The Hard Truth About Sunshine

by Sawyer Bennett

  Not really.

  "Must you do that?" Jillian drawls out in a dramatic voice.

  "Do what?" I ask as I pull a cigarette out and put it between my lips.

  "Smoke in the car," she says.

  I already knew what she meant, but I like playing dense at times because I know it irritates her and, for some reason, I like to irritate her.

  "I'll roll the window down," I tell her, the cigarette bobbing in my mouth.

  "I can still smell it."

  "Roll your window down too," I suggest.

  "It sticks to your clothes, and you smell like smoke all the time," she says.

  When I turn my head to look at her, I'm surprised her facial muscles are strong enough to maneuver a cocked eyebrow at me. Those muscles aren't overly bothered by her disease because it arches quite high.

  "It's not attractive at all," she sniffs.

  Turning my head so I can take a quick peek at the road, I ensure I'm straight and then look back to her. "Not attractive?"

  As the cigarette bobs in my mouth, I feel utterly ridiculous. I'm a grown-ass man, and I'm talking to this beautiful creature with a nasty cigarette hanging from my lips.

  I turn to look at the road, but with my right hand, I take the cigarette out of my mouth. With a sigh, I throw it down into the center console and ask with irritation, "Are you happy?"

  "Extremely," she says. "You should just quit, you know."

  "Don't want to," I mutter.

  "Bet you can't," she says with challenge. "I think it's an easy crutch for you."

  "It's an addiction," I contradict her.

  "But one that can be beaten, no doubt," she says. "With the right willpower. And Christopher, I look at all you've overcome and I think you have amazing willpower."

  I don't dare look at her, with those coke-bottle-magnified eyes looking at me sexily earnestly. What could she possibly know about what it's taken to get me where I am today?

  Still, I haven't forgotten she said smoking wasn't attractive, and that sort of implies that I could possibly be attractive if I didn't smoke.

  That's an interesting thought, because I haven't given two seconds to ponder how women view me in a very long time. After Maria dumped me because she couldn't accept I wasn't a full man anymore, I had no intentions of ever getting involved with someone again. One-night stands, hookups, prostitutes... that is all I'll ever do, because I can't worry about how a woman truly thinks I look.

  I know I'm a good-looking guy in the face--that's not ego talking. And Maria was smoking hot. But my face is scarred now, my arm is mangled, and my leg... well, it's gone. How could any of that be attractive?

  "Let's make a bet that you can't go the entire trip without smoking," Jillian says, and my head snaps her way briefly.

  I roll my eyes and look back to the road, wanting that cigarette I just threw into the console now more than ever. "Like what kind of bet?"

  "I don't know," she responds flippantly. "We'll come up with something good."

  I think about it a moment, wondering if I should I take her bait. She's challenging me to do something hard. I've been smoking for over a year now, starting shortly after I entered rehab. It was something to do to pass the time. I don't want to quit because I don't give a shit about my health, and yeah... she's right... it's a bit of a crutch.

  But I can't let go of what she said about willpower, and that has more of an effect on me than anything. "Let me clarify something," I say to her. "The bet would just be smoking cigarettes. Not pot, right?"

  "Right," she says, and I find it hilarious she's not turned off by me smoking dope. Maybe the goody two-shoes isn't so goody after all.

  "Okay," I say resoundingly. "I won't smoke the rest of the trip."

  "And what do you want if you win?" she asks.

  "Nothing," I tell her. "I don't need any incentive. If I say I'll do something, I'll do it."

  She beams a smile at me. "Willpower."

  "Willpower," I agree. I fucking have it in spades, and it's the only thing that got me through months of grueling agony during my recovery. Granted, it's wavered here and there, but it has held mostly strong.

  Let's put it this way... I haven't put a bullet in my brain yet.

  Jillian gives a laugh, and it's full of delight and joy. "Oh, Christopher... I just feel it. I think this trip is going to be amazing."

  I give her another look. She's got her head tilted slightly, staring out at the rushing scenery as we book it down the interstate. There's a serene smile on her face, a relaxed and happy set to her posture. Those coke-bottle glasses are the only testament that she's not perfect.

