Cuts Like Glass

by Dana Feldman

  “Am I confused? Or am I finally remembering what actually happened?”

  “I’ll go with confused. I really have to go. I need to get back to L.A. I’m expected to testify in court downtown this afternoon. I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says, quickly getting into her car.

  She slides the window down. “Ella, don’t talk about any of this with anyone else, ok?”

  I promise her that I won’t. I see a flash of Gabe, a memory. It’s from our first date. He’s listening to something or other that I’d said to him. He looked so handsome. I couldn’t wait to get done with dinner. I couldn’t wait for him to kiss me. I’d finally found the perfect man.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A LONER BY DEFAULT

  I knock lightly on the half-open door as I push it open and enter the room. Peter is sitting upright on the edge of the bed, his back to me, staring out the window. A deep, rumbling cough escapes him.

  “Hello, Peter,” I say, waiting for him to turn around. He doesn’t but I can see him looking at my reflection through the window as he gazes out into the perfectly immaculate and colorful garden.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?” he says, referring to the vast array of flowers, a rainbow of colors in the garden just outside the window. I watch as his eyes follow a bee as it flies from flower to flower.

  “Extremely,” I respond, walking up to stand beside him. We stay like this for a few moments until a nurse comes in with his lunch.

  He turns around and greets her. “What’s on the menu today, Kate?” he asks, a friendly tone in his voice. She smiles at him.

  She comes forward, wheeling a cart with several trays on it and picks one up. She sets it down on a table beside the bed and lifts the lid to show him. I watch as she pulls a chair up next to the table, helps him up off the bed, and with his right arm swung around her neck, guides him into the chair. This is a well-practiced routine, one they’ve done before.

  She explains to me that it’s the medications that he’s been taking to sleep that are making him this groggy. She then whispers, so that only I can hear, that he’s being weaned off them.

  “Penne pasta and meatballs,” she says, winking at him. “Your favorite.”

  “You smuggled in the penne, didn’t you?” he asks, joking with her.

  “Yeah, they’re pretty stuck on spaghetti around here,” she says, with another wink.

  “Thank you,” he says, his hand on her arm.

  I have to acknowledge that it smells quite delicious. “Looks pretty good.”

  Kate smiles at me. “You’re the new volunteer, Ella?” A look in her eyes tells me that she knows exactly who I am.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Nice to meet you,” she says. “I have to deliver all of these,” she adds, looking at the cart filled with meals in need of serving. “Enjoy your lunch, Peter,” she says, heading towards the door.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, watching her leave. Peter thanks her again and she’s gone.

  “Join me?” he asks, as I hover over him awkwardly. I nod yes and pull another chair over and sit across the table from him.

  “Would you like some?” he offers, looking at me with Gabe’s eyes. He tucks the white linen napkin inside his collar and begins to hook a penne noodle with a prong onto his fork.

  “No thank you, I ate before I came,” I say.

  “It’s delicious, let me know if you change your mind.”

  “I’m happy to just keep you company,” I tell him.

  “It’s really nice having someone to talk to,” he says.

  “Well, it seems that you’ve had a few offers but I hear that you’ve, uh, kicked a few of the volunteers out?”

  “Yeah, this is true.”

  “What happened?”

  “I hate small talk. I’d rather be alone,” he says, eating and looking down at his food.

  “Well, technically that’s what we’re having now, isn’t it?”

  “I guess. But it’s different with you.”

  “How so?” I ask, intrigued.

  “I think you’re a lot like me. A loner by default.”

  “Really?” I muse. “And how have you determined this from our short time knowing one another?”

  “You come here alone, you aren’t wearing a wedding ring. I don’t know; it just seems like you’re trying to get away from something, or perhaps someone. You appear to be alone by choice.”

  “Yeah, I guess I am a bit of a loner as you say. I wasn’t always,” I add, my mind drifting back in time.

  “No? Well, I think I’ve pretty much always kept people at a distance. I have a few buddies, some from Afghanistan, some from before. But I just haven’t really been much in the mood for company the past few months. Since I got back.”

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?” I watch as he puts his fork down and pushes the plate of pasta away. “I’m a very good listener and an even better keeper of secrets.” He stills himself and I can tell that he wants to talk. “There’s no judgment here.”

  He goes into a far off place in his head for a few moments, his eyes glazing over. Then his expression changes to one of graveness. He finally comes back to the here and now and looks at me. “I froze,” he says, biting his lip so hard I’m afraid it’ll bleed.

  I stay still and wait for him to continue.

  “My unit, we were under attack. I don’t know where they all came from, but the enemy, they were suddenly surrounding us. And. I. Just. Froze...”

  I put a hand on his arm. He pulls away from me. “It’s ok, Peter, it’s ok.”

  “How is it ok?” he asks, his voice rising. “Tell me! I want to know. How is it ok to watch as your best friend gets killed while you just stand there like a coward doing nothing to help him?”

  “Where were you? Tell me what happened.”

