Anna
It’s amazing how efficient I’ve become at getting Avery and myself ready in the morning. Not that getting a four-and-a-half-month-old baby ready takes a lot. I give her a bath at night, so mornings are mostly about changing her diaper, putting on the cutest of outfits I can’t stop myself from buying, and breastfeeding her. The last is the longest part of the process, but it’s also the most fulfilling. Almost meditative as I can get lost just watching my daughter take her life’s nourishment from me.
After that, it’s a quick shower for me while I watch Avery in her tiny portable bassinet through the shower door. A quick dry of my hair, a slapping on of some makeup, and I’m out the door in an hour and a half from start to finish to drop her off at my mother’s house before heading in to work.
I can’t help but wonder how different our morning routine would be if circumstances were just a bit different.
For example, how much easier would it be if I’d just give into my mother’s harassing and move into her house so she can “take care” of us both? She’s having the hardest time understanding how important my independence is to me.
Or rather, how much easier it would be to care for Avery if I had Jimmy here with me? My husband was killed on a mission gone bad in Syria almost six months ago. Jimmy was the type who would have been very hands-on with Avery. He would have insisted on being the one to change her diaper and get her dressed in the morning since I would be the one to feed her. He’d be involved in that, too, though. He’d sit beside me on the couch, pull me into his strong arms, and would stare down at her the same way I do with that dreamy expression because she’s our little miracle.
At least, I think that’s what he’d do.
The passage of time has a way of fucking with people’s minds, just as becoming a widow while pregnant with a first child can do the same. Truth be told, Jimmy and I had only known each other about two years before he’d died. We’d met while we were both in the Army, stationed down in Ft. Bragg, North Carolina. It had been a whirlwind romance, an accidental pregnancy, and a quick marriage. Some might say I could never have predicted who Jimmy would have been as a father when I hardly knew him as a man and a husband, but they’d be wrong.
Jimmy was the type who would have doted on Avery and me for all the days of our lives. Just because he was taken from us before he could prove that doesn’t mean I don’t know the truth of it.
Regardless, the one thing I’m determined to do is be the strong, independent woman Jimmy so admired. The type of woman he said had attracted him from the very start. While he would never have an issue with me leaning on my mother—and I most certainly did for a while after he died—he’d also expect me to be a role model for Avery and teach her that we can overcome any hardship in this life. That’s what I’m trying to do by putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward.
Every day, I tell myself, You got this, Anna.
This morning, however, as I’m putting Avery’s carrier in the backseat and buckling her in, I have my moment. That one time each day I succumb to grief, pity, and tears. I haven’t figured out how to make these go away yet, and they often don’t last long.
Sometimes, it’s a mere dull ache in the center of my chest and a slight sting of tears as I think about Jimmy.
Other days, like this morning, I can’t hold back. As Avery coos to herself, holding a plastic rattle in her tiny fist, the tears start falling down my face in warm rivers. It’s actually painful trying to hold back the wracking sob that wants to tear free. Sagging against the doorjamb, I take in a ragged breath and curse the heavens for taking my husband from me and leaving Avery without a father. I succumb to that moment of feeling sorry for myself, because fuck if this isn’t hard as hell living life as a young widow and a single mother. I don’t deserve this.
Then my gaze falls to Avery, and she just stares so thoughtfully. Her eyes bore into mine, and I think she knows her mother is having a moment. I rub the wetness from my face with the back of my hand, suck in air through my nose, and level a smile at my little girl. She responds, the tiny pucker of her mouth curving into a gummy grin. She shakes the plastic toy and emits a tiny screech, which I think will become an amazing giggle one day.
And just like that, my moment is over.
Leaning over, I kiss Avery on the forehead, tug on the straps to make sure she’s buckled in tight and repeat my mantra.
“You can do this, Anna.”
♦
Bypassing the second floor where my office is, I move up to the communal kitchen on the fourth. That’s where the best coffee is, and there are usually pastries someone brings in.
I’ve been working at Jameson Force Security for only a few months. This was Jimmy’s gig originally, and I was just the wife. His former experience as an Army ranger made him a prime candidate as one of their mission specialists for the private contracting work they were hired for. He was killed on a job the company was hired for by our own government—to go into Syria and rescue some aid workers who were taken hostage.
My role is far less glamorous, but one I’m cut out for. I was in administrative services during my enlistment with the Army, which translated well into becoming the owner’s secretary. Kynan McGrath and his wife Joslyn were so supportive after Jimmy died. They were constantly reaching out to me, checking on me, and making assurances they would help to take care of my daughter and me forever.
That’s not something I actually wanted, but Kynan didn’t hesitate to agree when I asked for a job. I needed something that made me feel worthy. Strangely, going to work for the company in whose service my husband was killed was exactly what I needed.
