by Jennifer Braunfels
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Before she left home, Michelle did a final check of the backpack. She felt around then pulled a knife with a long serpentine blade from one of the side pockets. Wyatt never traveled anywhere without a weapon after he came home from his first deployment. Michelle rolled the knife in her hand. Tossed it onto the bed.
She usually kept the backpack in their bedroom closet. At first, she’d take the bag out daily and hug it to her chest. But she worried that taking the pack out too often would somehow erase Wyatt’s scent, a mix of freshly cut grass, campfire, and whiskey. As if, like a scratch-and-sniff sticker, after time, his smell would disappear forever.
The plan was pragmatic. Deplane in El Paso, drive to Alamogordo, then go to the desert. She’d leave the keys in the ignition, the rental agreement papers bearing her name tucked neatly into the crease of the passenger seat.
***
Michelle made her way toward airport security. When she was almost there, she stooped down to unlace her sneakers. When she stood back up, an older man approached her. He raised a bony right hand just under the visor of his baseball cap and saluted. “Thank you for your service.” The cap read: “Vietnam Veteran.”
The man lowered his arm and continued down the terminal while Michelle wondered why he’d thanked her. The realization struck her as she adjusted the strap of the Air Force-issued backpack higher on her shoulder. Michelle wanted to follow him and explain that the bag wasn’t hers. It belonged to her husband, Wyatt. But there was too much to disclose. Michelle’s mind flashed back. Wyatt’s panicked voice on the other end of the phone. “Babe, I need you to come home and hide the keys to the gun safe.”
She’d assured him that she was almost home. She told him she loved him. She didn’t bother to mention that she’d hidden the keys the night before in anticipation of the potential neighborhood fireworks leading into the Fourth of July weekend.
Many psychiatrists tried to pull that war splinter out when he first got home. “But they don’t have boots-on-the-ground experience, baby. They can’t help me because they don’t know what it was like.” That splinter remained embedded deep down.
***
The backpack got flagged at security anyway. Michelle faced the TSA agent, her fists planted on the cool metal table. The agent removed the backpack’s contents: a set of dog tags, a single document, and a small wooden box. The agent held the paper up with his blue latex disposable gloves. Michelle swallowed hard. He read aloud, “Office of Vital Statistics…” His voice trailed off. The agent’s eyes dropped from the certificate to the box, then traveled back to Michelle’s face. The agent tucked everything back into the backpack. “Take care, miss,” he said as he watched her walk away.
When she reached Highway 54, Michelle rolled all the windows down in the rental. Her curly brown hair flew around her face. She thought about all the exploring they did together when Wyatt first got stationed at Holloman. Michelle, who’d grown up on the East Coast, wanted to spend all their free time in the desert. She was obsessed with the heat, the Sacramento Mountains. All that land. And Wyatt always gave in to whatever she wanted. She was his everything, and he was hers.
Michelle thought about all their adventures during those first few years of marriage. The trips to the mountains while she finished her grad school work. It was always windows down, music up. Sometimes, he got her laughing so hard she’d flop over sideways, head on his lap. Other days, she’d sit in the middle of the bench seat, rest her head on his shoulder. He’d steer with one hand and rub her leg with the other. They’d talk about what life would be like when they settled down and had kids.
But then came the deployments and everything that happened after. Driving Wyatt to all those psychiatrist appointments. The long periods of quiet. Then he’d break the silence and say random things like, “It wasn’t the combat dives that were the worst. It was that one time when we saw that poor mother and her kid.” And then he’d stop. Clench his fists. Get that faraway stare in his eyes. So much tension that when Michelle touched his arm, she could almost feel something bubbling just beneath the surface. Somewhere along the way, fatigue gripped her and never seemed to let go. She ignored her own pain. Dismissed the ache as an ulcer from the stress of caring for Wyatt. She even took a sabbatical from her job to be with him. He said he only felt at peace when they were together. But after a time, her presence no longer seemed to soothe him. Nothing did.
