by Jenny Wood
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Read on for a sneak of Alvin and Carter’s story in book 1 of Unlikely Heroes; which you can buy, here:
https://www.amazon.com/Dont-Leave-Alone-Unlikely-Heroes-ebook/dp/B01DJAXWRA/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8
Chapter 1
Alvin
I’m out.
They say I’m not fit to serve anymore.
The things I’ve seen over there, the people I’ve hurt; none of that shit matters to them. As long as I’m pissed at the right people, as long as I take it out on the right motherfuckers; they let me stay. They ship me off and they let me rage at the enemy. And I do-I did. But now, on the plane home to attend the funeral of my entire family; my beautiful mother, who clung to me and cried the first through the fourth time I got sent overseas; sent me and my team care packages and letters from home every chance she got. My father, who told me he was proud of me, literally every time he saw me, even though I knew he was scared to death every time I left that I’d never come home. And my twin, nine-year-old sisters; Alexis and Alecia, who were my parents later in life surprise and loves of my life. All of them are lost to me now. I’m coming home to bury all of them and I can’t muster the gumption to give a fuck that my career is over.
I’ll admit, when my commanding officer called me out of a tactical training exercise to deliver the news that my entire family had been killed in an auto accident, I just sat in shock. They’d been in a two-vehicle collision; my family in one car, who all lost their lives and the drunk driver of an SUV who stumbled away with a broken wrist and a concussion.
Because I’d talked to my mother just that morning and I’d received letters from home just three days before, that included the school pictures of the girls and letters from both of them; I was convinced they had the wrong person; the wrong family. It wasn’t until I went back to my bunk and tried unsuccessfully to call them all, that reality slowly sunk in. I called our neighbors and family friends of my parents and they all said different variations of the same thing; “We’re sorry”, “We’re thinking of you”, “At least they were all together.” Yeah, people tried to find the silver lining in the death of the only four people I gave a shit about in this world. I guess if you had to live with the knowledge that your entire family left this earth at the same time; then yeah, maybe it’s a less morbid way to think about it. Ya know, like maybe they were all holding hands and not afraid because they were together. Who the fuck knows, I wasn’t ready to hear it. I sat on my bed for an hour trying to think of any and every scenario to refute what I didn’t want to believe.
It wasn’t until my bunkie, Josh came in and noticed I was “slackin’” –his words; since he knew I was supposed to be at tac-training. He tapped my foot as he walked by and said “Yo man, who died?” I know it was just an expression because I didn’t acknowledge him like I normally did when he came in; apparently, I also looked morose or something. I didn’t give him time to make it just a few steps to his bed before I was off of mine and ripping apart everything I came in contact with, him included. I’m pretty sure I drew blood, lots of it, and I trashed our bunk. I don’t remember much after that except for being thrown down, detained, sedated and waking up in the infirmary. I had an extensive all day session with a therapist that really pissed me off more than helped me; it pissed me off because why didn’t anyone see that I needed to get home to my family. They made me sign papers for emergency leave and are trying to get me a dependency or hardship discharge. To be completely honest, I’m sick of the shit anyway. I’ve seen more death and destruction to keep me up and night and haunt my nightmares on the off-chance that I do get to sleep to last twelve lifetimes. You know all of those statistics you hear about us coming home with long-lasting mental health issues? Yeah, those are very real. I haven’t closed my eyes once in 11 years that I didn’t see something terrible flash behind my eyelids or hear the screams of wounded women and children. I’m passed wore out. I won’t fight it. I’m ready to be back home.
As my plane touches down late that night, I put together a mental checklist of the shit I need to get done before the viewing and burial tomorrow. My family will all be buried together, my parents on the outside of their plot and my sisters will be buried between them; just the same way they used to sleep when the girls would get scared and sneak their way into our parent's room at night. Safe in the arms of my parents but somehow, they’d wake up snuggled up together. They’d be curled onto their sides, facing each other, hand in hand, forehead to forehead, knees to knees. It was sweet, how much my sisters loved each other. Being identical twins, they shared an incredible bond; only letting one other person into their little circle of adoration and that was their big brother, Alvie. That’s me; Alvin Harris Jr.
I was a big motherfucker; I trained hard to be a fighter for the United States Marine Corps. Yes, I’ve killed and I’ve tortured but I’ve also saved and I’ve sacrificed; all for the sake of my country and my brothers and sisters in arms. I can’t say I regret it because I know I’ve made a difference.
I’ve always known I wanted to be a fighter. I was scary now that I was older. People moved out of my way when I walked by, people stood down when faced with me. I used it to my advantage when I had to and maybe even sometimes when I didn’t. To my little sisters, though, I wasn’t scary at all. I was just their Alvie. I’d known from the minute all the kids at school said they wanted to be doctors, astronauts, and policemen. I wanted to be a serviceman. I would sit on my granddad's lap and listen to him tell me stories of his time in the Navy and I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to enlist. That time came four months after I lost my granddad and I turned 18.