  Without those, no one would know she's going blind. Or that her heart could stop working at any moment. Jillian wears a smile on her face almost all the time, unless she hears something sad, then she's sad too. But I've never seen her down. I've never seen her angry about her condition. In fact, she always talks about it with such earnest optimism that it's almost phony.

  In group about four weeks ago, Jillian showed up late. She apologized and said it was because she'd had a rough night. She'd had to go to the emergency room for an irregular heartbeat. Turned out, they'd done some crazy-ass shit and shocked it back into rhythm. Yet, there she was in group the next day, laughing about it and certainly downplaying it.

  When Mags had tentatively asked her if she should be at home resting, Jillian gave an impatient wave of her hand and an impish grin. "Plenty of time for resting when the heart finally gives out on me. I'm fine, so stop worrying."

  And that was a prime example of the Jillian Martel I'd gotten to know from a distance the last several weeks. She took her disease in stride, seemingly wasn't depressed about it, and always looked for the best in every single situation.

  "How do you do it?" I blurt out, and I can sense her shift in her seat to face me.

  "Do what?" she asks, and I don't bother looking at her. I can imagine her pretty face, the soft smile, and those magnified eyes as she patiently waits for me to explain.

  "Stay so cheerily optimistic all the time. It's like nothing gets you down, and honestly... I can't even understand why you're in our group."

  "Maybe I'm there because the rest of you need a dose of my cheeriness to help you along," she teases.

  I snort. "Seriously, you're going blind, and you could have a heart attack in the next thirty seconds and die. How in the fuck doesn't that get you down? How can you not be mad at God or your lot in life or destiny or fate? Why aren't you railing against all those forces that dealt you these shitty cards?"

  Jillian shifts back in her seat. With stolen peeks, I can see as she lays her head against the headrest. She closes her eyes as a serene smile settles on her mouth. At the same time, the clouds seem to peel away from each other and a bright blast of sunshine filters down to earth. I grab my sunglasses from above my visor and put them on.

  "I love when the sun comes out after a dark rain," Jillian murmurs, her eyes still closed. "How it just brightens everything."

  Something squeezes in the center of my chest, and it has to do with the reverence in her voice as she talks about the sunlight. Maybe someone with as sunny an outlook on life has a special affinity for the sun or something. I think the squeezing sensation I feel is sadness for Jillian that she'll lose that one day.

  It's the first time since I'd been injured that I felt empathy for another human being, and I have to be honest... it fucking freaks me out shakes me up a bit. My entire being is so filled up with anger and bitterness that I don't have room to worry about anyone else. Yet, in this moment, I can't deny that I wish Jillian didn't have to go through this.

  I give a slight cough to clear my throat. "I bet you're going to miss the sunshine when you finally go blind."

  She lifts her head, and I give her a short glance. Her head is tilted as if she doesn't understand my question. "I'm not following you."

  I sweep my hand out in front of me, indicating the beautiful golden scenery before us. "Aren't there goi
ng to be things you'll miss? Doesn't it bother you at all that it will be gone and you won't be able to enjoy it anymore?"

  Of course, I'm also thinking of my leg right now, but the same concept applies to Jillian and her impending blindness.

  Jillian merely gives a tinkling laugh and sits up straight in her seat, pulling her feet off the dashboard. She turns on one hip so she's facing me, and while I can't make eye contact with her, I give occasional glances at her as she talks.

  "Christopher, I'm going to tell you a hard truth I had to learn, and maybe you'll understand where I'm coming from." She takes a deep breath, blinks those heavy eyes once, and continues. "I won't miss the sun because it's not going anywhere. It will always be there for me, continue to bestow its magnificence upon me until the end of my days. I might not be able to see it, but I can feel it. I can feel the warmth that caresses my skin on a late spring day and the tingle on my skin when I start to get a sunburn in high summer. When I go blind, I'll merely open my other senses. I'll smell the flowers that the sun helps to grow, and I'll taste the vegetables from my mom's garden that thrive because of the sunlight. It's not going anywhere, only my ability to perceive it in a certain way is, and I can easily make accommodations."

