Leaving Yesterday

by Zoe Dawson

  “Anzu?”

  A funny feeling unfolded in her stomach when she saw how solemnly he was watching her. He stared at her a moment, then he glanced down as if he saw something that disturbed him. He rubbed the back of his neck and she realized he was just as nervous as she was.

  “Harley,” she said, and this time she couldn’t mask the emotion in her voice, didn’t want to.

  His head came up and his face contorted a little as he blinked furiously. She couldn’t stand still a moment longer. She rushed across the open space between them as Trace stepped away. Anzu threw her arms around his neck and held him, clasping him gently but firmly, aware of his injuries. But he brought her hard against him, his arms encircling her waist, holding her just as tightly.

  “Ah, God, Anzu. It’s so good to see you. It almost feels like a dream.”

  “I know.” She nodded against his neck, still unable to let him go. “I missed you so much.”

  “When did you get so tall?” he said, his voice thick, finally letting her go as Trace helped him to the counter and a stool. He slid on, his eyes now alight, glinting with pleasure. She felt almost light-headed that he was safe, he was home, he had survived.

  “Anzu, not too long,” Trace said.

  “Oh, leave her alone.” Harley growled. “I’ll let her know when I get tired, you mother hen.”

  Trace laughed and nodded. “All right, Harley.” He turned and left the kitchen, but not before he gave Anzu a grateful look.

  “Are you hungry? A neighbor brought stew and pie. Would you like some?”

  “Yes. I’d love some. Is it apple?”

  “Yep.” She fixed him a bowl of stew and cut a good-sized piece of pie and set it on a plate, adding a spoon and fork from the silverware drawer. “I was so jealous my mom got to see you and I had to wait.”

  She set the bowl and plate in front of him and handed him the spoon. “You were always impatient,” he said with a slight smile.

  “Ha! When?”

  His smile widened. “Always, especially when I was trying to show you something new, either on the baseball field or under the hood of a car.” He dug into the stew.

  “I am a genius with engines.” She smirked.

  He finished chewing and said, “I can’t argue with that. You also had a wicked fastball, picked it up in no time. Do you still play softball?”

  “No,” she said. The thought of joining a group of girls made her palms sweat.

  “So, how have things been going?”

  “Pretty much the same. I’m still finding it hard to fit in, and people pretty much leave me alone.”

  “Aw, Anzu, it doesn’t have to be like that.”

  She glanced at him, then down to her own food, making a small defensive gesture with her hand. “I guess I know that, but I feel it’s really difficult to allow anyone to see the real me…well, except for you.”

  Harley’s response was tempered with a soft tone. “Trust is hard when you’ve got a past like yours. But, to move forward, you’ll need to try to get beyond it.”

  “You always say things like that. Did your buddies in the marines put up with that stuff?”

  The smile faded from his face and he swallowed, the hand holding his fork fisting. There was something in his eyes that revealed a depth of disquiet that was almost haunting, terrifying even. And she realized that he had seen awful things, done awful things. Had it broken him? She couldn’t believe it because he was one of the strongest people she’d ever met.

  Shit, she’d put her foot in her mouth in the first ten minutes. “I’m sorry,” she blurted.

  He reached out and brushed back her tousled hair, his touch light. “It’s okay. I’m a work in progress. I sometimes have to concentrate to even breathe.”

  Her heart stuttered at the sound of his subdued voice. “I’m sure it was terribly bad for you.”

  “I can’t talk about it with you.” He looked away, a heavily retrospective look settled on his face. “Not with you,” he said, an underlying weariness in his voice as he spoke. “Too young, too innocent.”

  He shifted, his face winced in pain and his hand went to his side. For a moment, he was lost to the pain. “You’ll have to trust me on that, Anzu.”

  “I’m not a kid anymore, Harley, but if you don’t want to talk about it…just know that I’m always willing to listen.”

