A Nostalgic Exchange

A life for life

“Get your goddam hands off of me!”

Unless you know what he was capable of before time settled the score, the feeble growl of an old man garners no more pity than an unruly toddler pulled from a playground. Neither woman knew — if they did, neither would have put a goddamn hand on him.

“Grandpa, it’s me, Katie.”

She wasn’t prepared for this. Katie was driving home from school; discarded remnants of life before spring break littered her passenger seat. Katie was pulling onto the interstate while chatting with her besties, wooing in unison after each entry on their vacation checklist. It would be the first week of sunshine after a depressingly typical Portland winter, then the dashboard interrupted with its cold proclamation: INCOMING CALL. Was it Saint Agnes Preparatory School’s refusal to set her free? Her crumpled blazer’s pleated smirk relished in the possibility that a teacher’s work goes on.

“Sorry, ladies. I guess they’re not done with me yet.”

“Don’t upset your delicate condition,” a voice said before it dropped.

After bidding her friend farewell, she huffed, “Katie Skye speaking.” There was a mismatch between her physical response and her professional tone of voice.

“Katie, this is Anne Santee. I’m the home nurse for your grandfather, Jeremiah Skye. He is calling for you.”

Twenty minutes ago, Katie could feel the high desert air pulling their bright stranger across the sky while she stretched out on a poolside chaise lounge. Shea butter lotion and pineapple mocktail aromas teased her senses.

Now, she stood in her grandfather’s living room, barren except for two faded floral wing chairs on either side of a military storage trunk, worn by the years of countless deployments, DITY moves, and curious children left alone with a box of crayons. Antibiotic ointment battled a putrid tissue infection for dominance while Jeremiah hunched over in one chair. The other remained unoccupied at the time; it was always unoccupied. Any magic Katie remembered as a child was gone.

Katie stood in front. “Look up, Grandpa,” she said, capturing Jeremiah’s attention with two fingers, tracking him into her eyes.

Jeremiah’s fiery oration subdued, but the anger of a thousand men collapsed into one–“Where is my wife?” His tone was unmistakable: choose your next words carefully.

The nurse offered reassurance. “Doing great, Katie. You’re the only person in the room he recognizes. Use that focus.”

Katie remained centered between the chairs. “Gram Midge is dead,” she said. To care for him, Katie had to shatter her grandfather’s deceit. She inched towards Jeremiah, keenly aware of the carbon steel knife in his hand. He had tested the sharpened edge with four parallel slices across the chair’s front, stuffing now straining against its open distended belly. The steel gleamed with a fresh layer of honing oil; its sulfur brought grandpa back, when others paid dear for threatening the lives of his team.

“She died eight years ago. It’s okay if you don’t remember.” Katie embraced the nape of her grandfather’s neck, gently resting his head against her own distended belly.

“I remember when Midge was pregnant with you,” grandpa said, nuzzling his right ear against Katie’s belly. Pressing closer, his failing rhythm joined the rapid flashes of an unborn life. The pulsing heartbeat of their alpha commanded both to remain calm.

“Grandma Midge was pregnant with Teresa. Teresa is my mother. I am Katie, Grandpa. I am your granddaughter. This is my baby.” Her rhythm was slow, deliberate.

“I know, Katie.”

“Go ahead and put the knife down, Grandpa.”

Jeremiah laid his blade on the truck’s lid. “I missed Teresa’s birthday,” he said. The knife was comforting. Now, his well-worn fingers were nervous.

The nurse moved around in front of Jeremiah (never approach from behind) and secured the knife. She opened the antique brass latch and lifted the trunk lid. Inside were 32 years of service. Not cliché over varnished plaques or preprinted certificates for jobs well done, but clandestine memories treasured by the few who understand. A ragged leather sheath, its prismatic brown pieces held together by frayed stitching, sat atop the memorabilia. Next to it was a pair of cotton infant shoes, probably brilliant white until they were forever covered in grass, dirt, and blood. Jeremiah reached down and grabbed the shoes. His fingers continued their frenzy, though they were no longer alone. He looked up at Katie; her beautiful green eyes were so familiar.

“Everyone told me she just had an awful time,” he said, “but I wasn’t there.”

The alpha coached her grandfather’s head back to her belly, gently stroking his hair while reassuring him everything was okay. She turned to the nurse, who had chosen to keep motionless.

“Today is mom’s birthday. Grandpa was in the war.” She’s heard the stories a thousand times. “He didn’t meet her until she was 22 months old.”

“Wow,” was the only word Anne could express. She wiped a single tear from her chubby face, suddenly ashamed that she didn’t have a war chest of her own.

His granddaughter’s rhythmic beat — beat — beat lifted Jeremiah into memories of yesterday. “They brought us in low,” he said, “dropping the back when we were two minutes out. High-pitched turbines whined as they battled that pop — pop — pop of the rushing air forcing its way into the cargo bay.” Katie smiled, eager to hear more.

“Mom never told me this story.”

“She doesn’t know.” Jeremiah inhaled deep through his nostrils, then whispered goodbye as he closed his eyes. When they reopened, it was March 21, 2032, once more.

“The forest’s sweet pine below us was overwhelming. I wanted to reach out and grab a handful to stuff in my pocket and season these shoes, but I never got the chance.

“Black Cat Six,” Master Sergeant Skye barked, “Three-Four. Contact.” His words had the exuberance of a lad on his first squirrel hunt.

“Move on target,” Jeremiah replied before looking towards the nurse. “Fail in our objective, and we would be back. We had twelve minutes on the ground. Thirteen, and we would be left behind.” Those squirrels shot back.

Jeremiah smiled. “We were back in twelve. ‘Tell her we got ’em’ was the proudest report I ever gave.” He closes his eyes one last time. “A life for a life. Happy birthday, little girl.”

Katie looked at her grandfather; she could feel his grip on her hand soften and fade. As his last breath faded, a sudden gush of warm fluid flowed down her leg.

A life for life.