  “We were on a mission in an abandoned house in Tajikistan; we had Intel that there was a terrorist cell there. We knew that they were planning something against American soldiers, and the plan was to take them out. There were six of them, eight of us. They were all supposed to be in this one quadrant of the property. We had night vision, we had them in our sights but somehow by the time we got there they were gone.” His eyes bore deeply into mine as he tells me the story.

  I put my hand back on his arm and this time he doesn’t pull away. He now looks out the window as he continues.

  “When we got there we were just looking around, you know? Confused, like what the fuck? Our Intel was wrong. We were fucked. Then all of a sudden there were twenty of them, they were surrounding us.”

  “I understand why you froze, Peter. It was your instinct to survive.”

  “The thing is, I’d walked around a corner. I was just around on the other side of this hallway area. It had been blown out in some other attack and there was this big concrete barrier between me and the guys. I heard the first few shots. I knew my men were down. It was so loud and then so quiet. I knew they were dead. I looked over and I could see that my men had also taken out most of their guys too. It was just my best friend Jason and I and two of their guys. I had a clear shot to take them out. I don’t know what happened but I didn’t pull the trigger in time and they shot him. I watched as he fell to the floor. They thought they got us all and they left. I just stood there. There was a single bullet hole between his eyes. His eyes were wide open and his mouth was open like he was going to scream but he never made a sound. I couldn’t believe he was dead.”

  “They would’ve killed you both,” I say, trying to find a way to console him, to relieve him of the guilt.

  “I had one second to help him and I didn’t. As far as I’m concerned I’d be better off dead.”

  “Please don’t say that Peter. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to be in that position. The fear,” I say, but he cuts me off.

  “Jason would’ve never left me alone like that. Never.”

  “Maybe if you could try and find a way to understand what happened, why you froze, mayb
e that would help you.”

  “I never wanted to be anything like my father. Joining the Marines was my escape out of my life but I always knew that the day would come; the day that I’d be put in the position to kill. I never killed anyone. I shot at the enemy, wounded a few, but I never had to actually kill anyone.”

  My heart palpitates, roughly pounding against my ribs. “You say that you never wanted to be like your father?”

  “Yeah, my father, he’s a murderer. He killed my mother.”

  I go numb. I find the words that I need to comfort him. I do my best to help Peter. He grabs a hold of me and I let him. We sit there, our chairs as close to one another as we can get them. And we stay there with our arms around each other, staring out the window as the sun slowly makes its descent down and behind the mountains. The sky is a burnt orange as it does so.

  Don’t worry, Peter. You’re nothing like your father.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE APPLE HAS FALLEN

  I have come back the next day to see Peter, to make sure that he’s all right. I hated to leave him last night after everything that he’d told me, but visiting hours end at nine in the evenings, and the rules around that are strict.

  I’d gotten up early this morning. It was still black as night outside. I stopped at a café and picked up coffee and pastries for us. As I walk towards his room I can see that the door is just slightly ajar. I knock lightly with one finger and it opens. The room is dark, the shades drawn, and the bed is a mess and empty.

  I set our breakfast down on the table just beside the window and open the shades, allowing the light in. As I do so I can hear the toilet flush and then the water as it runs in the sink. He opens the door, and I can tell by the look on his face that he’s happy to see me. I wasn’t quite sure which way things would go today: if he’d want to see me, or never wish to again. His father would open up to me, I would feel so close and that was always when he would shut down on me, lock me out of his world. I have to remind myself how very far the apple fell from the tree. I’m grateful.

  “You actually came back,” he says, sounding surprised.

  “Of course I did! Why wouldn’t I?” I ask, happier to see anyone than I’ve been in years.

  “Well, most women would’ve been scared off,” he says, eyeing the coffees and the cardboard box on the table.

  “I’m not most women, I suppose,” I say. “I brought us something to eat,” I add, and hand him a coffee. “There’s cream and sweetener if you need it.”

  “This is perfect,” he says, taking the coffee from me. “Thank you.”

  He also drinks his coffee black. I suppose that there will be some similarities to his father, I’m just hoping that they are surface ones. He’s still eyeing the unopened box.

  “You’re welcome. I hope that you haven’t already eaten,” I say, opening the lid, showing him an array of pastries to choose from.

  “No, and I’m starving,” he says, sitting down at the table.

  I join him, sitting across from him. The sunshine is beaming in on us, warming the cold room. “I wasn’t sure what you like so I brought a bit of everything to choose from.”

  He looks, eyes wide, at the array of muffins and scones. He chooses a blueberry muffin. I pick out a cranberry scone. There’s a certain comfort that I feel with him. I usually get uncomfortable with silence. It used to represent a simmering rage in my husband but here, right now with Peter, it just feels like we’re two people who are happy to be sitting together enjoying a quiet morning. I don’t feel afraid, I feel safe. Maybe even dare I think: happy.

  “So, did you really think that I’d never come back?” I ask, watching him look out the window. Two hummingbirds eat from a feeder just beyond the glass that separates us from the outside world.

  “Honestly?”

  “Of course. I think that we’ve established that we can be honest with one another,” I reply, looking at him and seeing the similarities and also the many differences, between him and Gabe.

