Just Remember to Breathe (Thompson Sisters)

by Sheehan-Miles, Charles

  I miss you too, dude. For one thing, there’s no one here worth talking to. Bogey keeps going on about his fucking conquests with girls, all day and all night long. The only conquest he’s ever really had is with his hand. Which, we caught him doing, on patrol. I mean, come on, in your sleeping bag at the FOB, sure, but out in the field? Give me a fucking break.

  You ever hear from Alex?

  Write me back and soon, motherfucker. If they don’t extend us, I’ll be out of here in six more months. Or so. Whenever. I hate this fucking place.

  Ray

  I couldn’t help but laugh at the tone of the emails, even though my heart gave a twinge at the sentence, You ever hear from Alex? They sounded just like the way Dylan and Sherman talked with each other. I continued to read, slowly scrolling up after each email.

  MARCH 25, 2012

  TO:

  FROM:

  Weed,

  Sorry to hear about Weber. Wow, I wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye. Or something. I’ve been thinking about going to see Robert’s parents when I get out of the hospital. But I don’t know, maybe I should stay away. How do you tell someone’s mom, “I’m sorry I got your kid killed?”

  As far as Alex goes, we’re done. I’m pretty sure she staged the whole fucking thing anyway. But seriously, I never had any business falling for her. She’s way out of my league. I hate it, but that’s life.

  Tell Sergeant Colton I had two liters of vodka in my bags, and I want that shit back. I know he took it before they shipped my stuff here.

  Dylan

  APRIL 1, 2012

  TO:

  FROM:

  Stop calling me Weed, Mr. Studmaster.

  On that topic: You need to sit back and take a good look at the pictures you have of you and Alex together. Yeah, she probably got over you. But if I were you, I’d be chasing that down. Seriously.

  With regards to Roberts: don’t be an asshole. You didn’t get him killed, the hajis did. Not your fault, dude. If we hadn’t been out on that patrol, someone else would have. And they’d be just as dead.

  So, seriously, don’t take this the wrong way. But go see a shrink. Like tomorrow. You got knocked on the head pretty hard, and the things you’re writing worry me.

  Your friend,

  Ray

  P.S. Sorry it took me so long to write back. Been out on a fucking 5-day patrol. They’re saying Lieutenant Eggers volunteered us for it, the shit.

  And bullshit on the vodka. Since when do you drink?

  APRIL 1, 2012

  TO:

  FROM:

  Ray,

  Listen, dude. We’re friends. But please don’t write to me about Alex. I’d just ruin her life. We’re too different. Sometimes I think I’m going to end up like my dad. Until my Mom got wise and kicked his ass out, he used to knock her around whenever he got drunk. Which, my friend, is why I don’t drink.

  I gotta tell you, being in this hospital, it makes me think I do need a shrink. Except for my mom, who comes to visit pretty much every day, it’s very quiet here. Nurses and docs come and go. I get tests done. And I watch TV and read. That’s about it. Lots of time to think. And think. And think. Dude, I’m gonna write some stuff here I gotta think about and talk about, and you’re elected to listen. Because there isn’t anyone else.

  Alex sent me a bunch of emails. Right after I blew my laptop up, and again the next day, and the day after that. Every day for a couple weeks, then about once a week. Then they stopped.

  I haven’t read them. Every time I open my email, there they are. 16 unread emails. I’m sure she hates me now.

  I’m also sure it’s better that way. You say I should take a second look. But I already know. I loved her more than my own life, Sherman. But she’s smart, and beautiful, and going to a great college, and has her whole life ahead of her.

  I did get an email from her Dad. He’s a real sweetheart. Former Ambassador, likes to keep his tentacles in everything. Back when I went to visit her in San Francisco, a couple years ago, he took me aside at one point to tell me what a worthless piece of shit I was. That I wasn’t nearly good enough for his daughter. Would you believe he had run a background check on me? And my parents. I’m sure he dug up some good stuff on Dad. He told me to stay the hell away from her in his email. “Let her believe you are dead. It’s better for both of you.”

