“Have you been able to get ahold of Ryker?” She takes a piece of fish between her fingers.
“No. Part of me is worried. Part of me isn’t. Part of me knows he’s smart, hiding out where no one will find him. He’s good at that. But part of me thinks, What if Luke got to him?”
“I doubt that. Ryker’s too smart for his own good.”
My phone illuminates and vibrates across the counter. When I see the name, my stomach drops in both a good way and a bad way.
“It’s Ethan.”
“What are you going to do?”
I hit Ignore, and his name disappears from my screen.
Twenty-Eight
Ethan
Friday, Robby’s funeral in Brookline, Massachusetts.
It’s cold, and the wind has settled on east to west today.
The American flag is dropped over his casket. Robby lies inside in his dress blues. I brought them to the Holmes Family Funeral Services. Something Robby would have insisted on wearing.
One night, Robby said, a buzz settled in his eyes, “The Marines gave me structure. Gave me stability. Made me a man. Semper fidelis.”
I think it’s the person inside that couldn’t hide the awfulness of war even if he tried like hell.
I stand toward the back as more people begin to show and stare at Robby’s picture up by his casket. My eyes burn from lack of sleep. My head is foggy. I pick at the calluses on my palm and wonder how many times I can pull the skin away before it begins to hurt.
The picture up front is of Robby smiling. It’s the before. Before war. Before his addiction dictated his life. I look over at his daughter, who’s in the front row, head burrowed into her mother. Death is harder for kids her age. She’s eleven, I think. She knows she lost her dad far before his disease killed him, but nevertheless, she doesn’t get to have the hope anymore that, someday, he might get clean. Someday, he might be accountable again. Someday, he might show up when he said he was going to show up for birthdays or Christmases. That, someday, he might walk her down the aisle on her wedding day.
All that’s gone.
Numb, I guess, is how I feel. It’s been three days since Robby died. Three days since Bryce left. Three days since I’ve had a drink. The thought of alcohol makes me want to vomit. Food has been a rare commodity, as I can’t seem to get anything down. I called work, asking to come back early, and they willingly agreed. I’ll start Monday. It will be a good distraction.
“Thank you for your service,” a little boy, no older than six, tugs on my pant leg.
I forget what it’s like to wear my dress blues anymore. Although snug in places it wasn’t before, it fits okay. I bend down, stare back into the brown eyes of the little boy. The innocent eyes of a young boy so naive to the world. His long eyelashes slowly move up and down with each blink.
“You’re welcome, buddy.”
“I’m going to be a Marine one day, just like my dad was.”
Was.
Was.
Was.
In this moment, it’s so hard to tell the innocent child reasons to enlist. This is what war looks like. War is a byproduct of service. And this is what can happen to us. We become jaded. We become different people. Some become heroes, but we never can go back to who we were before. Not for our daughters, our sons, our wives, our husbands. We can’t go back.
I can’t say this to a six-year-old, so instead, I say, “You can be anything you want in life.”
He nods and walks away.
I stand back up and adjust the uniform, checking the laces of my shoes, making sure they run parallel to the floor.
It’s the blue bag, the black wool coat, and her auburn hair that catch my eye.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. Seeing her right now feels like it’s been weeks since I’ve seen Bryce last. Seeing her right now makes my stomach grow nauseous. What I said to her. I remember. Pushing her away because of my hurt instead of running toward her.
“You really fucked up, Ethan,” Aaron said to me after Bryce called him.
But she’s here. And she’s absolutely perfect.
I made several attempts to call her. I even explained to Officer Lent why the PD needed to keep extra watch on her house—of course, because of the break-in. I didn’t explain further.
Bryce looks ahead as she takes her place in the crowd of people preparing to lay Robby to rest. She looks timeless and pale and stunning.
Two Marines stand off in the close distance, next to Robby’s coffin.
Bryce reaches up and pushes a small piece of tissue to the corner of her eye, trying to dry what’s left of her tears.
This movement alone rips me to pieces, and if I wasn’t in my dress blues, I’d wither. I’m fucking tired of trying to hold my shit together. Fucking tired of being the person I’m not or the person I think I should be.
Tired.
“Taps” starts to play by another Marine. To the right of him though, I see another picture of Robby and me in our fatigues. One I didn’t notice before. Why? I have no idea. But I see it now. We’re smiling. Arms around each other. The smiles though aren’t of joy, but of relief, gratitude, and sadness. We survived one more day in the desert. I remember distinctly what had happened the day prior to this picture. Our Humvee was ambushed. Robby and I were the only ones who survived. Sergeant Collins, Lance Corporal Peers, and Lance Corporal Santana were killed that day.
Survivor guilt is what James calls it every time I go back there in my head. I know something broke in me that day. I arm myself with a wall I use when my memories catch up with me. When civilian noise gets too loud. I go back to Iraq. Stay there in my head, live there. I’ve built a wall to protect myself. Made of all things hard. Bulletproof. It isn’t over there that’s hard. It’s the coming-home part. We have to survive in a new manner of living. We’re in constant battle with our minds.
Check the mail. Fight for sanity. Clarity.
Drink a glass of water.
