She nodded, beginning to cry. I felt a knot form in my chest. “I'll write you,” I promised.
“Okay,” she said. She swiped at her tears and reached into her handbag. She pulled out a pen and a small slip of paper. She began scribbling. “This is my home address and phone number, okay? And my e-mail address, too.”
I nodded.
“Remember that I'll be changing dorms next year, but I'll let you know my new address as soon as I get it. But you can always reach me through my parents. They'll forward anything you send.”
“I know,” I said. "You still have my information, right? Even if I go on a mission somewhere, letters will reach me. E-mail, too. The army's pretty good at setting up computers, even in the middle of nowhere."
She hugged her arms like a forlorn child. “It scares me,” she said. “You being a soldier, I mean.”
“I'll be okay,” I reassured her.
I opened the car door, then reached for my wallet. I slipped the note she scribbled inside, then opened my arms again. She came to me and I held her for a long time, imprinting the feel of her body against mine.
This time, it was she who pulled away. She reached into her handbag again and pulled out an envelope.
“I wrote this for you last night. To give you something to read on the plane. Don't read it until then, okay?”
I nodded and kissed her one last time, then slipped behind the wheel of the car. I started the car, and as I began to pull away, she called out, “Say hello to your father. Tell him that I might stop by sometime in the next couple of weeks, okay?”
She took a step backward as the car began to roll. I could still see her through the rearview mirror. I thought about stopping. My dad would understand. He knew how much Savannah meant to me, and he would want us to have one last evening together. But I kept moving, watching her image in the mirror grow smaller and smaller, feeling my dream slip away.
Dinner with my dad was quieter than usual. I didn't have the energy to attempt a conversation, and even my dad realized it. I sat at the table as he cooked, but instead of focusing on the preparation, he glanced my way every now and then with muted concern in his eyes. I was startled when he turned off the burner and approached me.
When close, he put a hand on my back. He said nothing, but he didn't have to. I knew he understood that I was hurting, and he stood without moving, as if trying to absorb my pain in the hope of taking it from me and making it his own.
In the morning, Dad drove me to the airport and stood beside me at the gate while I waited for my flight to be called. When it was time, I rose. My dad held out his hand; I hugged him instead. His body was rigid, but I didn't care. “Love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, John.”
“Find some good coins, okay?” I added, pulling back. “I want to hear all about them.”
He glanced at the floor. “I like Savannah,” he said. “She's a nice girl.”
It came out of the blue, but somehow it was exactly what I wanted to hear.
On the plane, I sat with the letter Savannah had written me, holding it in my lap. Though I wanted to open it immediately, I waited until we'd lifted off from the runway. From the window, I could see the coastline, and I searched first for the pier, then the house. I wondered whether she was still sleeping, but I wanted to think that she was out on the beach and watching for the plane. When I was ready, I opened the envelope. In it, she'd placed a photograph of herself, and I suddenly wished I had left her one of me. I stared at her face for a long time, then set it aside. I took a deep breath and began to read.
Dear John,
There's so much I want to say to you, but I'm not sure where I should begin. Should I start by telling you that I love you? Or that the days I've spent with you have been the happiest in my life? Or that in the short time I've known you, I've come to believe that we were meant to be together? I could say all those things and all would be true, but as I reread them, all I can think is that I wish I were with you now, holding your hand and watching for your elusive smile.
In the future, I know I'll relive our time together a thousand times. I'll hear your laughter and see your face and feel your arms around me. I'm going to miss all of that, more than you can imagine. You're a rare gentleman, ]ohn, and I treasure that about you.
In all the time we were together, you never pressed me to sleep with you, and I can't tell you how much that meant to me. It made what we had seem even more special, and that's how I always want to remember my time with you. Like a pure white light, breathtaking to behold.
