Catch My Fall: A Falling Novel

by Jessica Scott

  I want to agree with him. I want that certainty of belief. That coherence of thinking about the world that makes it easier to sleep at night. But I'm not sure I do. I'm not sure I ever did.

  "That helps," is all I say instead.

  "Stay with her. Tell her you love her. That you're there. Whether she wants you to be or not." He pauses. "I mean that in the non-stalker sense of it."

  I laugh. "Yeah, I kind of figured that."

  "Shut up, dickhead. I'll see you next week."

  Kelsey

  When Deacon asked me about the VA, I could have told him about this: about the lines and the questioning and the skepticism that I'd actually been to combat.

  All to get a refill on prescription meds that I can't get through school without a fucking psych eval. To get a woman's health exam that I need every year because of some stupid policy that says I have to, whether I think I need it or not.

  I'm pretty sure the universe is fucking with me. Either that or the lady in the Veterans Administration office got some message from the powers that be that I kicked puppies in a former life.

  I haven't had nearly enough coffee or vodka to deal with this shit at barely nine a.m. on a Tuesday.

  I swallow my righteously bitchy response and smile instead. Honey versus vinegar and all that, right?

  I'm not Sarn't Ryder anymore. I can't make people do what I want, especially not a civilian who looks overworked and underpaid.

  "I'm the sponsor," I say sweetly, responding to her question about my nonexistent husband's social security number.

  My sweetness apparently isn't enough to establish even the tiniest human connection.

  She doesn't smile in return. She looks at me like I'm a burden, as opposed to the reason why she has a fucking job. Was that bitchy? That sounded bitchy. And entitled. It's probably a good thing I’ve kept it to myself, then, isn't it?

  "Oh, do you have your DD214, then? So I can verify your eligibility to receive care here?"

  My blood pressure is rising. If this keeps up, I'm going to be on blood thinners before I'm thirty. "Ma'am, you are the fifth person I've talked to this month. Every single time, I get asked for my discharge paperwork and every single time, they tell me I won't have to provide it again. So please, at what point are you going to update the system so that my service has been verified and I can start getting treatment?"

  My words are tight. Annoyed.

  I'm reaching the end of my patience. Again. Which doesn't get me any closer to a refilled prescription. Along with maybe getting a referral to a counselor who isn't a complete fucking lunatic like the last one I paid for out of pocket.

  Her expression doesn't budge. "Do you have your discharge paperwork or not?"

  I hand the paperwork over and hope my expression is blank enough that she can't read the blazing fuck you that's flashing over my head.

  "And why are you here today?"

  Same questions. Different person. End result? Me not getting an appointment. Again. "I need some referrals. An annual well-woman exam. And I'm seeking to get reevaluation of my medical records to tie certain conditions to military service in combat and to get my characterization of service changed."

  It's a dirty little secret that unless you have an honorable discharge, the VA gets even more complicated than it already is.

  And my characterization of service was not honorable. So there's that.

  I might as well go rob a bank.

  She frowns and looks down at my paperwork. "There's nothing here that says you were in combat. Or that you're entitled to services at the VA."

  I hand her two sets of orders that deploy me and redeploy me to Iraq. "I was stationed at Taji, both times. I ran more than three hundred combat logistics patrols in my two tours. I am a combat veteran and therefore eligible for treatment at the VA.”

  She shakes her head and hands all the paperwork back to me. “You’re going to need to provide verification of combat exposure before we can consider any reevaluation. This discharge paperwork says you weren’t honorably discharged. I’m not sure we can help you."

  I can feel the enamel chipping off my teeth. "And what does that verification need to look like? Because I've got my combat tour award, the citation for the Purple Heart, the Bronze Star with Valor, and a letter from my former battalion commander, all verifying that yes, I served in actual fucking combat on these two tours."

  She doesn't flinch at my profanity. I suppose she's probably used to it. "Let me make copies and run them through our review process. I'll call you when your case is decided."

  My hands are shaking. I bunch my fists and hide them behind the counter. I won't give in to the frustrated rage. I won't. "I'm out of my sleep medication. Is there any way I can be seen while we're waiting for this to be adjudicated?"

  "I'm sorry. Until we've verified that you're eligible to receive care, you're going to have to wait like everyone else."

  You ever have that moment when you feel like you've been assigned to that waiting room in Beetlejuice? And you're stuck for eternity sitting between a dude with a shrunken head and the headhunter who did it to him?

  That's how I feel, standing in the lobby of the VA, trying to convince this woman that yeah, I'm a veteran, too.

  This entire organization is the biggest lie. It’s a fucking fraud.

  I'm trying really hard not to be bitter that the medical treatment I need is being arbitrarily denied on the whims of a bureaucrat who decides who gets to see a doctor or who gets moved onto the eternal waiting list.

  That's what they should call it. The Eternal Waiting List to Hell.

  But none of that bitterness gets me treated. None of it changes the fact that I got the shit blown out of me, among other things, and I can't get fixed. I've been biding my time, treading water, through legal and other means that we won't talk about, hoping that at some point I'll get seen by a real doctor.

