I was finished anyway. I'd said as much as I could but less than I'd intended. What I wanted to tell her was this: "I no longer need your magic touch. I need you."
***
Later that afternoon, I finished my first workout with Chuck, a muscular ex-Marine turned therapist. He'd given me a tough but first-rate program-weights, treadmill, balancing beam. I was toweling off when Becky appeared at the door. She nodded to her fellow therapist, who took the hint and went off to reorganize the supply closet. Becky waited until the door closed behind him.
"The Boston Common," she said.
"What?"
"When I was little, we'd go there every year to see the Christmas lights and the ice sculptures. It's like your gingerbread house, a special place for me. Come with me, Freddie. Friday night. I'll pick you up at six. The usual place."
And then she raced off to her next appointment.
***
It was well past sunset when Becky's car pulled up to the advanced rehabilitation facility. I was too eager to see her and made a rookie mistake, staring directly into the headlights. The penalty? My night vision was shot. We'd done plenty of night patrols in Iraq, but this was my first time out after dark since the attack. Now I was half-blind. I gawked at the shadows wriggling behind the car and around the corners of the building, wishing I had night-vision goggles.
Becky leaned over and swung the passenger door open.
"What are you waiting for? Get in."
I stuck my head through the door and peeked past the headrest. Resting in the middle of the back seat was a package wrapped in holiday paper with a red ribbon and silver bow.
"What's that?"
"A Christmas present for you. I was going to surprise you later, but since you've already seen it, I might as well give it to you now."
She reached back and retrieved the package while I slid onto the seat, carefully lifting my damaged leg over the lip of the doorframe with both hands. Once I was settled, she set the package on my lap. I let my fingertips glide over the paper and across the ribbon and bow. It'd been a long time since anyone had given me a present.
"Well, go ahead and open it." When I hesitated, she laughed. "It's been cleared by ordnance, I promise."
I waited another second, trying to think what to say, then ripped off the paper. Inside was one of those picture books people leave on the coffee table in their living room. Its title was Cape Cod Gingerbread Gems, a photo album of the kind of houses I once dreamed of designing.
Becky started the engine and we rolled across the parking lot. As we left the VA hospital behind, I glanced back at the building-the first time I'd seen it at night. The turret stood out against the black of the sky, illuminated by spotlights. Yellow beams shone from the arched windows, as if someone were in there standing watch.
After we merged onto the VFW Parkway, she broke the silence.
"Do you like it?"
I nodded, then realizing she couldn't see me with her eyes on the road, I said, "It's good."
"Then why do you sound so tongue-tied?"
"It's just that no one else knows me that well. No one else would have . . ." I found myself having to swallow before more words could come out. Finally I said, "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"But how can I reciprocate? I wouldn't know what to get you."
"Someday," she said, "when you're on your own, find me a book on ice sculptures, like the ones we're going to see tonight."
Once downtown, we parked in the Common underground garage, a dimly lit place of concrete and columns with lots of places to hide. I stepped out of the car into a forest of steel coated with blast mitigation foam, the kind we used to spray on our Humvees. As we wandered around searching for an elevator, the click of our heels and the tap of my cane merged with the drone of the ventilation system. I began to hear whispers in the shadows, voices murmuring in the gloom. I breathed a lot easier when we were back above ground.
"That was as close as we could park," she said. "You okay crossing the Common?"
I puffed out my chest and held up my cane. "After a week with Chuck, anything will seem easy."
We had a long trek across the Common, up and down hills. Slush was piled along the edges of the pathways, but the pavement was clear. In the distance, I could see the glow from the Christmas display, but mostly I concentrated on my footsteps. The nearer we came to the display, the denser the crowds. My pace slowed, not because of my injured leg, but because I was uneasy with so many strangers around me.
Then shouts behind me, the rattle of metal approaching. I spun around and braced.
Just a young mother, pulling a wagon with two little boys huddled inside. My mind flashed to another winter day, a long time ago, a memory I'd forgotten from before we moved to the Cape.
