No Man's Land

by S. T. Underdahl

  “I’m fine,” I assure him. “Push!” Finally, Dr. Gabol seems to register what I’m asking him to do, and he obediently puts his shoulder against the door. I pull mightily, and with a creak of protest, the door reluctantly inches open.

  The cold, fresh air that sweeps in seems to make Dr. Gabol more alert. “What happened, Dov?” he asks again.

  “A car accident,” I tell him, feeling more horrible every time I have to confess it. “I hit you. And Ali’s hurt.”

  Dr. Gabol looks back at Ali, who’s still not moving. “I should go for help,” he says, then looks at me as if he needs permission.

  “I already called 911,” I repeat slowly. “They’re on their way. We should stay right here.”

  Ignoring me, Dr. Gabol slides out of the driver’s seat and stands up next to the car. He looks okay, but is clearly not thinking straight. “You stay here with my son,” he instructs me. “I’ll find someone to help us.”

  Rather than argue with him, I slide into the driver’s seat next to Ali, who to my great relief has finally begun to moan and stir. “Ali,” I tell him, “it’s me, Dov. We were in an accident, but you’re going to be okay.” I prayed to God this is true.

  “Mmmmmh,” Ali murmurs, his eyes still closed. Distantly, I hear sirens. I slide partway out of the driver’s seat and look around for Ali’s dad, wanting to make sure he hasn’t wandered off. My neck is stiffening and it’s hard to turn my head all the way, but finally, out of the corner of my eye, I see Dr. Gabol.

  He hasn’t made it any farther than the Gator, where he’s standing now, staring at something I can’t see. “Dr. Gabol!” I call, sticking my head out of the car. “Ali’s waking up!”

  “Hands in the air, Haji motherfucker!” Brian yells. He emerges from behind the Gator, the pistol I hid in the linen closet pointed at the head of his hostage, Dr. Gabol.

  Holy. Shit. My mind seems to have suddenly gone into stop-start action and can only manage to form thoughts one word at a time.

  “Dad?” Ali calls weakly from the car. “God, my head …

  what’s going on?”

  Outside, Dr. Gabol lifts his hands slowly, obediently into the air. He turns toward me, his dark, questioning eyes on mine.

  I leave Ali behind and ease the rest of the way out of the car. The door is still jammed, so I have to squeeze my body through the opening.

  “You got one there too, Wilkie?” Brian calls. “Keep him covered; I can handle Johnny Jihad here.”

  “Brian … ” I begin, moving slowly to a standing position. “I’m not Wilkie … I’m Dov. Your brother. Listen, man, this isn’t what you think.”

  My brother’s sweaty, tense face disappears and reappears from behind Dr. Gabol. He’s moving around and twitching with energy; his agitated and unpredictable state scares me more than anything. “Hoowah!” he barks suddenly. “We bagged us a couple Al Qaeda bitches!”

  I start walking toward Brian and Dr. Gabol, keeping my hands where Brian can see them. “We’re in Longview, Brian,” I call loudly, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “You remember my friend, Ali, right? That man there is Ali’s dad. He’s a good man, a teacher at the university, remember? We’re in Longview, Bri. This is Longview.”

  “Must be a sniper somewhere around here!” Brian yells. “Look at you, Wilkie, you’ve been hit!”

  “We had a car accident,” I tell Brian calmly. “I crashed the Gator. Man, Dad’s gonna be pissed, right? I hit my face on the steering wheel. We’re in Longview,” I repeat, listening desperately for the sirens, which sound closer. If I can just keep things under control until help arrives …

  “Dov?” Without my noticing, Ali has managed to climb out of the car and is standing behind me. As I turn, his eyes travel from my face, across the Gator to where my brother is holding Dr. Gabol at gunpoint. “Dad?” he asks, confused.

  “Watch your back, Wilkie!” Brian screams, his agitation increasing. “He’s right behind you!”

