In that moment I thought of my hug. I’d shed tears and hugged tight, but Taylor had felt rigid in my arms. His chest was as hard as a rock, but more, I hadn’t felt any reciprocal emotion. I narrowed my eyes and watched as he spoke to Ashley. He stood tall, arms crossed before his chest. Ashley was like a fluttering bird, touching his arm, laughing a bit too much. Was he overtired? In pain? He appeared strong and healthy.
But a mother knew. . . . Something was different about him. I couldn’t put my finger on it. A withdrawal. A distance. A mother knew. . . . Taylor hadn’t really come home.
Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You are changed. When it was made, you were another man.
—Belle, A Christmas Carol
Chapter 6
Taylor
It was the same drive from Charleston to McClellanville I’d driven countless times before. Over the Ravenel Bridge, following Highway 17 north up the coast. Christmas lights glowed in the dim light of dusk. All I could think about was getting back home so I could go to my room, shut the door, and pull myself together.
Ashley drove me in her Jetta. She’d recently purchased the car—her first new one, she told me, and she proudly pointed out all of its features. Mardi Gras beads hung from the rearview mirror, and Coldplay blared from the speakers, a welcome change from carols. During the nervous, break-the-ice minutes of our first time alone together in over a year, Ashley rattled on and on nonstop, updating me about friends we used to know, places where we used to hang out, and how Charleston had grown up from the quiet town we loved to a chic metropolitan city. I’m not partial to change and was sad to hear that. At length Ashley ventured to ask me about my experiences in the war, but I’d grown adept at cutting off this line of inquiry with short, noncommittal replies.
We passed through Mount Pleasant, then Awendaw, to the sign that instructs you to turn right to McClellanville. As we drove along the darkened, winding road toward the coast, Ashley fell into a tense, exhausted silence.
I welcomed the silence. I was fighting a splitting migraine brought on by the stress of being confined in a small space on the plane and the emotions of the family reunion. Not to mention seeing Ashley Cooper again. For the past fifty-five minutes as I listened to her chatter on, all I could think was, What are you doing here?
“You don’t seem very happy to see me,” Ashley said accusingly, breaking the silence. She swung her head to look at me, her face more a pout than a scowl. The pout was her signature move.
I studied her face in the pearlescent light of streetlamps to gauge her meaning. Ashley was a true southern beauty, peachy skinned with finely arched brows and full lips. Kissable lips, the guys called them, and for years I’d made sure I was the only man to kiss them.
“It was nice of you to come meet my plane.”
“Nice of me?” Her voice rose. Her fingers tapped the wheel in agitation. “Of course I would come to meet you. You’re my boyfriend!”
She sounded hurt, but it wasn’t my intention to cause her pain. “I didn’t realize I was still your boyfriend.”
“Why would you think that?”
I shook my head with a short laugh of disbelief. “Maybe because of the Dear John letter you sent me in Afghanistan.”
“I never sent you a Dear John letter!” She glared at me again and met my gaze. After a moment’s impasse her expression changed to guilt. She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh. That. That wasn’t a Dear John letter. I was simply writing to tell you that since you were gone for such a long time, I thought we should, you know”—she lifted her shoulders—“start dating other people.”
“In my book that’s breaking up.”
Ashley looked at me again, brows furrowed, then abruptly pulled to the side of the road. We were only a block from the house, but she parked at a haphazard angle and, with an angry twist of the wrist, turned off the engine.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose with my fingers, then my temples, trying to ease the throbbing before the confrontation. Were we really going to do this now?
She took a deep breath, then turned in her seat to face me, all her previous joviality gone.
“Then you should have told me that,” she cried. “See? That’s what’s so frustrating with you. You don’t tell me what you’re thinking. I’m not a mind reader. If you didn’t want me dating anyone else, it would’ve been nice if you’d told me that.”
“Look, you wanted to date other men. I got that.”
“Yes . . . No . . .” She shook her head and put her face in her palms. “I don’t know.”