Newly fallen snow. My mother pulling Richie and me on a sled across a park, breaking fresh tracks, singing in her little girl voice. Dashing through the snow, in a one-horse open sleigh. Richie giggled and tried to sing along. And little brother Freddie sat so still, afraid to move for fear of startling the happiness away.
I stayed still now and held my breath, taking in this new winter scene, afraid to startle it away.
Becky noticed. "Are you all right?"
I nodded and reached out my hand. She took it.
We continued on, past the obelisk at the high point of the Common, and then down to a recess, where we stopped to watch the skaters on the frog pond. The rink was lined with colored lanterns that cast a rosy blush onto the faces of the crowd. The skaters ranged from toddlers giggling as they bounced off the boards in their padded snowsuits to an older couple skating arm and arm, dancing to a Strauss waltz in their heads.
Many had come in costume. There were angels and ballerinas, Santas and elves. And surrounding them all, the glow of the lights in the trees.
From the frog pond, we climbed the last hill to where the ice sculptures were laid out in a row. The first one we encountered was a dragon looming almost ten feet tall. The artist had placed a green spotlight with a revolving filter at the base so the light flickered through the ice, making the dragon seem alive.
Prancing at the foot of the dragon was a smaller sculpture, a life-size unicorn rearing up on its hind legs. Then two swans facing each other, a hawk in flight. A winged griffin and a centaur. A mermaid and a reindeer. A miniature Cinderella castle. And two lovers embracing.
And all I could do was stare up at the trees.
The Christmas decorations were destroying my night vision. I narrowed my eyes, trying to block out the glare. I squinted so hard the lights blurred and conspired with the branches to spawn a crouched being hidden among them.
Becky caught me staring and breathed in the cold air. "The lights are beautiful, aren't they?"
I nodded. How could I tell her I wasn't admiring the lights but searching for snipers in the trees?
"It's like a dream from a fantasy world," she said.
"No, Becky. Fantasy worlds aren't this nice."
Then we heard it, a couple of blocks away, the voices of carolers wafting on the breeze. Becky pulled me toward them.
As we approached the sidewalk that lined Tremont Street, the crowds grew. Most seemed to be shoppers bearing bags of brightly painted packages and moving with a purpose, focused on their own lives and oblivious that we were still at war. The holiday colors they wore contrasted with the paler colors of our desert camouflage and the gun-metal gray of our rifles. Or the dishdashas of the Iraqi men made drab by the sand and the heat. Men I'd learned to suspect. My heart began to pound, my hands to sweat. I stopped and pulled away.
"Is something wrong, Freddie?"
I searched around for an excuse, afraid to tell her what was happening to me, hardly able to understand it myself. I noticed the uneven sidewalk at my feet.
"Cobblestones." I lied. "Just what I need with a cane."
"No problem," she said. "Hold on to me."
She looped her arm around mine and we crossed.
My panic kept increasing, but I liked being held so close.
On the far side of Tremont Street, on the way to the carolers, we passed an alley and my combat antennae began to twitch. When I searched in the shadows, the alarm I'd so carefully nurtured in Iraq went off. Among the trash and old newspapers, a clump of rags beneath a loading dock shuddered and moved. Not an imagined being but a real person. Danger? Or some wino bedded down under the rags, trying to stay warm for the night?
But then I thought of Richie. What if that was him, or what was left of him?
Becky tried to pull me back. "It's just an alley, Freddie. The carolers are over here."
I turned to go with her.
Then a sound behind me, the crash of broken glass. The pile of rags had rolled over, flinging an empty bottle to the pavement.
"Fuck," I said loudly enough to attract a scowl from a passing woman, who sidestepped me as I stopped short on the crowded sidewalk. I yanked free of Becky and headed into the alley.
