Page 38 of Point of Contact

Throughout the last few weeks, during this whole long, exhausting, painful process, Trevor had come to rely on Julian’s forthright honesty with him, his refusal to sugarcoat anything, which served to both comfort Trevor and bolster him up.

“Okay.” He caressed the velvet bag, tracing the lumps inside with his fingertips. “I haven’t decided yet if I can—if I can see him, Julian.”

Julian nodded but didn’t reply, and Trevor appreciated his silence, especially since he’d gone round and round with Carl on the matter.

“The mortuary team said he’s able to be viewed, Trev. I think you need to, for closure.”

“I don’t know if that’s what I want my last memory to be of him, Carl, as some—some silent wax doll lying in a casket dressed in an Army costume.” Trevor caught his breath on a sob. “Instead of the vibrant, living, breathing young man I hugged goodbye that day...”

“But closure, Trevor—”

“Fuck closure,” Trevor snarled. “There will never be closure.”

Carl took Trevor’s hand. “There will be, I promise. And time will heal. I promise that, too.”

Trevor looked Carl in the eyes. “Really, you ‘promise’? How many sons have you lost in combat, Carl? How many?”

Trevor flinched as he remembered how Carl’s face had crumpled. He was trying, and deep down inside Trevor knew that and loved him for it. There just wasn’t much left over for anything but keeping himself upright, and even that was taking every ounce of his strength.

They pulled up in front of the funeral home, and Julian disappeared in the direction of the viewing room to check on things. When he came back, his eyes were dark with emotion for a fallen brother.

“They did a wonderful job with him, Trevor,” he murmured, putting his hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “His injuries aren’t visible, and I feel more than comfortable letting you view him.”

Trevor hovered in the doorway of the room. The pot lights were turned down low, and the smell of flowers was strong. The casket was set up on a bier, the lid above Riley’s head lifted, lower half still down. All Trevor could see from where he was standing was the brim of his dress cover, the impression of a nose—

The world wobbled, and Julian took his elbow to steady him. “Let’s go sit down in here,” he said, leading Trevor toward an empty conference room.

Trevor collapsed down in a wide leather chair. “I’m sorry.” Julian knelt down next to him.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” His voice was gentle. “Take all the time you need, Trevor. I’ll be just outside the door.”

Trevor gave a jerky nod, and Julian stood, poured him a glass of ice water from the pitcher on the credenza and left him alone. Trevor clenched his hands in his lap, the urge to run and see Riley one more time warring with the need to protect himself. He understood Carl’s concerns, that if he didn’t look at Riley in his casket, there might be some part of him that wouldn’t accept his death was real and he’d end up living with a lifetime of regret.

But Trevor knew it was real. He knew Riley was dead. That bitter knowledge burned in his heart and shredded his insides. The first night, when he’d huddled in Carl’s arms in their bed, worn out from weeping, Trevor had fallen into a fitful sleep.

A boisterous crowd, waving homecoming signs, a plane coming to a stop and uniformed men streaming down the stairs to stride across the tarmac toward the loved ones waiting for them. Cheers and happy cries rang out all around him as Trevor searched frantically for Riley.

He saw him at last hovering at the top of the stairs near the open door of the plane. “Riley!”

Trevor called to him over and over, beckoning to him, but Riley didn’t move. At last Trevor ran toward the plane, still shouting Riley’s name. By the time he got there, the stairs had turned shimmery, insubstantial, and Trevor couldn’t climb them.

“Riles?”

“Dad, I can’t stay. You know that, right?”

Trevor grasped at the railing but it dissolved beneath his hands. Riley smiled at him, a beautiful happy smile, his green eyes clear and warm. “I can’t stay with you,” he repeated. “But I love you, Dad.” He faded back into the depths of the plane, and Trevor stood helplessly, unable to do anything but watch it take off again and disappear into the distance.

The memory of the dream was raw, painful, and Trevor sucked in a shaky breath, the low buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead making his head hurt. In a very real way he’d said his goodbyes to Riley in that dream, so the viewing and service and everything that was about to happen was for everyone else’s benefit, not his.

Trevor scrubbed his hands over his face, and as he did, the bag on his lap shifted and almost fell to the floor. He caught it just in time and laid it flat, smoothing it with his hands and tracing over the lumps within.

Riley’s personal effects, the things he actually had on him when he died. The rest of his belongings would arrive later, Trevor’d been told...the contents of his foot locker, anything remaining in his barracks. But these—these were among the last things Riley touched, things that were with him when he took his final breath.

With shaking fingers, Trevor finally undid the drawstring and reached inside. The first item he pulled out was Riley’s chunky black military-style watch. The band was meticulously clean, no trace of blood or dirt on it, although the face itself was scratched and pitted. It was still ticking away, set to Afghanistan time ten hours ahead.

Trevor laid it gently on the table in front of him and slid his hand into the bag again. This time he drew out Riley’s wallet, the brown leather worn and with a slight curve from years of resting in his back pocket. Aunt Marilyn had given it to Riley for his sixteenth birthday, a few months before she passed away from lung cancer.

It was a wallet designed more for a child, smallish, thin, with a bucking horse embossed on it, but Riley had seemed to cherish it, and seeing that he still used it all these years later in honor of his beloved great-aunt’s memory brought a fresh rush of tears to Trevor’s eyes.