Fiona had to sniff, not sure if her nose was running
from the grief of something lost or just from the cold.
“Nope. I know she loves me, and that those were genuinely happy times. But knowing and knowing…” She touched a fist to her chest. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
He looked away. “No.” For a moment it seemed he
wouldn’t say any more, but then he continued, “The
voice of common sense sounds a lot like a parent telling
us what we should feel or think. Of course we don’t
listen to it.”
She blinked. Yes, it was exactly like that. She’d chew
herself out for being silly enough to feel something irrational, and that voice was downright irritating. It made her feel rebellious and childish.
“I never realized,” she said, nodding, “but you’re
right. I suppose we internalize everything our parents
and coaches and teachers say, and then spout it back at
ourselves.”
“And, unfortunately, at our kids.”
“Oh, ugh. And here I am, a teacher!”
“A good one.”
“But I say those kinds of things!”
He laughed at her, whatever had made him seem to
withdraw for a moment having passed. “Yeah, but the
thing is, it’s usually good advice.”
“Oh, I suppose.” She scowled at him. “Well, great.
Now I’m going to have to watch everything I say.”
John shook his head. “No. Just go with your instincts. You have good ones. I heard you talking to the kids.” He suddenly stopped and lifted a hand. “Shh.”
Fiona, too, heard a crunch of snow and rustle of
branches. She waited, breathless, looking in the direction of the sound. There was silence, and she might have given up had John not remained so still.
A deer stepped out onto the creekside trail not twenty
feet ahead of them, followed closely by a second. She
wasn’t sure, but thought they were does. Did male deer
have antlers year around? One was noticeably larger than
the other. Mother and yearling? They looked directly at
John and Fiona, momentarily freezing, their haunches
bunching as if in preparation for flight, but in the absence
of movement they relaxed and crunched forward to the
creek, their delicate hooves piercing the snow.
In still spots the creek was iced over, but where water
eddied or raced over rocks, it ran free between snowy
banks. They both drank, lifting their heads frequently
to listen for danger.
Abruptly, either having drunk their fill or hearing
something human ears couldn’t catch, they sprang back
into the woods. Their leaps were awkward, and she
imagined how difficult heavy snow must be for them.
“Ooh,” she murmured, when they were gone. “They
were beautiful.”
“Not looking too bad, either. I’ll worry if winter gets
too harsh.”
She reached for his hand, and was warmed by it
despite the gloves both wore. “You’re not a hunter, I
take it.”
“Me?” Recoiling, he sounded repulsed, reminding
her of how fresh bloodshed was for him. “God, no.”
The shadow of horror in his eyes was something he
usually hid from her.
“I suppose you’d have lost your taste for it even if
you had been a hunter,” she said tentatively.
“I never was.” He let her hand drop and said, “We
should start back.”
That night, her sixth there—with only four more to
go—she felt bold enough to ask him about Iraq. It
took a little coaxing, but he did talk about life there for
the soldiers: the rec center with ping-pong, foosball
tables, computers with unreliable Internet connections
and free movies every night. The Hajji shops run by
locals where you could buy anything from bootlegged
DVDs to Welcome To Iraq postcards. The state-ofthe-art gym, the food, the ups and downs of laundry service. Telling stories, John was occasionally funny
and seemingly relaxed.
It was only as she settled into sleep that Fiona realized
he hadn’t actually told her anything important. Not about
what he’d felt, or done every day. Certainly not about
friends he’d lost. He made a joke about how often the
gym closed down because of mortar attacks, but had