Gooseberry Island

by Steven Manchester

  9

  It was a gray morning consisting of a light, miserable drizzle one degree away from a snow flurry. With his heart in his throat—more from embarrassment than fear—David climbed the stairs to the massive courthouse.

  After passing through the metal detector, he waited in the marble-encased hallway on a small metal chair. It was a cold environment. David observed that it was like a reunion for many who sat around him. Frequent fliers, he presumed. One kid was draped in gold chains, with tattoos on his neck and hands. He was wearing baggy clothes and new sneakers. He must have a good job, David thought sarcastically, and became angry with himself for having to be there.

  A half hour later, his attorney arrived. The man talked like an auctioneer, obviously trying to juggle his dozens of clients while keeping their problems separate. He wore a suit, but it was wrinkled. His hair might have seen a comb earlier in the week, and the bags under his eyes betrayed the heavy weight—and loss of sleep—that he carried. “Are you ready for this?” he asked.

  “Let’s just get it done and over with,” David said and stepped into the courtroom.

  The room was wrapped in rich mahogany, from the half walls to the judge’s bench that loomed four feet off the marble-tiled floor. The wall’s chipped plaster was painted off-white, and there were hanging lights, frosted globes indicative of the turn of the century.

  If these walls could talk, David thought, and looked around. I can’t even imagine the things that have taken place in this room. It was a foreign environment, not much different from entering a war zone. And no matter what was about to transpire, David knew, This isn’tgoing to be good. His heart rate became elevated, and his mind buzzed from taking in too much oxygen.

  An older stranger wearing a black robe entered the room. “All rise,” the court officer bellowed, and everyone did—with those who looked like real criminals getting to their feet a little slower than the rest.

  Right from the start, the experience was surreal. David watched as the justice machine turned out one continuance after the next. There were sidebars, or whispered conversations followed by a laugh or two. This place isn’t about justice, David decided. It’s about making deals. Even the court officers appeared indifferent to everything that was going on. David continued to regulate his breathing.

  David’s attorney stood and announced, “It was an accident, Your Honor,” grabbing David’s undivided attention. Although it was now his turn, he felt like he was watching it happen to someone else.

  The judge looked past his glasses and down his nose at the lawyer. “A drunk driving accident, correct?”

  While the lawyer nervously shuffled his paperwork and offered an explanation that added up to, He did it, but it’ll never happen again, he said, “Your Honor, my client has already enrolled in counseling. He’s a veteran of the war in Afghanistan, and he’s displayed signs of PTSD.”

  Signs of PTSD? David thought and struggled for air.

  No one else batted an eye over the claim.

  In the end, the judge found David guilty of the DUI charge and sentenced him to three years of probation. “You’ll also be required to perform twenty-five hours of community service and pay for the damage you caused to that guard rail. Understood?”

  David nodded. “Yes, Your Honor,” he said, thinking, This is the first time my service isn’t voluntary.

  ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

  It was the morning before Thanksgiving when David parked his mother’s car in front of The Rocking Horse Pub.

  Fourteen years earlier, Jack Oliver, the compassionate owner of the local eatery, decided to do something good. He and a handful of patrons jumped into their cars and proceeded to Jerry’s Lodging, a homeless shelter, returning to the pub with fifty of the needy to share both food and companionship.

  As David stepped out of the car, he realized that although court-ordered, he was looking forward to giving the compassionate man a hand.

  Walking into the quaint, dimly lit restaurant, David could sense an atmosphere of intimacy and kind-heartedness. It was also obvious that preparations were already underway for the Thanksgiving holiday. Dozens of donated blankets were piled high in one corner, while the telephone rang off the hook.

  In between calls, Jack spotted David and waved him over. “Just give me a minute,” he said, covering the phone with his hand.

  Beaming with the smile of a saint, Jack told the person on the other end, “Chad’s Chowder House has pitched in with some food, and the folks at the Swansea Grange have been very generous, but it’s the children in this community who’ve made the real difference.” He nodded. “The kids at the high school donated hundreds of dollars through a penny drive, and the elementary school kids have collected personal hygiene items to be handed out. And others have even offered their time.” He winked at David. “We’re expecting two hundred and fifty of the needy to eat in the pub this year, but we’ll need at least a hundred volunteers to transport a thousand meals to shut-ins, the sick and the elderly.” Jack’s smile brightened even more, as if it were possible. “That’s great news,” he said. “God bless you.”

  When Jack got off the phone, David handed him the court paperwork. He read it and looked up. “Be honest with me. Are you here as a prisoner or do you want to help?”

  David grinned. “I’m happy to be here,” he said, feeling more relaxed than he’d expected.

  Jack nodded. “Good,” he said and pointed to the pile of colorful comforters. “People have been great this year, but we had to purchase almost five hundred more blankets.” He shook his head. “For some, it’ll make all the difference in the world on the cold winter nights.”

  As Jack gave David his tencent tour, he explained how his cause got started and where it now stood. “We feed more than twelve hundred at Thanksgiving and the same amount at Christmas. The final cost is around ten thousand dollars.”

  David whistled.