  I want to disbelieve every word within that pretty speech. It's almost like she's been given a pack of lies from someone that she's regurgitating out to me, and now she wants me to drink the Kool-Aid.

  But no, that's not it. Deep down... I hear it in her voice. She truly believes that her blindness isn't a loss, but merely an opportunity to change her perception about the world.

  I realize in a moment of stunning clarity that she is truly at peace with what's happened to her, and what will happen to her, and because of that, she can focus on the positive.

  What I don't understand is how someone gets to be that way. Me, in particular--how do I let go of the nasty feelings that seem to permeate my very soul? How do I look at my stump and not get filled with self-loathing for driving over that IED in the first place? How do I let the anger go, especially when it's on a constant low simmer deep in my belly, just waiting to explode?

  I know none of these answers. Up until about thirty seconds ago, I had no clue where to find them. Clearly group counseling isn't working. Neither are the antidepressants or the self-medicating with dope and prescription pills. The most those things do are let me exist, and they probably prevent me from taking a gun to my head.

  But can I move past that?

  Can I have more?

  A small flicker of hope flares in my heart, and while my instinct is to crush it down, I let it burn a little brighter. The feeling isn't all that unpleasant, although by the hammering of my pulse, I can tell it scares the shit out of me to believe in something like happiness and peace.

  I think the answer to those questions is sitting in the passenger seat beside me. Jillian makes me want to believe in the possibility of happiness, and I vow to myself that I'm going to have her show me how it's done.

  Chapter 9

  Turns out the grave Barb wants to piss on is in a small town by the name of Vinita, Oklahoma. She's been closemouthed about whose grave it is and why she wants to pee on it, but none of us have bothered asking either. We figure she'll either tell us or she won't, and if she does, I suppose we'll listen. Regardless, it's a bucket-list item for her, so we're indulging it.

  Jillian and Connor will be empathetic, whatever it is, and I'll be jaundiced and want to begrudge her the right to feel pain when mine is overwhelming at times. At least, I think that's how I'll be.

  Actually, I'm not sure since my talk with Jillian in the car today while the others slept. I've thought a lot about her words, and her meaning is quite simple. It's nothing more than finding the good in a situation and appreciating it with such passion that it makes up for the loss of other things. It's redirecting.

  Refocusing.

  Accepting.

  Moving on.

  All the things I've not even been able to start to comprehend since I got out of the hospital. I don't understand how she's been able to do it, but I can't stop wondering.

  What makes her stronger than me?

  Maybe things would have been different if I'd had supportive parents who were by my side. Or if Maria had stayed with me, proclaiming to love me with or without both legs. Or the big question I keep asking myself from time to time, which is wouldn't it just be easier if I ended my miserable existence? I look behind me, and the days are dark. I look ahead, and the days are bleak. I struggle to see even a tiny glint of the sunshine that Jillian feels such an affinity for, and I wonder if I have the willpower... the fortitude... to seek it out.

  I think the mere fact I'm analyzing my choices has got to be a good thing, though.

  Right?

  We check into a budget motel, guys in one room and the girls in another. This was Jillian's idea, and I suspect it's because she wants to try to get to know Barb a bit. I also think it's because Barb is getting ready to face a demon tonight, and Jillian is worried.

  We eat a quick dinner at McDonald's, solely for Connor's benefit. While his parents seem cool beyond all reason, they're apparently health-food nuts. Conner's life has been mostly tofu and carrots or some shit like that. His goal on this trip is to eat as much junk food as possible, and frankly, the kid is so damn skinny he could use the extra pounds he might put on.

  The game plan for tonight is simple and as soon as the sun sets, we're heading to the cemetery. However, we're first stopping at a grocery store and loading up on three dozen eggs... one for me, one for Connor, and one for Barb. Jillian is still steadfastly refusing to actively participate, although she's going to go and watch us. Disdainfully, I'm sure. After Barb does her pissing thing, we'll seek out a good neighborhood that isn't too well lit and has plenty of side yards with no fences. That way, if we're pursued, we can run through easily. Getting caught and having to escape is half the excitement of doing this.

