everybody staying out at your place tonight. She’s already dispatched Nicki with the care packages. Looks like we’ll take turns camping out in your office, Mick.”
––––––––
J anuary 1975
Pine Ridge
Jack sat in Mrs. Fitzsimmons’s kitchen, waiting while she puttered around with the tea kettle. Jack remembered that kettle. They’d been twelve, maybe thirteen at the time. Fitz had dragged him all over town that day, looking for the perfect Mother’s Day present. They’d scoured the five and dimes and downtown shops for hours for something useful and affordable, the money from delivering papers and mowing lawns burning holes in their pockets. When they’d come upon the tea kettles with the hand-painted roses at the farmer’s market, Fitz had declared their efforts a success. Jack thought it was such a good idea, he’d gotten one for his mother as well.
The older woman reached up into the cupboard for the tin of tea – a special blend created by the healer that lived farther up the mountain—– and pulled out a bottle of uisce beatha , commonly known in English as Irish whiskey.
Bringing it all to the table, she placed the kettle on a trivet, the tea next to that. But it was the whiskey she poured into two mugs, handing one to him. “You were with him?”
Jack didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. He had been waiting for that question for years. The last time he’d seen her, at his father’s funeral, she hadn’t asked, and he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to bring it up.
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes, bracing herself against the grief. “Did he suffer?”
“No,” he answered honestly. If she really wanted the details, he would give them to her, but he hoped she didn’t. It was enough that he had seen it, relived it every day. He didn’t want that for her.
Thankfully, she nodded, drained her mug, then poured them both another. This time she added some tea. He waited patiently for the words he didn’t want to hear. As long as she didn’t say them out loud, he could believe for a little while longer.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, Jack, but your mother passed.”
And poof, just like that, his pipe dream scattered. “When?”
“Going on two years now. Shortly after word came that you were missing. She never stopped believing you would come home. Said she’d know if her only son was...”
Her eyes grew shiny. She paused for a moment to gather herself, avoiding his eyes and sipping her tea. He wondered if she had known when Fitz died. If mothers had some secret connection that didn’t need someone showing up on their doorstep with an official-looking letter to tell them their son would be coming home in a box.
What was worse? Knowing your kid was dead, or not knowing and imagining the worst in between flashes of hope?
Jack fought the urge to suck in a breath, his lungs desperate for air as the sunshine-yellow walls closed in on him. “How?”
“Her heart. The doc said it just gave out, couldn’t take anymore. She went in her sleep. Did they not tell you?”
“No.” Someone had probably tried, but receiving mail wasn’t part of the amenities offered by the Viet Cong. After he and the others had been found, well, he guessed no one wanted to be the one to tell him. He had been in pretty bad shape.
“And Kathleen?” he asked, forcing the words past the constriction in his throat.
“She left, right after. Didn’t feel right staying there, I imagine.” Mrs. Fitzsimmons sighed. “She wasn’t there at the time. Her sister Erin was birthing her firstborn, and there were complications. When she got back, she found...” She trailed off. “The lass took it hard. Blames herself. Thinks that if she’d been there things might have ended differently.”
Jack didn’t comment on that. There was no second-guessing death. All the what-ifs in the world weren’t going to change anything, and speculating what might have been only kept the wound open and
––––––––
J anuary 1975
Pine Ridge
Jack sat in Mrs. Fitzsimmons’s kitchen, waiting while she puttered around with the tea kettle. Jack remembered that kettle. They’d been twelve, maybe thirteen at the time. Fitz had dragged him all over town that day, looking for the perfect Mother’s Day present. They’d scoured the five and dimes and downtown shops for hours for something useful and affordable, the money from delivering papers and mowing lawns burning holes in their pockets. When they’d come upon the tea kettles with the hand-painted roses at the farmer’s market, Fitz had declared their efforts a success. Jack thought it was such a good idea, he’d gotten one for his mother as well.
The older woman reached up into the cupboard for the tin of tea – a special blend created by the healer that lived farther up the mountain—– and pulled out a bottle of uisce beatha , commonly known in English as Irish whiskey.
Bringing it all to the table, she placed the kettle on a trivet, the tea next to that. But it was the whiskey she poured into two mugs, handing one to him. “You were with him?”
Jack didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. He had been waiting for that question for years. The last time he’d seen her, at his father’s funeral, she hadn’t asked, and he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to bring it up.
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes, bracing herself against the grief. “Did he suffer?”
“No,” he answered honestly. If she really wanted the details, he would give them to her, but he hoped she didn’t. It was enough that he had seen it, relived it every day. He didn’t want that for her.
Thankfully, she nodded, drained her mug, then poured them both another. This time she added some tea. He waited patiently for the words he didn’t want to hear. As long as she didn’t say them out loud, he could believe for a little while longer.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, Jack, but your mother passed.”
And poof, just like that, his pipe dream scattered. “When?”
“Going on two years now. Shortly after word came that you were missing. She never stopped believing you would come home. Said she’d know if her only son was...”
Her eyes grew shiny. She paused for a moment to gather herself, avoiding his eyes and sipping her tea. He wondered if she had known when Fitz died. If mothers had some secret connection that didn’t need someone showing up on their doorstep with an official-looking letter to tell them their son would be coming home in a box.
What was worse? Knowing your kid was dead, or not knowing and imagining the worst in between flashes of hope?
Jack fought the urge to suck in a breath, his lungs desperate for air as the sunshine-yellow walls closed in on him. “How?”
“Her heart. The doc said it just gave out, couldn’t take anymore. She went in her sleep. Did they not tell you?”
“No.” Someone had probably tried, but receiving mail wasn’t part of the amenities offered by the Viet Cong. After he and the others had been found, well, he guessed no one wanted to be the one to tell him. He had been in pretty bad shape.
“And Kathleen?” he asked, forcing the words past the constriction in his throat.
“She left, right after. Didn’t feel right staying there, I imagine.” Mrs. Fitzsimmons sighed. “She wasn’t there at the time. Her sister Erin was birthing her firstborn, and there were complications. When she got back, she found...” She trailed off. “The lass took it hard. Blames herself. Thinks that if she’d been there things might have ended differently.”
Jack didn’t comment on that. There was no second-guessing death. All the what-ifs in the world weren’t going to change anything, and speculating what might have been only kept the wound open and
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