To Be or Not To BE

To Be or Not To BE(Mark Simpson) To Be or Not to Be

April 22, Cindy was sitting at the kitchen table. She brushed her blond hair and a tear from her eye. She was preparing to open a birthday card from her son, exactly as she had the last 12 years. It was homemade, making it even more special. She had every card her son had ever given her, even the ones addressed to mom and dad are now counted as hers and hers alone. The envelope and letter in the exact same condition as the day they arrived. The other 364 days, 365 on leap years, they reside in a fire proof safe. Cindy can’t bear to lose it; she’d lost too much already. She opened the envelope and gently pulled the letter out, so as not to tear it.

“Happy 29th birthday!” It was a running joke of theirs, it was really her 40th, but her last 11 birthday cards had wished her a “Happy 29th”. “It’s 110° in the shade and there isn’t any shade in Tikrit! I miss and love you mom. Thank you for always being there no matter what! Happy Birthday, we’ll celebrate when I get home in three weeks. Can’t wait!
Love, Your son.

The letter arrived on the 22nd of April, 2003. Scott had a way of getting a letter to you the exact day it needed to arrive, whether mailed from across the street or across the world. On the 23rd came a knock at the door. Her heart didn’t skip a beat, no premonitions that something was wrong, but when she opened the door and saw the Army soldier, she knew it was as wrong as it could possibly be. Scott had been killed a day earlier by an improvised explosive device, hidden in a pile of trash blocking the road. Her birthday and his death day would forever be intertwined. He’d climbed out of his Humvee to clear the road. “He was a brave man,” She could still hear the Sargent saying but he was telling her something she’d always known.

It was early in the war; the daily briefing barely mentioned the growing Sunni insurgency. The brass upstairs was trying to downplay any real threat, which is easy to do while sitting in an air-conditioned office in Tampa versus the streets of Tikrit. We were, after all, to be welcomed as liberators in Iraq. Scott was welcomed by three pounds of black powder packed with 27 ball bearings. Thirteen entered his body, nine were removed by the coroner. Casualty 172 of 4489. But Cindy Rosenthal lost so much more than a number, on that day she didn’t just lose her only son, she lost her only child.

Happy Birthday, we’ll celebrate when I get home in three weeks. Can’t wait! Love, Your son.

The words still cut as viciously and deeply as they had 12 years ago. Whoever said “Time heals all wounds”, had never lost a child. Her wound hadn’t healed. Instead it had festered and become infected.

It was time for the second part of her dead son’s birthday party. She was surrounded by rows and rows of head stones as far as the eye could see, from newborns to centenarians, all testified to death’s unfettered reach. Family and friends suggested burying Scott in Arlington for the nation's sake but she was much too selfish for that, instead he’s buried in Sumter South Carolina, not for posterity’s sake but hers.

Scott Gregory Rosethal, Beloved Son, PVT 1st Class,
1-17-84, 4-22-03.

She didn’t even want the Private 1st Class on his headstone but his father, Ray, had insisted. “He was so proud of being a soldier and I was so proud of him.” She could still hear him saying. But unlike Ray, who liked to believe he died serving his country, she felt as though his country had murdered him. She thought about his funeral and how she’d been told again and again “He died doing what he loved.” It may have brought comfort to others but Cindy found no respite in words. It didn’t matter if you died doing something you loved or by a drunk driver on a Tuesday afternoon, either way, dead is dead, gone is gone and that was all that mattered

“Damn it.” She murmured.

She had forgotten the flowers on the kitchen counter, even though the current ones were only four days old. She visited at least once a week, most weeks, several times, depending on how badly she needed to “talk” with Scott.

”You seem to have forgotten something.”
The man’s voice startled her so badly she audibly gasped. She turned to find an old man dressed in all black except for a white shirt. He wore a western tie and a black jacket that swallowed him, one hand behind his back the other holding a black hat over his heart. A wispy mop of gray unkept hair gently danced in an afternoon breeze. He looked like a walking skeleton wearing a smile with a set of teeth way too big for his mouth. There was nothing to be physically afraid of, he was breath and britches as Cindy’s grandmother would say. He even smelled old.
“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t”, she was lying, “I just realized…”.
“That you forgot your flowers.” He finished for her.
”Yeah. How did you know that I…?”
“That you forgot them on the kitchen counter at home? I could see it in your eyes. Will these do?” His hidden hand appeared clutching a bouquet of daisies; they were Cindy’s favorite so by proxy they had been Scott’s as well.
“Thank you.” She said. Not sure if it was true.
“I’m Augustine Octavious Dragonheart, at your service.” He bowed slightly.
“How did you know daisies…?”
“Were his favorite? Lucky guess.”

