Whose Wedding Is It Anyway?

Chapter 1: Homecoming It’s Friday evening after work, the third time in two weeks that I’ve found myself sitting in a pew at the Fort Detrick Chapel, and I’m tired of waiting. At least I’m not alone; the place is packed with others, families and loved ones, all waiting like I am, all of us tired of being called out here again. Each of us hoping this time we won’t be sent home alone. Next to me sits a little girl, seven or eight years old, who’s playing with a Barbie doll while her mother checks her smartphone for the hundredth time. The girl sees me looking at her and smiles shyly at me. With a nod, I ask, “What’s your dolly’s name?” In a barely audible voice, she murmurs, “Michael.” I frown. It’s Barbie, not Ken. “Um, okay. That’s a boy’s name.” Her voice grows stronger, her smile widening until dimples appear in the corners of her cheeks. “Not always. Girls can be named Michael, too.” “I don’t know,” I say, doubtful. “That’s my name. I’ve never heard of a girl with the same name as me.” The little girl giggles. “Your name isn’t Michael!” she cries. I have to grin. “How do you know? We just met.” She shrugs and scoots away, snuggling up against her mother’s arm. Absently her mother raises up her arm and drapes it over her daughter’s small shoulders. Without looking up from her phone, her mother says, “One of the ladies in the Bangles was named Michael.” “Wow,” I say, sitting back against the hardwood pew. “The Bangles. There’s a blast from the past. What was that song they sang?” Her mother glances over at me. “Which one? ‘Manic Monday,’ ‘Walk Like an Egyptian,’ ‘Eternal Flame.’ Take your pick.” As if realizing she was no longer the focus of attention, her daughter pipes up, “Mommy, who’s the Bangles?” “Susie, hush.” Her mother gives her a one-armed hug and turns back to her phone, dismissing me. “Play with your doll and leave the nice man alone, will you?” Susie isn’t so easily quieted. From the safety of her mother’s embrace, she points her Barbie at me and says, “We’re waiting for my daddy. Who are you waiting for?” “Susie! Don’t be so nosy!” With an apologetic look, her mother tells me, “I’m sorry. She has to talk to everyone. I hope she isn’t bothering you…” “No, no, she’s fine,” I assure her. Giving Susie a smile, I say, “I’m waiting for my friend. I bet he works with your daddy.” My friend. I hate how easily the word slips from my mouth. The law was changed six years ago—I can call Dan my lover in public now without fearing he’ll be dishonorably discharged from the army—and yet I still pussyfoot around the truth without even realizing it. I say friend or roommate, words that distill our relationship, leeching the strength from it, watering it down. Lover, lover. He’s my lover. We’re in love. I make a mental note to tell it like it is if anyone else asks me who I’m here for tonight. My lover, First Sergeant Daniel Biggs of the Fifty-seventh Quartermaster Corps. You? But Susie’s only eight, if that, and her mother’s already turned back to her phone, dismissing me. I glance around the church at the other people filling the pews, women and men and children, all waiting for husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, loved ones to come back after a year-long tour of duty overseas. Every part of me aches to hold Dan again after all the time we’ve spent apart. If another higher-up comes in now only to tell us there’s been another delay, I’m seriously going to scream… Sure enough, when I turn back to the front of the chapel, a gruff older man in fatigues strolls out from a side door. He has more bars and stars on his chest than anyone I’ve ever seen outside of a military movie, so I know he has to be someone in charge. The frown on his face looks foreboding, as if he has bad news and he knows we’re going to take out our disappointment on him. Okay, maybe I won’t scream just yet. I’ll wait until I’m back in the car before I curse and cry. But damn, they can’t do this to us, not again. I brace myself, waiting for the worst. Under my breath, I mutter, “Here it comes.” Susie’s mother glances up, takes one look at the guy up on the altar or stage, or whatever it is, and groans as she drops her phone into her purse. “Oh God, not again.” There’s a podium set off to one side of the altar; this is where the man’s headed. A few lesser ranking men trail behind him like a