  He nodded, but it was a formality. He wasn’t going to have her listen to anything that had to do with what had happened to him or the war. She could tell by the perceptible tightening of his mouth and the way his voice sounded. There were just some things that were off-limits because of her damn age. “The pie is really good, huh?”

  It sounded like a dismissal and she wasn’t quite ready to leave. She walked back to the counter and bent down to reach for the plastic wrap. Ripping off a piece, she covered up the remaining pie. With three grown men in the house, it wouldn’t last long. Opening the refrigerator door, she set the dish inside. As it closed, she glanced at Harley. He was still cupping his side, but now he was hunched over. He took another bite of the pie, and she went to the sink and dumped her uneaten portion down the drain. Wishing with everything that was inside her she could make it better for him, ease his pain. Do something.

  She turned on the faucet and a god-awful sound split the quiet air. It startled her enough that she cried out.

  Realizing there was air in the pipes, she reached for the knob to shut off the water, and it started to sputter like sharp, cracking shots.

  “Brian!” Harley screamed at the top of his voice, and before she could turn around, something hard and heavy hit her, bearing her to the floor. The sound of his voice was frantic, his breathing heavy and shallow as if he had been running. He grunted in pain as he started to pull her across the floor, his breathing increasing with each drag. “Don’t die, Brian,” he whispered, softly, agony lacing his words. “They’re everywhere. I’ll get you out of this. I promise.”

  “Harley,” she said softly. “It’s me, Anzu.”

  Every muscle in his body was poised for action. His face looked like granite beneath his stubble, and there was something menacing about the grim set of his mouth. He ignored her as if he didn’t hear her and dragged her around the island, crouching there, keeping her against him. Then he looked down into her face and his expression changed. “Brian.” He choked out his friend’s name, his face contorted. “No,” he said softly. “Please, no.”

  The desolate way he said it rocked her hard to her core. The back door slammed open, and Harley pantomimed bringing up a weapon, acted like it was discharging, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’ll kill you all!”

  Trace rounded the island and grabbed Harley by his upper arms. Rafferty from the garage was right behind him, her eyes wide.

  “Harley,” Trace said softly. “You’re home. You’re safe. Let Anzu go.”

  Harley struggled when Trace tried to move him away from Anzu. He curled his arms around her, gathering her up in a rough embrace, rocking her gently. “No, I’ve got to get him out. We’ll get out together. They’re all dead now. He’s going to be okay.”

  Anzu, released from Harley’s weight, cupped his face in her hands. “Harley. It’s Anzu.” His eyes were glazed and unfocused and he continued to rock. She tightened her hold, putting everything she had into her gaze. The rush of compassion made her chest hurt, her throat constrict. She pushed the words through, keeping her voice calm. He had always been there for her. Always. An unending source of comfort and friendship. He had never let her down and she couldn’t let him down. It would kill her.

  “You’re home. It was just air in the pipes. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Finally he focused on her face. His face crumpling as his head dipped and his forehead landed on her shoulder. She pressed back the clog of emotion as she met Trace’s dark and tormented eyes.

  “I’ve got him,” he said and, although she didn’t want to let him go, she knew she had to. She gave him another tight squeeze a
nd he released her, allowing Trace to help him stand. “Oh no,” he said, his eyes riveted to her waist. She looked down and gasped. Blood, bright and crimson, stained her white shirt.

  “Anzu?” he whispered, his voice hoarse, looking at her with horror. “Oh, shit. Oh, God.” He fell to his knees, trying to hike up her shirt. “Are you hurt?”

  The sudden rush of despair, the hard dose of reality, was so intense that she could barely unlock her jaw to respond, and tears threatened.

  Trace wrestled him away from her and she saw the blood soaking his gray T-shirt. Trace saw it, too. He said, “You’ve pulled your stitches.” He grabbed his brother’s face. “It’s not her blood. God, Harley, it’s not her blood.”

  Desperate to establish some kind of communication between them, she bared her midriff, took his hand, and pressed it to her side. “See. I’m fine. I’m fine. It’s your blood.”