Augustine again had not only finished her sentence but had also answered a question not yet asked. She was gripped by an uneasy feeling. She tried to shake it off, turned and laid the flowers at the foot of the granite monument to her pain, kissed her finger and touched the headstone, the way she always did. This was usually followed by her sitting down and telling Scott about her week, minus the bad parts, which in reality was all of her week every week. But her routine was currently being interrupted, though she couldn’t see him, she could feel him, staring at her from behind. Her anger was growing, she appreciated the flowers but intruding on her time with Scott, how dare he. And though not very good at confrontation she turned and stared with a furred brow and a scowl.

“Do you ever think about how he died?” Augustine asked. Both arms now behind his back, hat resting on his head, it made him look even creepier.
“Excuse me?” The question caught her totally off guard; it felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach.
“I guess a better question would be not if you do, but how many times a day you do?”
“What do you know about my son’s death?!”
”I was there.” Augustine answered. Cindy instantly went from angry to confused.
“Were you his sergeant or something?” He was old enough to be Scott’s, hell, her grandfather, how could he have been fighting in Iraq? Cindy thought.
”No ma’am nothing like that.”
”Then why were you there?”
”It’s my job.” Augustine answered. “But you shouldn’t be asking why I was there. What’s more important to you is why I’m here?”
“Why are you here?” It all seemed so surreal, Cindy felt as if she was watching a movie of this happening rather than being an active participant.
“To make you an offer. What if you had the chance to live your life without Scott, would you?” Cindy felt as if Augustine was staring right past her eyes into her very soul.
“What did you just say?” Cindy asked, the scowl still gripping her face.” I already live a life without Scott. He’s dead in case you didn’t know.” She turned her back to him.
“What I meant was what if Scott had never been conceived? No pregnancy. No child. As if he’d never even existed. Then your constant companion of the last 12 years, not to mention the rest of your life, your debilitating pain will be immediately and forever gone.”
Cindy was staring at Augustine as if he was speaking a foreign language.
“To put it more simply. To be, or not to be, that is the question.”
Her mind was racing. “How can you do that?” Cindy asked, like a child who had just watched a magician make a quarter disappear before her eyes.
“The how doesn’t matter. The only question is would you?”
Cindy stared blankly at Augustine, saying nothing.
“But realize that since he will never have existed, you will lose not only the bad memories but the good ones as well.”
“I don’t know who you think you are…”
“Again that doesn’t matter; I’m just asking, would you?”
“You have some nerve mister, do you want money? Is that it?”
“I can assure you money is not my motivation.” Augustine answered, and she believed him.
“How can you do that?” She asked again.

Augustine didn’t answer, instead he reached out and touched her shoulder, it felt as if a skeleton was gripping her. She tried to pull away, but couldn’t. She wouldn’t have long to wonder why, she blinked, opened her eyes and immediately was gripped by an oppressive heat and having lived in the South her whole life she was no stranger to hot days but this was a different kind of creature. Heat’s embrace was followed by the smell of trash and human waste baked for days in the hundred degree oven of the city streets, which made her gag. She looked around, there was no color, as if brown was the only color in the painters palette. The dirt roads spewed forth, hot dust filling her nose and lungs causing her to cough out loud. Every building in sight appeared weathered by the twin storms of war and neglect.
“Where are we?” Cindy whispered, but she knew. She prayed she was wrong but she knew.
”Tikrit. April 22 2003.” Augustine whispered back.
Her shocking introduction paled in comparison to what lay just ahead. A Humvee stopped in the intersection 20 yards in front of the misplaced pair. A figure climbed out and headed towards a pile of trash. She knew it was her son though his helmet and body armor made visual confirmation impossible a mother’s intuition is a powerful force. She also knew Scott had always run towards danger, it was one of the things she had most admired about him but had always feared the result of this bravery. ”Sco…”, she tried to scream but the sound and concussion of the explosion beat her to him. Her ears were ringing, her head hurting, she could now recognize Scott only by his screams. Two other soldiers ran up, grabbed him and drug him to the Humvee. She wanted to run to Scott more than anything she had ever wanted in her life. But couldn’t, as if her feet were submerged in dried concrete. “Mom, mom! I don’t want to die. Mom!” She closed her eyes and covered her ears, hoping it would make it all go away, instead she kept hearing his screams even as the Humvee sped away.
“I’ve seen enough.” Her very soul felt broken.