  "Could you step to one side so I can get to the gentleman behind you?" she says after a moment when I refuse to move.

  "I'm not finished, ma'am," I say tightly. "If we assume that eventually, I will be deemed eligible to receive care, is this VA even capable of providing the services I need?"

  She blinks, unfazed by my tone. "It's not my job to engage in hypotheticals."

  I can feel it: the need for a drink. The burning grit behind my eyes telling me to try and sleep even though I know I won’t be able to. I'm not even fighting it anymore. I gave that up a long time ago.

  I leave the VA, barely managing to remain polite, and move out smartly. It’s definitely time to start burying the day in a coffee laced with Baileys and vodka.

  Again.

  11

  Kelsey

  Walking into the classroom is like colliding with a physical wall of sound and emotion as I push open the door. The alcohol is dimming the fatigue and making the whole scene I just walked in on look somewhat ridiculous.

  Maybe it helps that I finished that Baileys on the bus ride back to campus but I’m not the least bit alarmed at the cadets squaring off in the classroom. It’ll make class more interesting at least.

  Hopefully not interesting enough for the campus police to be called but you never know.

  Ryan is carrying on about something tangentially related to the First Amendment and Jovi looks like she's ready to stab someone. Veer, who is usually in competition with me to see who can say the least, is apparently finally in the fray.

  I drop my book onto the table with a bang and the entire classroom goes silent.

  "Oh good, you're done," I say with a smile.

  I'm no longer irritated about the shit show at the VA. I can’t bring myself to care about that right now. I’m not drunk but the alcohol has dulled the anger.

  Plus, I’m not an asshole. I'm not going to take it out on them. The door opens behind me and I'm hit with a sense of warmth against my back. Deacon walks in, the heat from his body brushing up against mine as he moves around me to his usual position.

  "
Who wants to calmly tell me what this argument is about?"

  Veer raises his hand. His jaw is set and I can practically see the pulse beating off his skin. "Ryan made a comment about people who protest during the national anthem, that they should leave the country. I strongly objected."

  I fight the urge to smile at how disgruntled he sounds. It’s a nice change from the anger I’ve been nursing since I left the VA. This is much more controllable. "What is it that got you so fired up that you finally broke your rule against participating in the discussions?"

  He frowns. "I don't have a rule. But when you have someone dominating the conversation, it's best to preserve oxygen."

  I almost smile. That was a pretty good backhanded slap at Ryan. To be honest, Ryan has a lot of good points but he never bothers to just be quiet and let someone else get a word in edgewise. "Okay, but I find a generally good strategy is to figure out why something pissed you off before you just start spouting off. So take a minute and reflect, then explain why his comment got you so wound up."

  It's moments like these that I miss the Army. I was only a junior NCO but damn it, I miss leading soldiers sometimes.

  Ryan interjects and I can physically see everyone in the room suck in a collective breath. "I just don't see how you can live in this country and protest everything it's given you. If you don't like it, then leave it to the rest of us who appreciate the freedoms."

  Veer opens his mouth to speak but I hold up one hand, stopping him. "Ryan, what's the oath you take when you commission?"

  He frowns. "The oath?"

  "Yeah, the actual text of it. Have you read it?"

  He types something into his laptop and pauses, his eyes moving over the screen I cannot see. "So?"

  I glance over at Deacon, who’s watching the exchange quietly. "Read it for us."

  "I, state your name, having been appointed in the grade of second lieutenant in the Army of the United States, do solemnly swear, to support and defend the Constitution of the United States, against all enemies foreign and domestic."

  "You can stop there," Deacon says. He leans forward. "Why do you think she had you read that?"

  Jovi raises her hand. "Because we don't get to say what rights are enforceable or not. We just do our job."

  I nod slowly. This is not the conversation I expected to have today—not at all—but to hell with it. Let's see where this goes. "Ryan, why does this get you so fired up?"

  "Because it's bullshit. Athletes should not be protesting the nation that enables them to earn millions of dollars. They're not political figures. They play sports for a living."

  "You didn't answer the question. Why does this get you so angry?"

  The pen cap he's flicking on and off rapidly screeches to a halt. He stares at me for a long moment, saying nothing.

  "Think about it. You're here, on one of the wealthiest college campuses in the country, and you're getting pissed off about something that has no effect on your daily life," I say quietly. "Why?"

  The cap starts to flick again. "It's not right."

  Deacon sets his notebook on the desk in front of him and sinks into his chair, leaning back casually. "When I first came back from my first deployment, I'd get super pissed really easily. I remember I was standing in line at the grocery store and some woman was complaining about the long wait time." His gaze never wavers from Ryan's face. "I didn't say anything. But I was livid. How dare she be pissed about something so trivial?"

  I nod and finally sit in my normal chair at the end of the table. I love listening to his voice and right then, it’s so fucking smooth and calm. "I had a similar reaction for a while. Stupid things would set me off."

  Veer is picking at his watch. "What does being irritated post-deployment have to do with some dumbass comment about who gets the right to protest in America?"

