We sat next to each other on the sofa—me and Jordan—our cell phones clutched in our hands, our gazes glued to the headline running across the TV screen, willing it to change, to disappear, for this to be a nightmare we would wake from. A five-hour-long nightmare.
F-16 Crashes in Alaska.
I’d called the family members on the pilots’ emergency contact sheets, letting everyone know we’d had an incident involving the Wild Aces and were awaiting more information, waiting for the Air Force to go through the official notification process. I delivered the message in a calm tone, pushing back the tremors, the tears, the terror that crashed into me every time those words ran through my head.
F-16 Crashes in Alaska.
My husband was flying tonight.
We’d spoken on the phone this afternoon, our last words him telling me he was getting ready to step to his jet and that he loved me.
He’d said the words out of habit, his mind already on the mission ahead, ending the call the same way we’d ended every single call since we’d first said “I love you” nine years ago. It had been a short phone call—now, my mind foggy with fear, I struggled to remember what we’d talked about, the memory everything as I clung to those words.
I’d told him the dryer was broken. He’d complained about scheduling issues in the squadron he commanded. I’d been irritated about the dryer, cranky because he’d been gone for weeks and I’d just wanted him home. The call had been fine; there hadn’t been a fight or anything, but now that those words scrolled across the screen in front of me, I wished I hadn’t said a word about the dryer, that the scheduling shop hadn’t screwed up, that we’d spent the night on the phone laughing.
What if I never hear his laugh again?
I called him after I first saw the news alert, dialed his number with trembling fingers and the kind of fear in my heart that filled my body with ice. The ring-ring of the phone beat in time with my heart. I prayed over and over again for him to answer so I could hear his voice, even as I knew in a situation like this, none of the guys would pick up; all communication would be cut off until they notified the pilot’s family. And still, I called. My heart, my love, my life was somewhere out there, and I couldn’t rest until I knew he was safe.
Finally, I heard the sound of his voice, the hint of an accent that came from a childhood in New England, my heart lurching at the sound.
“Michael. Thank God—”
“—I’m not available right now, but if you’d like to leave a message—”
The rest of his voice mail greeting disappeared beneath the sound rushing in my ears. When I heard the beep, I left a message, feeling as though my voice belonged to someone else, as though this night wasn’t real and I’d wake up and turn over, rolling into the curve of Michael’s body, pressing my lips to his skin, inhaling his scent.
I hung up the phone with a shudder, standing in the middle of our kitchen, no idea what came next.
And then Jordan called, the same fear in her voice that had taken up permanent residence in my gut, and I invited her over, because even though I was supposed to be the strong one, the calm one, buoyed by seven years’ experience as a military wife, I couldn’t get past the fear dragging me down.
F-16 Crashes in Alaska.
We didn’t speak. At some point, Jordan reached out and grabbed my hand. I didn’t let go.
I thought of the pilots who were flying tonight. Michael. Easy. Jordan’s boyfriend, Burn. Thor. All pilots I’d grown close to, cared about. Men who I’d celebrated holidays with, who had become like brothers to me.
My husband was flying tonight.
I squeezed Jordan’s hand a bit tighter, the panic growing with each second that passed. I couldn’t sit here and pretend to be calm, as though the worry wasn’t ripping me to shreds, as if I wasn’t about to crawl out of my skin.
I needed to know he was okay. Needed to hear his voice. It was such a simple thing; how many times had I heard him speak, listened to that husky voice that always filled me with peace? Now I needed it. Needed to cling to the sound as proof he’d survived, that I hadn’t lost everything.
Please let him be okay. Please. Please.
The doorbell rang.
We both froze. I’d never thought my doorbell was ominous, but now the sound sent a chill down my spine. Good news didn’t come in the early morning, the sun just barely risen. It didn’t come wearing service dress. I didn’t know if they were here for me or for Jordan, but either way, something inside me shattered.
We both rose from the couch, our lips unmoving, our hands locked. My legs shook, my heart rattling inside my chest. My body aged decades with each step I took, with each step that took me closer to whatever nightmare faced us on the other side of the door.
They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die. And it did.
I saw myself at twenty-one, at a bar in Atlanta, laughing with my friends, my body lighting up with sparks as I made eye contact with the hot guy sitting on a barstool, desperately hoping he’d come over and talk to me. I saw myself in Michael’s arms as we kissed for the first time, heard my voice telling my friends I was going to marry him, saw the look on his face as I walked down the aisle on our wedding day. So many moments. His arms around me as we mourned the baby we’d loved and lost after my miscarriage, the way he kissed me each night before he fell asleep. Big moments, small moments, the pieces of a life we’d built together, all the love and hope that had filled me as I envisioned our future, all the things we’d do—the children I’d prayed for, the plans we’d made. My entire world wrapped up in one person.
And then the moments stopped and my mind went blank as I stared at my front door.
I reached out, my fingers grazing the knob, and some part of me wanted to pull back as I hoped, prayed, that this time if I called Michael, he’d answer, saying my name in the voice that still put a smile on my face. But I knew. I knew. Hadn’t I always known we hurtled toward this? That at some point the bill would come due, and eventually he’d go up in the air and the sky wouldn’t give him back.
The door opened with a creak. Three officers in uniform stood on our front porch.
It was as though I’d left my body, as if I was hovering above all of this, watching it play out. I couldn’t . . . I didn’t feel anything. Could barely register the words they said. Jordan, the walls around me, everything disappeared, until there was a hole inside me, around me, swallowing me up.
“Mrs. Peterson, we regret to inform you . . .”
I felt myself falling, taking Jordan down with me as I hit the floor, as I quite simply broke. She was there, her arms around me, but I couldn’t feel her.
I couldn’t feel anything anymore.