Tears came then and it pained me to see them. Literally. My head throbbed. “Don’t cry.”
She dropped her hands. The blue of her eyes shone like sparkling lakes, and for a moment I was transported back to the time when those eyes lost in tears had me under her spell. There was a time I would’ve done anything for her.
I wished I could still feel that passion.
“I was lonely!” she cried. “You were always away.”
“I was fighting a war.”
“I know,” she said, mollified. “But I was here. Waiting. Always waiting.” Her eyes flashed. “You didn’t give me anything to wait for.”
I closed my eyes and ground out, “What does that mean?”
“When you graduated from the Citadel, I thought, ‘Now he’ll propose. We’ll get married as we’d planned.’ I waited . . . but you didn’t. You went right off to the Marines, and then I only saw you on occasion. I’ll be honest. I went out with a few guys then. Just dinner. Drinks.”
My eyes flashed open.
“Nothing happened,” she hurried to add. Then she lifted her chin. “It could have, but I stayed true. Then before you got deployed, I thought, ‘Now he’ll propose. He’ll want me to have something to hold on to. A commitment. A promise. Something! He won’t leave me with nothing to hope for.’ ” She shook her head and said with anger, “But you didn’t! Once again you left me behind.” She sniffed and brusquely wiped the tears from her face. “So I wrote you that letter. I’ll have you know, Taylor McClellan, that a lot of people consider me a catch. I’ve waited long enough. I’m past my prime! I have to take care of myself, too. So, yes, I’ve been dating other men.”
The challenge in her eyes shifted to defeat. Her lips shook. “But here’s the problem. You’re still stuck in my heart. What am I supposed to do, Taylor? Tell me. Help me. What am I supposed to do?”
This time Ashley dissolved into tears and slumped against my chest. My heart ached for her but still I stiffened, wanting to pull back. Sympathy gave me the strength to put my arm around her and gently pat her shoulder as she clutched my shirt and sobbed. The feel of her rounded shoulders, the smell of her hair—memories flickered. Yet there were subtle differences. Her hair was shorter now, styled more maturely. Her life had changed, as mine had. Ashley had a new job, a new car, new interests. New friends. She didn’t fit in my arms the same way anymore.
I had a hard time with people touching me because of my PTSD. Even hugging my parents at the airport was a concentrated effort, but I wanted to hug them. To feel them close. Perhaps it was because I didn’t want to hug Ashley that I realized I didn’t love her.
I looked out the windshield at the streetlight ahead. White fairy lights entwined the pole with pine to join a bright red bow at the lamp. Cars and trucks lined both sides of the street. Someone was having a party.
Ashley’s words were true. I’d treated her badly and deserved her anger. “I never meant to hurt you. I’ve always loved you. And in some way, I always will.” I pulled back her shoulders and gave her a moment to lift her face to meet my gaze. Hope was shining in her eyes and I could see that she expected me to propose now. The timing was right. I was home again. Honorably discharged. Ready to settle down. This was what she’d come for.
I knew what I had to do.
“But I’m not the
same man you once loved. I’m not the man who left home. I’m damaged goods.”
“No, don’t say that,” she rushed to say. “You just need time. I could help you.”
I shook my head with finality. My voice was low and firm. “You can’t. No one can. I have to do this alone.”
“I’ve waited before. I’m good at that.” She ventured a quick smile. “You’ll get better, I know you will. You’re one of the lucky ones. You survived. You’re home now.”
I felt a flare of anger at hearing myself called a lucky one. The question of why I survived and my buddies didn’t haunted me.
“Did I survive?” I said with a bitter laugh. My voice turned cold. “The jury’s out on that. Listen, Ashley, what I’m trying to tell you is—go ahead and leave me. No blame. I want you to.”
I saw the shock on her pretty face. And the hurt. “You don’t mean that,” she whispered.
“I do. And . . . ,” I said gently, “it’s what you really want.” I offered a half smile, reasoning with her, reassuring her. “That was a Dear John letter. And it’s okay. I deserved it. You’re here now to say good-bye. I only hope we can part as friends.”
