by Mila Ferrera
“How long have you guys known her?” asks Stella, turning to look at Sasha’s studio. “I’ve tried, but I’ve never really talked to her beyond pleasantries.”
“She took that space maybe six years ago,” Caleb says. “I’d only just gotten here myself. She said she’d just graduated. I think she went to Michigan State? Definitely not Becker. But she’s from here, I think.”
“Yeah, believe it or not, she went to our high school. Graduated the year we were freshmen, I think,” Daniel says to Caleb.
And she graduated from college five or six years ago—which means she’s got to be five years older than me. No wonder she commented on how young I looked. She probably thinks I can’t keep up with her.
“What did you mean, she turns everyone down?” asks Romy.
Daniel puts his hands up. “I’ve never asked her out.”
Caleb says, “Me neither, but Marcus has. I think Lyle might have as well.” He points at the crime scene studio. “And that guy Jeremy—”
“Thought she was a perk that came along with renting the space,” Daniel finishes for him. “Marcus and I explained a few things to him after he wouldn’t leave her alone.”
I hope they kicked his ass back to wherever he came from.
Caleb moves closer to Romy as she asks, “Was she scared?”
“She didn’t seem to be,” says Daniel. “But she was making it clear she didn’t want him there, and he wasn’t listening. She was more pissed off and annoyed than anything. Sasha’s not here to play. She gets shit done and leaves. Not much socializing.”
“I think she’s shot down a few of the adult students as well,” says Caleb.
“Maybe she has a relationship outside of this place,” Romy says, looking amused. “Maybe she has a whole other life that doesn’t revolve around the co-op. Imagine that.”
“You think that’s true?” I ask. “The relationship part, I mean.” Was this annual “custom” of hers just a chance to have a little fun on the side while she stays faithful to some boring guy for the rest of the year? That would explain why she turned me down after looking at me like she wanted to climb aboard.
Or maybe I read it all wrong. It’s been a long time since I played this game. And I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to be playing at all. With her, though, I couldn’t help myself.
“Seems possible. She doesn’t really hang out with anyone here,” Caleb says as footsteps clomp up the stairs. “Sasha’s really private.”
A muscular, tattooed guy with dark hair strides in, carrying what appears to be the rusted front fender panel of some old car. “Hey, guys,” he says, then squints at me. His eyes widen. “Holy shit—Nate?”
“Yep,” says Daniel. “I told you he was a skinnier, uglier version of me.”
I flip him off with one hand and shake hands with the new guy with the other. “Nate.”
“Marcus,” he says, then looks around at the group. “Are you all having a meeting of your new secret society?”
“We were talking about Sasha,” Daniel says with a smirk. “Nate is smitten. He asked her out.”
Marcus winces. “And how did that go?”
“You look like you already know the answer,” I tell him, wishing Daniel didn’t feel the need to embarrass me in every fucking situation.
“If it helps, she says no to everyone.” Marcus grins. “Even me, if you can believe it.”
“I can,” says Daniel.
“Yeah, me too,” says Caleb.
“Fuck you guys,” says Marcus, but there’s no venom in it. He carries the fender panel over to a studio crowded with other rusted metal objects, some of which are welded together.
“Hey,” Daniel calls to Marcus. “Do you know if Sasha’s in a relationship, maybe?”
“Huh,” the guy replies as he picks up a welder’s mask from his work table. “I guess that would explain a lot. Doesn’t wear a wedding ring or anything, though.”
I gesture at her stall. “Isn’t she a potter?”
“Yeah, doofus,” Daniel says to Marcus. “She’s up to her elbows in wet clay from dawn to dusk!”
Marcus gives us a middle-finger salute, pulls the mask over his face, and picks up his welder’s torch, effectively ending the conversation.
Daniel, Stella, Romy, and Caleb grab their stuff and come toward me. “We’re headed for my place,” Daniel says. “Come hang out with us.”
