Chapter 29

Love Makes the
World Go ‘Round

Thursday, June 27

While I scrub the last of the spaghetti sauce from the bottom of the pan in the kitchen, Dad sits in the center of the family room, furniture shoved against the wall, gear splayed around him like a child on Christmas morning. I’ve never seen so much equipment, and as I observe him through the kitchen pass thru, I can’t help but wonder how he’s going to make it all fit inside his rucksack and duffle.

Two bags are all he gets to take with him tomorrow. Two bags to fit everything he needs to sustain him for the next nine months in Syria.

As I watch him now, rolling a pair of pants into a tight ball, I want to ask if he’s scared, the way Travis was on prom night. I want to ask if he has the conviction to shoot another person if he must. I want to ask if he’s going to miss me as much as I’m going to miss him.

What I say instead is, “How long’s the flight over there?”

He jumps at the sound of my voice, disturbed from somewhere deep in thought. “Oh, Tess. I didn’t know you were still there,” he replies, looking up from his bag. “What’s that again?”

“I was wondering how long it will take to get there. To Syria. On the plane.”

He cocks his head to the side, settling onto his heels. “They tell us it’s about eighteen hours. But I’m not concerned about the time and distance. The worst part is the lack of accommodations on the plane.”

“Like what?” I ask, setting down my dishrag to join him on the family room floor.

“Like we’re traveling in a C-130, and it’s gonna suck. The webbed seats are made of canvas straps, and they slice across the back of your legs until they cut off the circulation. We’ll be crammed in like sardines, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder down the sides of the plane with cargo stacked in the middle. There’s nothing but a bucket for a bathroom, and it’s loud, with lots of vibration, especially on the propline. Plus, no in-flight movie or snacks.”

Of course, it’s easy to talk about the mechanics of it all as he explains about the plane. The preparations. The logistics. The execution. What’s difficult to talk about is what it’s going to be like once he’s gone.

He returns to his packing list, checking off items with a Sharpie as he crams them into the duffle. Protective gloves. Sunglasses. Helmet. Utility belt. Mag light. Night vision goggles. Canteen. Heavy coat. I try to picture him using all these things, living in a war-torn nation on the other side of the world, and I can’t even imagine what it will be like. Where will he sleep? What will he eat? What will he do every day?

I fold together several pairs of socks, rolling them as I’ve seen him do with the rest of his clothes. “What are you gonna do once you get there?” I ask.

He sets down the packing list, giving me his undivided attention. “What do you mean?”

“Like, what’s your job gonna be?”

He’s thoughtful for a moment, resting back on the palms of his hands. “It’s a pretty complicated thing,” he says. “But mostly I’ll be in charge of decoding the intel we pick up on secured channels from the enemy. Hopefully, we’ll prevent them from engaging in more attacks against the Syrian people. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to root out cells of terrorists living in villages so they can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

I try to envision what a Syrian village looks like. What the villagers look like. And also, what they’ll think of my dad.

“Are you scared?” I ask before I can stop myself. I don’t want him to say he is, but it would be foolish to think he isn’t.

He nods slowly, watching me, not wishing to give too much away. Clearly, the last thing he wants is for me to worry over him.

“Of what?” I prod.

“I worry mostly about making sure we do right by the Syrian people. Because most everyone over there is completely innocent. Lots of folks just trying to survive. Normal families living their lives. The tough part is figuring out who’s who, you know? I guess I’m afraid I might not always get it right, and my mistake might cost someone their life.” He pauses, reading the expression on my face. “It’s all gonna be fine, though, so don’t you go worrying your head about me.”

His deployment to Syria is a little bit like my move to Fayetteville. Having to figure out the people in order to survive. “So how do you win?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Win?”

“Yeah. Win. Win the war. If you’re gonna mess up, how do the good guys ever win?”

He must assume I’m speaking in broad generalities, not only about the war in Syria because he pushes his equipment to the side and crawls on his hands and knees over to where I’m sitting against the wall. He edges up to me, pulling me close, and in an instant, we’re back on the farm. I’m five years old again, Daddy’s little girl.

“There’s this saying in chess: ‘Victory goes to the player who makes the next to last mistake.’ It basically means during a game of chess you can make mistakes along the way and still come out ahead as long as you learn from those missteps and adjust accordingly. You don’t need to do things perfectly from the beginning to eventually get it right in the end. I’ve found over the years the theory applies to life as well. And I’m pretty sure it will be the same for war.”

I nod, considering the mistakes I’ve made in my own life, including the time I wasted worrying about fitting in here in Fayetteville. It makes me grateful for second chances, and I’m glad, as far as my new life is concerned, there’s still time to get things right.

There’s one mistake I’ve made, however, which might be a game ender. The years I squandered with Zander are gone, and there’s no guarantee I’ll ever have the chance to make things right between us. We may never get to explore being anything more than friends.

“Dad,” I say, staring at my hands, disbelieving of what I’m about to divulge. “I think I’m in love with Zander.”

He doesn’t chuckle to himself as I expect, and when I lift my chin, wary of his reaction, his expression is serious. Wistful even. “I know,” he says.

“No,” I continue, shaking my head, certain he can’t possibly understand. “I really love him. Like, love love. And I want to tell him when he comes to visit, but I’m scared of ruining our friendship.”

He nods thoughtfully. “That’s understandable,” he says.

We’re silent for several moments, and I’m flushed with embarrassment, unable to look him in the eye. I have no idea what compelled me to say something to him about Zander in the first place, and I don’t know what advice I expect him to give. I’m considering an exit strategy, perhaps running from the room, but before I can get off the floor he places his hand on top of mine and says, “Don’t ever be afraid to follow your heart, Tess. It’s served you well this far, with your new friends here and with Zander back in Iowa. Trust your feelings and whatever happens, at least you gave love a chance. It’s the best any of us can hope for.”

He wraps an arm around my shoulder and places a kiss on the top of my head.

“You think I should tell him?”

“I’ll be disappointed if you don’t,” he replies.