  His eyes darkened as he smoothed his hand over her skin, his touch firm and warm. “You’re not hurt,” he said with quiet fervor. His breath hitched and he stared intently at her side until the strained look on his face relaxed. Then he ran his hands through his hair. “Not your blood.” Some of the edge left his voice. Leaning his head back, he clenched his jaw, his hands curling in his hair. Closing his eyes, he made a low growl deep in his chest and folded into himself. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Harley, calm down. Breathe with me. Let me take a look at you, buddy.” He raised Harley’s shirt and Harley groaned in pain. Anzu made a soft, involuntary sound at the ragged and bloody damage to his side. It hit her so hard, she could barely catch her breath. He could have died. She could have lost him. Trace quickly blocked her view, but it was too late. She had seen. He looked at her and said softly, “Go get your mom. Hurry.”

  Anzu pushed up and ran past Rafferty, who was already handing Trace a kitchen towel. She barreled through the back door and rounded the house, her feet kicking up gravel and dirt until she hit the concrete sidewalk. She pelted down the street past the general store, almost running into a lady with a stroller. When she reached the clinic, she burst through the front door. “Mom! Mom!”

  The receptionist rose, her face concerned. “Honey, oh, Lord,” she said, rushing from behind her desk. “Dr. Hudson!” she shouted. “Come quick! She’s bleeding!”

  Her mother came out of the back, rushed toward her, and took her shoulders. “Come to the back. What happened?”

  Anzu was trying to catch her breath. “It’s not mine.” Her whole body shaking with reaction, she panted. “Harley…Trace needs you.”

  “All right. Laura?”

  “I got her.”

  “I want to…”

  “No, you stay here.”

  She ran to the back, grabbed her bag, and was out the door before Anzu could protest. Laura said soothing things, but Anzu just wanted to go back. Go back and make sure he was okay. Laura took her into the kitchen, and Anzu changed her shirt in the laundry room while Laura made her hot cocoa, as if that was going to fix anything.

  The bell on the door chimed, and Laura had to go back out to the reception desk to handle whoever had entered the clinic.

  Anzu sat there while her untouched cocoa cooled. She wrapped her arms around herself, and she couldn’t move.

  For the first time the ugliness, the brutality, the stakes of war touched her. Not from a faraway place on the TV screen, not through the words of a classmate, or an article online. The war had come home to Laurel Falls. It had become personal.

  Chapter 5

  Trace helped his brother back to his room. Harley’s breathing was labored, as if he were still trapped in that blood-soaked memory. “Keep breathing, buddy,” Trace coaxed as he breathed in, then out with Harley. He helped Harley into the bed, keeping pressure on his stitched side. “Good job.” He grabbed his kid brother’s nape, his skin was warm, his hair soft against his fingers. He felt solid and so goddamned real. Sadness for his brother. Frustration at not being able to do more for him. Being overwhelmed by the round-the-clock care his brother required, as well as the pressure of taking care of his sister and his business. Guilt that his brother followed him into the military. Even as these emotions fought to be set loose, Trace trapped them inside him.

  Their eyes met and Trace’s heart squeezed at the grief, pain, and fear he saw there. His brother’s face, still bruised from the beatings, cuts, and abrasions, barely healing, gashes where bullets had skinned him, and more severe wounds to his side that he’d gotten in a blast—the stitches now raw—all meant his battle-scarred brother had survived where others had not.

  This was about Harley, about remaining calm, remaining present, and walking his brother through devastating flashback after terrifying flashback that kept him up most nights with Trace talking to him every step of the way. These emotions had to be suppressed so he could deal with helping his brother. Let them pile up. He could handle it. He was a marine and he would handle it. Right now, Harley was trapped in yesterday.

  “It happened again,” Harley said, his voice hoarse and subdued.

