The Phone Call

Rosemarie

Even though he couldn't call often, the phone call on Saturday, May 15, 2010, from Carlos was different from any of the others. Afterward, I couldn't stop crying.

He was on his fourth deployment, this time in Afghanistan. The previous three deployments had been in Iraq. Because of the time difference — they were nine and a half hours ahead of us in Fajardo, Puerto Rico — I was never surprised when he called at strange hours. I was so glad to hear from him, I didn't care if it was the middle of the night. Each call meant he was safe, and I was relieved.

I had flown to Puerto Rico, and that Saturday I had gone out of town for my uncle's wedding. Now, back at my mother's, I was putting both daughters to bed. My cell rang. Caller ID showed me it was a strange number, such as 1111111111, so I knew it was Carlos.

"Hey, baby, how are you?" I asked.

"I'm fine."

His voice sounded flat, unlike him. I was excited to hear from him, yet his tone upset me. "Baby, are you okay?"

"Everything here is different than before."

That was an odd thing for him to say and nothing like the usual upbeat Carlos. After a pause, he said, "You know I love you, don't you? You know that you and my daughters are the most important part of my life."

"Yes," I said, "and you're the most important person in my life."

What's wrong? What isn't he telling me?

"Everything is different here, but I'm thinking about you all the time." Then he repeated, "You're the most important person in my life."

The phone went dead.

Why did he hang up? What's happened to him? Why was he talking that way? Was he saying goodbye to me? Is he in the hospital? Has he been badly wounded?

My tears flowed. I couldn't call him back because I didn't know his number. All night long I couldn't stop crying. I'd fall asleep for a few minutes and wake up sobbing. No, dear Lord, don't ... don't let him die.

All the next day I waited for my cell to ring, but no calls came from Carlos. I didn't cry as much, but I fretted. I couldn't focus clearly on things I had to do because I kept hearing that sad tone in his voice. Then I would cry out to God to take care of him. For a short time I'd feel at peace, but minutes later I'd worry about him again.

Before going out of town, I had made a number of things to mail to Carlos, such as a photo blanket collage and a photo dog tag with our wedding picture, and I put photographs of the girls and me in an album. Our anniversary was a month away, and I wanted him to have those things because he was away from us. Father's Day was also in June, and I wanted it to be a special occasion for him and a reminder of how much we loved and missed him.

After the phone call, I didn't know if I should mail the package or not. Finally I pushed away my negative thoughts about Carlos. If he had been badly injured or worse, the Marine Corps would have notified me. No notification must mean he was all right.

I kept repeating those words to myself. Slowly I calmed down and was able to focus on making him happy. Once Carlos receives the package, I told myself several times, he'll be reminded that we love him, and we didn't forget him while he was gone.

I thought of Carlos's mother, Virginia Evans, who also lived in Fajardo, Puerto Rico. I had worked hard on the blanket and decided to show her everything I was going to send him. I drove to her house that day on my way to the post office.

Virginia smiled as she examined the contents. "Oh, this is all so pretty." She picked up the blanket and the photographs one by one and assured me that her son would like everything.

After I expressed my concern over the telephone call, she hugged me and assured me that Carlos was fine and reminded me, "He's in God's hands."

"I know." Being with Virginia often eased my concern about Carlos's safety.

I sealed the package and drove to the post office. Before I got there, my cell rang. It was a local number that I didn't recognize. "Hello," I said.

"Is your name Rosemarie Evans?" a man asked.

"Yes, it's me."

He identified himself as being with the Marine Corps.

After that I don't remember anything else until he added.

"We're in front of your mother-in-law's house. We need you to come back immediately."

They knew how to reach me because earlier that morning I had received a call from the Family Support Program in Camp Lejeune at Jacksonville, North Carolina. The caller asked me how I was doing and where I was staying. I gave him the address of my mother-in-law.

"What's wrong?" My voice was shaking, but I couldn't stop it.

"We're waiting for you," he said. "We'll explain when you get here."

"No! No!" I yelled before I hung up. They had terrible news to tell me. Carlos is dead. That's why he called yesterday. He was dying.

More than once my husband had said, "If you see marines in front of the house, they're going to tell you bad news."

As I drove back, I thought of what I'd seen in movies when two military officers knocked on the door. Only the year before, Carlos and I had watched the film Taking Chance, in which the body of Lance Corporal Chance Phelps, an Iraq war casualty, is escorted home by Marine Colonel Michael Strobl (played by Kevin Bacon).

Carlos is dead. I was crying so hard that several times I had to brush away tears so I could see well enough to drive. I kept screaming, "No! No! Not Carlos!"

When I reached Virginia's house, three marines stood next to a government car in front. I parked my car, ignored them, and rushed up to the house. It sounds silly now, but it was as if I didn't have to talk to them in order to know my Carlos was gone.

I started knocking on the door and yelling, "Virginia!"

She opened the door, shocked at seeing me. "Why have you come back so fast? Why are you crying?"

"Virginia, they're here! They're here!"

Virginia shook her head, confused. "Who's here?"

I turned and pointed to the...