  The sirens that have been drawing closer are upon us now as an ambulance turns the corner, followed by a police car. An instant later, both screech to a stop and the sirens die, although the emergency lights continue to flash. As the doors of the police car fly open and officers spill out, a horror movie scene plays out in my mind: police with guns drawn, aimed at Brian, telling him to let the hostage go, Brian screaming back deliriously …

  “Take cover, Wilkie, I’ve got a clear shot!” Brian screams, pulling the gun away from Dr. Gabol’s head so he can aim it toward Ali. Then things really do go into slow motion.

  “BRRRIIIAAAANNNN!” I shriek, as I watch Brian’s thumb move to pull back the hammer of the pistol. My feet scramble for purchase on the slippery ground as I take off toward my brother at a dead run. “Nooooooo … !”

  Distantly, I hear a shout from the direction of the rescue vehicles.

  I make a final desperate lunge and am in midair when our eyes meet; Brian’s are wide and menacing, and I can’t imagine what he sees in mine.

  A shot rings out. I scream, but I know the story of my life has played out yet again.

  As usual, I am too late.

  Thirty-Eight

  “So you’re telling me, son, that your brother has been displaying symptoms of combat stress ever since he got home?” I’ve been in the interview room with the detective for two hours, and I’m ready to be done.

  “Yeah,” I reply impatiently. “Look, can you tell me how’s he doing? Does anyone know?”

  The officer shrugs. “From what I heard, he’s going to be fine,” he tells me. “It was just a superficial wound. Our officers are well-trained; even in a hostage situation, the primary objective is for everyone to make it out alive.”

  I nod and take another sip of my water. Even though I heard Brian yelling incoherently in the ambulance, still deep in his flashback, I’d seen the spray of blood as someone shot the gun out of Brian’s hand. Something in me keeps insisting he’s been hurt more seriously than I’m being told.

  “Where is he?” I ask. “When can I see him?”

  “Still at the hospital,” the detective tells me. “Once he’s been treated, they’ll either bring him back to the station so he can be charged, or admit him to the psychiatric unit. It’s up to the doctors at the hospital to decide which is more appropriate.”

  “Is my mother there with him?”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea. Listen, just stick with me for a few more questions and I think we can wrap things up here.”

  I sigh, my foot jiggling frantically below the table. It’s been doing that ever since I sat down; I hope it won’t become some kind of permanent tic. “All right. Let’s just get this over with so I can get out of here.”

  “Since he’s been back, has there been any attempt to get your brother the help he needs? Any involvement with the VA? Any psychiatric evaluation?”

  I shake my head. “No,” I admit. “I—I think we were all just hoping he’d get it out of his system and then he’d be okay.” The words sound lame, even to me.

  “Uh-huh.” The detective makes a few notes on his legal pad. “And he’s been in some trouble with alcohol recently, according to our database.”

  “Yes. He had a DUI.”

  “Habitual drinker?”

  “No,” I insist. “Not before this. He was really … ” I hesitate. “He’s always been pretty great, actually. The kind of guy anybody would wish they had for a brother.” A montage of images play in my mind: the crowd at Longview High cheering as Brian runs for a touchdown, Brian grinning with pride as he watches me discover Leo, Brian’s blissful expression as he hugs Victoria … it all seems so long ago. How did Brian put it? Another lifetime in an entirely different universe. Before my brother got lost in No Man’s Land.

  “All right, son,” the detective says, pushing back his chair and standing up. “If we have any more questions for you, we’ll give you a call.”

  “I can go now?”

  He nods. “You can go now.”

 
The officer and I walk together out of the interview room and down the hall. “You know,” he says, “a lot of our soldiers are coming back with problems these days. We just have to find a better way to make sure they get the help they need.”

  I nod. “So no one gets hurt,” I add.

  “So no one gets hurt.”

  As we reach the front door of the police station, the detective puts a hand on my shoulder, suddenly friendly. “You take care, son,” he tells me. “Your brother’s going to be okay. But he’s going to need your help.”

  The officer was partially right: Brian’s hand is swollen and bloody, but only superficially wounded. After it was bandaged in the ER, he was interviewed by the psychiatrist on call, who determined that Scarlett has been right all along: Brian is suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder. They don’t put him in Longview Hospital’s psychiatric unit, though; instead, they take him by police escort to the VA hospital in Milford.

