The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  The military was generous to those wounded in combat, and although Sebastian wouldn’t qualify for a medical pension, not having served his 20 years, he was told he could still expect to receive between a third and half of his current salary. He would be a disabled veteran.

  Those words sent him into a fury. He ranted at me for nearly half an hour.

  “I won’t take it,” he growled.

  “What? Why not?”

  “I just won’t,” he said, with finality.

  “Sebastian, you deserve that—after everything you’ve been through…”

  “I’m not fucking taking it, Caro. I’m 27. I don’t fucking want disability pay!”

  “Okay, tesoro. That’s your choice.”

  I think the fact that I wouldn’t fight with him just made it worse. He had vast reserves of pent-up anger, and I was the nearest target—and probably the only one he felt he could take it out on.

  The military also offered him the chance to take college courses through the GI Bill, but he wouldn’t discuss that either. The list of unmentionable topics became longer each day.

  The tense silence between us was exhausting. At a loss, I thought it might help if I gave him some space and let him come to terms with everything that had happened, without my constant presence—and without what he seemed to feel was my constant interference.

  I decided we needed a break from each other and I wanted to go and check on my house, too. Alice had been going over there regularly, but I longed to be in my own home. I really thought it might help our tenuous relationship if I just visited Sebastian on the weekends. It was also getting expensive staying in the motel, although I didn’t mention that to him.

  We were resting on a bench in the grounds after Sebastian had managed to walk almost 200 yards, leaning heavily on a crutch. It was hard for me to see him struggle when he had always been so strong and vigorous; but how much harder it was for him, I could only imagine.

  “You did well today, Sebastian.”

  He grunted an answer, and I couldn’t tell if he was agreeing with me or not.

  I sighed, then took a deep breath.

  “I’ve been thinking I should go back to Long Beach. Just to make sure everything is okay at home. I want to try and start working a bit more…”

  My words died away as he looked at me with something like loathing.

  “You’re leaving me.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “No, tesoro! Why would you say that? No, never!”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me, Caro,” he shouted. “You’ve made it pretty fucking obvious you don’t want to be here. Well, fine. Just fucking go.”

  And he turned away from me.

  I tried to speak, but I choked on the sounds.

  “Please, Sebastian,” I said, touching his arm. “That’s not what I’m saying: I just wanted to … try and get some … some normalcy. I’d visit on weekends.”

  He shrugged me off.

  “Don’t fucking drag it out, Caro,” he said, bitterly. “I’m not completely fucking dumb.”

  I stood suddenly, and the movement made him look up.

  “Damn you, Sebastian!” I yelled. “I’m not leaving you! You’ll never get rid of me, so you can just stop trying. Right now.”

  He looked away again.

  “Whatever,” he said.

  That was a bad, bad day. I wondered how much further we had to fall—and I dreaded finding out. But I also realized that although Sebastian sniped and snarled at me day after day, he needed me to be with him. I decided to stay in Maryland: Alice would be able to continue looking after the bungalow.

  We’d manage—somehow.

  Seven days later, the Physical Evaluation Board Liaison Officer, a friendly but efficient woman whom I knew as Joan, told Sebastian that the PEB would, ‘authorize his disability separation, with disability benefits, as he had been found unfit and his condition was incompatible with continued military service’.

  Sebastian was no longer a US Marine.

  CHAPTER 17

  The day Sebastian came home should have been the happiest of our lives, but my love was broken in body and spirit.

  I arranged for a taxi to pick us up from the airport. Nicole and Jenna had both offered to drive us, but I thought it would be better for him to have a quiet return; Sebastian was in no shape to meet my friends, no matter how well-meaning.

  Alice had been to the bungalow to clean and air it, and had also promised to stock up the fridge.

  I’d booked a wheelchair to take Sebastian from the plane to the airport’s entrance, but he refused to even consider it.

  “I’m not fucking using it, Caro, so just drop it,” he snapped at me.

  I quietly acquiesced, and watched his slow and painful struggle through the terminal building, using the crutch to support his right leg, which still couldn’t bear his weight.

  The taxi driver chatted away during the journey back to Long Beach, and I tried to keep up a desultory conversation while Sebastian stared out of the window.

  I thought I detected a slight change in him when he saw the ocean, today a sharp, slate-blue under the August sunshine, but then he closed up and the shutters on his emotions came crashing down again.

  When we arrived at my bungalow, the driver collected our bags from the trunk and deposited them on the porch. I stood back while Sebastian struggled from the car, desperate to help him, but knowing he’d hate it and resent the interference.

  “Dude, what happened to your leg?” the driver suddenly asked him.

  “Bomb.”

  “Say what?”

  “Bomb: got blown up.”

  “Cool!”

  I thought Sebastian would smile or roll his eyes or give some indication of the callousness of the driver’s comment, but he didn’t. The light had gone out of his eyes and I didn’t know what it would take to rekindle it.

  We’d find a way. We’d always find a way.

  But it was hard.

  Sebastian was exhausted and in pain. He made his way to my couch and lowered himself carefully, biting back the groan that rose to his lips.

  “Do you want to lie down, tesoro?”