I'll think about you every day. Part of me is scared that there will come a time when you don't feel the same way, that you'll somehow forget about what we shared, so this is what I want to do. Wherever you are and no matter what's going on in your life, when it's the first night of the full moon—like it was the first time we met—I want you to find it in the nighttime sky. I want you to think about me and the week we shared, because wherever I am and no matter what's going on in my life, that's exactly what I'll be doing. If we can't be together, at least we can share that, and maybe between the two of us, we can make this last forever.
I love you, John Tyree, and I'm going to hold you to the prom.' ise you once made tome. If you come back, I'll marry you. If you break your promise, you'll break my heart.
Love, Savannah
Beyond the window and through the tears in my eyes, I could see a layer of clouds spread beneath me. I had no idea where we were. All I knew was that I wanted to turn around and go back home, to be in the place I was meant to be.
PART II
Twelve
Hours later, on that first lonely night back in Germany, I read the letter again, reliving our time together. It was easy; those memories had already begun to haunt me and sometimes seemed more real than my life as a soldier. I could feel Savannah's hand in mine and watched as she shook the ocean water from her hair. I laughed aloud as I recalled my surprise when she rode her first wave to shore. My time with Savannah changed me, and the men in my squad remarked on the difference. Over the next couple of weeks, my friend Tony teased me endlessly, smug in the belief that he'd finally been proven right about the importance of female companionship. It was my own fault for telling him about Savannah. Tony, however, wanted to know more than I was willing to share. While I was reading, he sat in the seat across from me, grinning like an idiot.
“Tell me again about your wild vacation romance,” he said.
I forced myself to keep my eyes on the page, doing my best to ignore him.
“Savannah, right? Sa-va-nnah. Damn, I love that name. Sounds so ... dainty, but I'll bet she was a tiger in the sack, right?” “Shut up, Tony.”
“Don't give me that. Haven't I been the one watching out for you all this time? Telling you that you gotta get out? You finally listened, and now it's payback time. I want the details.”
“It's none of your business.”
“But you drank tequila, right? I told you it works every time.”
I said nothing. Tony threw up his hands. “Come on—you can tell me that much, can't you?”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“Because you're in love? Yeah, that's what you said, but I'm beginning to think you're making the whole thing up.”
“That's right. I made it up. Are we done?”
He shook his head and rose from his seat. “You are one lovesick puppy.”
I said nothing, but as he walked away, I knew he was right. I was head over heels crazy about Savannah. I would have done anything to be with her, and I requested a transfer to the States.
My hard-bitten commanding officer appeared to give it serious consideration. When he asked why, I told him about my dad instead of Savannah. He listened for a while, then leaned back in his seat and said, "The odds aren't good unless your dad's health is an issue." Walking out of his office, I knew I wasn't going anywhere for at least the next sixteen months. I didn't bother to hide my disappointment, and the next time the moon was full, I left the barracks and wandered out to one of the grassy areas we used for soccer games. I lay on my back and stared at the moon, remembering it all and hating the fact that I was so far away.
From the very beginning, the calls and letters between us were regular. We e-mailed as well, but I soon learned that Savannah preferred to write, and she wanted me to do the same. “I know it's not as immediate as e-mail, but that's what I like about it,” she wrote me. "I like the surprise of finding a letter in the mailbox and the anxious anticipation I feel when I'm getting ready to open it. I like the fact that I can take it with me to read at my leisure, and that I can lean against a tree and feel the breeze on my face when I see your words on paper. I like to imagine the way you looked when you wrote it: what you were wearing, your surroundings, the way you held your pen. I know it's a cliche and it's probably off the mark, but I keep thinking of you sitting in a tent at a makeshift table, with an oil lamp burning beside you while the wind blows outside. It's so much more romantic than reading something on the same machine that you use to download music or research a paper."
I'd smiled at that. She was, after all, wrong about the tent and the makeshift table and the oil lamp, but I had to admit that it did paint a more interesting picture than the reality of the fluorescentlit, government-issued desk inside my wooden barracks.