Ashley stared back at me and I could see that she was weighing my words, trying to believe them. I’d given her a graceful out. I let her break up with me. She could save face.
“Friends . . . ,” she said softly, tasting the words in her mouth. She disentangled herself from my arms and smoothed out her coat with brusque movements, almost as though she were brushing away any remnants of my touch. She swallowed, then looked at me, her eyes flashing. “I don’t know if I can be your friend, Taylor. Or want to. Not after . . .” Her lips trembled and she bit them to stop the break in her voice. But she rallied. I was proud of her. “If this is good-bye, I want a clean break. I don’t want to see you again.”
That hurt, and it surprised me. I manned up and let her go. “Understood.”
Ashley’s eyes widened slightly at the finality. Then she sniffed and withdrew to sit behind the wheel again. She put her hands on the wheel and, after exhaling a long breath, said, “We should go.” She started the engine and put the car in gear.
“Ashley . . .”
She turned to look at me again. This time her eyes were cold. Vacant. It felt that it had been much longer than a year since I’d last seen her. More like I’d never known her.
“You’ll understand if I don’t join the party,” she said tersely, looking out the window. Her face was the picture of hurt mixed with resolve.
I swung my head around, filled with dread. “The party?”
She met my gaze with a grimace. “Oh.” Then, with only faint remorse, she added, “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
I groaned and put my throbbing head in my palms. I was torn. I couldn’t drive off with Ashley, that bridge was burned. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure if I could endure the convivial chatting and cheers of a welcome-home party.
“How many?”
“Fifty of your nearest and dearest. The old gang, neighbors, friends of your parents’. Everyone’s excited to welcome you home.” She averted her gaze out the window.
I stared down the street at the cars lining the road and thought of chatting and smiling with all those people. I’d rather face down an army of insurgents.
“I’ll get out here,” I told her, sparing us both the short drive in an awkward silence. Ashley deserved the chance for a quick exit.
“Suit yourself.”
I stood in the cold, darkened street and watched Ashley pull away. As the red rear lights disappeared from view, I felt as though a huge chunk of my past drove off with her. Maybe the best part of my life. I felt numb inside. I looked over my shoulder to check out the area, then, tucking my hands into my pockets, I turned and made my way down the street.
I stopped at the curb of my parents’ house, where shadows of men and women filled the windows. The sounds of laughter and carols flowed from inside, filling me with anxiety. My heart started pounding like a locomotive in my chest, and I fought the urge to keep on walking. I thought of my mother and all the work she must’ve done to arrange this party, and stayed.
I was trained to do my duty regardless of personal pain. I bent my head, clenched my hands in my pockets, and made my way along the crooked walkway toward the white cottage with the wide covered porch, up the wood stairs festooned with holiday swag, to the front door. Squaring my shoulders, I raised my fist to knock. I entered my childhood home.
“He’s here!”
When I stepped into the house, a cry of “Welcome home!” arose that could rival any Marine battalion’s Oo-rah! I froze as I was barraged by a throng of well-wishers. Women in clouds of perfume hugged and kissed me; men heartily slapped my back and shook my hand, boisterously asking why I wasn’t in uniform, wanting to see my chest candy. Standing close by, my father obliged them, proudly reciting my list of medals and commendations. I wanted him to stop embarrassing me. A hero? Hardly. I felt undeserving of those medals and racked with guilt that I didn’t bring every man under my command home safely this Christmas.
I was led to a table groaning under the weight of lowcountry food. It being McClellanville, there was no shortage of freshly harvested shrimp. Mama had made her world-class pickled shrimp in red sauce, knowing it was my favorite and a Christmas staple in our house. There was the classic Frogmore Stew with shrimp, corn, and spicy andouille sausage, she-crab soup, Hoppin’ John black beans and rice for good luck that was usually served at the New Year, the requisite barbecue, sausage balls and assorted deviled eggs, boiled peanuts and pimento-cheese sandwiches. Someone handed me a huge plate overflowing with food; another pressed a beer into my hand. I checked out my surroundings, looking to the left and the right, found an empty chair, set down the plate, and drank the beer thirstily.