  I hold my hand up to keep Ryan from jumping in. "Because leadership isn't about scoring points. When you get angry, no one is listening to you anymore. You lose credibility. So you can get angry. Or you can stay calm and figure out a better way around the obstacle that your emotions just erected." I glance between Veer and Ryan. "No one is perfect. But especially in today's environment, you have to be able to lead all of your soldiers, not just the ones you agree with. You call someone a dumbass and, well, it's a pretty safe bet you're not leading them anywhere any time soon."

  I swallow and flip open my notebook, uncomfortable that all eyes are on me. Deacon clears his throat and leans forward. "So. Reactions to today's reading?"

  I look up as Ryan starts talking about the insurgency in Syria. I don't hear what he's saying. Sitting there, gaze locked with Deacon’s, I'm reminded of all the ways things used to be good between us.

  And wishing intently that it wasn't something as mild as fear keeping us apart.

  It would be easy, so easy to fall into step with him after class. To walk with him to wherever he would lead. And slip into the dark comfort of his touch.

  Deacon

  "You handled class brilliantly today, you know."

  Kelsey isn’t leaving class as fast as she normally does. Something happened today in class. A connection. A moment. I'm not sure but something changed when she started taking charge of the argument between Ryan and Veer and Jovi.

  It was like she was Sergeant Ryder again and was once more in her own element. It was a thing to behold watching her with her eyes bright, her shoulders back, her voice confident and sure.

  Watching her control the room, watching her connect with each of those future officers, I was both aroused and enthralled. Not necessarily in that order.

  Reminded of the confidence she’d lost somewhere in the desert sands. I've always been attracted to her strength. She had a way about her in uniform that was always just a little out of sync with everyone around us. She was energy.

  A flame.

  And I was drawn to her, despite every rule and norm that said it was a bad idea to get involved with someone at work.

  She lets me fall into step next to her. I offer up a prayer of thanks for that simple milestone.

  "Thanks. I'm just glad I didn't blow my stack at some of the comments myself."

  "Yeah, Mr. First Amendment Ryan has some growing up to do."

  She grins and it strikes me how much I miss seeing her smile. She doesn’t do it nearly enough anymore. I didn’t even notice until right then. "Don't we all?"

  I make a noise, not missing the fact that she hasn't bailed on me yet. She's still walking with me.

  That's a hell of a lot more progress than I'm used to with her. "Do you feel like an old man in there?"

  She laughs and runs her hands over her breasts even as I realize what I’ve said.

  "Nope, haven't felt like an old man recently." She elbows me gently. "But I get what you mean. I feel like…I feel ancient next to them."

  I stop then and look at her. “Have you been drinking?” I can’t say what’s made me ask.

  I fully expect her to tell me to go fuck myself but she doesn’t. “You ever have one of those days where you have to give up fighting because being pissed about it isn’t going to fix a damn thing?” She glances over my shoulder, avoiding my gaze. “I may have had a stiff one before class. I needed to relax.”

  It hurts then, thinking that this brief moment between us is because she’s not fighting something. Warning bells go off in my head.

  "Do you think things like this matter?" I step close, into her space. Needing to be closer. Afraid to let her go.

  "Matter how?"

  "Like, do you think any of them actually walked out of there thinking about things differently?"

  She shifts her bag to her opposite shoulder. I notice the stiffness of her movement and the way she rolls her shoulder after the bag is transferred.

  "I don't know." She stops walking and looks up at me. "But isn't that why we do any of this? We have to hope that what we do matters, right?"

  Her question stops me in my tracks. "That isn't what you said when y
ou first got back," I say quietly. “You said nothing we did matters. That everything was meaningless suffering.” I tip my chin, studying this woman who draws me to her with such fierce need. "What’s changed?"

  She looks away, nudging dirt with her shoe. "I don't know. A lot of things."

  It's an opening, a fleeting hope that maybe other things have changed, too.

  But fear and history are a potent combination.

  "What things?" Because I cannot help myself, I step closer to her. To the need to feel the heat from her body, the desire to capture her strength. The pure need to feel her body against mine just once more.

  Her lips are there, just there. They part a little, the tiniest breadth of space, then close.

  The barest distance separates us. If she offered the slightest encouragement, I could span the gap, brushing my lips against hers. Tasting her again after the longest drought.

  "It's complicated," she whispers.

  "Isn't it always?"

  I move then, slowly, achingly slow, to slide a lock of hair out of her face. My thumb brushes her cheek. A current arcs between us, a living pulse of energy that binds me to her.

  She doesn't look away. The noise of the crowd disappears around us, leaving only her and only me, standing impossibly close, immensely far apart.

  My entire world tips beneath my feet when she doesn't move, doesn't pull away.

  "Kels." Her name is a whisper. A plea.

  A promise.

  To do better this time. To somehow make things from the past right again or to beg her forgiveness for not being there when she needed me most.

  Something shifts. I couldn't tell you what it is but for a moment, nothing more, she tips her cheek, nuzzling against my knuckles. She is smooth and soft and a thousand points of heat flash through my entire body from that single connection.

  "I miss this," she whispers. But then she closes her eyes and the connection ends. She takes a single step backward.