Fateful Lightning: A New History of the Civil War & Reconstruction by Allen Guelzo (self help books to read TXT) 📕

“I haven’t told Tom about any of this, haven’t really told anybody.”

“Oh Nia. You should tell Tom,” Rachel said. “If he’s going to be a part of your future, he needs to be part of your past too.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely,” Rachel replied.

“What about his pain?”

“This is different. Nia, I’ve known him all his life, and you are the best thing that has ever happened to him.”

Nia wiped her tears and blew her nose. She smiled at Rachel.

“Did you try to have children after?” Rachel asked.

Nia was caught off guard by the question.

“Errr, no. There was no one in my life I felt that could inspire or even share that experience. Rachel, I’ve been hurting since I lost the baby. I felt I couldn’t love anything again, that I couldn’t even love myself after what happened.”

“I’m so sorry. You deserve to be loved and to love, Nia. We all do,” Rachel offered.

“I,” Nia hesitated, “I think I am now.”

“You are, sweetie. Still too early for future plans?” Rachel asked.

Rachel’s bluntness was surprising to Nia, forcing her to go to thoughts she was burying.

“I think we’re both taking it day to day. Seeing how it plays out,” Nia said a little defensively.

“You know that there’s still time, Nia?”

Nia was surprised. “Time for what?” she hesitantly asked.

“You’re what now, early forties? There’s still time for the whole relationship thing, picket fence, garden all that,”

“Well, I kind of have that now.”

“Do you think you’d ever want children? There’s still time for that too.”

Nia was stunned by what she perceived as Rachel’s insensitivity. It stung and hurt her especially after Nia had considered she had shared a moment of deep intimacy, of her exposing her deepest most vulnerable secret to Tom’s sister. Rachel smiled reassuringly and squeezed Nia’s shoulder as she stood and proceeded to clear away the tea service. Nia heard an outside door open a room away and heard the happy chatter of Owain and Tom’s return. She stood and wiped her eyes again. “Fuck,” she thought. “I do have time.” But she also knew that there wasn’t a lot of time, her biological window was shutting slowly but inexorably, but there was time. And, now, perhaps, just perhaps, there was a man. A man with kind eyes and, more importantly, a kind and open heart. Would he want children? Her mind went to so many different places, “He was nice to the mum with the toddler at the airport,” she thought. “But he’s never mentioned kids — but then why would he? And, fuck, he lives on a tiny boat.”

Tom entered the room, still wearing the purple paper crown from his Christmas cracker, and went over and hugged Nia. He saw her eyes were red and puffy.

“Oh God,” he said, “what did Rachel say now?”

Nia smiled and shook her head slightly and Tom understood that it was something that Nia didn’t want to talk about. Nia smiled and squeezed his hand and changed the subject.

Later, as they prepared for bed in the room that was considered Tom’s farmhouse bedroom, Nia explained that she had been momentarily upset over the discussion with Rachel over finances. Tom apologized, but, with a smile, explained that Nia didn’t have to ever worry about him being a gold digger. As they settled into the comfort and warmth of the moment before sleep, Nia reached her hand down her body to her tummy. She let it rest there for a moment before turning to spoon Tom. She felt Tom’s body relax into sleep as she attempted to banish thoughts of motherhood from her consciousness. She lay awake trying to think of other things. Tom twitched next to her. Nia had become accustomed to Tom’s occasional physical and audible manifestations of his dreaming. He never remembered his dreams, but Nia could sense the way Tom would tense in the throes of a dream that he was probably back in Iraq or Afghanistan. Tonight, unownable to Nia, he was in Afghanistan, in theatre.

***

Afghanistan, Eight Years Previously

Captain Tom Price had been seconded to a small, tough detachment of Canadian special forces serving deep on the northern border. There had been rumours of arms for drugs transfers with the arms coming from Uzbekistan to be traded for the Taliban’s raw opium. Opium bound for the Russian market. After a number of missions that came to naught, the group had received actionable intelligence and found themselves observing a small village at the mouth of a valley trailhead that wound its way up and through the mountains. The Canadians were tired, it had been a long slog through difficult terrain to get to this point and they were nervous, not quite trusting the intelligence they received from local friendlies.

The Canadian commander, Captain Jacques Gagnon, a tough Quebecer with the longest red beard Price had ever seen, was observing the village through night vision binoculars. He pointed towards the village and Price, who was lying prone next to him, focused his own optics. Through the green haze, Price could see a small group of armed locals emerge from the village and move towards a dusty field. Gagnon radioed his men who had been sent to flank the village. Unseen by Gagnon, Price, and the Taliban, the Canadian soldiers began to move towards the field. Through his night vision binoculars, Price saw the Taliban stop. They all turned to face north.

“Something’s coming from the mountains,” he told Gagnon.

They heard it before they could see it.

“A chopper,” said Gagnon.

The Russian Mi-17 transport helicopter swooped down out of the valley at a nearly impossible angle just a few feet above the ground. Incredible manoeuvres all the more impressive in the dark without lights.

“Fucking Russians,” Gagnon exclaimed.

The Mi-17 came to a perfect landing in the dry