Thankfully as quickly as she had arrived at his murder she was gone and for the first time in 12 years she was grateful to be standing in front of his grave.
“I’ll give you some time to think about my offer. We’ll meet again.” Augustine bowed again and headed off. She turned to Scott’s grave then quickly back around.
“How long do…” he was nowhere in sight though she had a quarter-mile unobstructed view in every direction. She collapsed to the ground in grief.

She’d never known how he died, “The Army doesn’t release those details” she was told. So she had filled in the blanks herself. Was it quick and painless or slow and torturous? She had always rested her sanity on the quick and painless. You know life has gone wrong when you find comfort in how quickly your child died, she thought. But the one thing she’d thought about the most was whether or not Scott had called out to her. “You will never really know” she had whispered to herself a thousand sleepless nights, but now she knew the truth. It was not quick and painless, no, he’d died slowly, screaming her name. The realization broke her tired heart yet again and she hoped as she had a 1000 times before, the first anniversary of his death, mother’s day, just to name a few, that this newest pain would be the straw that broke the camel’s back and death would finally and gratefully embrace her, but again she was wrong, she didn’t die but as always, cruelly, she kept breathing and hurting.

“Oh Scott, I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” She barely uttered. A summer storm was brewing, the smell of honeysuckles saturated the cool wind. The white seamless cumulus clouds were quickly giving way to its darker cousin, the thunder storm. She sat there unable to move, even the first gentle drops couldn’t rouse her but as summer storms often do the light rain quickly surrendered to a downpour, the drops finally strong enough to break her, awaken her from her stupor, but while the few other occupants of the cemetery ran to their cars, she numbly walked.

She was now sitting Indian style, surrounded by family photo albums, still wearing her wet clothes. Her living room, like the rest of the house, had once been colorful and cluttered. After her son’s death she had found no joy in either. This very room was once painted purple just because Scott asked. She also remembered how angry Ray had been when he’d come home and saw the room.
“Purple Cindy? What the hell were you thinking?” Ray had angrily asked.
“Scott wanted…”
“Scott is an 8 year old kid” Ray had interrupted, “You’re the adult Cindy, though sometimes I wonder.” He stormed off to his Jack and coke. I’d do it again she’d thought then and now.

It's post Scott dying color is white, painted just 3 weeks after his death, the reason for painting it and the color itself reminded her of Scott, which in turn reminded her that he was forever gone. She was resting against a beige sofa; she’d moved the coffee table to the right, to make room on the floor for herself and the photo albums. A recliner to the left and an old record player across from her the remaining cast of her living room, the named seem a misnomer.

She opened the photo album and instantly was immersed in a sea of memories. The first picture, Cindy in the hospital bed, Scott asleep in her arms, a smile beaming from her face. He had been a hard birth, she would later joke it’s why he was an only child, the removal of one of her fallopian tubes due to cancer the real reason but the Scott story was easier to tell. She remembered the seemingly endless labor and had believed for 18 years it was the most painful ordeal of her life. She now knew it paled in comparison to Scott’s death. That was real pain. His birth had been 34 ½ hours of it, his death 12 years of it.

The next picture, Scott’s first birthday, sitting in his high chair smiling. His face covered in chocolate icing. He’d refused to touch his cake, so Ray had been forced to smear icing on his face so Cindy could get the perfect shot. His first day of school, standing against the sliding glass door, wearing his new jeans, I-Zod T-shirt, and smile, the one that warmed her heart every time she’d ever seen it and even in the darkness of her current life it still did. She remembered he’d cried when he got home, not because he hated school, he’d missed his mother.

Cindy began remembering her own childhood. She’d grown up in a house devoid of love, her mother and father had not only slept in separate beds they slept in separate bedrooms. She’d never seen them kiss or even so much as hold hands and “I love you” was a phrase never once uttered in her home. That was followed by a loveless marriage in its 4th year and whether by choice or fate didn’t matter, her entire existence had been devoid of the embrace of absolute pure love, until Scott’s birth. His unconditional love was the first and only time in her existence she’d felt its warm embrace. And now she would spend the remainder of her life never feeling that again. She closed her eyes to cry but there were no tears left. She reluctantly picked up the second photo album.

