Alive Day: Homefront, Book 2

by Rebecca Crowley

  Mia made a note in her pad. “It sounds like confidence in the chain of command is something we should discuss in more detail in these sessions. What else?”

  Chins ducked and boot soles shifted against the linoleum.

  “It’s cheesy, but just this once I’m going to ask that we go around in a circle so everyone can add a topic to our list. It doesn’t matter if someone’s already said the same thing, what’s important is that everyone gets a chance to make a suggestion.” She looked at a junior NCO a few chairs to Ethan’s left. “Would you start us off?”

  The soldier shifted in his seat. “I feel guilty all the time. I guess it’d be good to talk about that.”

  He looked expectantly at the man on his right, who said, “I’d like some help with the paranoia. Even though I know we’re safe here in Kansas, I can’t stop looking over my shoulder.”

  Ethan wrung his hands in his lap. Two more guys and it would be his turn. What the hell was he going to say? Touchy-feely circle time or not, he was still their commanding officer and he had to maintain his authority. He couldn’t show weakness—he had to set an example.

  Bullshit. A good leader would set his reservations aside and model the openness and honesty that would help them make use of Mia’s counseling.

  The counseling he knew he desperately needed but would never, ever ask for.

  “I keep trying to replicate that combat adrenaline rush,” Jessop explained as the round of confessions continued. “Playing first-person shooter games, watching high-octane action movies, even reading war memoirs.” He grinned. “The ones about Vietnam are the best.”

  “I have nightmares,” Hernandez blurted at Ethan’s side. “Bad ones. They’re so realistic that sometimes I’m afraid to go to sleep.”

  And then it was his turn. Ethan felt every eye in the room trained on him like laser scopes. He cleared his throat, shuffled his feet. Did he tell them about the insomnia? The gnawing guilt? The desolate conviction that he was an utter failure no matter how many accolades were poured on him in the wake of the deployment?

  Tell them the truth. Show them it’s okay to hurt.

  But he couldn’t. Because it wasn’t okay. Not for an officer—not for him.

  “I, uh—I think I’ve barged in on your session long enough, and it’s time I left you all in Miss Levin’s capable hands. And if you want to talk to me about any of this, you know, stuff, my door’s always open.”

  He managed a smile, standing up so fast the chair rocked on its feet. He caught Mia’s frown but turned away before she could speak—before anyone could stop him—and pushed through the door. He closed it after him and then staggered against the wall, his heart racing and his ears ringing, his right hand shaking so badly it bounced against his thigh.

  He shut his eyes and pressed his palms against the cool cinderblocks. That heavy iron gate he locked his emotions behind every morning had been on the brink of swinging open, exposing his ugly fear and shame and self-hatred to his troops’ unforgiving stares. He sighed in relief as his pulse stabilized. That was a close call, but he’d made it out alive.

  “Ethan?”

  He jerked off the wall as Mia slipped into the corridor, his name sounding so damn good in her gentle, inquisitive voice that he decided not to correct her. Her dark eyes were soft with compassion, and although her presence represented a huge threat to the control he’d only just managed to re-latch, it was reassuring at the same time.

  “Before you go, I wanted to thank you for dropping in to support this process. I hope you liked what you saw, and that you’re a little more comfortable with this project now.”

  He couldn’t remember when he’d been less comfortable, but not for the reasons she had in mind. “That was a bunch of guys bitching about the chain of command and reliving the worst days of our deployment. Whether it has any therapeutic value remains to be seen.”

  “That’s fair.” She hesitated. “My mandate is to work with enlisted soldiers, but if you ever wanted to talk on a one-on-one basis, I’d be happy—”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  The crackle of fireworks and the clink of glass shards hung so heavily between them it practically resonated through the building, but when Mia spoke again her tone was detached and professional.

  “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

  “I won’t.” He pivoted sharply and stalked down the corridor, not caring that he was heading in the wrong direction, indifferent to how far this was taking him from where he needed to be, despising his weak, pathetic self a little bit more with every step.

  Chapter Three

  “I hope you’re having fun in Paris. Don’t eat too much cheese!”

  Mia cringed at her own hollow-sounding joke. “Anyway, call or e-mail me when you get a chance and let me know how you’re doing. Love you both. Bye.”

  She ended the call and dropped her phone in her bag, pressing the button to unlock her rental car as she approached it. Her mom wouldn’t call back—she never did. Her parents always had an amazing time on their annual European trips, procuring hip art pieces for their Manhattan gallery, meeting artists, drinking wine, enjoying the glamorous Bohemian lifestyle that her childhood had inconveniently but briefly interrupted.

  She sighed as she stowed her factory-outlet bag on the passenger seat, started the engine on the fuel-efficient hatchback and pressed the sole of her sensibly flat shoe to the accelerator. She knew a lot of people whose adult lives diverged from their parents’, but she was the only one who distinguished herself by being so boring in comparison.