  It's an odd mixture of things that we're doing tonight, but I've come to learn that this trip is nothing like I thought it was going to be.

  I remember the first day in group as I was assessing everyone, some things were quite clear.

  Jillian really didn't belong there.

  Connor was clearly physically ill and dying.

  And Barb had established herself as an anti-social right off the bat. When asked to introduce herself, she merely snapped at Mags, "I'm Barb. I have a bad habit of trying to kill myself. Apparently, I suck at it. I'm here by court order, but don't expect me to say a fucking thing else."

  My eyes had dropped down to Barb's wrists where lines of scars were obvious and so I knew a blade was her choice of weapon long before she told us the story of her mother daring her to do it.

  That memory is on my mind when we get to the cemetery. Night has completely settled in, and it's quite dark. Light poles stretch periodically down the winding road that meanders through the plots, but I let Barb direct where we need to go.

  Finally, she tells me to stop, and I do, shutting off the engine and plunging us into darkness as the nearest lamppost is a good fifty yards behind us.

  Barb snags her backpack and opens the passenger door, but Jillian stops her by asking, "You want us to come with you?"

  "I don't give a fuck," Barb says before jumping out and slamming the door behind her.

  Without any hesitation, Jillian and Connor scramble out of the Suburban. With a sigh, I follow behind them. I have no clue what the fuck is fixing to happen, and I'm probably not equipped if a meltdown occurs. I've got a joint in my cargo pants, and I should probably just set my ass on a gravestone and watch everything unfurl while getting high.

  Barb pulls a flashlight out of her backpack and cuts across three rows of graves until she finds the one she's looking for. She paces down ten more plots and stops, shining her flashlight on a simple, rectangular headstone with the words James Canton and the years that spanned his life carved into it. Looks like he died when he was forty-seve
n.

  "Is this your uncle who molested you?" Jillian asks quietly as she comes to stand beside Barb. I'm stunned that Jillian would ask her that point blank. Mags was the only one who pushed Barb to share.

  To my further surprise, Barb nods as she stares at the grave. "Yeah. He died about six months ago in prison."

  "For what he did to you?" Jillian asks. Connor and I stay back a few feet, silently listening.

  Barb nods again. "After I cut myself in my parents' kitchen, I was committed to a hospital. I told my shrink the truth about what my uncle was doing to me, and he involved the police since I was a minor. Of course, my parents--well, mostly my mom since he was her brother--still refused to believe it. But I proved them wrong eventually."

  "How?" Jillian whispered.

  "Because I gave birth to his son five months later. DNA proved he was the father, so he was arrested for diddling his niece and sent to prison."

  "Jesus," Connor mutters, and I have to admit... that's some fucking wild news she's laying on us. A tiny pulse of sympathy for Barb starts to unfurl within me.

  Jillian puts her hand on Barb's shoulder. She flinches slightly but doesn't move. "He died in prison. Fucking pneumonia if you can believe it, which was far easier than he deserved."

  I didn't think she'd go for it, but Jillian was not to be daunted by an uncomfortable subject. Just like Mags would have done if she were here, Jillian gives her a gentle push. "And the baby?"

  Barb's words are completely flat, toneless... absolutely emotionless. If I had to pick a color for her words, I'd call them gray. "I gave him up for adoption. I wasn't in any shape to care for him. All I wanted to do was die."

  "That was very brave of you," Jillian says softly.

  There's a few moments of silence as Barb and Jillian stare at the headstone, while Connor and I stare at them, before Barb drops her backpack to the side of the grave and hands the flashlight to Jillian.

  "Well, let's get this over with, shall we?" Barb says as she starts to unbutton her faded jeans.

  Connor immediately turns around, but I don't. I know Barb doesn't care, and I can't see shit anyway as she's facing us and her shirt hangs low enough to cover her private parts. Jillian also watches as Barb pushes her jeans and underwear down, squats right over the top of the grave, and starts to pee. She lets out a steady stream that hisses and makes a splattering noise on the dirt and sparse grass. It goes for a long time, and when she's completely empty, she straightens and efficiently pulls her pants back up.