Chapter Forty-Eight
Katy
I’ve been to therapy every day this week, going at Dr. Schmidt’s pace. I’ve shared far more in the past five days than I have in the last four months. She considers it a breakthrough, but it just feels like ranting to me. I still feel the anger, the frustration, and I’m not sure how much farther we can possibly go discussing the same issues. But somewhere deep down, I feel a part of me starting to let it go as I exorcize some of the hurts. I’ll keep pushing myself for the greatest love of my life. For Noah. Because I want more than anything to be the mother he deserves. Once I’d managed to pull myself back together after Gavin left, I went to get my son. Noah had a thousand questions when we got home, and his father was nowhere in sight. I was able to pacify him for the first few days with a made-up business trip, but eventually, that lie got old. Our son is no dummy. But there was no way I was confessing anything more to him until Gavin and I had discussed it.
Gavin FaceTimed him every night, and there were a few times that Noah turned the screen, bringing us face to face. Those moments ripped me in two. Gavin’s eyes would fill, or mine would. We’d clear our throats and lead the conversation elsewhere, or I’d find an excuse to leave the room. We speak only about Noah, and it’s usually in the form of a text.
Noah is my focus. During the day, I spend all my energy on him, while at night I look into applying for the VBSN program to transition from an army medic to a registered nurse.
You’re a housewife.
“Eat shit, Briggs,” I mutter under my breath. I know the comment was meant to sting, and I’d asked for it. But it struck deep. A career outside of the home was always my plan before I got knocked off course. Giving up my dreams means letting them win, and I won’t let that be my legacy.
“Who’s Briggs?” Noah asks from the kitchen table, where he’s doing his homework.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that.” I curse my stupidity. It’s the first time I’ve said his name in our home. Guilt threatens, but I push it away as Dr. Schmidt’s words from earlier today filter in.
“Statistically, do you know where you are sitting?”
“What?”
“I’m going to trade my hat for a minute. It’s not exactly ethical, but I feel like it’s necessary. I just want your permission to speak freely.”
I nod.
“You’re blaming yourself for having limits. You’re so ready for everything to go back to the way it was. Do you have any idea how many veterans don’t make it as far as you have?”
“I’m aware.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think you are. One in five gets diagnosed with PTSD.”
I nod. I know that.
“One in five, Katy. Do you know how many American soldiers there are?”
“Not sure.”
“A million point three. I looked it up last night, and that’s just the army.”
I sit there, stunned, as she goes on. One in five. One in five.
“Right now, two hundred thousand are homeless. Some can’t adapt back into their old lives. Some never even make it home after they get off the bus.”
I stew on her words. I know this is to give me a point of reference for my own progress, but my empathy is winning, and my heart is breaking.
She looks at me pointedly. “Twenty-two soldiers kill themselves every single day.”
Tears stream down my cheeks as she gives me sympathetic eyes. At my lowest, for the briefest of moments, I wished I’d never made it out of that bunker. But even in my most desperate times, I could never have taken my own life. It makes me realize I’m not alone, and things could be worse.
She sets her notepad on the table in front of me and clasps her hands between designer slacks. “You see weakness in your inability to adapt fast enough, in your inability to choose what path to take, but the fact that you get up every day determined to resume your life is enough. I’m telling you, it is enough. Right here, right now, the steps you’re taking, it’s enough and…” She pauses. “I admire your strength.”
I remain quiet, allowing her words to sink in.
“I want you to remember on bad days that you’ve come very far in little time.”
Briggs’s words from Germany come back to me: They failed. You need to remember that on bad days.
“Mom-my,” Noah scorns, “Who is Briggs, and why are you telling him to eat poop?”
I stop my knife on the cutting board, taking a seat across from him.
“He’s Mommy’s friend from Baghdad.”
“Like Mullins?”
“Yes,” I say. “Like Mullins.”
He wrinkles his nose in concentration. “I wish she came home too.”
We haven’t discussed her since I’ve been back. I’m assuming Gavin hasn’t said anything about her passing.
As I stare at my little boy, I can’t bring myself to break his heart. Steps have to be taken, before leaps and bounds, and I’ve taken enough for one day.
“Me too, buddy. I miss her so much.”
“Grandma says at Disney we can go on all the rides.” His eyes get big. I’m thankful for his inability to keep to one topic for very long.
“I know you’re excited, baby. That was so nice of them.”
I dread the quiet of the house when spring break hits. It’s just a few weeks away. All I have to look forward to is spending time with Noah, and with Gavin gone, the nights seem longer. I miss his quiet strength, his encouragement. I miss having him here.
And I was such a bitch.
Guilt wracks me, and I stand and turn back toward the kitchen, wiping a lone tear away. I pick up my phone and shoot off a text to my husband. It’s been five days, and I came home with the intention of fixing my marriage. It’s time for me to prove it.
Me: Remember that time we were at the laundromat packing up, and I reached out of your truck from the seat to pick up a hanger I had dropped, and fell out? I thought of that today. You laughed so hard, you had tears pouring down your face. It’s one of my favorite “us” moments, as insignificant as it may be to you. I love you.