Michelle passed a sign that warned drivers not to pick up hitchhikers because of the detention facility in the area. A hundred feet beyond that sign, Michelle looked left. In the middle of the desert stood an unassuming tan building that would’ve faded into the background if not for the barbed wire spirals on top of the fence, the metal reflecting the hot desert sun. Men in orange jumpsuits shot a basketball at a hoop without strings. A few others milled about in the yard. One man stood alone, fingers hooked in the fence, his countenance tired and broken. Michelle stuck her arm out the window. Gave a little wave.
When Michelle passed Holloman Air Force Base an hour later, her skin tingled. She pictured the guards at the main gate in their uniforms. Her mind flashed to the soldier in his dress blues folding the American flag and placing it in her hands. The crippling exhaustion that followed. Not having the energy to get out of bed in the mornings. Not eating. Then the phone call a few weeks later after a routine yearly physical. “Stage four. I’m so sorry, Michelle. You’ve been through so much already, and I’m afraid you’ve got a long road ahead.” The nights of disjointed sleep. The only peace she seemed to find was in the moments after waking up from the dreams she began having where Wyatt was calling out to her. The dark thoughts she refused to share with the support group. Michelle blinked hard a few times. Glanced in the rearview mirror. Pushed the hair out of her face and rolled the window up halfway.
For the next ten miles, Michelle practiced breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. In between breaths, she kept repeating, “All shall be well. And all manner of things shall be well.” And somehow, the sound of her own voice was soothing. She sat up straight and gripped the wheel when she saw the White Sands National Park sign up ahead.
***
Michelle glanced at the pamphlet she’d picked up at the visitor’s center. “The largest gypsum dune field in the world. Snow and rain from the San Andres mountains break down the gypsum washing it into the Tularosa basin. Nature pounds the gypsum crystals into sand, which the wind carries away into the dunes.” A small piece of white paper fluttered out of the last flap of the pamphlet onto her lap. “Dunes Drive will be closed this Thursday due to military testing.” Michelle stopped reading, her mouth suddenly dry. She tossed the brochure and paper onto the seat and reversed the car.
After paying the fee at the entrance booth, Michelle put on her sunglasses and proceeded down the windy roads of the park. She passed a few bicyclists but only saw a handful of vehicles. She slowed when she saw a young couple sledding down the powdery, white gypsum dunes in their plastic snow saucers a few miles in. She could almost feel the hot sand on the backs of her legs from all those years ago. She remembered she and Wyatt dumping sand out of their shoes. At the base of the dune, the couple collapsed on each other, laughing.
When the roads changed from pavement to hard-packed sand, Michelle eased the car into one of the first parking lots. She did a final check of the vehicle’s interior, then stepped out and nudged the car door shut with her hip. She squinted out at the blinding white sands of the desert and smiled. She leaned down and unstrapped her sandals one at a time. She paused once more to focus on the two dates tattooed across the tops of her feet—their wedding date on the left and one year ago today on the right.
The day’s warmth radiated through Michelle’s body as she again adjusted Wyatt’s backpack higher up on her shoulder. She was determined to find Wyatt somewhere out there in the shifting, white-hot sand. Michelle took one step forward and went to him.
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Jennifer Braunfels lives in Maine, where she’s taught high school English for twenty-five years. Her short story, “That’s All, Folks,” was published in the Whiskey Tit Journal. Her flash fiction piece, “Captive,” was published with Free Flash Fiction. Her short story, “Devil’s Inkwell,” received an Honorable Mention in the WOW! Women on Writing Fall 2021 Flash Fiction contest. Her memoir piece, “Camelot,” received an honorable mention in the WOW! Women on Writing Q1 Creative Nonfiction Essay Contest. Her latest piece, “Surrender Ridge,” placed in the top ten in the latest WOW! Women on Writing Fall Flash Fiction contest.
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