  The thing is though, he’s right. She’s got a chance for a beautiful life. I, on the other hand, am a disabled vet who gets seizures, and blackouts, and flashbacks. Sometimes I wake up at night screaming. Because I keep having the same dream over and over again. We’re headed down that fucking dirt road, and I can see the bomb, it’s right out there in the open. And I can’t stop it. We’re headed right for it, and we’re going to run over it, and I grab the wheel, and it’s too late. Boom. Roberts is vaporized, about two gallons of his fucking blood all over me, and then, eyes open, I’m awake and screaming my fucking head off. They come and give me sedatives, and I’m out again. Until the next night.

  I’m never going to be worth a shit after this. She doesn’t deserve that. She doesn’t need me in her life, dragging her down, ruining everything for her.

  Ray, I love Alex, like nothing you can imagine. And because I love her, I’m going to leave her alone, and let her move on. Anything else would be hurting her. And I would kill myself before I harm one hair on her head. And that’s not an idle threat.

  So, no more fucking talk about Alex, all right? The subject is closed.

  Dylan

  APRIL 1, 2012

  TO:

  FROM:

  Dude,

  Your email made me cry like a fucking baby.

  All right. I won’t bring up Alex again. But you better fucking promise to get better. Do you hear me? I don’t give a shit how bad you feel. Get better. Man up. Do whatever it takes to get it through your head that a) you’re a good guy, and b) you deserve better than the shit you’re writing about, and c) You are NOT fucking responsible for Roberts’ death.

  Dude, get some help.

  Fuck the Army,

  Ray

  Oh, God. I missed Dylan. I loved him. But I didn’t know how to help him. I don’t know that anyone could. Not unless he was willing to help himself. And this about my father, I had no idea. Dad and I would be having a discussion when I went home for the holidays.

  I did some googling. “How to Help a friend with PTSD.” And it wasn’t much help, to be honest. It was all generic, useless stuff. Don’t take his behavior personally. Have good boundaries. Yeah, right. Don’t judge. Love them.

  Love them.

  Oh, God. I couldn’t stop loving him. But I couldn’t help him either.

  The sun was setting, on what was possibly one of the longest and saddest days of my life. I stood up, put my phone away, picked up my rose, and began walking back towards my room.

  How can you be so casual about it (Dylan)

  When the alarm went off the next morning, I got up as usual. Really, I didn’t know what else to do. Keep going. Go to class. Go to court. Whatever.

  It was dark, quiet, and bitter cold. An icy wind blew off the Hudson River, turning the green in front of the library into a wind tunnel. I hoped it wasn’t going to snow any time soon. In the meantime, I wore my army sweats, kept my hood on, and got out there and started to stretch.

  I’d gotten pretty adept at doing pushups with just my left hand, but I hoped my right would be back into shape soon. Needed to go see a doctor, and soon, about that. I’d missed my Monday appointment at the VA, because of jail, but I’d be down there Wednesday. Maybe they’d put it in another cast.

  I was doing pushups when I heard footsteps. I kept doing what I was doing, but my eyes darted up.

  It was Alex. She was in sweats and running shoes, and started stretching. Just lik
e it was any normal morning.

  Jesus Christ.

  I kept doing my pushups until I got to one hundred, then rolled over and started stretching my legs.

  She didn’t say a word.

  I didn’t say a word.

  I don’t know what she thought. That I was just going to change my mind? She didn’t understand. It’s not that I didn’t want her. God, I wanted her more than anything else in the world. Except to let her have a decent life. And that wasn’t going to happen with me.

  Finally, I stood, ready to run. I said, “I don’t really need a spotter any more.”

  She looked me in the eye, and said, “I’m not here for you. I’m here for me.”