The message gets read immediately, and then the dots start. For minutes they bounce up and down before they stop.
He’s still angry.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Katy
Ripping up the carpet, I see a shitload of tiny nails and holler for Noah. He comes barreling into the room.
“Yeah?”
“Baby, stay out of Daddy’s office until I’m done, okay? See these nails?”
“Okay.” He wrinkles his nose. “Stinks in here.”
I look up at my handiwork. The stink comes from the last of the paint fumes I don’t want him inhaling. Gavin’s office was our last project in the renovations. He told me we could skip it until we could afford to do it right. Just another example of the sacrifices he made in our everyday life to keep me happy.
Each day, since I started on the project, I’ve had to push aside the idea that he won’t ever get to enjoy it. It’s been two weeks, and he’s still not answering my texts with anything more than the days he’ll be picking Noah up after school, and if he’ll be keeping him overnight. Where is anyone’s guess. I don’t get the luxury of knowing that either, and I refuse to press Noah and make this situation any harder on him.
Daily, I reach out, hoping he’ll give this new me a chance, but with every attempt, it feels like he’s pulling farther away.
Once I’ve ripped up the carpet, I study the room. It’s a blank canvas, and I feel hopeful about the idea of what it could turn out to be. With all my restlessness in the past few months, and in my selfishness, I haven’t done anything so productive, and I hope Gavin takes it as a sign. Maybe it was a guilt project at first, but as I scan the room, I decide it’s progress.
Sleeping is still hard, and maybe it always will be. My body’s new constant is about five hours a night. The nightmares are the worst after a bad day, so I do my best to unwind on the porch swing with a sip of wine
, the sound of crickets chirping while Noah reads to me.
It’s the little things I’m doing for myself that are easing the day-to-day ache. And I have to admit, without Gavin’s constant watchful eyes, I breathe a little easier. As much as I don’t want that to be the case, it is.
Still, I want him home. I’ve extended two dinner invitations he’s turned down. He doesn’t want to see me or talk to me, and the space seems impossible to breach.
It’s because of my emotional affair.
Affair being the key word—Gavin made it clear to me exactly where he stands with that.
So, I’ll rip carpet, scrub our floors, flip through our wedding photos to jog our best memories, and I’ll miss him. I’ll keep texting him dinner invitations until he accepts one.
And in the dead of night, when I wake up with my nightgown soaked, I’ll give myself a few minutes to miss him. To let my heart grieve the love I felt. To miss the sweet caress of his voice. I pray to God this pain eases and that someday I can lay that piece of myself to rest.
I sit in the grass in a T-shirt and shorts, plucking at the thick green blades between my fingers. The nature-made carpet feels cool on my skin as the spring sun shines down and the breeze whispers through the trees above. It’s eerily quiet. For the first few minutes, I feel obligated to speak, and it angers me. I’m not sure what should come naturally anymore, with all I’ve dealt with, but I don’t want anything I’m saying to seem insincere or rehearsed.
I want only the truth, and soon my lips move on their own accord with simple words that express exactly that.
“I miss you so much,” I confess. “I’m sorry for being so absent. God, you don’t deserve it. I hope you aren’t so pissed you can’t forgive me.”
Words start flowing like water as I look up. “You meant so much more to me than being ignored, being discarded.” I sigh heavily and turn my face up to catch some of the sun that trickles through the branches of the trees.
“It’s crazy how much of my life has changed without you in it. It was you and me against the world, and I was so good with that.” I brush my knees free of debris. “You really have no idea how much someone has a bearing on your life, until they’re gone.”
Swallowing hard, I look up again as tears stream down my cheeks. “You were falling for Morrero. I knew it. I saw it, and I didn’t bother to ask about it, because I was too busy pouting about being there.”
Letting the pain rush through me, I glance at the letters on the tombstone, Jessica Alicia Mullins, and feel the finality of it.
“Who knows, if you two got together, maybe I would have been able to call you a pus-say one day too.”
Do they have to have a family to matter?
I’m being haunted by two ghosts, but in this moment, I feel Briggs with me, and I’m grateful.
“I feel guilty for making you go on that mission, and I thank God every day that we were close enough that I felt your words that day were real, that you meant them, that you loved me enough to try to make it easy on me.” I fist my eyes. “I can’t do it. I can’t talk about this yet, okay? You’re going to let me off the hook for that, for now.” Inhaling in spurts, I’m trying to catch my breath. “I-I’m s-s-still getting used to the s-s-s-suck.” Turning my face away from the gravestone, I close my eyes tightly. Chest shaking with sobs, I press my hands against the ground for support and suck in a few slow breaths.
“So, this is absolutely horrible,” I say with a laugh, as I pull my knees to my chest and grip my hair, “at least from this side.” Wiping my nose, I can’t stop the myriad of emotions racing through me. “Jesus, how the hell am I supposed to get over you?”
Soldier up, Katy.
Her voice is as clear as day. She wouldn’t want me sniveling at her grave.
“I’m doing my best. My shrink would kick your ass for that advice,” I say with another laugh. “She’d say it’s counterproductive,” I ramble on, refusing to acknowledge she won’t ever answer me.