As the days and weeks wore on, my love for Savannah seemed to grow even stronger. Sometimes I'd sneak away from the guys to be alone. I would take out Savannah's photograph and hold it close, studying every feature. It was strange, but as much as I loved her and remembered our time together, I found that as summer turned to autumn, then changed again to winter, I was more and more thankful for the photograph. Yes, I convinced myself that I could remember her exactly, but when I was honest with myself, I knew I was losing the specifics. Or maybe, I realized, I'd never noticed them at all. In the photo, for instance, I realized that Savannah had a small mole beneath her left eye, something I'd somehow overlooked. Or that, on close inspection, her smile was slightly crooked. These were imperfections that somehow made her perfect in my eyes, but I hated the fact that I had to use the picture to learn about them.
Somehow, I went on with my life. As much as I thought about Savannah, as much as I missed her, I had a job to do. Beginning in September—owing to a set of circumstances that even the army had trouble explaining—my squad and I were sent to Kosovo for the second time to join the First Armored Division on yet another peacekeeping mission while pretty much everyone else in the infantry was being sent back to Germany. It was relatively calm and I didn't fire my gun, but that didn't mean I spent my days picking flowers and pining for Savannah. I cleaned my gun, kept watch for any crazies, and when you're forced to be alert for hours, you're tired by nightfall. I can honestly say I could go two or three days without wondering what Savannah was doing or even thinking about her. Did this make my love less real? I asked myself that question dozens of times during that trip, but I always decided it didn't, for the simple reason that her image would ambush me when I least expected it, overwhelming me with the same ache I had the day I'd left. Anything might set it off: a friend talking about his wife, the sight of a couple holding hands, or even the way some of the villagers would smile as we passed.
Savannah's letters arrived every ten days or so, and they'd piled up by the time I got back to Germany. None was like the letter I'd read on the plane; mostly they were casual and chatty, and she saved the truth of her feelings until the very end. In die meantime, I learned the details of her daily life: that they'd finished the first house a little behind schedule, which made things tougher when it came to building the second house. For that one, they had to work longer hours, even though everyone involved had grown more efficient at their tasks. I learned that after they completed the first house, they had thrown a big party for the entire neighborhood and that they'd been toasted over and over as the afternoon wore on. I learned that the work crew had celebrated by going to the Shrimp Shack and that Tim had pronounced it to have the greatest atmosphere of any restaurant he'd been to. I learned that she got most of her fall classes with the teachers she'd requested and that she was excited to be taking adolescent psychology with a Dr. Barnes, who'd just had a major article published in some esoteric psychology journal. I didn't need to believe that Savannah thought of me every time she pounded a nail or was helping to slide a window into place, or think that in the midst of a conversation with Tim, she would always wish it were me she was talking to. I liked to think that what we had was deeper than that, and over time, that belief made my love for her grow even stronger.
Of course, I did want to know that she still cared about me, and in this, Savannah never let me down. I suppose that was the reason I saved every letter she ever sent. Toward the end of each letter, there would always be a few sentences, maybe even a paragraph, where she would write something that made me pause, words that made me remember, and I would find myself rereading passages and trying to imagine her voice as I read them. Like this, from the second letter I received:
When I think of you and me and what we shared, I know it would be easy for others to dismiss our time together as simply a by-product of the days and nights spent by the sea, a “fling” that, in the long run, would mean absolutely nothing. That's why I don't tell people about us. They wouldn't understand, and I don't feel the need to explain, simply because I know in my heart how real it was. When I think of you, I can't help smiling, knowing that you've completed me somehow. I love you, not just for now, but for always, and I dream of the day that you'll take me in your arms again.
Or this, from the letter after I'd sent her a photograph of me: And finally, I want to thank you for the picture. I've already put it in my wallet. You look healthy and happy, but I have to tell you that I cried when I saw it. Not because it made me sadthough it did, since I know I won't be able to see you—but because it made me happy. It reminded me that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me.