The Hard Truth About Sunshine

by Sawyer Bennett

  It was also around this time that I made a quick trip home to Cascade as a high school buddy was getting married. At the reception, I reconnected with Maria. She had been waitressing since graduation and was still living with her parents. We got very, very drunk at the reception. One thing led to another in the backseat of my car. To my surprise, at age twenty, she still had her virginity intact. Being drunk and horny, I popped her cherry.

  Of course, it was immediate love for both of us. Maria left Cascade and moved to North Carolina to be with me. We got a tiny apartment just off base and played house together. I thought it was the most awesome thing in the world.

  I was a marine with a hot girlfriend all my buddies lusted after.

  I came home every night to a great meal and even better sex after.

  Maria attended beauty school and got her license. I re-upped my enlistment and signed on for another three years. All was good and I was seriously considering popping the question to her. I didn't have a dime to my name because we were young, stupid, and didn't save anything. I would have to finance a tiny engagement ring for probably ten years, but I was convinced it was the right time. She was the one for me--I was sure of it.

  But then, orders came in that my unit was being deployed to Afghanistan. It was my second tour, and I was prepared for it. It was my job, nothing more and nothing less.

  I hesitated about proposing, unsure if I should hold off until I got back. There were pros and cons to both, but I was a cheap son of a bitch and ultimately decided not to spend the money on a ring at that time. I did, however, commit myself to proposing as soon as I returned.

  And, yeah... things didn't go quite as I planned.

  During my time back in the States, after the initial round of surgeries to try to piece my leg back together again, things were hazy for a while. I was on such high levels of pain medication, so drugged out of my mind, I probably wouldn't have recognized Maria if she had come to visit those first few weeks.

  Not that it mattered because she didn't come to visit me.

  At all.

  She called... I had a vague recollection of that. Sometimes two or three times a day. I slurred most of my words, and she'd cry sometimes, but she always told me she loved me. I loved her back, but I wasn't sure if I ever told her that.

  I didn't start to get fully lucid until they took my leg. My tibia and fibula were shattered and my femur broken in two places, held together by the external fixator, which was nothing more than a huge metal cage around my entire leg with pins attached to the outer edges and drilled down into my bones to hold them together. Portions of my flesh and muscle had been sheared off by jagged steel. My wounds oozed from infection, and a wound VAC constantly ran trying to suck the poison from my body. The pain of just sitting still was horrendous. When physical therapy moved me into my cardiac chair each day, trying to make sense of the mess of tangled wires and tubes coming out of me, I would sometimes scream in agony and jab desperately at my pain button for some measure of relief. Eventually, they had to give me an epidural just to give me the ability to get some rest during those early days.

  If anyone had felt just a mere instant of what I was feeling, they would have been begging just like I had for them to cut my leg off.

  I didn't have to beg overly hard though, because the doctors knew what I did. There was no saving it. So, the leg came off and with that the pain drastically lessened. When the pain lessened, they cut back on my pain meds. Once my stump was healed, I was immediately fit for a prosthesis. My amputation was above the knee. After several different sockets that had to be continually recast as my swelling decreased, I was finally fit for a C-Leg, which was just about as close to a bionic leg as you could get. Then came months of therapy... physical and occupational.

  It was more grueling than anything I had ever been through before. The therapists at Walter Reed were tough sons of bitches. They didn't ever let up on me, constantly driving me to continually improve, get stronger, and succeed on my prosthesis. The C-Leg was some high-speed tech shit with sensors in the foot and ankle area that transmit data about my gait to a hydraulic system in the knee, which then helped to swing my leg forward. I had to learn to walk again--forward, backward, sideways, up steps, across rough terrains, and over curbs. At every therapy session, I was drenched in sweat and my stump would throb from the exertion. It was some amazing shit. I was happy because I wasn't suffering the type of pain I was in before, but I was still an amputee.

  Physically, I was better after the amputation, but I was not happy with my situation. Most thought I should revel in joy that I was alive, but I was too bitter and angry to care.

  It seemed that I had fallen into one big cesspool of shit. My days became darker and darker. I was faced with being a cripple for the rest of my life. My military career was down the drain. I had nightmares about the explosion, reliving the pain and memories of the blood and bits of bone that were splattered everywhere inside the remnants of the vehicle. Maria's calls started dwindling until I was lucky if she called once a week. Most humiliating of all was the constant stream of visitors who came through Walter Reed to thank the wounded for their service to their country. Congressman, senators, movie stars, professional athletes, comedians. Every day, there was someone there who wanted to take my hand, give it a hearty shake, and expected me to smile back in gratitude for their compliments. Our therapy room was actually four glass walls with a raised walkway that bordered one side. These visiting dignitaries would come through on a tour and watch all of us poor bastards as we stumbled around on our prosthetics, their faces pressed up against the glass with morbid interest. It was a great way to raise donations.