  “Exactly,” Jack said. “I had some real tough times back in the day, and I’m still trying to give back what I received from this community.” He sized David up. “Trust me, son, the greatest act you can ever commit is to help someone who can never pay you back.” He winked again. “You can never be too generous, but you’ll have regrets for the times you could have reached out and didn’t.”

  David nodded and went straight to work in the kitchen, never once looking up until Jack called for his attention.

  “No one sleeps here,” Jack teased. “We’ll have plenty more to do tomorrow.”

  As they walked out, David asked, “Have you ever considered spending the holiday with your family?”

  Jack smiled. “My two children and I have learned to have our dinner a little later.” He winked. “You’ll meet both of them tomorrow on the serving line.”

  ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

  Long before the sun arose again, David met Jack in front of The Rocking Horse Pub.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” Jack asked.

  David shook his head. “It’s an old Army habit I haven’t broken yet,” he fibbed. The truth was, thanks to the anxiety attacks David couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night.

  Before the front door closed, Jack was already cooking for a family that grew by the year. And from the smell of things, David thought, Jack can really cook.

  While they slaved away, a bus traveled throughout the city, picking up those who needed a lift as well as a sense of true brotherhood.

  Volunteer after volunteer arrived: attorneys, bankers and many who had once gone to eat but had since improved their lives and now offered a hand and rolled up their sleeves. “When you give,” Jack sang, “there’s no better feeling.”

  After working the serving line for two hours, Jack told David, “You’ve done enough. Go eat.”

  David filled his plate and took a seat beside a young man who was unkempt and clearly hung over. “Name’s Mark,” the blue-eyed stranger said, extending his hand. “I served in Afghanistan,” he said, as though he felt compelled to explain
his appearance, “and I’m still trying to get my shit together.”

  David’s hair stood on end, while he shook his comrade’s hand. “Where in Afghanistan?” David asked, swallowing hard and deciding not to divulge that he’d done the same.

  “Camp Eggers just outside of Kabul,” the man said, “for eleven God-awful months.” He shook his head again. “I don’t like talking about it.”

  David nodded. Camp Eggers was only a few clicks from where he’d served—another hot spot filled with mayhem and death. “What about the VA?” David asked. “Have you gotten any help there?”

  The man looked at David like he was insane. “Have you ever been to the VA?” His eyes turned even bluer. “They’re too busy rejecting my claims, saying that my problems aren’t service-connected. This way, the bastards don’t have to send me a check.”

  David nodded. I’m definitely hurting, he thought, but there are people far worse off than me. David spent the next hour talking to Mark and watching in awe as his own troubles seemed to melt away. Finally, a piece to the puzzle, he thought.

  At the end of the day, David stayed longer than mandated to help Jack clean up. He handed Jack a paper with his phone number on it. “Give me a call when you start setting up for your next shindig. I want to help.”

  “I appreciate that, but I’ll still sign off on the community service if…”

  “And I appreciate that, Jack, but I’m not talking about the court order. I’m talking about really lending you a hand.” David then explained his situation and how he ended up at The Rocking Horse Pub; it was like offering his confession to a priest.

  “We’ll all make our mistakes while we’re here, David,” Jack said, “but in the end, there’s only one question you need to ask yourself: is the world a better place for you having walked through it?”

  David nodded. “Thanks for everything, Jack,” he said and walked away thinking, Looks like I’m not done serving after all.

  ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

  Lindsey opted out of the Thursday Night Club to spend the time considering David’s recent madness. As she sat at her kitchen table, she realized it was the kind of dilemma she would have loved to share with her mother. This isn’t a conversation I can have with my dad, she thought. But a heart-to-heart with Mom would require an all-out global search,with an FBI kind of effort. She shook her head. Thanks for nothing, Mom. For the first time since she could remember, she felt alone.

  She pictured David’s face again. It wouldn’t leave her mind or her heart.

  But I’ve already gone through this insanity with my father, she thought, and I’m not sure I have it in me to do it all again.

  She thought for a long while and shook her head angrily. I don’t need it. And I don’t deserve it. I just don’t think I can walk down that path again.

  She sighed. But I can’t help it. I love him. I really love him, and I don’t think it’s even possible to go back to the life I knew before I met him. She nodded. Or to go forward without him.

  ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

  David took a seat in Brad Perry’s office, feeling like he was going to sneak out of his skin. I shouldn’t be here, he thought.

  “So tell me what’s going on,” Brad said and sat back.

  To David’s surprise, he said, “I’ve been having some real trouble with anxiety and depression since I got back from Afghanistan.” He then rattled on for a full hour about his war wounds that no one could see.

  Dr. Perry took a peek at the wall clock. “Is this the first time you’ve talked about any of this?” he asked.

  David nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “And how did it feel?”

  “Better than I thought, but…”

  “But?”

  “What if my wounds are just too deep to heal?” David asked, revealing his greatest fear.

  The doctor shook his head. “I’ve been at this game for a few years now, and I’ve never come across scar tissue that was too thick to penetrate.” He leaned forward. “David, what you’re searching for is redemption and forgiveness.”

  “Forgiveness?”