The next picture was of Scott and the family dog Luna. The truth was she had never been the family’s dog; she had always been Scott’s and Scott’s alone. The picture took her back to the day they’d gotten the dog. The knock on the door; she’d opened it to find Scott, all of twelve, a sheltie puppy in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, she knew Scott was her knight in shining armor, just as he had been for Cindy. The wild eyed couple standing behind Scott explaining how he’d run right into the middle of traffic to save the puppy, “He was almost run over two…” “No three times,” his wife interrupted.

Cindy had been so angry at first, but quickly that anger turned to pride. “Please, please, please…” is all it had taken and Scott had always known that. They kept the dog. He named her Luna, and they became inseparable, well almost, death has a way of breaking any bond, no matter how strong. Neither Cindy or Luna had been the same since Scott left for basic training. Their only happiness was the two times Scott had returned home on furloughs, Luna wouldn’t leave his side, even lying on the bathroom floor while he took a shower. His third homecoming had been in a body bag. Luna’s death arrived four years later, a part of Cindy was happy, not only was Luna’s loneliness forever gone; she knew Scott and her were together again in Heaven and believed with all her heart that one day so would she be. It’s amazing how easy it is to find religion after the death of a child. But another part of her was happy for selfish reasons. Luna reminded her of Scott and every memory no matter how precious was now filled with pain. With Luna gone, she thought of Scott 100 times a day instead of 110 and though a small victory it was all she had. She closed the book, unable to take anymore. The darkness engulfing her living room told her she’d been on the floor all day.

She closed her eyes but no matter how hard she tried to keep them out, the sounds of his screams filled her thoughts. She curled up in the fetal position then slowly and painfully fell asleep. It was the only time her entire essence didn’t hurt. She remained there until gently nudged awake the following morning by the sun beams from the cracks in the curtains. She slowly awoke and as she had 4383 other times, prayed this new day would bring with it but a single tick of the clock when the pain would be bearable, but once again no such reprieve would find her.

She had dreamed of a family vacation taken to Myrtle Beach. Cindy remembered how at first sight, Scott had been terrified of the ocean but in less than a day he couldn’t get enough of it. He had always been so much braver than she was and she knew even then that he was destined to do so much more. But she was wrong. He met the same destiny we all do, way too soon.

She spent the remainder of the morning going through other photo albums and by lunch had even broke out the VHS tapes. His 10th birthday party, she’d forgotten how many friends he had. Prom night, what was his date’s name? Cindy only remembered that she didn’t like “whatever her name was” but it didn’t matter, mom had always been his number one. The winning touchdown he scored his junior year. It had been a long time since these memories had brought anything but pain, but now that she was “visiting” them for what very well may be the last time, somehow she rediscovered the joy they once so powerfully held but had lost after that April 23rd afternoon knock on her door. She turned off the TV and picked up another photo album up and turned to the last page. It had once held 4 pictures, each of Scott with a different family member the day he’d left for Iraq, now a single picture remained. His unit in Iraq. There had even been visits by two of the men in the picture. She could still hear Corporal Wilson telling her how Scott was “The best friend I ever had, even though I only knew him for 9 months.” He’d even rolled up his sleeve and showed her the tattoo. SGR, Scott Gregory Rosenthal, 7-18-84 above his initials, Scott’s birthday, his death day, 4-22-03 under it. She’d been surprised to see how much Scott had touched others, even in the pit of hell called Tikrit.

She thought back to the cemetery and Augustine’s offer, a part of her wondered if it had even been real but somehow she knew it was. After watching him die she was sure she had her answer, she wouldn’t have Scott, because even the good memories were now full of pain. But just when she felt sure of her decision, she would remember something else he’d done and the memory would bring a smile to her face. But the second the memory faded the pain rushed in to fill the void and she wanted the pain gone, whatever the price, she was more than willing to pay it. She wondered how different her life would be without Scott. Would her and Ray still be together? Would she still be living in Sumter? The questions swirled around; the answers nowhere to be found. There was one more thing she had to do. She picked up the phone.