  I badly wanted him to make a joke, to say something about me wanting to get him into bed as soon as possible, but he didn’t. He just shook his head.

  “I’ll stay here for a while.”

  “Okay.” I hesitated. “Well, I’ll put your bags in the spare room for now. We can go through them later.”

  He didn’t answer.

  I shoved his duffel bag and backpack under the bed. I decided I’d unpack these when he was asleep. He didn’t need to see his uniforms now. I didn’t even know if he’d want to keep them.

  When I walked back into the living room, he was staring into space.

  “Are you hungry? Would you like some pasta?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  I bit back my words, which would have insisted that he eat something.

  He’d lost weight, a lot of weight, his face gaunt, and his beauty, which had always seemed so tangible, had become ethereal.

  “Maybe later,” I said, softly.

  He didn’t answer.

  I felt odd and ill at ease being home after such an extended absence and Sebastian’s silent, volcanic presence intimidated me.

  “This wasn’t what I’d planned,” he said.

  “It’s not what either of us had in mind, but we’ll deal, won’t we?”

  “I thought I’d be carrying you over the fucking threshold,” he said, his face twisted with disgust.

  “That doesn’t matter, Sebastian. We…”

  “Yes, it does fucking matter, Caro!” he shouted, making me jump. “It really fucking matters! Christ, can’t you understand something as fucking simple as that?”

  I blanched, his anger cutting me to the core.

  “I’m sorry, Sebastian, I just…”

  “Just what, Caro?”

  “Nothing,” I muttered,
walking into the kitchen, and holding onto the sink.

  I will not cry. I will not cry.

  I needed something to do with my hands to stop them from shaking: I hunted through the fridge, trying to think of something he might like to eat. In the end I kept it simple—a cheese sandwich with lettuce and tomato. It wasn’t really the sort of thing I enjoyed eating, but I hoped if I had the same food, it might tempt him.

  I took two plates into the living room and set one down next to him. He didn’t even look at the food, just continued staring into space, as if his outburst had never happened.

  I tried not to panic: it was relatively new and he’d been through a lot. How trivial that sounded—he’d nearly died and he was a long way from recovering—even the doctors still failed to agree on how full that recovery would be.

  I couldn’t stand the silence. Eventually, I turned on the TV, something I rarely did when I was by myself. I had to change channel several times before I found something that didn’t have news programs or anything to do with Afghanistan. We ended up watching something about meerkats in Africa: very educational—neither of us heard more than half a dozen words, and Sebastian didn’t touch his food.

  “Do you have any beer?”

  “Oh, no, sorry,” I stuttered. “I could open some wine?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’ll do.”

  I opened a bottle Chianti and watched him drink three glasses, one after the other. He would have finished the bottle if I hadn’t taken it into the kitchen.

  “Caro, what are you doing with the fucking wine?”

  No. I wasn’t having this. He wasn’t going to drown his sorrows in a bottle.

  “You haven’t eaten anything, and you have to take your pain killers, Sebastian. So, no, the wine stays in the kitchen.”

  He exploded. Swearing at me, shouting and yelling. Who the fuck did I think I was? Who was I to tell him how to live his life? And on and on.

  I hoped that when he’d finished, he’d have got some of the poison out of him, but he soon reverted to the cold silence that hurt the most.

  By about 9 pm, his face was gray with tiredness.

  “Should I show you where the bedroom is?”

  “It’s a fucking bungalow, Caro,” he said, “how fucking difficult do you think it’s going to be? I’m not a fucking moron, even if I am a cripple.”

  “Sebastian…”

  But he didn’t want to listen. He pulled himself off the couch, gasping as pain lanced through him, and he clenched his teeth.

  After a false start, where he crashed into the spare room, he found his way to the bedroom. I gave him a few minutes, then followed. He was lying on his good side, facing away from my side of the bed.

  I brushed my teeth and slipped in next to him, carefully curling my body into his and enjoying the moment when my arm rested across his waist, feeling his bare skin again after nearly three months.

  He shifted minutely.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  I pulled my hand back as if stung.

  He didn’t want me to touch him? He didn’t want me to touch him.

  I’d learned during my first marriage that it is possible to cry without making a sound; I didn’t think Sebastian would take me back to those years. And that was more painful than anything. I lay next to him as the tears slipped silently down my cheeks.

  Over the next few days, things got worse. He had no interest in anything: I had to nag to get him to shower or change his clothes, and he refused point blank to shave, so his beautiful face was covered in a light-brown stubble that was unfamiliar and unwelcome.

  He ate little, preferring instead to work his way through my small collection of wine, and cut off any attempt of mine to stop him.

  He barely spoke to me. His usual responses included shouting and yelling, or just ignoring me. He didn’t read, he didn’t watch TV; he didn’t do anything except drink.

  My friends wanted to come and visit. Tentatively, I suggested it to him, thinking he might be persuaded into making an effort for them, if not for me.

  “Yeah, they want to come see the fucking war cripple,” he sneered, “make them feel good, like fucking charity. What’s the matter with you, Caro? Do I look like I’m ready to see anyone?”