  She wound her way through Fort Preston’s medical complex to the main road, passing the barracks, the rec center, the gym, until the series of functional buildings gave way to narrower residential streets. Field officers occupied the beautiful limestone houses on the other side of the post, some of which dated back to Fort Preston’s Civil War origins, but her duplex was at the farthest end of the newest development. The houses were so repetitively similar in style that on a couple of occasions she’d driven straight past hers. She slowed as she approached her block, watching out for Ethan’s distinctively blue, Georgia-license-plated Ford Focus parked in front—then groaned as it approached from the other direction, turning right into his driveway.

  They’d successfully avoided each other since his abrupt departure from the group session a week earlier. She kept all of the windows facing the backyard closed and covered, and if he’d been out there again he was too quiet for her to notice. Now she raised her hand off the steering wheel in a polite, neighborly wave, but he didn’t see it as he pulled in.

  She flicked on her turn signal as she waited to make the left into her driveway, absurdly hoping there would be so much traffic that Ethan would be out of his car and inside by the time she cut the engine. A quick glance told her his brake lights were off and his door was swinging open. Please don’t decide to get the mail. How awkward would it be if they were both there, silently parsing through their letters, neither one wanting to—

  The sudden, sharp pain in the right side of her neck as she was thrown into the seatbelt registered before the impact or its sound. Then her brain processed a sequence of discrete facts—the resonant clunk of metal on metal, the jolt of her car being pushed into the center of the road, the too-large, too-close appearance of the back of a maroon sedan in her side window.

  The sedan lurched forward, a man with a military haircut leaped out, and as he stalked toward her she finally put the pieces together. He’d reversed out of his driveway and into the side of her car.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t stop in the middle of the road like that.”

  Stunned as much by his irrational anger as the crash, it took Mia a couple of bewildered, blinking seconds before she found the presence of mind to turn off the engine, yank up the handbrake and get out of the car. The man was waiting for her when she did, his hands on his hips, his brows knitted with hostility.

 
“Who taught you to drive? There’s kids all over this neighborhood, you could’ve killed someone.”

  As if on cue, the sedan’s passenger door opened and a woman got out, hiking a toddler up on her hip. Disbelief gave way to irritation, and Mia was drawing a breath to ask why the kid wasn’t in a car seat when he stepped forward, leaning over her and pointing a menacing finger in her face.

  “Answer me, you stupid bitch. What were you—”

  “That’s enough,” ordered a familiar voice. Before she could turn to identify him Ethan was at her side. He glared at the other driver, whose posture wilted as soon as he saw the captain’s bars on the front of Ethan’s uniform.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” the man protested, taking a step backward. “She came out of nowhere and stopped right in front of—”

  “She was waiting to turn left with her signal on and you didn’t look before backing out of your driveway. End of story. Now I’ll get her car off the road while you two exchange insurance details.” Ethan looked at the woman holding the child. “Call the MPs and tell them there’s been a collision.”

  “Yes, sir.” The driver gestured for the woman to move into the house and slunk back to his car.

  Ethan put his hand on her arm and she looked up at him, into blue eyes so clear and decisive she wondered if this could really be the same man she’d found trembling in the hallway after the group session last week.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded.

  “You sure?”

  She nodded again, then had the disturbing realization that she hadn’t said a word since the impact. Mostly to convince herself she could, she added, “I’m fine.”

  Then she started shaking.

  “I don’t think so,” he murmured, peering down at her. He put his arm across her lower back, and she leaned heavily into his side, her feet seeming to move of their own accord as he led her across the lawn to the front step on his side of the duplex. She dropped gratefully onto the stone ledge that was still full of warmth from the hot July day, and Ethan crouched before her.

  “Does anything hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you feel dizzy?”

  “Just a little shocked.”

  “Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong. Sit here and relax. I’ll handle our neighbor until the MPs arrive.”

  Mia nodded weakly and hugged her knees, wrapping her hands around her ankles as Ethan walked back to the street.

  The military police cruiser pulled up as Ethan parked the damaged car in her driveway. She half rose to greet the two men wearing police armbands, but when the other driver reappeared, already gesturing angrily as he approached the officers, she sank back down, deciding it might be better to be out of earshot while he had his say.

  Ethan joined the three men clustered around the maroon sedan, his crossed arms broadcasting his skepticism as their neighbor gesticulated to indicate her car coming to an abrupt halt. The officers turned to Ethan, who shook his head.

  She felt sheepish for letting him handle this situation for her. This was exactly the kind of high-handed behavior she bitched about with her friends, and after years living alone she prided herself on her practical self-sufficiency. She’d taught herself how to replace a fuse, clear a blocked drain, even jumpstart a car. This was basically a stationary collision and she wasn’t injured—she should be over there now, looking that man in the eye and delivering her version of events in a crisp, confident tone.

  Yet she remained on the step, barely managing to stand when Ethan led over one of the officers.

  The MP gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder when she finished making her statement. Soon the patrol car disappeared down the road, the man across the street shot her a bitter scowl as he shut his front door, and she and Ethan were alone on his step. His posture was easy and patient, and all of a sudden she remembered how warm and firm his body had been against hers, that beneath the synthetic smell of his ACUs had been the fresh scents of pine resin and juniper. She studied a crack in one of the flagstones, heat rising in her cheeks.