  “They say he might be there for weeks,” Mom tells me tearfully when I catch up with her at the hospital, but I hear an unmistakable measure of relief in her voice.

  Ali is in a hospital room somewhere upstairs; he’s been admitted with a severe concussion and will be monitored overnight. I want to ask about going up to see him, but Mom thinks maybe I should wait.

  “I think I’ll head up there,” Koby says. I’d called him for a ride from the police station to the hospital, and told him the whole story on the way over. He, at least, doesn’t seem to hate me. “I’ll give ya a call later and tell you how he’s doing.”

  “Thanks,” I say gratefully. The truth is, I’m not sure I’m ready to face Ali and his parents yet.

  “I just feel so awful,” Mom says with a sigh as we walk out to the Suburban. “I knew he was having a hard time, but … ” She trails off for a moment, then takes a deep breath. “I guess I was so relieved he made it back to us in one piece that I just couldn’t let myself admit that he still needs help.”

  “You weren’t the only one,” I tell her. “We all just wanted Brian to get back to being … well, Brian. None of us wanted to believe that he wasn’t still the best thing about our family.”

  Mom looks at me strangely. “Dov,” she says, “do you really think of Brian that way? As the best thing about our family?”

  “It’s pretty obvious, don’t you think? I mean, I haven’t exactly given him much competition.”

  “Oh, Dov,” Mom says. “You and your brother … you’re two totally different people.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Mom laughs in spite of herself. A moment later she surprises me by throwing her arms around my shoulders and squeezing me to her in a tight hug. I’m not a huggy sort of guy, but I can’t say I hate it when she keeps her arm around me the rest of the way to the car.

  Thirty-Nine

  Later that night, I’m in my room listening to tunes and working on my self-portrait for Twohey’s class. I’m still doing the preliminary pencil sketch, but I’ll redraw the whole thing in ink to give it more impact. The Dov Howard in my sketch is a thin-shouldered figure in a black T-shirt, hands buried deep in his pockets, body curved around the center of the painting as if the artist captured him immediately after he’d been punched in the stomach. Because of this posture, his face is hidden under long, dark hair.

  I’m struggling with the shading when there’s a knock on my door. “Entrez vous,” I mutter, thinking it’s Mom. Usually I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m drawing, but tonight my room feels too empty without Leo watching me from his aquarium.

  To my surprise, it’s Miranda who stands in the doorway. “Hey,” she says. “What’s up?”

  I gesture toward the sketchpad. “Self-portrait,” I say.

  Miranda comes over to have a look. “Wow, Dov,” she says admiringly. “I love it.”

  “Really? Thanks.”

  “Yeah. You can’t see your face though,” she remarks. “You’re stealing my shtick.”

  “Symbolism,” I remind her.

  “’A metaphor for your lack of hope?”

  “More like ‘open to interpretation.’”

  “Ah, so it’s a projective test,” Miranda teases. She sinks down on the floor and leans back against my bed. Her eyes travel over my face. “Your lip looks nasty,” she observes.

  Mom thinks it should have had stitches, but an EMT at the scene of the accident put some ice on it and promised it would heal up fine. “It hurts a little,” I admit modestly.

  “Guess you’ll have to man up.” Miranda smiles.

  I go back to my self-portrait, knowing Miranda won’t mind. “So, you heard about everything?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Koby told me the whole story.”

  “It was a pretty bad deal.”

  Miranda nods. “I went and saw Ali before I came here. He’s looking pretty good. In fact, he’s demanding that they either discharge him or hook him up with Wi-Fi.”

  “Really?” That definitely sounds like the old Ali. “Man …

  that’s great.”

  “Yeah.” Miranda nods. “He’ll probably go home by tomorrow.”

  I set down my pencil, too relieved to draw anymore. “I feel like shit about the whole thing,” I admit. “I still can’t believe I didn’t see them. And the accident was bad enough, but then Brian turned into the Terminator … it was like a nightmare.”

  “And totally out of the blue like that.”

