hen I enter the conference room, I’m already late. My plane landed on time but then was delayed on the tarmac due to airport traffic. Once I make it through the security checks at the meeting facility, sign my life away to confidentiality, and open the door, I’m not quite sure what to expect. The tiered room is medium in size, with the back portion filled with people sporting their press credentials and the front of the room a sea of military uniforms ranging from fatigues to dress blues to the more subtle suits and ties usually typical of intelligence officials.
I work my way as close to the front as I can, but since the press person leading the meeting is speaking already, I don’t want to draw too much attention my way. The whole flight here, I questioned the justification of this meeting, its overall purpose, and then as I’m seated and tune in to the speaker, I realize it’s just what I thought – a dog and pony show. A propaganda fest promising numerous embedded missions to ensure that we report in a positive light all of the action that we will see once we get boots down on the ground.
I’m not a rookie. I’m irritated that I have to even be here when I’ve proven time and again that I’m not going to bad-mouth U.S. military tactics for the sake of television ratings. I could be on a plane right now to ensure I’m the first one at the scene instead of here wasting my time.
My head’s down as I doodle on my pad, taking the names of the people who are speaking although I’ll never use them when I’m in the middle of dirt and dust and gunfire, but it’s something to do rather than let my mind run away with thoughts of once again touching down without a photographer.
Especially the one I want the most.
The speaker begins to finally talk about the one thing I have interest in, the terrorist bombing at the embassy. And as explanations begin, I look up to the screens flashing images of the on-site devastation: twisted metal, concrete rubble, smoke, and dust. Then she moves on to the deaths incurred. When the image changes, everything in my body freezes as Beaux’s image appears on the screen.
The image changes before I can process it fully. Before I can believe it. I laugh out loud like this is some kind of joke, my eyes looking around for the hidden cameras, but as I meet the appalled gazes of those around me, the bottom drops out from under me. All I can do is look back at the screen in front of me and wait for the image to appear again in the series of photographs.
I’m staggered. Confused. Broken. Disbelieving.
I struggle to draw in a breath, fight incoherency as I try to process thoughts, wince as the pain in my chest constricts so tightly, I feel as if someone is pulling my heart out and not letting go of it all at the same time.
There’s no way she’s dead. Can’t be.
My thoughts run rampant as I slide to the edge of my seat, willing the picture to appear again. And when it does, I blink my eyes rapidly and wish the image away.
Because it’s Beaux. There’s no denying it. The picture may be older and of Beaux dressed in a business suit, but it’s her, the woman I love, raven hair, green eyes. I hear her laugh, see her smile, smell her perfume, and miss the sound of her voice.
The projector turns off, the screen goes black, and yet I still stare.
This can’t be happening. Fractured thoughts break free and crash around in my head, but the one that sticks the most is that I’m too late. Through the fog of emotion, that’s the only thing I can process right off the bat. I never even had the chance to fight for her again, win her back, tell her I love her… Once again I’m too late.
The vise grip of disbelief squeezes tighter as the speaker drones on, and I hear nothing, see nothing, except for the look on Beaux’s face the last time I saw her. Conflicted, compliant, flushed, beautiful, and still mine despite being married to another man.
Shock numbs me at first. Doesn’t allow me to accept the truth of what I just heard, that Beaux’s gone. That I’ve lost yet another woman to this violent lifestyle I’ve chosen to live.