  Peter is very attractive, not as gorgeous as his father but I can tell that he’ll grow into his looks. He’ll be one of those men that get more and more handsome with age. His sandy blond hair, though cut very short, has a slight wave to it. It spikes up just so, on top. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and the beginnings of a mustache and beard look good on him.

  His jaw is squared off like his father’s. He has honey colored eyes: hazel but with a bit of yellow. They’re kind. I like the way he squints just slightly as he looks at me, like he’s trying to figure me out.

  “I’d have to agree with that now, since you came back I mean,” he says, just before eating the last of his muffin.

  “Please, have as much as you like,” I say, as he looks into the box again. He grabs a chocolate chip croissant and takes a bite. “I want you to know that I have enjoyed our visits. I realize that there have only been a few but I would like to continue as long as you’re here.”

  He looks up at me, an unreadable expression.

  “What?” I ask, wondering if this is his way of saying that he’d rather that I not.

  “I’m going to be leaving here,” he tells me.

  “When?” I ask, taken aback. I know from Jane that his injuries are healing but she made no mention of him being emotionally ready. He also still seems a bit weak physically.

  “End of the week,” he answers. He looks a bit sad now, or maybe that’s just me projecting my own disappointment onto him. He must be happy to go.

  “You must be very excited to go home,” I say, attempting to sound happy with the news.

  “I don’t really have a place to call home. When I left on my last tour, two years ago, I’d just ended a long-term relationship. My girlfriend at the time, from what she’s recently told me, had a garage sale while I was gone, sold all my stuff.”

  “Why would she do that?” I ask surprised.

  “I sort of left her without much warning. I’d used the Marines as an excuse to get out of that relationship, and I’m sure she knew it. I’m not mad or anything, didn’t have much anyway.”

  “So, where will you go then?”

  “Not sure. Have some friends in L.A. I want to go back there,” he says.

  “Was the idea to leave yours or the doctor’s?”

  “Mine, it’s time. I’m ready. Can’t hide out here forever. Have to get back out there, you know?”

  “Yeah, I do know. And you’re sure that you’re ready?” I ask, worried that he might not be. “You still seem a bit unsteady on your feet.”

  “No, I’m not sure that I’m ready or if I’ll ever be. I’m getting off the meds, which should help me to gain my physical strength back. I just can’t stand lying in this bed anymore drugged up into oblivion. There’s only one way to get stronger and that’s to get back out there,” he says, “and I don’t know how many more therapy sessions I can sit through without losing my mind.”

  I can relate to that.

  Several moments pass as we sit and drink our coffee and eat. A thought occurs to me and at first I try to convince myself of just how ridiculous it is. I barely know him and yet I feel as if I know him better than most.

  “Why don’t you come and stay with me?” I blurt out, hearing the words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I mean, as a friend of course. I have a spare bedroom.”

  “I couldn’t impose on you like that,” he says, but his eyes betray him when they light up at the idea.

  “It’s really no problem,” I respond. “I’m not sure if I mentioned that my husband passed away a year ago?” It’s just easier to say that my husband died at this point, the story is simply too long, too complex. And I’m in no way ready to tell him about his father, not until I can be sure that he can handle the news.

  He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

  “Well, the house and everything was sold. I’m just renting an apartment in the marina. It’s really quite lovely, actually. It’s sort of my transition place. It�
��s beautiful there. You can see the boats from the patio and you can hear the sea lions. It’s very tranquil. I’ve found it to be a good place to heal.”

  He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at me, and I can see it in his face: gratitude. He’s been so lost, just like me. Finally, someone is offering him a fresh start. He wants to take the offer, but he’s too proud to take a handout.

  “I have a neighbor, he’s actually a good friend. He owns a company nearby where they fix and clean boats. He’s always looking for some good help. I can see if he can help you out. Just for a few months while you get situated. I mean, I know you don’t need to work, but you’ll go mad if you don’t keep yourself busy.”

  “I was always fixing equipment for my unit when we were in Afghanistan. I’ve never worked on boats but I’ve always been good with my hands, with fixing things I mean.”

  “Ok then, it’s a deal. This isn’t a handout ok? You’ll pay rent,” I say. He looks at me smiling. “Look, someone did the same for me when I was lost. I didn’t have anywhere to go, my life was in chaos.”

  I think of how much Evelyn helped me during that time.

  “Was this when your husband died?”

  “Yes, it was a hard time for me.”

  “Tell me about it. If you want to, I mean.”

  “How do I say this without scaring you off?”

  “If what I told you last night didn’t scare you away, then I highly doubt that there’s anything you could say to me now that would scare me.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I begin. “My husband and I went sailing. We went often but this particular day the water was very choppy. A storm was expected to come in later in the day so I was naturally a bit skeptical about going. My husband,” I stop myself from saying his name, “he had insisted that we’d be fine, that the storm wasn’t due for several hours. I clearly remember him saying that we were fine, that nothing was going to happen until late afternoon or early evening. It was mid-morning so I agreed to go,” I explain, watching his face for any sign of recognition, any sign that he’s figuring out that I was married to his father. The story has been all over the news for the past year.