  Now I’m silent, knowing that isn’t completely the truth. “The thing is,” I tell Miranda, “Brian’s been having problems since he got home. Random things happen and suddenly he thinks he’s back in Afghanistan. That’s what happened today, I think. Bri and I were arguing and when we hit them, well … I think the shock of it all, and the sounds and the blood … even the fact that Dr. Gabol had a scarf on his head … it must have felt to him a lot like what went on over there. The doctors said it can happen after people go through a big trauma like that … a flashback. The psychiatrist told Mom that Brian probably has post-traumatic stress disorder. Scarlett knew it before anyone else figured it out.”

  Scarlett. I tried to call her when I got home, but her grandma said her parents had come to town to surprise her and she was somewhere with them. I can only hope it means good things.

  “So this has happened before?” Miranda asks.

  “Not this bad. Nothing like this.” As much as I want to convince her of that, I want to convince myself more. Still, I can’t deny the memories of Brian’s late-night neighborhood patrols, of the commands shouted in his sleep, of the pistol he slept with and hearing the words that came out of him when he shot the buck. “No,” I repeat. “Nothing like this.”

  While Miranda and I are hanging out in my room, Mom stops by to say she’s going out; the VA phoned with a list of items Brian needs for his stay, and she’s running to Family Mart to pick up a few things. By the redness around her eyes, I can see she’s been crying. “Did you call Dad yet?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she nods. “He’s coming home.”

  The thought of Dad on his way home usually fills me with a sense of dread, but I don’t feel it this time. Maybe it’s because it doesn’t seem like anything worse can happen.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” I ask Mom. “To the store, I mean.” It’s suddenly occurs to me that Mom might need some company while shopping for the things her son needs for his extended stay in a psych unit. I toss the sketchpad aside. “I can do this later. Really.”

  Mom smiles tiredly. “Thanks, Dov,” she says. “I’ll be okay.”

  “You sure? I don’t mind coming along.”

  She looks at me, her eyes soft. “I’m sure, sweetheart.”

  After she leaves, I look up to see Miranda regarding me. “That was sweet,” she says. “You were worried about your mom.”

  I shrug. “Well,” I say, “I guess I finally realized that at some point, it’s not a bad idea to stop thinking just about myself. And, you know, to pay a little attention to what othe
r people might be going through.”

  Miranda nods. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Good idea.”

  My iPod is on random; Bleed the Dream begins to play. “Good tunes,” Miranda says, closing her eyes and tipping her head back against edge of the bed.

  Sheba wanders into the doorway and stops, a question in her round golden eyes. When I don’t do anything overtly threatening, she takes a tentative step across the threshold, then another. I let her come in; with Leo gone, there’s no reason to keep her out. A moment later she’s curled up in Miranda’s lap, purring smugly.

  I relax and pick up the sketchpad, returning to my drawing. After a few minutes I happen to glance up at Miranda, who’s leaning back against the bed with her eyes closed, absently petting Sheba. Her red hair spikes randomly across her pale forehead, and her dark eyelashes lie against her cheeks like soft feathers. It suddenly occurs to me that she looks, well … kind of beautiful. Kind of like how she looked that night at the Poisoned Heart concert. It’s a different way for me to look at Miranda, and I wonder what’s changed about her to make me see her this way. Or maybe it’s me … maybe I’m the one who’s changed.

  Suddenly, a question forms in my mind. “Miranda,” I ask tentatively, “do you by any chance write poetry?”

  Miranda’s eyelashes shift and she opens her eyes. “Geez, Dov,” she says with a smile that stirs the deepest part of me. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  (Cue loud crack as total cosmic

  shift occurs in emo kid’s brain)

  Forty

  The Pepper is always busy on Saturday nights. “We thought you weren’t coming.” Miranda smiles, scooting over to make room for me in the booth.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I just got off work a half hour ago. I’m surprised I got here this quick.” I slide in next to her and bump her shoulder companionably; under the table, I give her leg a quick squeeze.

  Across from us, Koby rolls his eyes. “Sheesh, you two. Get a room.”

  Beside him, Scarlett grins. “Yeah, seriously … you’re making us sick with the PDA.”