Drive to the grocery store. Fight.
Kiss the love of your life. Fight. Because, surely, you don’t deserve happiness, not when your comrades, your buddies, died for this country.
God.
Country.
Corps.
God forbid, I lose myself in Bryce. Fear takes over. Pushes me away. Fear of who I’ll be if I allow myself to love her. Fear of what will happen to the man I’ve become and the old me I used to be. So, I try to suffer quietly, because that’s what a good soldier does.
The picture I’ve seen several times before this moment suddenly feels heavier because, now, out of our Humvee attack, I’m the only one who has survived. I no longer share that experience with Robby.
Maria told me through her tears this morning about when she’d found Robby that morning he put a gun to his head.
He’d laid out his dress blues for her and left a note: Ready and waiting.
What Robby hadn’t expected was to survive.
His brain swelled the night we left, hemorrhaged, killing him quickly while he slept.
“It was very fast,” Maria, said. Her eyes puffy and red with loss.
I’m pulled from my memories to the Marines folding the flag and handing it to Maria as “Taps” plays again.
Bryce
In the picture of Robby and Ethan in their fatigues, they give smiles. As if Robby’s grief didn’t get the best of him. As if he didn’t spend years trying to blanket what he had seen. What he and Ethan had had to do to save lives.
I realize, in this moment, that war is survivable, as I glance over at a grieving and broken Ethan. My heart aches. The real battle begins when they return home and run from the demons.
Ethan’s tired eyes tell me he’s spent days without sleep. I can’t wish his sadness away. Take it away. He’s got to feel through it, I know. As much as I was hurt by his words, I’ve also realized that I can’t be the keeper of his wounds. I can’t heal him. He’s got to right himself.
Ethan
I catch her eye and fe
el the weight of her stare with the pain she feels for me, maybe for her own brother. Her own demons. We all carry them; some are just bigger than others.
I stare at James from the couch. He sits with one leg crossed over the other, his pen and paper on the coffee table. He never writes things down anymore when we meet.
“I can’t be with her.” I believe these words to my core.
James tips his head to the right. “You can’t, or you won’t?”
“Can’t.”
James shrugs. “Why is that, Ethan?”
I shake my head. “I can’t hurt her.”
“Oh, so you get to decide what she’s capable of now? You’re all-knowing? All of a sudden, you know what’s best for Bryce?”
I sit back and let his words eat away at my skin. This is the first real time James and I have been able to talk about Bryce. Or rather, it’s the first time I’m opening up about her really. About us.
“You don’t want to hurt Bryce—you keep saying that—but the truth is, you don’t want to get hurt. You don’t want to lose another person you’re close to. You aren’t giving her the love or allowing yourself to be loved because of pure selfishness, Ethan. If I’m being honest.”
Direct hit.
Like I’ve been punched in the gut.
“You can’t control life, Ethan. The only things you can control are your attitudes and your actions. Everything else, you’re powerless. You can’t control how love works. You aren’t that powerful.”
James’s words rain down on me like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
Ugly truth.
Bitter truth.
Painful truth.
And the longer I sit here, the more I am able to see just how right James is.
But, instead of lashing out and giving James all the excuses about why he’s wrong, which is what I normally do before I see his point, I get up and leave. I drop a hundred-dollar bill on his desk on the way out without another word said.
Because the truth is, he’s right, and my truth is that I’m not able to face that just yet.
I get in my truck. Sit with these emotions. Robby’s grief still fresh. I have this huge fucking realization that I’m the asshole in the way of Bryce and me, that I’ve been so selfish. I slam my hands on the steering wheel.
Then, my own advice slams into me. “Regrets are for those who refuse change.”
So, what? What happens from here?
My heart begins to pound, hands sweat.
You’ll regret this one, Ethan.
You’ll look back on this life and see where your missteps were made.
You’ll see yourself in the mirror, alone, without love, because you weren’t willing to change out of your own fucking ego.
I slam my hands on the wheel one more time.
And one more time, my conscience comes back. You. Are. Powerless.
Running my hands through my hair, I stare back at the set of eyes looking at me in the rearview mirror.
Let go.
I grab my key from the ignition and walk back into James’s office.
“You’re back?” James’s taken aback and pushes himself away from his desk.
I stand at the door, fists clenched in my pockets. “How do I fix this?”
James motions me in. “Have a seat.”
And this time? I listen.
Twenty-Nine
Bryce
It’s been a month since Robby’s funeral. I’ve gotten a lot done.
Shane Swenson and I worked tediously on fixing his manuscript to send out to editors at six different publishing houses. I paid a visit to our offices in New York. I paid the bill on Magnolia Road for another month. I received my trophy from the chili cook-off and displayed it on the front porch in its case, per the rules of the Fall Festival Board. Apparently, all winners must display their winnings appropriately. I’m still not sure what that’s all about.
I also survived three calls from my mother. One call was to tell me that Ryker was back in another rehab. Another call to ask how I was doing, which was out of the blue and unexpected but welcomed. And the last to tell me she loved me. Also unexpected.
I’ve busied myself, so I don’t think about Ethan.