  “Yes, you had another flashback. You aren’t in Afghanistan. You were airlifted out of Camp Redoubt a week ago.” Trace’s voice cracked. “You were wounded in battle. But now, you’re in Laurel Falls. You’re home. You’re safe.” His brother was still listed as active duty, but Trace didn’t know what would happen with his military service. They had to get through his recovery first.

  He tightened his hold on Harley’s head. “Look at me. You’re going to get through this. You’re one little, tough son of a bitch.”

  Taking a deep, pained breath, he closed his eyes. “Brian’s dead…right, Trace?” He opened his eyes, sobbing softly. “He’s dead.”

  He wished he could take his brother’s place, take his brother’s burden. “Yes. He’s dead, Harley…saepe expertus, semper fidelis, fratres aeterni. Often tested, always faithful, brothers forever.” Trace kept repeating it and Harley’s eyes shifted to him, losing that faraway look. He clutched at Trace and took a breath.

  “I’m home?”

  “Yes, you’re home. You’re safe.”

  “Oh, fuck. Anzu. Is she okay?”

  He had to take a moment. He’d served and come back all in one piece. Harley might look whole, but his insides were in jumbled pieces. He was still bleeding inside. “Yes. She’s tough, too, Harley. She’s going to be fine.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened. I’m sorry about everything,” Harley said, knuckling his eyes.

  “I know.” Just then Eden came in and she got busy taking care of Harley’s stitches. Trace talked to Harley while she stitched him back up.

  After Eden left, Trace just sat beside Harley’s bed, watching him sleep from the sedative she’d given him so that she could repair the damage he’d done to his injuries. This town was lucky to have such an amazing physician. Her sutures were so neat that he could barely tell he’d pulled them out.

  When he’d gotten the phone call from the marines, he’d thought Harley was dead, killed in action. For a split second, he’d lost his kid brother and it left a hole in his gut big enough to drive a tank through.

  It still hadn’t closed.

  Anger started to build in him and he welcomed it. Wanted it. Nurtured it. Footsteps sounded and Reese settled on the edge of Harley’s bed. “The groceries are put away.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “No. Did you?”

  “Not yet, but I will.”

  “How is he?”

  Trace covered his face, fatigue, reaction settling in.

  Reese grasped his shoulder and pulled him into a hard embrace. “Man, you’ve gotta get some sleep. I’ll take the shift tonight with him. We need you. We depend on you. If it wasn’t for you, this family would be fragmented and scattered. If you hadn’t come home when Dad died, held us together after Mom left…”

  “Eden said he should sleep through the night, and I don’t mind getting up with him. It helps for him to have someone to talk to
who’s been through combat.”

  “You never let me thank you or give you your due.”

  “We’re family, Reese. We stick together no matter what that takes. I don’t need accolades.”

  “Listen, Trace, we need to talk about him.”

  Instantly Trace was on alert. He had sidestepped this discussion several times. He didn’t want to talk about Harley like he was a problem. Guilt unfolded in him like one huge apparition rising up and covering him in shadow. “We can talk about this later. I gotta get cleaned up, eat, and I’m dog tired.”

  Trace turned to leave. Grabbing his arm, Reese halted him. Trace refused to turn around. “That’s your response every time I bring this up. Stop avoiding it, Trace. It’s not going to go away.”

  Wearily he turned to face his brother’s somber gaze. Reese always pointed out issues without reservation or worry about who it would affect. He was hard-wired to be a firefighter and handle the stresses of that job. Nothing ever seemed to faze him, but Trace wasn’t sure what his brother kept deeply hidden. “What do you want to talk about?”

  His hand dropped away. “Trace, we have to accept the fact that he needs help. Help we can’t give him.”

  “He’ll be fine here with us.” He growled, everything inside him in opposition. “He just needs time. He’s only been here for two weeks.”

  Reese shook his head. His solemn expression gave Trace a cold jolt that made his gut knot. “I’ve seen this before. Guys like this need serious help,” he said quietly.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Specialized treatment.”

  Trace stiffened and bit out, “I’m not putting him in an institution! You can forget that!”