July 1975
"Don't make a sound."
Lieutenant Commander Al Calavicci doesn't remember where he is, at first.
It's too dark, the ground is too soft--it will swallow him up and leave no trace of him--
The sound of thunder, bamboo striking flesh--
But he passes through the half-waking nightmare state with a frightened cry and a sudden jolt, waking the woman lying next to him in the bed.
He doesn't remember her name.
He doesn't even remember she's there, not at first.
A thunderstorm over Waikiki. He's not in the camps anymore; he is home again, on leave, trying to adjust to freedom.
Some things, a man can't forget. His injuries may be somewhat healed but the scars remain, on the inside as well as the outside, and they always will.
"Are you okay?" the woman asks, nervousness in her voice as she reaches a hand to his shoulder.
He pulls away, and turns on the bedside lamp.
It's a nice hotel room as far as hotel rooms go, not that he's picky about his accommodations these days. It has everything: a private bath, a color television, a balcony with a view of the ocean, two sets of clothes strewn on the floor. A pretty brunette, a Navy nurse on leave, wearing nothing but a bedsheet--
But this woman isn't Beth. Beth is gone, remarried six years ago. She's some other man's wife now, and she is happy that way. Whoever this woman is, she can't compare.
He gets up, picking his shorts up off the floor and pulling them on as he heads for the balcony. It's some small comfort that it doesn't look much like San Diego here; he wanted to be somewhere they had never been together, somewhere that wouldn't bring up memories of her. Somewhere full of life and activity and people trying to cast aside their mundane lives for a while. Hawaii seemed like the perfect choice.
Except everywhere reminds him of Beth. Everyone he meets is just another reminder that she is gone. He had returned from the dead and she hadn't waited for him.
He'd met this woman on the beach earlier in the evening; they'd had a few drinks and watched the fireworks together. One thing had led to another, and he'd thought that he was making progress--well, in a way he did. Just not in the way that he'd hoped.
This isn't going to work.
"I gotta go," he says. "I'm sorry."
"What's wrong?" she asks, sitting up, pulling the sheet closer around herself.
"It's not you," he says, and starts gathering the rest of his clothes. "I had a great time tonight--you're wonderful, but I can't--I just--I can't."
She doesn't answer. He doesn't look up at her, doesn't trust himself to, but he imagines she has seen the scars that she didn't see earlier. He hadn't told her anything of his experiences, and he sure doesn't want to start now.
But that's how it'll be with every woman he gets involved with, for the rest of his life.
Oh, Beth.
He dresses and leaves without another word, grateful that she doesn't say anything or try to stop him. It's painful, that vulnerability--isn't it supposed to be easier with strangers? No strings, just two people looking for a port in a storm, and then moving on in the morning.
It's not that he's opposed to spending the night with two women--it can be a lot of fun, if everybody's into it. But it doesn't work when one of the women is flesh and blood, and the other is just an aching memory.
The rain outside is cool, and helps to clear his head a little. Trouble is, a clear head is just about the last thing he wants right now.
He needs a drink.