I make my way to the rental car place and luckily there is no line. I don’t feel like fucking around the airport for the next few hours trying to get a ride home. I’ve never had to do this before, usually when I come home; my family is waiting for me. I’m struck again by the realness of my situation, I’m alone here now. The overweight, pinched faced lady trying to help me acts like she wants to be anywhere but here but guess what lady...I don’t want to fucking be here either. After a solid twenty minutes of back and forth attitude, she finally gives me the keys and the papers I just signed about the dos and don’t’s of renting and I’m on my way.
I’ll be purchasing a car just as soon as everything gets settled; I’m assuming I’m still inheriting the house. Mom and Dad had a living will; in the event, something should happen to them, the house would be left to me to raise my sisters. My grandparents had died a long time ago, my Mom’s parents before my sisters were born. Dad’s mom passed when I was 14, I’d only met her a handful of times; then my Granddad when I was 17, and he lived with us so I was closest to him. I would have been all they had left had my sisters survived. Now, at 29 years old, I’m all I have left.
Pulling into the little driveway of my parents fifteen hundred square feet, three bedroom house; I’m hit with the nostalgia of my entire childhood. I learned to ride my bike down this very street; from stop sign to stop sign as I wasn’t allowed to go any further than our block. My dad set up the basketball hoop hanging from our white, 2-car garage because I’d told him when football wasn’t in season, I wanted to play basketball. We only had a small driveway, but it was enough to practice on with my friends. Getting out of the car, I walk to the front door and remember sitting on these three little steps leading to the porch; I’d waited for the ice-cream truck to pass by every Friday evening after dinner. I wonder if he still came around. When I made my way inside, I was bombarded with the smell of home. Mom was always cooking something in the kitchen, that’s not being sexist it’s just the way it was. My mom’s perfume, laundry soap, Dad
’s cologne; I swear I can smell it all. There’s no one here to greet me at the door this time, no one to bitch at me for tracking mud through the house like they did when I was a kid or holler at me to come in when the street lights would pop on. What was I going to do without my parents?
I pick up the cordless house phone to see if anyone has left any messages about the service tomorrow, I hadn’t talked to anyone since I’d first found out and informed Mrs. Jenny I was coming home. The first message is from Mrs. Jenny; she’s calling from the church to inform me that she’s already taken the clothes my family will be buried in and if I want to go early, I can make sure they’re okay. She ends with God Bless and says I can call if I need anything. Mrs. Jenny is the epitome of everyone’s grandma; she’s incredibly sweet and used to babysit me as well as my sisters after school when needed. My mother was extremely close to her. The next is from the funerals owner Mr. Garrett, telling me he’ll be in after seven and I can come in any time in the morning, the viewing isn’t until nine. To hear the saved message, press one. I do and immediately wished I hadn’t; it hits me like a bullet to the gut; (and I know what one of those feels like, it happened my second tour in Kabul) it’s a message to my Dad from my family.
It sounds like they’re calling from the car, It’s Alecia; she’s smiling I can tell; “Hey Daddy, we’re coming back from dance, you better be ready or we’re going to dinner and a movie without you!” I hear her giggle while in the background I hear Alexis “Daddy, be ready, we’re starving!” followed again by Alecia; “Mommy’s driving so she’s letting us call and remind you to be ready!”, I hear my mom giggle right before I hear my dad pick up the phone, the machine stays recording as it does when you pick up a phone from another room. “Darling daughters, I was almost ready but your call is making me late.” He feigns a frustrated tone but I can hear his smile too, the girls just giggle. There’s a lump in my throat that’s impossible to swallow around and my breaths are shallow and coming much faster than normal. I can feel the blood rushing through my brain and my heart is pounding too fast in my chest. I feel like I may pass out. I hear them bicker for another 30 seconds or so before they all tell each other they love each other and Dad says he will see them in a few minutes; then they hang up. I take the phone from my ear and look at the numbers, carefully pushing the seven to save the message right before I play it over again, then again, then again and then again. I lose count how many times I replay the message but my chest hurts and my face is wet. I play the message until I feel like my legs are about to give out, then I carefully make sure it’s saved and place the phone back on the base. I need to get my bags from the car and go to my room but suddenly I’m too exhausted to go farther than my little room. Yes, I’m 29 years old but I have been career military; when I’m home on leave, I come home. My mom still has my room set up for me; not the childhood me, luckily my room grew with me. I thought that eventually, the girls would move me out of my room so that they could each have their own space, but they never got to the point where they didn’t want to share a room together. They’d stay up late giggling about boys or sharing a closet, and now they never would.