“I know it’s a strange question but I need to know, do you think our lives would have been different if we would never have had Scott?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?” Cindy could hear the irritation in Ray’s voice. “I’m at work Cindy; I don’t have time for this.” It wasn’t the timing of the question that bothered him; it made him think back to his son’s funeral. How he had wanted to see him one last time.
“There’s no way you can have an open casket.” He could still hear the mortician saying as if it was yesterday instead of 12 years ago. How he’d lied to Cindy, “It’s something the Army does, they don’t want any pictures of dead soldiers getting on the internet.” He knew she couldn’t have handled the truth; their only child didn’t have a face left to show. But it also made him remember when Scott had been caught stealing hood ornaments off of the neighbor’s cars. Ray had been embarrassed when his neighbors told him they weren’t going to press charges. That Scott was “a good kid who had just made a mistake”. Unfortunately it took him dying to realize just how right they were. How disappointed Ray had been then and how he’d carried that disappointment for years. That was until he heard the words, “Scott’s dead”. Those words instantly metamorphosed it from a painful memory into its current incarnation, a sense of pride. How Scott had cut the neighbors lawns for free to repay them, he’d done such a good job that they hired him every summer until he left for the Army, how he’d never stolen again, and now unconsciously Ray’s chest puffed out, of how proud of his son he was. Scott’s death had taught Ray that disappointment was for the living.

“No Cindy, are you kidding? Scott was and always will be the greatest thing I ever did. I wouldn’t give that up for anything. I am at peace with where I am, however fragile.” He paused, nothing. “Cindy are you there?”
”Yes I’m here, and sorry for bringing up Scott.” The resignation in her voice tugged at his heartstrings.
“I know. Yesterday was hard on me as well. How are you?”
“I’m fine.” They both knew she was lying, they had after all spent 23 years together, and though not the best marriage still 23 years of shared experiences is a powerful binder.
“If Scott hadn’t died do you think we would still be together?” Cindy asked.
The thought made him uncomfortable, like he would be cheating on his current wife if he answered.
“I don’t know Cindy.” His answer was followed by a click. Ray tried to shake it off. She’s just having a bad day he thought and got back to his paperwork.

He’s moved on, Cindy thought. She had found no such absolution and knew she never would. Her decision was made. The knock at the door startled her. Could that be Augustine? How could he know she had just made her decision? I guess for the man who instantly transported me 12 years back to a front row seat for my son’s murder, knowing my decision was made was probably child’s play. Cindy thought as she opened the door.
“Ms. Rosenthal.” Augustine tipped his hat.
“I’ve been thinking. You have power over life and death so before I make my decision I need to know something. Are you God or the Devil?”
“No.” Augustine answered.
"Well then, do you work for God or the Devil?” Cindy asked.
“Neither. I’m an independent contractor. I hate to rush but I’m late for my next appointment and it involves a suicide so I can’t be late. What’s your decision?”
“As much as it hurts, as much as I want the pain to end, I could never erase Scott, that would be selfish and that’s something he never was. And if Scott would have never been born I would have never experienced unconditional love. Not to mention removing such a wonderful soul from existence is not my decision to make. The past two days have taught me that he’s not just mine, even though a part of me had come to believe that. He also belongs to his father, grandparents and friends. I can’t make this decision by myself.” She smiled. “I’ve even imagined Corporal Wilson being asked by a grandchild he will have one day many years from now, about his tattoo and he will tell him about Scott and in a way that means he will still be in this world.” Cindy sighed. “And most importantly, after meeting you there’s something I’m now sure of, I will see him again in Heaven. He is in heaven?” Cindy asked looking as if she was afraid to hear the answer.
“I don’t know, I just deliver them to the Train of Souls, Peter is the one who decides Heaven or Hell.” Augustine didn’t have the heart to tell her what was happening up there.
“Anyway, 30 more years, give or take, of living with this pain for an eternity with him is well worth it. I only wished I knew when I was going to die. Can you tell me that?”
Augustine just smiled.
“There are a 1000 reasons to keep him and only one not to, my own pain. So don’t change anything.” A peace enveloped her knowing she’d done the right thing.
“Very well Cindy…”, Augustine bowed for the last time, “… I wish you the best.” He headed for the door.
“Augustine wait.” She stepped towards him,
“Thank you.” She gave him a hug, it caught him off guard and that doesn’t happen often.
"You’re welcome.” He headed out the door. His next appointment was a few miles away and this one he couldn’t be late for.

The End