New Title 1

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “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 a
t it often when I was alone for a few seconds, even though I’d long memorized the words.

  The second was a small thing, ridiculous really, but it signified a lot to me, and I think to Sebastian, too.

  I’d been sorting through a pile of dirty clothes: one of those joyless, thankless jobs that we all have to do, but never get done because they’re never-ending.

  I was making sure buttons were done up, and shirts were turned inside out before I threw them into the washer, tedious but necessary trivia, when I picked up Sebastian’s jeans. As usual, he’d tossed them into the hamper unbuttoned and unzipped. I thought I’d better check the pockets, too… and that’s when I found it.

  I felt a hard lump in the hip pocket. I pushed my hand inside and pulled out a small, white pebble. It was the little piece of quartz that I’d found on the beach, that silly sentimental gift that I’d given to Sebastian the day he’d flown out to Afghanistan. And he’d kept it. More than that, he kept it with him even now.

  My throat started to ache with tears but I refused to let myself cry, because they would have been hopeful tears. If Sebastian cared enough to keep that little pebble, surely it meant he still cared for me? That he was still capable of caring for me?

  A loud crash brought me running to the living room.

  Sebastian was thrashing around on the floor, swearing up and down, cursing like it was going out of fashion, and surrounded by books.

  “What happened?” I said, breathlessly.

  “I fucking fell! What does it look like?” he snarled.

  I guessed that he’d lost his balance and tried to hold onto the bookshelf, but pulled the whole thing down instead.

  I bent down to help him up.

  “Leave me alone! I’m not a complete fucking cripple.”

  I bit my lip and watched as he struggled to his feet. His frustration at what he perceived as his helplessness boiled over several times a day. I had to remind myself that he wasn’t mad at me, but sometimes it was hard. It hurt to see him fight so hard: fight his own body as it continued to heal, fight me, fight everyone.

  He was sinking deeper into depression each day, and I didn’t know how to help him.

  He even refused to talk about getting married or anything that involved planning for our future.

  “I’m not going to let you marry a useless, fucking cripple,” he roared, when I’d been foolish enough to press the subject. “If I can’t even walk down the fucking aisle without a fucking stick…”

  I’d bit back my angry retort that there wouldn’t be an aisle at City Hall, and left him alone to stew in his own black anger.

  My own hopes and dreams drifted further away.

  In silence, I bent down and started picking up the books that had tumbled down around him – the ones out of his reach. He watched me sullenly for a moment, then reached out to collect the volumes nearest to him. As he picked up my copy of ‘Lolita’ by its cover, an envelope fell out, fluttering to the ground. I knew at once what it was and leaned over to pick it up; Sebastian was faster.

  “What’s this?” he said, his voice puzzled. “It’s got my name on it.”

  He looked up at me. “The date on it… that’s the day we first…”

  “Yes, I know,” I said, quietly.

  The small envelope did indeed have Sebastian’s name scrawled across one corner in my untidy handwriting. The date was ten years ago: the day I’d found him alone in the park, bruised and bloodied after yet another fight with his father. The bastard had hit him several times and then hacked off chunks of Sebastian’s long, surfer hair. I’d taken him to my house, patched him up, and shaved the rest of his hair into an elegant buzz cut, trying to mask the evidence of his father’s assault. It was also the night we’d first made love.

  “What’s in it, Caro?” he said, fingering the small, paper package.

  It was the only time he’d shown a spark of interest in anything in weeks.

  I shrugged. “Open it.”

  He propped himself up against the couch then heaved himself up so he was leaning against the cushions. He fumbled, trying to open the sealed envelope, the motor skills of his left hand still limited.

  He was probably expecting to find some sort of letter inside, but he was wrong.

  A lock of long, blond hair fell out.

  I saw the shock of recognition on his face.

  “This is mine – my hair… You kept it – all these years?”

  “Yes, tesoro. It was all I had of you.”

  He closed his eyes, holding the lock in his hand.

  “Caro… I don’t understand – why do you love me?”

  “Just because… because the sky is blue and the sea is green.”

  And then he started to cry. He fisted his hands over his eyes and sobbed into my arms. And, at last, I could hold him. I wrapped my arms around him and held him tightly, willing the darkness away, trying to heal him with my body, with my touch.

  “I love you, Sebastian, please don’t push me away. I love you.”

  “Oh God, Caro. I just don’t know what I’m doing any more; I’m so fucked up – I feel like I can’t fucking breathe. Don’t give up on me, Caro. Please don’t give up on me. I need you, baby. I love you so much. I’m so sorry.”

  I could forgive anything now that he’d let me touch him.

  I held him for an hour, just stroking his hair, as he rested his head in my lap, my fingers running over his rough beard. I realized he’d taken one small step towards me, towards living again – I needed him to take another.

  “It’s time to go out now, Sebastian,” I said, softly.

  He closed his eyes and swallowed.

  “I don’t know if I can do that, Caro.”

  “You don’t have to do this by yourself, Sebastian. We go together. Come on, tesoro. Together.”

  I could tell he was nervous, so we took it slowly. I gave him my Yankees baseball cap, which he pulled down over his eyes, and he wore his old biker jacket, which hung loosely from his shoulders, emphasizing how thin he’d become.

  I took his hand, and, with Sebastian leaning heavily on his walking stick, we made our way slowly along West Beech Street. Sebastian kept looking over his shoulder, checking the windows of buildings along the road, and I knew he was unconsciously looking for snipers. I didn’t hurry him, we went at his pace, but the feeling that flowed through me from being with him outdoors at last, was almost overwhelming.

  “There’s a café over there, Sebastian. Why don’t we go have a coffee?”

  “I don’t know, Caro… sitting outside? I wouldn’t feel… safe.”

  “Sebastian, you know rationally that there’s nothing to worry about. Let’s just try it for a couple of minutes: if you really can’t handle it, we’ll leave.”

  He twitched unhappily, but didn’t argue.

  The waiter came towards us and Sebastian flinched away from him.

  “I’ll have an espresso… Sebastian?”

  His eyes were wide with fear, constantly flicking nervously about him.

  “And a Bud Light,” I answered for him.

  The waiter wandered away: he was used to a bit of crazy among his customers.

  I couldn’t say that Sebastian truly relaxed, but he sipped his beer and began to look a fraction less anxious.

  He seemed happier once we were moving again. I could tell he was tired, but I wanted him to see the ocean up close, and not just from the windows of our small home.

  The boardwalk was busy, full of people strolling in the sunshine. A teenager on a skateboard swept past and my poor, wounded man trembled with terror at the sudden noise.

  “It’s okay, tesoro. You’ll be okay.”

  “Fuck, Caro,” he said, his face white with fear.

  We carried on walking, Sebastian clinging onto my hand and trying to control his rapid breathing.

  It hurt badly to see him so scared when he’d always been so strong, but I knew the only way to help him was to force him to face his fears. We’d face them togeth
er.

  When we reached the end of the Boardwalk, we found an empty bench and sat looking at the ocean. He breathed in deeply, and I saw that it calmed him. The waves tumbled across the sand and the repeated, rhythmical motion soothed us both. A couple of kids were playing on body boards, shouting out happily. Sebastian leaned forward to watch them, his face alight with interest. The ocean had always been his place of refuge, somewhere his parents couldn’t touch him, and the beach had always had a special significance for us. I became determined that we’d walk here every day, because I believed it would help Sebastian to get stronger. And it would bring us together.