Jameson is an interesting company. It was started in Vegas by Kynan’s best friend, Jerico Jameson. He sold out to Kynan a few years back. Kynan moved the headquarters to Pittsburgh, wanting to be on the East Coast and closer to his government contacts in D.C.
The company handles a wide variety of security services. We have crack teams that can do something as simple as in-home installations of high-level alarm systems to mission groups that covertly go into hostile countries to rescue people. We do a surprising amount of that kind of work because our government’s metaphorical hands are often tied as to where they can send our troops. In those instances when they need something done—and it has to be black-ops and off the books—they will hire a private security firm. It’s with a moderate amount of pride they most often turn to Jameson.
My mom doesn’t understand how I can work for the company that got Jimmy killed. I’ve tried to explain it to her, but she’ll never get it. Jimmy wasn’t able to complete his mission. He gave up his life for something extremely important—saving innocents. If there is any way I can help this company achieve their directives, I feel like I’m helping Jimmy accomplish his.
Moreover, Jimmy wasn’t the only one who was lost. His teammate, Sal Mezzina, was also killed. Perhaps even worse, their other teammate, Malik Fournier, was captured and held as a prisoner for months.
Malik has been rescued, though—just over two weeks ago—and I’m not sure I can explain what a burden that knowledge has lifted from my shoulders.
For some reason, I became heavily invested in the search for Malik. For months, Jameson put forth hundreds of thousands of dollars into covert trips into Syria. We paid off informants, went against our government’s express wishes to stay out of any rescue attempts, and scoured the country for him. It was only after Kynan offered a million-dollar reward for credible information as to Malik’s whereabouts—dead or alive—that we got solid evidence of his imprisonment.
Kynan made the bold decision to send our own team in, eschewing help—or some might say hindrance—from our government, which has to play by certain rules—and rescued Malik from his captors.
The news made me happier than I can remember being in a long time. I truly felt Jimmy and Sal had guiding hands in our team successfully bringing Malik home.
Malik’s been in Montreal for the last two weeks, recuperating at his family’s home. He enjoys dual citizenship between the United States and Canada with his mother being an American and his father a French-Canadian. I expect anyone in his position would want to be home for a while after what he’s endured. Kynan says he’ll be coming back to work soon, and I can’t wait to lay eyes on him. I need to assure myself that miracles can occur, and perhaps Jimmy’s death wasn’t all in vain.
True to my expectations, there’s a box of donuts on the counter of the large kitchen that bleeds into a living area. This floor of the Jameson building holds a handful of personal apartments, which some of the single guys live in, the kitchen where we have large team meals and get-togethers, and a plush living area complete with comfy couches, recliners, and a big-screen TV. I’ve heard Kynan throws a hell of a Super Bowl party here.
Glancing at my watch, I see I have another fifteen minutes before I need to be downstairs for my morning meeting with Kynan, where we’ll go over his schedule and my duties for the day. I make myself a cup of coffee, nab a maple donut, and sit at the kitchen island, surfing my phone. There are already three texted pictures of Avery from my mom, and I examine them with a grin for a few moments while I nibble at my donut.
The refurbished freight elevator arrives on the fourth floor, and the gate slides open. I don’t even bother glancing up from my phone, figuring it’s Kynan coming up for a donut and some coffee.
“Hey, Kynan,” I say as I flip back to the first photograph of Avery blowing a little spit bubble. “Check this out.”
I lift my head, turn the phone to hold it outward, and gape in shock at the man who just came off the elevator. He’s carrying a large military duffel over his shoulder.
Malik Fournier.
We’d only met once before—the night before he and the team left on their mission—but the changes between that man and the one standing before me now are significant.
Malik was a big man, and he’s still incredibly tall. But he was brawny when I’d met him before. Packed solid with muscle he’d appeared to know how to use. The man before me is much thinner, although I imagine he’s gained some weight back over the last almost two weeks he’s been at his parents. His cheeks are slightly sunken in, and his eyes have dark circles under them. Perhaps it takes longer than two weeks to catch up on the sleep he surely missed while being held prisoner.
I know it was bad for him there since I had asked Cage to give me all the gory details when he returned to Pittsburgh after the rescue. He’d balked at first, but he’d finally caved. That’s because Cage has become an incredibly close friend over the last several months, and he knows more than anyone how much I’ve tied this rescue of Malik to the final peace I need to move past Jimmy’s death.
Cage had told me all the details. After he’d finished, I’d wished he hadn’t. I just can’t imagine how anyone survived that type of experience.
And yet… seeing him standing before me now—not back to normal but still so very strong in his own right for surviving captivity—and it affects me the way I knew it would.
It’s a balm to my soul, knowing what an absolute miracle he is to have survived. While it doesn’t make Jimmy’s death any easier to accept, it definitely replaces a portion of my grief with a genuine happiness that Malik has overcome practically the impossible.
We stare at each other for a long moment, then Malik’s gaze drops to my phone. “Cute kid.”