I nod. I don’t really feel like being around people right now, especially two couples who seem unable to keep their hands off each other, but it’s probably better than being on my own tonight.
Romy tilts her head and smiles at me. “We’re so glad to finally get to know you. It must be strange, adjusting to civilian life after so many years in the military.”
“Strange isn’t how I’d describe it,” I say, then instantly regret it when she asks, “Then how would you describe it?”
Terrifying. Agonizing. Bleak even though by all rights my future should be as bright as anyone’s. I grin. “A relief to finally be able to sleep in.” I don’t think I’ve slept more than two hours at a stretch since I got home.
Daniel narrows his eyes at me, but Romy merely nods. “That’s fair. You don’t know any of us very well yet.”
As she and Caleb walk toward the stairs, he pats my back. “She listens for a living, you know.”
I glance at Daniel as the pieces come together. “Romy, are you a therapist or something?”
“Well, not a licensed one, not yet,” she replies. “I graduated in the spring and am working at the county mental health clinic to get my supervised hours.”
“So yes?” I glare at my brother. Romy’s dying to meet you, he told me. “Is this why you wanted me to come out tonight, so you could have your therapist friend take a look at me? You think I’m fucking crazy?”
Romy’s face falls. “Oh, no, Nate, that’s not—”
“Stop being an asshole,” says Daniel. His look is all warning.
Stella, who is next to him, puts her hand on his arm and squeezes. “Daniel,” she says quietly.
“No, seriously,” he says, blue eyes on mine. “She was just being nice.”
“I don’t need therapy,” I snap.
He arches one eyebrow. The other three are staring at me like I’m a live grenade that’s landed in their midst. I put my hands up. “Okay. I’ll see you guys later.” I start down the stairs, resisting the urge to take them two at a time. Daniel calls my name, but I ignore him. And once I hit the sidewalk, I take off running. I don’t even know where I’m going, only that I need to get away before I explode.
It always starts the same way. I’m back there in the courtyard of the firebase, helmet and tactical vest on, ballistic plates loaded so I can feel the weight in every step. It’s sunny but cool, not hot all the time like everyone thinks when they imagine Afghanistan, but then again, it’s January.
As we assemble for patrol, our translator, Abdullah, conveys Sergeant Hoyt’s orders in Pashtu to the Afghan soldiers we’ve been training and patrolling with for the last few months. Sam and I linger near the blast walls with our three-man fire teams, itching to head out and get this over with. For this patrol, Private Gage is my XM25 gunman, and I can tell by his stance that he’s hoping to fire that thing in the field. As his team leader, I’m concerned the kid looks a little too eager, but I get it. Things have been quiet lately, but this particular area is crawling with militants, which is why we were sent here.
I’ve just eaten breakfast, but I’m already hungry. Each second seems like a minute, every minute an hour. Time stretches like taffy, soft and sagging. I shuffle my feet. Adjust the strap of my M4 carbine, glancing down as it catches on the flap of my magazine pouch.
Sam says, “Why’s Rashid looking around like that?”
And then it happens, and I can’t do a single damn thing. I can’t speak. I can’t move. So I’m forced to stand there, helpless, as my vision goes red. I blink. There are crimson droplets on my eyelashes. My exposed sk
in is warm and wet and sticky.
All the noise comes back all of a sudden, snaps of gunfire and shouting and our sergeant moaning as he lies in the dirt a few yards away. I look down at the ground, and there’s Sam, and there’s blood everywhere.
His eyes are open.
I bolt awake, sweating and shaking, tangled in the sheets. My heart drums in my chest, in my head. My breaths come sharp and fast, but my throat is tight, too tight, like there’s a rope wrapped around it. I swing my legs to the floor and stand up, swaying in the darkness, hating the sounds I’m making. I rub my hands over my face. They come away wet with tears.
I don’t know how much longer I can do this.