I saw him in his warden uniform two days ago, which told me two things. One, he was back to work, and two, I really enjoyed seeing him in his uniform.
There’s a knock at the door as I sit at my computer, welcoming the cold. A fire is burning, which I learned to build by myself—with the help of Eli.
It’s three in the afternoon, and I’m not really expecting anyone, but maybe it’s Ruthie sending over another cobbler.
To my surprise, it’s an elderly woman in a blue housecoat with a heavy wool coat to protect her body from the elements.
My first thought is, Why the hell is she out in the cold?
My second thought is, Doesn’t she have kids who keep tabs on her?
“Please, come in.” I don’t ask for her name. I just lend a hand and help her in the doorway.
She nods politely, a bright smile. “Thank you, Bryce.”
She knows my name?
The woman hobbles into the kitchen and carefully eases herself into a chair at the kitchen table like she’s been here before.
I follow her and sit down across from her. “Can I get you something to drink, Ms.—sorry, I didn’t get your name?”
“Nana. And, no, thank you. I’m quite all right.”
Her bright eyes explore the kitchen as she sits. They move to the dining room and then the living room, and finally, they fall upon me.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask.
Nana is quiet for a long moment and folds her hands into themselves. It reminds of the nursery rhyme of the church, the steeple, and all the people.
“I spent my whole life in Granite Harbor. Never once did I ever want to leave.” Her eyebrows rise. “I suppose that was fear. Get stuck in a place too long, you get too comfortable.” Once again, she looks around the room, untangles her fingers, and taps her fingertips lightly on the table. Her tone is soft, inviting, like a well-given hug. One you want more of.
I wait for her to speak again.
“I really like what you’ve done with the place.”
“You’ve been here before, Nana?”
She smiles at this. “Oh, yes.” Her eyes fall back to me.
“Where do you live now?” I ask.
“Not here.” Nana shakes her head. “You’re a beautiful woman, Bryce. Ethan is plumb stupid if he doesn’t snatch you up and make you his wife.”
I cock my head to the right, curious. “You know Ethan?”
She nods. Again, she takes her eyes from me and looks around the house once more.
“I love bright colors,” Nana says. “Do you like bright colors, Bryce?”
I look around the kitchen, dining room, and living room. “They’ve grown on me.”
Nana smiles, and my world grows a little brighter.
Her eyebrows rise as her smile fades. “Regrets are for those who refuse change.”
My eyes narrow. Wait. What? My curiosity is piqued. “Nana, why are you here?” I don’t believe she’s here to admire my looks or the odd colors of Magnolia Road.
Her eyes stare straight into my soul this time. “Ethan was lost before you, Bryce.” Tears well up in her eyes. She tries to smile through them. “You’ve changed him. For the better. You’ve changed him.” She pauses. “Fear keeps us. It binds us. It doesn’t allow for us to live our best lives because our hearts can be tender, raw—like in Ethan’s case. But he loves you with all he has. I know it. Forgiveness is a tool we do not use often enough. We use the fear to fight forgiveness, and I’m not sure why.” She ponders this for a moment. “What if we all lived life through forgiveness, Bryce? Oh”—she laughs a beautiful melody of a laugh—“what a life that would be. Hot dog.”
My body starts to vibrate. Not in a way anyone can see, I’m sure of it. But in a way that everything makes sense. Chill
s spread across my skin.
“Well, I guess I ought to be on my way.”
Please don’t go, Nana, I want to say.
She carefully pushes the chair back from the table. I stand to help her, but she has it by herself.
Nana takes one last look around the house. “No, really, I think you ought to change the colors.” Her eyes meet mine. “Change is good for the soul.” She reaches out and touches my cheek. “Take care of each other, Bryce. Forgive one another. Give love. Don’t live in fear; it’s a waste of measured breaths that we don’t get too many of.”
“Please, let me walk you home or get you to where you need to go.”
We walk toward the door.
“Oh, no, dear, I’m just fine. My husband is waiting outside.”
“In-in the cold?” I gasp.
“Don’t worry; he’s a tough old Mainer.”
Reluctantly, I open the door for Nana.
The chill nips at my face.
“Nana, I don’t know if I can let you leave here. Please, do you have a person I can call for you at least? To come get you?”
Nana stands on the porch. “No, it’s quite fine, dear.”
An elderly man stands at the end of the walk with a dog. Like an Australian shepherd of some sort, I think.
This feels all wrong, allowing them to leave like this in the cold.
Quickly, I grab a jacket from behind the door. “Please, take this.”
But Nana is already down the stairs of the porch.
“Oh”—she turns back to me—“Robby is fine. Tell Ethan that Robby is fine. He’s finally free.”
What? I’m so confused.
“Oh, and don’t play cards with Ida on Friday nights. She cheats like a son of a bitch.”
What? Ida as in Ruthie Murdock’s mother?
“How do you know?” I call after her.
“Been watching her for twenty years,” Nana says.
The man at the end of the walk gives me a wave and takes his wife by the arm, and they make their way down the sidewalk toward Main Street.
I watch until I can no longer see them, feeling uncomfortable—and not because of them, but because I let them leave in this weather.
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