I have just enough energy to strip off my clothes and fall into bed. I am not looking forward to tomorrow.
Sleep is almost as painful as being awake. I toss and turn while I dream; this time it isn’t about insurgents blowing themselves up or kids carrying guns; this time I dream I’m in the car with my parents and sisters. We’re all singing along to some boy-band song on the radio that I’m ashamed I know the words to. I’ve spent countless hours at home listening to my sisters sings them; they’re bound to get stuck. Right before the drunk driver slides into our lane, I hear one of the twins scream; my mom scream and eventually, when the car is stopped; there’s no more screaming, no more crunching metal; I hear my dad scream. I feel like I see it happening all from inside the car but I can’t reach any of them, I can see them all bloody and broken but I can’t reach out and help. Only my eyes are there like it’s a movie I’m watching and no matter what I do, I can’t just reach out a hand to help them. It doesn’t take a psychologist to understand why it’s because I wasn’t here. I wasn’t here when they needed someone to help them. I’ve pulled dozens of strangers to safety in countless missions, I’ve stopped brothers from bleeding out, and I’ve stopped a Humvee from driving over an IED that no one else saw, but this... I couldn’t save my family from this.
I decide after the second time I wake up with sweat soaking my clothes to just get up and face my day. I stand under the shower until all the hot water runs out; I brush my teeth and throw some gel in my hair, it’s just a bit longer than regulation allows but I don’t want it to look like I’ve just rolled out of bed. I sit at the table noting the places that my family used to sit; dad at the head, mom beside him and the girls on their own side, I would sit at the foot when I was home. We never changed, I’m not sure why.
I pick up the phone and listen to the saved voicemail as I did yesterday. I wonder how long it’ll take before it doesn’t hurt so bad to hear their voices. I can’t eat breakfast, my stomach is in knots. It’s only a little after five so I’ve got a couple hours before I can go see my family. I swear if I close my eyes and listen hard enough, I can hear my sisters arguing with my father about being old enough to wear make-up; that was the argument he was dealing with the last time I was home eight months ago, I can hear my mom giggling at my father’s serious anxiety attack from just the idea of it. I remember my mental calculations of being able to come back to kick the ass of anyone who hurts either one of them once their old enough for that make-up, which they were not at the time. Now, they’ll reach an age acceptable for my mom to teach them how to apply makeup without a heavy hand so they’ll look natural and respectable. My dad won’t have a heart attack or go prematurely gray worrying about it. Fuck, so much they’re all going to miss out on. I don’t understand why bad things have to happen to good people. My family didn’t deserve this. I’m sure the man who chose to drive drunk; his family didn’t deserve to deal with the shit storm that his actions caused either. I don’t know him, I was never told his name; which is probably a good thing, I’m trained to kill and I think given the opportunity, I wouldn’t mind another black strike on my soul if it meant making him feel just a fraction of the hurt I’m going to feel every day for the rest of my life.
Before I can get any deeper into those kinds of thoughts, I get to my room to put on the suit I’d picked out for today. Luckily we’re having a viewing, then the funeral at the cemetery. I know some people have separate gatherings but I just can’t do it. I can’t be forced to have a memorial and make small talk with people who want to say things to make themselves feel better. It’ll be at my expense and I can’t handle it right now. I opted out of it with Mrs. Jenny and she completely understood. They’re having a memorial at the Sunday service at their church so I don’t feel too guilty about it; it was, however, something my mother would have done. She would have thrown together a memorial for a beloved member of our neighborhood or their congregation. She was one of those types of people, just all about helping out whenever she could, however, she could. Maybe I should try to be a little more like that. I have no clue what I’m going to do with myself once I’m let go from the Corps. I also need to figure out what I’m going to do with this house. I’m not sure I can continue living in it, being surrounded by all their things, the girls’ bedrooms still pink and purple, my parent’s clothes still in the closet and my dad’s truck in the garage. I’m going to see about taking over payments on it, it’ll kill two birds with one stone, I won’t need to search for a car once I’m settled and I’ll have a piece of my dad with me all the time. I can’t let them repo it, it’d be like someone taking something away from him and it isn’t his fault he isn’t here anymore. He’d pay on it if he could. I’m being ridiculous and I know it, but it’s a part of my dad and I want it.
Going through the desk in my dad’s home office, I find the numbers to
people from the bank, legal papers about assets and what not; everyone’s life insurance, (including mine) birth certificates and things like that. All the important stuff that I think I’ll need in the coming days.
It close enough to seven that I grab everything and take it to the car. Pulling out, I watch the house fade away in the rearview mirror; from here I can almost pretend that I’m just going on a quick errand and everyone will be there when I get back. Instead, my brain keeps me firmly in-the-now. I’m going to bury my family and that house will be even emptier when I return.