitting at the small desk in a cheap hotel just outside of Mobile, Alabama, I remind myself of that as I put the final touches on a character that looks exactly like my father. His eyes stare back at me from the screen, eerily lifelike. I don’t know whether to laugh or shut my laptop and take a walk around the pool to clear my head.
Audrey appears at that exact moment, opening the bathroom door, wearing a red sundress. The straps are thin, pulled up and across her back in an interesting pattern that catches my attention when she turns around to check her reflection in the full length mirror. She’d asked to stop at the store on our way into town, and I’d seen her grab the dress along with a few other items, almost like she didn’t want to get it but couldn’t stop herself from buying it.
“I didn’t know if it would fit my boobs,” she says out loud and then turns to me with wide eyes. “Probably not something you’re used to hearing. Sorry about that.” Her cheeks almost match the color of the material she’s wearing. For what it’s worth, it does fit her boobs. Very well, if I’m being honest. Maybe a little too well, according to how fast I have to look away.
“You look pretty,” I say as I save my work and close my laptop. She’s still and staring at me as I turn around to face her again. “What? You do. It’s a good color on you. I like the hair, too.” She bought a box of dye and went one color, a dark brown, almost black, all over, covering the lighter ends. It makes her eyes stand out more.
“Please stop saying nice things to me. I don’t know how to take compliments. They make me feel awkward,” she says and begins to pull at the dress.
I stand and walk over to her, taking her hands in mine. “You just say thank you and move on. Try it.”
Her chest blossoms bright pink, and she breathes heavily as we hold eye contact. I swear I can see tears begin to form in her eyes before she looks away. “Thank you.” Stepping back, she pulls her hands from mine and reaches into the plastic bag on her bed, pulling out two hats. “I bought one of each. Wasn’t sure who you wanted to represent in this neck of the woods. We are a house divided today, Mr. Clark. Are you going to yell Roll Tide?” She extends the burgundy hat my way then scrunches her face up and shakes her head. “Do that thing where you make the bill less flat. That thing boys do. It’s a magic power I don’t possess.” She stands there, staring at the hat with a dubious look on her face then flops it in my direction with a silent demand for me to fix it.
I laugh while I bend the brim and wait for her to get the rest of her stuff together before we leave. From the corner of my eye I can see her rummaging around for another couple of orange bottles, and then she takes a quick swig of water before turning to me like nothing has just happened.
“The Lovebirds should be waiting for us downstairs. Are you ready to experience deep fried butter?” She asks, holding her hand out for mine.