  I shook my head and started running. She started out beside me, in her normal long lope, keeping pace with me. I gritted my teeth. Why did she have to make it so hard? Why couldn’t she just accept that it was over? She could have such a wonderful life.

  By the time I hit 101st Street, I was going fast, and picking up the pace. She stayed right beside me as I turned onto 101st and started heading for Central Park. Traffic was just starting to pick up, taxis and commuters from Connecticut and God only knows where else. Who the hell drives into New York City, anyway? Crazy.

  I stopped at a red light, diagonally across from the park, and ran in place until the light changed.

  Even though I was getting winded, I started to talk, half to myself.

  “I was six the first time he came home drunk and hit her. I don’t know what it was about… I think he’d lost his job or something. They were both fucking lushes, and that probably led to him getting fired. But I do remember sitting there, about a week after first grade started. We were making brownies in the kitchen of this shitty little apartment in Chamblee, just outside Atlanta.”

  Breathe. I paused in my monologue, not sure if she was listening. “Anyway. They had all these pictures, of the two of them. Happy and stuff. They went to high school together, believe it or not. Dated, then got married. Anyway, that day he came home, and he was angry. I could sense it, and I got real quiet. But I wanted to show him what we’d been making. So I picked up a big spoon, and dipped it in the brownie mix, and carried it into the living room shouting something. I don’t know what. ‘Dad, see what we did?’ Or something like that. And the fucking brownie mix… there was too much of it on the spoon, and it fell on the carpet.”

  We were almost halfway down the length of Central Park now, and though not quite at a full out sprint, we were going really fast. I glanced over and saw her face was bright red. Well, I didn’t ask her to come.

  “Anyway,” I continued, slower now, taking long pauses to breathe in between sentences. “My dad… he stands up and starts shouting. About how I fucked up the carpet, and we were going to have to pay for it. And she went to defend me. It’s all muddled in my head, but the next thing I knew, he hit her, in the jaw. She went down, hard. And I held on to my mom, and yelled back at him, told him to leave my mommy alone.”

  I grimaced, realizing a tear was falling down my face. I wiped it quickly. “Point is… people who love each other don’t always stay that way. Sometimes they hurt each other, too.”

  She snorted, then said, “Yeah, I know something about that.”

  Fuck.

  I picked up the pace. I was running flat out now, as fast as I could go, and she was still keeping up. I took the left turn around the south edge of the park at a dead sprint with Alex beside me, and a flock of birds launched into the sky as we ran through them.

  This was my normal route for running, but I never ran it at this pace. I was getting blown out, sucking air into my lungs, and it was starting to really hurt. After the next turn, I stumbled, got back to my feet and kept running, now going north along the east side of the park, up Fifth Avenue.

  As the reservoir came into sight, I knew I wasn’t going to make it any further. I slowed to a walk, blowing out my lungs in big gasps, my chest shuddering, legs feeling like rubber.

  Alex slowed her pace, running in place beside me.

  “Too much?” she asked.

  I shook my head, suddenly angry. She knew how I felt about her. It was like she was torturing me. Staying in sight, knowing that I had made the decision I had to protect her.

  “What do you want from me, Alex?” I cried out.

  She stopped running, dropping into a walk at my side. She looked serious, so I was blindsided by what she said.

  “I want you to teach me hand-to-hand combat. Self defense.”

  “What?” I asked, my voice incredulous.

  “I’m serious. I’ve faced two sexual assaults in my year and a half in college. Next time anyone touches me, they’re going to regret it.”

  I shook my head, flabbergasted. “Are you for real?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. And since it looks like I’ll eventually be dating again, well… my history with that isn’t so hot.”

  I winced, feeling a stabbing pain. I turned my eyes away. The thought of her dating someone else, anyone else, made me want to howl.

  “Well, for God’s sake, Dylan, don’t look so upset.”

  I stopped in place, turned to face her. “How can you be so casual about it?”