I yank on a pair of sweats and head for the bathroom to wash my face and get some water. My parents’ room is dark, but there’s a light on in the living room. As I pass, I see my dad in front of the TV, watching a cooking show with headphones on. He’s smiling faintly, and it catches me for a moment, this big, burly man, fifty-four years old, his blond hair slowly picking up strands of white, but he’s still able to level his grown sons on the ice with a single body check … And here he is, mesmerized by a lady cracking eggs into a bowl.
I try to sneak past, but he catches my movement in his periphery and turns his head. “Oh, hey,” he says, pulling his headphones from his ears.
“You’re up late.”
“I have trouble sleeping sometimes, and I don’t like to risk waking your mom. She needs her sleep.” He gestures at the television. “Making good use of the time, though. I’ve learned so much since I started watching this show. I’m going to tackle meatballs tomorrow, I think—” He checks his watch. “—or today, more accurately.”
“Let me know if you want me to go to the grocery store for you.” I’m proud of myself; I sound so normal. I’m thinking I’m about to escape when my dad looks me over as I hover in the shadows of the hallway.
He frowns. “You okay there?”
“Just getting some water.”
“When did you get in?”
“Few hours ago? I was with Daniel and his friends.” I was all by myself, sitting by the lake, contemplating being under the water and never coming up.
“Daniel texted me, Nate.”
My fucking brother. “Yeah?”
“He asked me to let him know when you got home safe.” He picks up his phone from the side table. “Any reason he’d be concerned?”
“I had a few beers and decided to take off early. Said I’d find my own ride home, which I obviously did.” I walked the eight miles home, contemplating stepping into traffic.
Dad nods. “You never really answered my question, though. About whether you were okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
He gives me a quizzical look. “Seems like you’ve had a lot to adjust to in a very short time, son. And I know you must still be upset about your friend.”
I come into the living room and sit on the arm of the couch. We don’t do many heart-to-hearts, me and my dad, but I’m at a loss right now. “His fiancée—she wants me to drive down to Elkhart and talk to her and his parents.”
“He was from Elkhart? That’s not too far,” he says gently.
“I know.”
“You don’t want to do it?”
“I don’t know if I can,” I mumble, picking at a loose thread on the cushion. If my mom were standing here, she’d slap my hand.
“Why is it so hard?”
“They want me to tell them what happened.”
“Didn’t the army do that?”
“Sort of. I guess they want more …” My stomach quivers as nausea takes hold. “They know I was with him when he … when it happened.”
Dad goes still. “Oh. I don’t think we knew that.”
Because I never mentioned it before. “It was an insider attack. One of the Afghan soldiers we’d been patrolling with.”
“That much, I did know. When the casualties were announced, we put two and two together, what with the news reports. We were so relieved to hear from you afterward.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is strained. “We just didn’t know you were right there when it happened.”
Not only was I there, I’m pretty sure I’m the reason Sam is dead.
“Don’t tell Mom,” I say. “It’s over now. I’m here and I’m safe, right?” I smile, and it’s the heaviest weight I’ve lifted all day, including Sasha’s giant box of mega-expensive teapots. “Why give her one more thing to worry about when she’s trying to regain her strength?”
“She’s not as fragile as she looks.”
“If she’s even half as fragile as she looks, that’s still pretty damn fragile.” Her arms are fucking twigs.
“You should have told us.”
“You guys were going through a lot, remember?” And I didn’t want to talk about it. I still don’t.
His head hangs. “We weren’t there for you.”
“I didn’t need you to be, Dad. The guys in the squad—we helped each other out.” Our sergeant was killed, along with one of our team leaders and our interpreter. It was a fucking mess, but we all put our heads down and did our jobs and now we’re home and I’m lost.
“I don’t know why they want me to talk about how he died,” I blurt out, my voice cracking. “Why would anyone want that?”
“Have you talked about this with anyone else?”