I hadn’t been in my home for over two years. In the old house people stood shoulder to shoulder, laughing, drinking. The house was decorated for the holidays; my mother’s touch was in every nook and cranny. Yet I felt far away from the home of my youth, separated from everyone, even loved ones, by a thin, gauzy veil.
And I felt trapped. My face was suffused with heat, kindled not by the warm room but growing panic. I felt the rooms closing in on me and a sudden urge to flee.
“Hey, buddy, how ’bout a beer?”
Startled, I looked up to see my old high school buddies—Jack, Teddy, Wes, Woody. I broke into a wide grin and rose to clasp hands and receive hearty hugs.
“Let’s get out of here,” Woody said, and jerked his head in the direction of the back door.
We escaped the party and the incessant carols and moved to the backyard, stepping into the blast of cold air. I gulped it down, welcoming the bracing chill after the stifling crowd. I could feel the sweat chilling my brow and felt my breathing ease. In the distance the trees lurked ominously and I barely made out Jeremy Creek racing silently with the tide. Together we collected wood, gathered branches and lit a bonfire. We stood around it, watching the flames flicker in the night, shooting the breeze as we always had while chugging down beer after beer. My headache began to ease with the alcohol and the fresh air. And I felt more comfortable now in the shadows.
But in time, despite the light of the fire, I felt the inner darkness creep over me again, advancing with the pounding of my heart. I again felt isolated, the odd man out. I didn’t belong in this party of revelers. Step by step I moved back several paces from the fire into the shadows. From a distance I drank beer and let my gaze scan the faces of men who were at one time my best friends, men I’d shared so much of my life with. They rocked on their heels, laughing and sharing memories of our antics in high school. We’d done everything together back then. It seemed more than a lifetime ago. Even though we went to different colleges, we’d hung out at home during the holidays and summers, bound by a brotherhood that had begun in diapers. But after college graduation only I had joined the service. Only I went to war, while they continued their lives in Sout
h Carolina. Not that one choice was better than the other. Just different. My gaze traveled from face to face and I wondered if their experiences on their individual paths made them, too, think from time to time that they were different. Hadn’t we all changed from the carefree youths we once were?
I took a long sip of my beer, downing it to the dregs. Lowering my hand, I stared at the empty bottle and realized that no amount of beer would change that I was now different from these boys. I tasted bitterness in my throat and threw the empty bottle far into the darkness. It landed with the satisfying sound of glass shattering.
Who was I kidding? I was an old man compared to my friends. I’d seen things, done things, that they—that no one at home—could understand. The chasm between those who’d witnessed the atrocities of war, who had stared death in the face and survived, and those who had not was as dark and murky as the ocean.
I stepped closer to the fire, feeling its heat. Listening to the laughter of these men who were alive to enjoy this Christmas, I felt alone with my thoughts and my guilt for the men who wouldn’t be returning home to their families this Christmas. As the sparks from the fire swirled up to mingle with the stars in the vast sky, I said a quick prayer to whichever God was listening for the souls of those brothers I’d left behind. And that I’d find the strength and courage to find my way through the black mist I was lost in back home.
Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.
—A Christmas Carol
Chapter 7
Taylor
The party was winding down when I made my escape to my room. I closed the door, leaning against it with my head bent and panting like a pugilist who’d made it through twelve rounds. I didn’t turn the lights on. Rather, when I could move, I found my way through the darkness of my childhood room to the bed and fell back against the mattress. It was as lumpy as ever and I was grateful for it. I lay with one leg hanging over the side of the bed and my arm over my eyes, trying to slow my breathing and stop the roller coaster of my emotions. It took all I had to hang on. I couldn’t speak to one more person. Hear not one more thank you. Not one more good-bye.
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