What if that was him? I scanned the cavern of buildings, searching the rooftops, my eyes darting from window to window, watching for a muzzle flash. I jumped at a curtain pulled back, some guy glancing out to check the weather or the traffic before heading home. I studied doorways and dumpsters. And especially a garbage bin stuffed with bottles and cans. Until I felt Becky's physical therapist grip on my shoulder, dragging me back to reality.
"It's all right, Freddie."
"What's all right?"
"You were hyperventilating."
I spun around, ready to be angry. I didn't want to be pitied. But what I saw wasn't pity. It was more complex than that. Her look said, "Give me your sadness. I'll take as much as you need. I'm here."
I backed off from high alert, not to like I was before the war, but enough to go on. From there we walked arm in arm, like the couple skating on the frog pond.
We followed the sound of carolers, past Christmas displays in storefront windows and a street vendor roasting cinnamon sugar pecans. At the top of the marble steps of the Tremont Street Masonic Temple, between two statues of lions, a chorus presided over a crowd. They stood in formation, wearing old-fashioned top hats and mufflers, each holding a hymnal in their gloved hands. Their voices rose and spread into the night, a magnificent, ringing harmony, baritones and tenors, sopranos and basses, sounds of my childhood.
Above the carolers, pigeons nestled in the corners around columns, cooing along as if trying to harmonize with the music. And on the sidewalk below, closing in around us, shoppers with bags of newly bought gifts. I checked out the faces, gauging the risk. Cheeks flush from the cold. Christmas cheer. On the sides of the stairs, a few bums lay covered in cardboard to stay warm, enjoying the free show. In front of me, a bag lady with a shopping cart filled with rags bobbed her head to the tune.
The holiday season took over. I forgot about my family and the war and being trapped in a crowd of strangers. I looked down from the carolers and the stone lions to Becky, who was snuggling close and beaming up at the singers.
And then the music changed.
Angels we have heard on high-
An echo of my mother's sweet voice. I blinked twice and shook my head as I did when the ringing started in my ears. But the song persisted.
Sweetly singing o'er the plains-
In front of me, a boy about Richie's age sang along with the carolers. I stretched out a finger and tapped his arm. He turned. Not Richie. Richie was gone, along with Joey and the archangel and the others.
And the mountains in reply-
Slowly, the sound crept in, another day, the family together. Faded music, flowered paper trying to brighten the room but failing. Worn furniture. Tired smiles. Where had they all gone? Then another scene. A girl in a garden, a tower, a cluster of storm clouds forming over the distant mountains, an empty casket. I bit my lip.
Echoing their joyous strain-
This was real, not a memory of my mother's voice. This was here and now. My chest tightened and I had trouble breathing.
And suddenly, I saw dragons and unicorns.
My three days on the subway hadn't ended in failure. The boy in the morgue wasn't Ritchie. We found no grave in the cemetery. What if that clump of rags in the alley was him?
I had to know.
I pulled away from Becky and elbowed my way through the crowd that had closed in around us. Once free, I stepped off down the cobblestone sidewalk, moving faster than I had since the IED attack, ignoring the smell of roasting pecans and swinging my cane like a weapon. I must have had a wild look on my face, because the passersby spread before me like a wave.
Behind me, the carolers were stretching out the word-Gloooria.
I muttered as I walked. "You want glory in your highest? Then let this be Richie."
And a shout from behind, barely audible above the carolers.
"Freddie, come back!"
I reached the alleyway and skidded to a stop, too well trained to race in without body armor and a rifle at the ready, or a Kevlar helmet with night-vision goggles on top. I searched the rooftops again, then the windows. In the second floor, an office worker with a coffee cup glared down at the alley, probably trying to decide whether to ignore me or call the police.
I took three quick breaths, oxygenating my blood, increasing my adrenaline, and rushed in.
The pile of rags was still under the loading dock, not moving. I poked at it with my cane. A hand flailed out, a gesture saying, "Leave me alone." But the hand was too old to be Richie's.
The hell with reality. I had to be sure.