  “Thanks for your help with all of this. I wasn’t sure what to do. In the twelve years since I got my license I’ve never had an accident.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.” He shifted his weight. She sensed their momentary accord was nearing its end, and the thought was oddly disappointing.

  “That whole passenger door will probably have to be replaced. You shouldn’t have to get involved—I imagine the rental company will deal directly with Ray’s insurance provider. That’s our charming neighbor’s name, by the way.”

  “Should we invite him over for a barbecue?”

  Ethan shook his head disgustedly. “If he so much as looks at you sideways, I want to know about it. I didn’t like the way he spoke to his wife, and I sure as hell didn’t appreciate what he said to you. You’re a guest on this post, and I’ll happily inform his commanding officer that his conduct is unacceptable.”

  She recalled the fury twisting Ray’s features, his bared teeth, the cloying smell of chewing tobacco as he’d loomed over her. And to her profound embarrassment, she burst into tears.

  “Don’t, Mia— I’m sorry.” A note of panic edged his contrition. “I’m sure he won’t bother you. Anyway, you’ll have a replacement car soon and then he won’t even know who you are.”

  His last comment swiftly undid whatever progress she’d made in pulling herself together. “And until then? Should I be on the alert for my crazy neighbor looking to get revenge?”

  “Of course not,” he soothed, half extending his hand before jerking it back to his side. She sniffed hard, and he stared at the ground, then raised his gaze to hers and asked, “Do you want to come inside for a minute?”

  Her eyes dried as instantly as they’d brimmed, and she scrambled to keep her surprise from showing too blatantly on her face. Ethan’s frown suggested he wasn’t totally on board with his own offer, but he let it stand.

  The circumstances were far from ideal, but she doubted she’d have many more opportunities for affable conversation with her most vocal critic.

  Plus she really wanted to kiss him.

  Where did that come from? Distractedly, she nodded her agreement, wondering whether she might be concussed after all.

  Ethan’s expression was grimly determined as he unlocked the door and motioned for her to precede him inside. His house was a mirror image of hers and even more sparsely occupied. She tried to keep her curious gaping under wraps as he led her into the kitchen at the back, made all the more difficult by the piles and piles of books stacked against almost every wall they passed. She’d always thought you could learn more about a person by glancing at their bookshelf than in a half-hour interview, and she craned her neck to read as many bindings as she could in their brisk walk.

  Noam Chomsky, Ernest Hemingway, Sophocles, William Faulkner, Norman Mailer, a massive volume of Shakespeare’s compiled Henry plays, and then he was pulling out a mismatched chair and gesturing for her to sit at the kitchen table.

  He filled a kettle at the sink and clicked it on to boil. “Tea okay? I don’t really drink coffee.”

  “Perfect,” she replied absently, her gaze darting from the cardboard box overflowing with empty beer, wine and whiskey bottles on the floor to the water-stained paperback on the table.

  “Wilfred Owen,” she mused, carefully lifting the brittle cover. “I haven’t read him since college.”

  “When you were fulfilling your literature gen-ed requirement?”

  She smiled tightly as he joined her at the table bearing two steaming mugs of peppermint tea. “I keep forgetting we went to college together.”

  “It’s a weird coincidence.” He ran his thumb along the ceramic handle. “Did you have fun at Princeton?”

  Sure, up until the worst eighteen months of my life. Mia shrugged. “I was too nerdy and studious to really get into the groove, but I made some lifelong friends. How about you?”

&
nbsp; “Similar story. I was on an ROTC scholarship so I didn’t have a lot of free time, but then my second choice was West Point so by comparison the social side of things was pretty raucous.”

  “I guess you decided early on that you wanted to be in the military.”

  “I’m an air force brat. My dad’s a colonel, my mom’s dad was a chief master sergeant. I wouldn’t even know where to begin life as a civilian.” He smiled, and it warmed her more thoroughly than the tea steaming on the table. “How about you?”

  “I grew up in New York City, so I’m a different kind of brat altogether. Tiny apartment, expensive private school, summers in the Hamptons. My parents are art dealers, and I could point to a Magritte before I could say the alphabet.”

  “So while they’re looking at beautiful pictures all day, you’re listening to soldiers’ gruesome war stories. How did that happen?”

  She nodded emphatically—he’d nailed her disconnect with her parents. “I majored in psychology with the original intent of moving back to New York as a social worker. Somewhere along the line I realized that would involve more time fighting the system than making an impact, so I decided to do my PhD instead. I’d gone to a guest lecture at Princeton by this journalist who specialized in war reporting and a lot of what he said stayed with me, these ideas about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances, of being paid to carry out government-endorsed acts of violence. I became interested in mental health outcomes for serving personnel and now here I am, developing combat trauma programs for the DoD.”

  Ethan snapped his fingers in recognition. “I went to that lecture. Senior year, right? He wrote that book about Kosovo?”

  “That’s him! He’d been everywhere—Somalia, Kuwait, Chechnya. Some of those stories made me never want to leave the house.”

  He grinned. “They made me want to board the first plane to Baghdad.”

  All at once Mia was struck by the vision of an alternate present. What if this was their kitchen table, not only his? What if they shared these quiet conversations all the time because they were a couple?