“Noah’s good.” I burst into more tears as I think of him in her arms the day he was born. “He’s thriving, actually. You’d be so proud. He won a spelling bee last week.”
Covering my nose and my mouth with the collar of my T-shirt, I muffle my sobs with the fabric as I stare at the etched letters.
Soldier
Daughter
Friend
“Menace, prankster, hussy,” I say, adding to the list. “They sainted you, but I guess I’ll play along.”
The burn reaches my throat as I try to speak, and fail. Losing all composure, I sob as the sunlight burns my shoulders. After a few minutes of free bleeding, I rise up on my knees, hiccupping before I whisper into the silence.
“I need your help,” I plead with her. “I know I shouldn’t expect it after what happened, but I need you to help me a little. I don’t know what to tell your mo—,” I choke as I try to speak and let out a guttural cry. “I d-don’t know what to tell your m-mother. Help me out with that, okay?”
I press a few fingers to the word friend on her marker.
“I’m pretty sure you’re still having to bargain your way into heaven. But if they’re keeping you at the door, babe, just know it’s because you’re their favorite. Because I promise you, you were mine. I’ll be back.”
I stand and stare down at where she lies.
“By the way, if you’re watching the shitshow that is my love life from above, I could use a little direction on that, too. At the very least, could you ghost kick Gavin in the ass?”
Chapter Fifty
Katy
“Mooommmy!” I hear Noah call from outside my bathroom door where I study my reflection. Another breakthrough. More homework from my shrink.
Great, now I get to stare at my saggy boobs.
Nervous laughter bursts out of me as I try to give myself a fair assessment. “Be right there, baby!”
“Hurry up! Hurry up!” he calls as he bounds out of my bedroom.
Closing my eyes briefly, I give myself a little grace. Advice from the soldier who greeted me the minute I returned home.
Grace.
Concentrating on my reflection, I slowly peruse the peaks and valleys of my body.
The burn scar is what bothers me the most, it’s menacing and covers a large part of my lower abdomen. I’ve gained weight, a majority of it in the last month. It’s showing in the way my jeans fit.
While Briggs might have bounced back, my recovery has been a different story.
The doorbell sounds as I clasp my bra and pull on jeans and a T-shirt. I’m not feeling the self-love just yet, but at least I’m beginning to see a difference.
Noah calls from the bottom of the stairs just as I’m coming down.
“Hey, baby,” my mom greets, her eyes lighting up. “Katy, you look amazing.”
Hope seeps in and begins to spread for the first time in weeks. My mother is no bullshit.
“Really?”
“Yes,” she swears, pulling me in for a hug.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Don’t thank me,” she says, “you’re the one working on it.”
“I mean, thanks for taking Noah to Disney.”
“Oh,” she says, “well, we can still bring you with us, we have room.”
“Not ready for all that stimulation,” I tell her honestly, “but, soon.”
“It’s fine,” she looks at me and her eyes well up.
“Don’t cry, Mom, I’m okay.”
“I know,” she says as Noah commands her from his bedroom.
“Grandma, get up here!”
She gives me a weary look. “Here we go, that’s all we need is another alpha male in this family.”
“Speaking of which, where’s Dad?”
“He’s outside rearranging the trunk.”
“I’m going to go help him.”
Walking outside my front door, I’m stopped short when I see my dad on our porch steps staring at the open trunk of his SUV.
“Dad?” I ask as I t
ake the seat next to him. He stays wordless for a few seconds before speaking low.
“You haven’t heard from him?”
I stare at my freshly painted nails. “Not in the way I hope to.”
He nods, solemnly.
“Dad, we’ll be okay. We will. It’s just the—”
“This is my fault,” he says, cutting me off before looking at me with guilt clouding his features.
“What?” My father is not an emotional man, not in the slightest.
“I raised you to be a soldier instead of a debutante. This never would have happened if I hadn’t encouraged you.” His shoulders slump as he tucks in his upper lip, a pain-filled breath escaping him.
“Daddy, stop. Even if you had discouraged me, I would still be military. Don’t for one second blame yourself. You supported my decision, you didn’t force me.” This conversation rings true to what a hypocrite I’ve been.
He nods, my consoling not doing much for him. He’ll continue to blame himself until he sees me happy. It’s only more incentive to get to that place, and for the first time since coming home, I feel like I have a fighting chance.
“I’m okay, Daddy.” As I stand, my father grips my hand pulling himself to his feet, before hugging me, hard. I giggle into his shoulder because I’m not used to the affection from him, and am quickly reprimanded.
“It’s not funny, Kathryn Nicole,” he says as he begins to pull away, but I can see the hint of a smile on his lips. “Just know, whatever happens, your mom and I are here to back you up.”
“I know that,” I tell him sincerely.
The sound of tiny sneakers echoes on the porch, just as Noah whizzes past us with his backpack on. “I’m going to Disney. Bye, Mommy!”
“Yeah right,” I say chasing after him, capturing him on the front lawn with his back to my chest. He giggles at being caught as we rub cheeks, and I pull him to the grass. After a few seconds of rolling around, Noah looks up to me with the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.
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