  It had been toward the end of my rehab when I invented my patented "fuck off" response and tried it out on an unsuspecting country music star. She'd been all of eighteen years old, bright eyed and idealistic. I wiped that off her face in a nanosecond. My therapist yelled at me, but I told her to "fuck off" too. I'd actually gotten a measure of joy from the hurt look on that girl's face. I wanted her to hurt as badly as I was hurting, but I knew that wasn't going to happen so I'd have to be satisfied with what I got.

  Probably the worst thing to happen to me throughout it all was the lack of familial support those first critical months. Outside of that brief visit from my parents, which sent them running for the hills of West Virginia once they got a look at their mess of a son, there was no one else from my family that had an interest in supporting me through my recovery. This was true despite the fact the government actually had a program where they would pay a family member or close support friend to stay with me as a nonmedical attendant through my rehab, believing that emotional support was as important as the physical when it came to recovery. This person would receive a salary. In return, they'd provide me with companionship, get me to and from appointments, help with meals, manage medications, and assist with my activities of daily living. However, no one in my family had been interested, because that would mean walking away from the mines where they seemed to be tied down with balls and chains around their ankles. Hell, even my unemployed cousin, Lem, didn't jump when offered a paying job, preferring to sit in his sardine-can trailer and eat canned hot sausages while collecting food stamps. Instead, I had nurses who did everything for me with looks of pity on their faces that no one cared enough about me to come.

  My only hope had been Maria, but now she was telling me she was in love with someone else?

  "And this has nothing to do with the fact that I'm not a full man, right?" I asked bitterly, hating myself as the words poured out of me--making me feel weak and pathetic. I thought it convenient she decided to lay this on me right after my leg came off. Maybe she'd been holding out hope I'd return home with it.

  "It has nothing to do with your injuries," she hissed at me. She sounded so vehement I almost believed her. "It's just that it's been almost two and a half years since I've seen you--"

  "You could have come here, Maria." I rolled right over her. "It's not eve
n a four-hour drive. You could have visited me. Fuck, you could have moved here and we could have been together."

  "No," she exclaimed indignantly. "You couldn't just expect me to leave my family, my job--"

  "You did when you moved to North Carolina with me," I reminded her.

  "But D.C. isn't the same. It's so big. The crime rate... and... and I'd be stuck..." She trailed off, realizing her bumbling faux pas.

  "You'd be stuck caring for me," I finished for her quietly.

  Another long pause but there was no denial. She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Christopher. I didn't want to hurt you."

  "I'm not hurt," I murmured into the phone.

  Because the fight had run out of me. Suddenly, I felt as weak as a baby--no energy left to even have a strong emotion. I leaned back against the pillows in my hospital bed, my right hand coming down to let my three stiff and scarred fingers scratch absently around the edge of my prosthetic socket. I had essentially been abandoned. The government was kicking me out of the military after rehab. None of my family cared I'd been in a hospital for months. The one person I'd thought loved me had been fucking around behind my back.

  I didn't say anything else to Maria. I simply pressed the disconnect button and laid my phone down. As I tried to calculate when I was due for my next round of pain meds and for the first time in my life, I seriously contemplated suicide.

  Chapter 17

  Present day...

  I emerge from my tent into the early morning light, stand to my full height, and stretch. My alarm had just gone off, and I've never been one to repetitively hit the snooze button. When it was time to get up, it was time to get up. And, as always... I want to get an early start. I guess that's left over from my military days.

  While I rotate my right leg to make sure my prosthesis has a good seal, my hand strays down with a thought to scratching my balls, but it freezes before it makes it past my waist.

  Jillian's already up and sitting at the picnic table with her back to me. She's obviously been up a while as her long hair is damp. She also has a Styrofoam cup of what I'm betting is coffee on the table.

  I take a few steps toward her. She raises her head, turning to look at me. Those nerdy-as-hell glasses are on her face, blue eyes as large as a bug's. "Good morning."

  "You're up early," I note. Nodding down to her coffee, I ask, "Where'd you get that?"

  Jillian nods toward the community building near the front of the small campground. "They have complimentary coffee in there."

  I don't bother to look in that direction, noticing she's reading a book. A big book with glossy, colorful pages.

  "I'm going to go take a pi--" I stop mid-sentence and change my direction. "Use the bathroom... you want some more coffee when I come back?"

  "Sure," she says brightly. "Cream and sugar."

  "How much sugar?"

  "Enough to make it sweet."

  I roll my eyes and turn away from her. After I make short work of taking a long piss, I wash my hands. Looking into the mirror above the sink, I'm slightly startled to see a man looking back at me. One I don't recognize. The brown hair I wear a little too long all over and my brown eyes are the same as always. I didn't shave yesterday, so my stubble is dark. The scar on my chin looks the same, standing out pale against the whiskers.

  But the expression on my face is different. It's loose and relaxed. Normally, spiteful eyes stare back at me, condemning me for being so stupid as to drive over an IED, for believing in love, and for even continuing to live in the first place.

  Shaking my head, I try not to think of the ways I might have changed over the past few weeks, or even the past few days. Instead, I seek out and find the coffee, making Jillian another cup with hopefully enough sugar. I pour a black cup for me and head back to the camp.