retinue of stoic-faced choir boys. When he stops at the microphone, they fall into place behind him like good little soldiers, backs stiff at attention, gazes locked somewhere high over our heads. I resist the urge to look up to see what it is they’re staring at. I already know; they just don’t want to see us crumble when we’re told our loved ones aren’t coming home tonight after all. The man in charge taps the mic a few times. “Is this thing on?” he says, trying to be discreet about it, but of course it’s on already, and his voice booms through the chapel, which has grown quiet since he appeared. With a scowl, he glares out at us, then seems to remember his manners and tries to smile instead. It doesn’t help. If this was anywhere other than a US military base, someone in the back of the crowd would’ve shouted out something irreverent by now. “Where are they?” maybe, or, “Get on with it, will you?” While we may not be as disciplined as the people in our lives we’re here to welcome back from the warfront, we’re all too familiar with how the military operates, and we know catcalls won’t get us anywhere. We sit and wait, anxious, nervous, on edge, but quiet. Damn. Where are they? Another tap on the mic—really? Does he have to do that?—and the man clears his throat, a sound that echoes throughout the chapel. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says in a gravelly voice, “I want to thank you for your patience here tonight as we welcome back the brave men and women of the—” That’s as much as I need to hear, as much as any of us can hear, before the chapel erupts in euphoric cheers. Suddenly I’m on my feet, arms pumping the air, shouting at the top of my lungs in a wordless, victorious cry. Beside me little Susie is shouting, “Daddy! Daddy!” Her mother’s face glistens with tears; she’s clapping and crying at the same time, and when she sees me, we share a smile that hurts my face, it’s so wide. They’re here. They’re home. If the man with the microphone has more he wants to say, he’ll have to wait to say it because there’s no way we’re going to calm down now. Someone starts rattling the backs of the pews, someone else begins stomping their feet, and soon the roof itself threatens to come down around us, we’re making so much noise. It’s amid this cacophony that a door at the back of the chapel opens and the soldiers of the 57th Quartermaster Corps stream in. The flood of camouflage troops mingles amid the civilians, each one so much alike in their green fatigues and caps, but I crane my neck looking for Dan. Part of me thinks he should be near the front—he’s a first shirt, after all—but part of me thinks he’s the type to let his men go first, so he’d bring up the rear. It takes everything I have not to climb onto the pew like little Susie does just so I can see over everyone else. Already others are finding their loved ones and tender reunions are taking place all around me, people hugging and kissing, crying and laughing, and I’m here bobbing from side to side, looking…still looking… Then somehow he appears beside me, as if just thinking about him conjured him up. “Michael,” he sighs, taking my hand in his. A boxy cap covers his dark, buzzed hair. His handsome face is tanned and lined, more rugged than it was when I last saw it in person twelve months ago—his cheeks look hollowed out, his eyes darker, his lips chapped. What might be the faintest hint of peachy hair fuzzes his chin and jaw. I reach out to brush my fingertips over it. “What’s this?” I ask. “I never saw this when we Skyped.” He leans into my touch, turning into my hand to kiss my palm. “Like it? Don’t get too used to it. I’m shaving it off tomorrow.” “Dan.” I want to hug him but don’t want to chance embarrassing him, not here in front of his men. “God, I missed you.” Apparently he doesn’t have the same qualms I do. That’s part of the reason I love him so much; I worry about what other people think and Dan…well, doesn’t. He loves me and doesn’t care who knows it. Without warning he pulls me to him in a desperate embrace and holds me close. I melt into his firm body, molding against him perfectly. This is what I’ve missed all these long, lonely months. This man, these arms, him. Into his ear, I whisper, “I love you.” His hug tightens, if that’s possible. I can barely breathe, but I don’t care. He’s the only thing I need to survive. Dan.