Page 36 of Point of Contact

“Trev?”

Carl stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his face ashen.

Trevor put down his cup and strode to Carl’s side. “My God, what is it, babe? You look like you’ve seen a ghost—” His words trailed away as he glanced over Carl’s shoulder toward the front entryway and the two men standing there wearing crisp, blue uniforms.

“Trevor, they want to come in.” Carl’s voice was hushed. “They—they need to speak with you. I didn’t—I—”

Trevor was frozen, unable to move, or even blink. He jumped when Carl spoke again. “Trev?”

Trevor swallowed, and he sucked in a deep breath, managing to rasp, “Show them in, please, Carl. I need to—I’m going to get dressed.”

He turned and fled to the bedroom, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. No. This can’t be happening. Not now. Not when he’s so close—Trevor leaned against the wall, gasping for air, willing himself not to faint. There was a picture of Riley at his high school graduation stuck in the corner of the mirror above the dresser, and at the sight of it Trevor clasped his hand to his mouth, nausea surging up as he doubled over and vomited his coffee all over the cream-colored carpet.

No, no, no, no, no. Not my boy. Not my Riley—

Trevor’s knees started to buckle, but he caught himself on the edge of the dresser right before he collapsed to the floor. Black spots danced in front of his vision, and he struggled to hold on. Another picture caught his eye, this one of a preteen Riley in a hospital bed proudly displaying his new ankle-to-knee cast, the result of a football tackle gone wrong. He’d been so brave, so strong—

Get out there, Trevor, goddammit. Riley needs you. No matter what, your son needs you to be strong for him right now.

Trevor threw off his robe and yanked on the first thing that came to hand, a pair of sweatpants and a wrinkly T-shirt. He concentrated on breathing—in and out, in and out—keeping his mind blank as he left the bedroom, putting one foot in front of the other, each step taking him closer to the news that was about to shatter him into a million pieces.

Outside the living room he paused for a moment, letting the words those men were there to say go unsaid for just a few more precious seconds. He hadn’t heard them yet, so he closed his eyes, pretending this was just another normal day, a day where his twenty-year-old son still had his whole life ahead of him...

Praying for strength, Trevor at last stepped into the room to face the uniformed men standing stiffly in the middle of it. Carl was perched on the edge of the couch, still in his robe, clutching his lapels together, face pale.

“I’m—” Trevor cleared his throat. “I’m Trevor Estes. Riley Estes is my son.”

The man on the left spoke, his voice deep and surprisingly gentle. “Sir, the Secretary of the Army regrets to inform you that Private First Class Riley James Estes died on May 20, 2008, during combat operations in support of Operation Enduring Freedom. Please accept the condolences of the President of the United States on behalf of a grateful nation.”

“Thank you.”

“Trev—” Carl’s voice was hushed, and he got up, coming to Trevor’s side. “I’m so sorry.”

Trevor patted his shoulder. “Go get dressed, Carl.”

“No, I—”

“Go get dressed, please. I’m okay.” He tried to smile at him, but it must have looked ghastly because Carl visibly flinched. “Please. Then make us all some fresh coffee, if you don’t mind.”

Carl’s eyes were swimming with unshed tears, but Trevor’s were dry as a bone. He felt cold as ice, and he kept his breaths shallow, not daring to take in too much air lest the fragile control he was clinging to by his fingertips gave way to the darkness he could feel lurking along the edges of his consciousness.

Carl nodded once before fleeing the room.

Precisely, carefully, Trevor invited the men to sit, and he settled himself on the edge of the love seat opposite them.

“Mr. Estes,” the same man who spoke before said, “my name is Staff Sergeant Julian Meyer, and I’ll be your casualty assistance officer. I’m here to support you during this very difficult time. With me is Major Stuart Greene, US Army chaplain.”

“Trevor,” Major Greene said, and Trevor met his eyes, which were alight with sympathy. “PFC Estes indicated no religious preference on his dog tags, but if you wish it, I’m here to pray with you now.”

“What? No one gave Riley last rites, or—” Trevor’s voice didn’t sound like his own. He and Riley weren’t religious, but for some reason the thought there hadn’t been anything said over him made his stomach roil.

“Riley won’t have had formal last rites, no,” the chaplain answered, “but while he’s being prepared for transfer, the base chaplain in Afghanistan will pray for him.”

“What will he say?” Trevor whispered. “Will you tell me what he’ll say?” He was dimly aware of the couch dipping when Carl sat back down next to him, his warm hand covering Trevor’s cold, clenched ones.

“Of course.” Greene’s tone was deep, soothing. “He’ll say, ‘Lord, we entrust this young man into your care. We pray for your comfort for his family, his unit and his friends. Thank you for his life, and his service to his country, and we pray his death will somehow be used to hasten the cause of peace, to help bring an end to this terrible war.’”

Trevor pressed his trembling lips together and nodded, one lone tear escaping to streak down his cheek. “Thank you. It helps to hear that.” He turned his palm up and laced his fingers with Carl’s. “What—what comes next?”