  He nodded. “That’s where you’ll find peace again.” He took a deep breath. “Imagine living within the skin of someone who can’t forgive? Even themselves? Nightmares should be so horrifying.” He stood, indicating that their session was over. “Listen, I can certainly treat you, but you’re much better off going to the VA Hospital, where they specialize in service-connected issues.”

  “Okay,” David said, “but I haven’t heard too many good things about the VA.”

  Dr. Perry extended his hand for a shake. “Give them a call. Trust me, they’re the best in the business.”

  David pulled into the giant VA Hospital compound. His breathing lost rhythm and picked up speed. His chest felt tight. Relax, he told himself. You have to do this.

  He breathed past each colorful wooden sign until he found Building 8—Mental Health. He cringed when he read it.

  An older man dressed in pajama bottoms and a tweed sports coat was walking slowly, scanning the ground in front of him. David shut off the ignition, sat back and watched. The man bent several times, picking up something. He’s picking up litter, David surmised and watched a few moments more. The man passed several wrappers and bent to pick up something smaller. David focused in, more curious now. Then it hit him. Cigarette butts, he realized, he’s gathering butts for enough tobacco to roll his own cigarette. David looked back at the building and could feel his panic build.

  David willed himself out of the car and marched toward an unknown future. As he reached the heavy door, he looked back at the bum. At one time, he was probably an Army officer with his whole life ahead of him. He shuddered at the sobering thought, took another deep breath and stepped into the red bricked asylum.

  Dr. Ken Weiss was David’s assigned therapist. “I’ve been in the business for four decades now, plus I’ve had some experience on the job.” He grinned.

  David was confused and didn’t conceal it.

  “I served two tours in ’Nam,” Dr. Weiss explained, “and one too many.”

  “So you know what I’m going through?”

  “Nope. Only you know the hell you’re going through,” he said, shrugging. “But I found my way out of hell, and I’d like to show you the way back too.”

  David’s eyes filled with tears of hope. “Do you think you can?” he asked, trying to keep his tears restrained.

  Dr. Weiss nodded. “I do.”

  “I just wish I could put all this behind me and move on. I’m so afraid”—David stopped and collected himself—“that my mind will stay stuck on some damn rooftop in Afghanistan.”

  Dr. Weiss stood. “There are two things you need to know right off the bat: The first is that it takes great courage to admit fear or that you need help. Just by being here, you’ve proven that you have the courage. And the second is that we never get what we wish for—ever.” He shrugged. “We get what we work for.” He looked into David’s eyes. “Are you prepared to put in the work, David McClain?”

  “I am, Doctor Weiss.”

  “Good,” he said, shaking David’s hand. “Then I’ll see you again on Thursday.”

  ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

  Though it took nearly three weeks to be able to share it, David finally told Dr. Weiss about Max’s drug overdose. “They say it was a suicide, but I’m not sure,” David said, still trying to defend his deceased brother.

  Dr. Weiss raised an eyebrow but never debated it. “David, do you realize that suicide has already claimed more veteran’s lives than all combat operations in both Iraq and Afghanistan combined? From what I understand, the average right now is twenty two veteran suicides a day.”

  “What? Twenty-two suicides a day?”

  “That’s right. Just because soldiers make it home doesn’t mean the war is over for them. In fact, for many, the fighting’s just begun.”

  “I hear that,” David said.

  “But the real killer is silence. Those who don’t reach
out and ask for help are the ones in real trouble.”

  David stared at him.

  The man smiled. “But you’re one of the smart ones, David.”

  “I’d hardly say that,” David said.

  “I would,” the doctor said, nodding. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

  Preferring to avoid in-patient treatment at all costs, David began seeing Dr. Weiss three times a week. And each session was more difficult than the one before it. Dr. Weiss challenged David’s negative thinking at every turn.

  “So, you’re a victim then?” Dr. Weiss asked, in his usual tough-love approach. “Someone not in control of his own life?”

  “I never said that,” David said.

  “Then what is it? What are you trying to tell me, David?”

  “An Afghan boy got beaten to death over there…and I was…”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you beat a boy to death in Afghanistan?” Dr. Weiss asked. He was taken aback and unable to mask his feelings toward it.

  “Not exactly,” David explained, allowing the ten-ton monster out of the closet for the first time. “But I am responsible for the death of that boy,” he said and began to cry.

  Dr. Weiss prodded David to detail the traumatic event—“No matter how hard it is for you to share it,” he told him.

  David explained every grisly detail, concluding, “And wouldn’t you know, our target never even showed. The mission was aborted…” He began to wail. “I could have stopped it. I could have saved him.” His breathing was so shallow, he felt like he was suffocating.

  Dr. Weiss sat back and let David mourn. Ironically, unlike most combat soldiers, David wasn’t tortured over taking a human life; he was tormented from not taking lives in order to save a teenage boy.

  The session went way over, and Dr. Weiss kept his next patient waiting. When David was composed enough to walk out of the room, Dr. Weiss said, “Two animals were responsible for the death of that boy, not you.” He placed his hand on David’s shoulder. “Your greatest crime was being a good soldier.”