“I don’t want to talk about it at all!” I glance down at my arm. I won’t ever forget Sam, his dirty jokes, his quick laugh, his fucking loud snores, his love of pizza no matter how nasty. The way he talked about Jen, with both hunger and reverence. The way he loved his nieces and nephews. His determination to get the job done, no matter how unpleasant. The way he’d go from kidding around to all-business in a split second, and how he’d shed that armor as soon as we got our fire teams safely back from each patrol. Those things, I am determined to remember.
I just wish the memory of his blank, wide eyes could be scrubbed from my brain forever. Nausea surges, and I cover my mouth and swallow hard, forcing the thought away.
“Nate,” Dad says quietly. “Maybe you need to talk about it. And this is coming from me. I know I’m not exactly a talker.”
“I don’t see how that makes it better. All it does is stir shit up inside me.” I rub my chest. “And I’m trying to move on.” I can’t tell Sam’s parents that their precious son is dead because of me. I can’t look the woman he loved in the eyes and tell her that I’m the reason their future is gone.
“I’m sure moving on is what his family is trying to do, too.” He meets my gaze. “If I were in their shoes, I think I’d be grateful if someone helped me with that.”
“You think I should do it.”
“I can’t tell you what you should do, Nate. I just feel for his parents. And his fiancée.”
I rise from the arm of the couch. “I’ll let you get back to your show. Mom needs those meatballs.”
He smiles. “And I shall provide.”
I head to the bathroom and strip down to take a long shower with the water turned up as hot as I can stand. I wish I could melt right here, flow down the drain, and slip away. But I emerge from the steaming bathroom as solid as before. Dad’s gone off to bed, so I re-enter my bedroom, the walls plastered with all the Red Wings posters of my childhood. I sit on my bed and grab my phone. It’s five in the morning. I text Jen.
Will today work?
I sit there, heart hammering. I hope she’s still asleep. I hope the message didn’t actually go through because this was a mistake. I hope—
It works. I’ll meet you at his parents’ house at five.
CHAPTER SIX
Sasha
As I’m cleaning up dinner, Dad shuffles in from the living room. “That bastard broke in and stole the remote,” he announces. His hands tremor as he reaches for the back of a chair at the kitchen table. “Did you forget to lock the windows?”
I let out a breath and close my eyes, allowing myself a few s
econds to smooth out my expression and relax. Then I turn to him and say, “Let me check. But I also talked to the police yesterday, and they told me they’d caught the guy.” I walk over to him and lay my hand over his. “Why don’t you sit down and let me see if I can take care of things?”
He nods. “I had a long day at work. And things won’t let up until after tax day.”
“I know.” He hasn’t worked in nearly six years. By the time we figured out what was going on and got him the diagnosis, he was about to be fired—accounting firms don’t tolerate many mistakes, and his were starting to add up.
I guide him back to the couch, swallowing the lump in my throat. At first, Dad was mostly just forgetful, which he blamed on sleep deprivation—it turns out insomnia is another early symptom. Slowly, he lost the ability to remember things for more than a minute at a time on most days, but he could still do the basics of bathing and dressing and all that. He still knew where he was. He still knew the people around him. But in the last year, he’s gone downhill so fast. His formerly confident walk is becoming a shuffle. His formerly steady hands often shake. His vibrant, occasionally abrasive personality is dulling as his world becomes more confusing. And me, I have a front row seat to his decline.
I get him settled onto the cushions, and then I go over to his favorite stash spot—the box by the front door where we keep our hats and gloves and scarves for winter—and I paw through it. Sure enough, the remote is in there, peeking out of one of Dad’s gloves. I offer it to him. “I got it back for you, Dad.”
He takes it from me. He might have already forgotten the thing about the burglar. Together, we watch a Nat Geo documentary about Yellowstone. He’s more talkative tonight than he has been lately, making occasional comments about the bears and the beavers and the elk. It’s nice to hear. In the last few months, he sometimes doesn’t say a word from dinner time until he goes to sleep.
“Remember when we went to Yellowstone?” I ask him. “You were so excited about Old Faithful.”
“Damn geyser,” he mutters. “Never erupted.”