  She shook her head, her face a mix of anger and disappointment. “I’m casual about exactly nothing, Dylan. But you didn’t give me a choice. You didn’t talk about it with me. You decided to make all the decisions on your own. Well, suck it up. I won’t go through another year of crying in my room over you. I’m done with that.”

  She was right, and I deserved whatever she was throwing at me anyway. But it hurt. It hurt to see her so angry. It hurt to know she was prepared to move on just like that, even if that’s what I kept telling myself I wanted.

  I didn’t know what I wanted.

  “All right,” I said, my mouth once again going into gear before my brain engaged.

  “What?”

  “I said, all right. I’ll teach you what I know.”

  She looked at me speculatively, then nodded once.

  “When?” I asked.

  She looked at me, then said, “I’m busy on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings. That’s when I go running. How about Monday, Wednesday, Friday?”

  That’s when she goes running? Oh, for God’s sake. She was going to drive me insane.

  “You’re nuts,” I said.

  “Look, if you don’t want to teach me, I’ll get somebody else. I’m sure I can get a class or something.”

  I shook my head. “No. I’ll do it. Wednesday morning. Six a.m. Don’t be late.”

  She nodded, her face still dead serious, and said, “I’ll be there.”

  Then she turned and took off running. I watched her go, admiring her audacity, her courage. As I watched her recede down the sidewalk, all I could think was how I’d do anything for her. Anything at all. And I wanted to run after her, and tell her I was wrong, and beg her to take me back. But it was too late for that. Love meant a lot. It meant everything, and it meant nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Your brain is the real weapon (Alex)

  “Okay,” Dylan said. “Let’s try that again.”

  I’d asked for these lessons, but I hadn’t bargained for how intense they would be. The first couple days, I’d worked with Dylan alone. But his hand was a mess, and for some of the rougher stuff he’d asked Sherman to come along as well.

  This was our sixth lesson. For almost two weeks, we’d been at a sort of… truce, really. We still saw each other six days a week, three of them running together, three of them working together on this. Plus the time spent together working for Doctor Forrester.

  We barely spoke to each other, except about whatever it was we were actually doing at that time. Businesslike. It was sad beyond belief, and I’m not sure why I was putting myself through this. Except that it allowed me to keep track of him; it allowed me to know that he hadn’t started drinking himself senseless, or skipped town. But it also kept the tension between us alive and we
ll, and that tension was nowhere more at the fore than when he was training me.

  “Look,” he said. “You’re not exactly very big. You’re never going to be able to use pure strength to push an attacker off balance. You’ve got to use speed… and most especially your brain. Your brain is the real weapon.”

  Sherman nodded. “He’s right. You’re still trying to fight using strength. What you’ve got to do is use his strength and weight against him.”

  I nodded, biting my lower lip. “Okay. I’m ready to try again.”

  Dylan came at me, without warning, grabbing me around the neck and waist. For a second, as always, I smelled him, and the sensory memory of us embracing was almost too much to bear. His cast was finally off, for good this time, though his hand hadn’t fully healed. He wore heavy layers of padded clothing that he and Sherman had picked up at a sports store. Our practice had become rough more than once. But I needed that. Among other things, Randy Brewer was out of the hospital, and the police didn’t seem to be interested in pursuing charges against him.

  Dylan had his right arm around my waist, left arm around my neck, and he started pulling me back. I relaxed for just a second, then kicked straight back, in the same direction he’d been pulling.

  For just a fraction of a second, he teetered, losing his balance. I kicked straight back at his knee, and we went down, Dylan losing his grip and crying out.

  I was free! I scrambled away, out of reach.

  “Great!” Sherman shouted.

  Dylan lay on the ground, eyes shut in pain. Then he opened them, and looked at me, and a huge smile grew on his face.

  “You did it,” he said.

  I shifted on my feet, then smiled back. “I did, didn’t I. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he said. “Trust me, it’s not nearly as bad as the other day.”