I reached out and grabbed a fistful of rags. My leg was gimpy but the months of rehab had built up my arms. I lifted and tugged until the man rolled over. I was confronted with bloodshot eyes sunk deep into a haggard face. Liver spots mottled the skin, and matted clumps of gray stuck to the cheeks. Gnarled fingers flew up to protect the face.
"Richie?" I said, though I knew it wasn't him. "Richie?" I repeated more softly.
A hand touched my shoulder from behind. I whirled around and grasped at my waist for my rifle on its assault sling. When I found it missing, I groped at my hip for the hilt of a sword.
Even Becky was afraid of me now.
"You're scaring that old man, Freddie. And frankly, you're frightening me."
I must have stared at her for a long time before my breathing slowed.
"It's me," she said.
"I know."
She swayed an inch in my direction, and I collapsed into her arms. Then I let her lead me out of the alley.
We found a doorway to duck into, and I steadied myself against the wall. She took off a glove and touched my forehead with her fingertips.
"You're sweating, Freddie. Hard to do in this cold." Then when I stayed silent, "It wasn't Richie."
"I know."
"Then why did you-"
"I know now." I could feel my voice getting louder. Shoppers passing by stopped to gawk. I went quiet until they moved on. "But sometimes, Becky . . . sometimes I don't know what's real."
"We all feel that way, Freddie. You think I don't feel it when I sit in the therapy room and watch kids brought in, one after the other, with limbs missing and a thousand-yard stare?"
"You don't understand. I don't know if anything's real, Richie, the war, all of this." I waved my hand to encompass Tremont Street, the stone lions and the carolers, the frog pond with the costumed skaters, the ice sculptures. I stuck my head out the doorway and gestured toward the alley some poor guy was sleeping in to get out of the cold. But I didn't look back at Becky, afraid to see what I'd find.
"Maybe we shouldn't do this again," I finally said.
"Do what?" She forced me to look at her. "Do what, Freddie? Come into the city? Go to see my favorite ice sculptures? Mingle with crowds? Listen to carolers who might sing your mother's favorite song? What is it we shouldn't do again? Or is it going out together, you and I? Because if that's it, I think I should have a say as well."
Her brows lifted, an
d she stood balanced in the moment, waiting for my answer. My mind spun through images-the gingerbread house, my family, the war, a castle and crypt. I pulled away and stepped back, putting an arm's length between us, though it might as well have been a chasm.
"I was wrong to ask you out. Take me back to the hospital . . . please."
For a long moment, she didn't respond. Then she put her glove back on, took my hand, and led me across the traffic on Tremont Street, past the ice sculptures and down by the frog pond, over the hill with the obelisk and into the dungeon of a garage. When we were both buckled safely in the car, she eased out of the parking space and then, with a stab of her foot on the accelerator, lurched up the exit ramp.
She said not a word, not there and not on the ride back to the hospital. As I listened to the rumble of the snow tires, I watched her hands clutching the steering wheel at ten and two o'clock. Her jaw was set, and her lips compressed into a thin line as she focused on the road ahead. I found myself praying for the first time in years, to the Goddess or whoever would listen.
Don't let my demons drag her down.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Dagger of Sorrow
Day twenty-nine. One more day before the end of all things. As I trudged down the path to the royal gardens, time itself seemed to be winding down like the hands of an aging clock. No birds sang. The wailing of the wind had softened to a moan, and what passed these days for daylight was fading.
I'd reconsidered my plan. The thought of bringing Rebecca to the crypt made my fists clench so tightly the nails left marks in my palms. How could I have presumed to drag her down into my world of demons and assassins? Whatever course the final trial might take, it was something I had to do alone.
In the end, there was only me.
When I arrived at the gardens, I found her bustling about, organizing things that needed no organizing. She was muttering to herself, checking off her list as she scurried about. Prune the hydrangeas. Water the flowerbeds. Lock the tools in their shed so children playing in the garden won't harm themselves. As if she were leaving for the last time. I stood by, silently admiring her energy.
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