  “Sebastian, they’re my friends. They want to meet you, and they want to see me. You don’t have to put on a performance for them.” Even though that was exactly what I’d hoped.

  He shrugged, and said that if they came, he’d stay in the bedroom.

  I decided to ask them to postpone their visit.

  Before I’d returned from Afghanistan, I’d telephoned each of them, explaining everything about Sebastian: how we’d met, why we’d been forced apart. It had been deeply uncomfortable, and I was afraid of their censure. Instead they’d been supportive, although I could tell that they were hurt that I’d never been completely candid with them before. I hoped they understood my reasons. I hadn’t told them we were engaged, although I wasn’t sure why.

  I took my phone and walked down to the beach alone.

  “Nic, it’s Lee.”

  “Hey, honey! What time do you want us tomorrow?”

  “Look, it’s not good timing. Sebastian is … struggling. He’s not ready to meet anyone.”

  She could hear the tremor in my voice.

  “Fuck that, Lee! I want to see you. This isn’t something you have to do by yourself.”

  “I know that, Nic, but now just isn’t good. Maybe in a few weeks.”

  There was a short silence.

  “How bad is it, Lee?”

  “Bad,” I said. “Really bad.”

  And then I started crying, and couldn’t stop.

  Nicole listened to me sobbing into the phone for several minutes. When I finally began to calm down, she spoke to me firmly.

  “Lee, you need professional help on this; Sebastian needs professional help. Can’t the VA hospital do something? I mean, the military has programs to help with exactly this problem.”

  I shook my head wearily, wishing she was there to throw a comforting arm around me.

  “He refuses to talk to anyone, Nic. He barely talks to me. I don’t know what to do—he says he’s had enough of hospitals and never wants to see another doctor. I get that, and I feel the same in some ways, but I’m at the end of my rope here. And he’s drinking; he hardly eats. He doesn’t touch me, and won’t let me touch him. I don’t know what to do.”

  She hesitated for a moment.

  “Are you sure you want to do this at all, Lee?”

  I took a sharp intake of breath.

  Out of everything I thought she’d say, that had been furthest from my thoughts. And I had considered that I might not be what he needed, but I’d always assumed that he’d be the one to walk away.

  “I can’t abandon him now, Nic. He needs me, more than ever.”

  “I’m sure he does, but unless he accepts your help, you can’t do anything. He has to want to get better.”

  I knew she was right; I just wasn’t sure what to do about it.

  By then the nightmares had started, too. Or rather, I hadn’t realized how bad they had become, but now we were sharing a bed, it became clear to me how traumatic they really were. Sebastian would have intense dreams and wake up screaming. Once, I thought he was going to attack me, his flashback was so vivid. He held back at the last second, his eyes wild and black with terror; I think it was seeing my fear that stopped him from … from hurting me.

  He started checking that the windows and doors were locked two or three times a night before we went to bed, and he became paranoid about people coming to the house, whether it was the mailman or one of our neighbors dropping a leaflet through the door.

  He refused to leave the house, but hated me going out, too. We became virtual recluses. I tried to carry on working, but there was only so much I could do from home, and I began to resent his attempts to control me.

  One day, he yelled at me because there was no alcohol in the house
, and I’d refused to buy any more.

  And I yelled back.

  “If you want a fucking drink, then get your fucking ass off that couch and go get yourself one, Sebastian!”

  I marched out of the bungalow, my blood boiling.

  I felt horribly guilty the moment I slammed the door behind me, but I so wasn’t backing down. We’d reached an impasse: something had to change.

  When I’d calmed enough to go home, a place that was no longer a refuge, Sebastian had gone to bed. He didn’t even acknowledge me as I climbed in beside him. Our bed had become another battleground.

  And he wouldn’t touch me: he barely looked at me, shunned any embrace, and we didn’t make love. We were strangers to each other, but sharing a bed.

  In the morning, I wearily dragged myself awake, both of us having slept badly. He’d had another terrifying nightmare, screaming out in fear. I longed to hold him, but he wouldn’t even look at me. When I touched him, he flinched.

  I didn’t know how much longer we could go on like this. And he still refused to speak to any doctors.

  “What the fuck do they know about it, Caro?”

  “A lot: you’re not the first Marine who’s been injured.”

  “Former Marine; former fucking Marine, Caro. I’m nothing now. Maybe you can try and fucking remember that.”

  His words cracked my heart.

  He’d been my lover, he’d been a Marine, and now he was neither. The past was another country and the future was … well, he couldn’t see that he had a future. We lived from each slow hour to the next.

  And he felt guilty—so guilty for having been the one who had survived. No one would tell me exactly what had happened but from what I’d pieced together, and from what David had told me during that first phone call, someone on the inside, an ally, had started shooting and then detonated a bomb. Three other Marines had died and two more were injured, although not as badly as Sebastian. Surviving wasn’t about skill; it was about luck.

  During those long, dark days, two things kept me going. The first was his letter, the one he’d written before his last mission. The paper had become soft and fragile with the number of times I’d read it. I looked at it often when I was alone for a few seconds, even though I’d long memorized the words.