  No sign of Connor and Barb, and yet, I don't automatically think to rouse them so we can get on the road. Instead, I see Jillian sitting alone, looking beautifully untouchable as always, and I decide to let the others sleep in a little bit.

  Setting her coffee down, I boldly take the seat next to her. I'm still far enough away that we aren't touching.

  "Thanks," she says as she picks up her other cup of coffee and drains the remains.

  "No problem," I tell her before taking a small sip of my own. It's fucking awful, but I swallow it down, needing the caffeine. "What are you reading?"

  Jillian turns her head and smiles. "It's an art book."

  My eyes stray down and take in a colorful painting on each page with some text below, presumably describing the art piece. I look back at Jillian with raised eyebrows.

  "I was an art history major in college," she says simply, and my body sort of flinches with the realization that I didn't know she'd gone to college. In fact, I don't know much about her personally at all as she's always the one commiserating in group rather than complaining.

  "Where did you go to school?"

  "University of North Carolina," she says with a shrug. "Kind of a wasteful degree for someone going blind, but I still love to look at art while I can."

  A wave of sadness washes through me. What surprises me is that it's not for me. It's for Jillian, and that's something to take note of. I haven't felt true sympathy for anyone in a long time, and it kind of freaks me out a bit because it feels so foreign.

  In fact, it really doesn't feel good at all.

  To distance myself from trying to analyze my emotions, I lean over and look at the painting on the right-hand page. It's of a hayfield being hand harvested by what I assume are some type of itinerant workers, but I can't be sure. The overall look is golden as it's mostly various shades of yellow caused by the sun glinting down on the field. The workers are bent over, and I can almost feel the strain in their backs as they cut the hay by hand with sickles.

  "That's depressing," I find myself saying irritably. I've never in my life looked at a piece of art and analyzed it, but that's actually the first word that comes to mind. I see men with their backs breaking from toil, and that just sucks.

  "I find it invigorating... hopeful," Jillian counters in her sweet, rose-colored voice. "See the way the light touches so many aspects in the painting? Look here at this man... it's along his forehead to illustrate the sheen of sweat from working in the fields. The way the back of this person's neck is red from a sunburn. Or even here, how some of the petals on the flowers are almost spotlighted from the sun. It reminds us that nothing can hide from it."

  Her words make me feel weird. They're classic Jillian, wanting to see the best in everything. I've fallen prey to that lately, but it's not my inherent being. It annoys me that I'm fascinated by this woman who only looks at things through a cheery filter. It annoys me because it makes me feel bad for feeling bad about myself. This in turn makes me defensive... a bit combative.

  With an exaggerated sigh, I tell her, "They're indentured servants, stuck in a field working for peanuts. Do you think they recognize all that beauty? No, they're concentrating on the hollow hunger in their bellies and the pains in their lower back from bending all day to harvest. You romanticize things, sunshine. Time to face reality."

  Yes, please face reality and stop making me hope. Face it so I know the straws you're making me want to grasp at are really nothing but pipe dreams.

  Jillian doesn't react to me calling her sunshine, but she makes those muscles around her eyes tighten into a narrowed gaze as she continues. "Sure, if you concentrate on the story you seem to think is being told--that's your prerogative, of course. But if you look past that to the setting... to the vibrancy of color, the expressions on their faces, then maybe you'll think they're not servants at all. Maybe this is their land and they take great pride in a successful harvest that will bring sustenance to their family."

  My eyes drop to the book again. I study the painting for a moment, tilting my head as I try to see it from her perspective.

  And I can't.

  I can't because I don't want to.

  I want to be abl
e to see things true to my nature, not how others want me to see.

  I don't want the dangers that Jillian presents to me, because my carefully ordered world will be thrown into chaos if I give into unfettered belief that the world is full of happiness and joy, just waiting for me to tap into it and suck it out like juice from a ripe piece of fruit.

  "Sorry, blondie," I finally drawl out, and her spine automatically stiffens from my tone. She knows I'm not going to be kind, and she braces. "But it's not just your eyes that are fucked up. I don't for one minute buy into this rainbows and sunshine you have seemingly shooting out your ass. I think it's a wasted attempt for you to feel a little better about your own fucked-up situation, but trust me when I say... you're not doing yourself any favors by ignoring reality. And honestly... your continual sunny disposition is fucking grating on my nerves."

  The minute the words are out, I feel bad about freeing them. But I can't take them back, because I don't even know how to apologize for being an asshole really. So I just stare at her, mentally preparing for her comeback.

  Jillian's face is expressionless for a moment, but then she leans toward me so she can look me directly in the eye. Up close and magnified through those glasses, the color of her eyes reminds me of tropical waters. She swings her leg under the table and taps her foot against my prosthetic leg.

  "So typical, Ahab," she says softly, and I honestly can't tell if she's teasing me, mocking me, or just showing me she doesn't care that I'm missing a leg. "I really can't imagine what you've been through, and that's mainly your fault since you won't talk about it, but I bet it was horrific. I'm even betting you didn't have a good support system when you were injured and had to cope on your own. It's why you don't trust us, and that's understandable. I even get the need you have to make others feel bad... totally understandable."