Until We Fall

by Jessica Scott

  A faith I don’t share. I don’t think I ever did.

  But that’s not something I talk about anymore.

  The alarm on my phone vibrates from the nightstand near my bed. I ignore it. I’m not talking to Bruce. I don’t know if I’ll be able to for a while. I tug a long-sleeved T-shirt over my head. I’m not ashamed of my tattoos but I’m not really ready for questions about them. Not today.

  I can’t even say what made me get the words carved into my skin after all this time. The dream I had about my mom a few weeks ago…her voice sounded so real. So close.

  The words cover the self-inflicted scars from those first few years after she died, so I’ve got that going for me. I wasn’t sure Vega was going to be able to make the tats work over the scar tissue. Guess I should have thought about that before I sliced open my skin once upon a crisis.

  Glad that phase is passed. At least for now.

  At least that’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

  Sobriety isn’t for the weak, that’s for damn sure. If I can make it through today… My hands are shaking as I lock the door to my place and catch the bus to campus. I’m not going to Nalini’s new studio today.

  Bruce can fire me if he wants but he shouldn’t have dropped that fucking bombshell on me. Who gives a fuck if he knew my mom? Who gives a fuck if he shares the same anniversary of her death with me? All of it’s made me reach a whole new level of anger.

  No. This isn’t anger. This is rage twisted with sadness. I didn’t need to know about him serving with my mom. It’s not fucking relevant to my making it through today.

  I swear to god if I don’t get some coffee soon someone is getting shanked. Maybe if I drink enough coffee, I can pretend there’s alcohol in it.

  The Grind is my personal lord and savior on most mornings but today more than most, primarily because of the overall state of my body which, for once, is not hurting as the result of a vicious hangover.

  No, this pain is all earned. It feels kind of good, if you want to know the truth. I haven’t felt like this in years. Like I’ve actually accomplished something.

  Which, to be fair, since I did not get up and immediately hit the bottle today, is also a pretty big deal.

  Hey, even the little milestones count, right? One day at a time and all that. I can’t even say what’s kept me from drinking.

  The Grind isn’t very busy at the moment. Thank whatever powers may be for keeping the time between me and rage-fucking that cup of coffee shorter than normal.

  No, I’m not really going to stick my dick in a cup of coffee. That would be weird. I may whisper something filthy to it before I swallow. Oh what, like you don’t whisper sweet nothings to that first cup of coffee every morning.

  Yep, I’m officially losing my mind. The coffee is bitter and dark and smooth. I lace it with heavy cream and dump a healthy dose of cancer—I mean sugar—into the depths of it.

  My emotions are all over the fucking place today. I feel like a goddamned head case.

  The coffee helps. It’s pure, dark goodness sliding all the way down my throat and lighting up my neural transmitters like the hit from a smooth brandy, only without the important ingredient of…the brandy.

  Hell, it’s better than that. Not quite better than sex, but close. And given that I know shit-all about what sober sex feels like, I’ll take my chances comparing it to drunk sex.

  I head toward the library and the carrel I’ve reserved for exactly no reason except that I want to have a place to pretend like I’m doing some work for my degree. I’m lucky the woman at the admissions office likes me. Or maybe she just has a thing for soldiers…I swear I could have had a Mrs. Robinson moment or three with her.

  If I was still drinking, I’d be tempted to try it, honestly. But sober? It feels…weird.

  Not that she’s not hot and all. She is. And damn if she couldn’t probably show me a thing or two about how to tango, if you know what I mean.

  Jesus. I need to go back to bed and try to be a human being again tomorrow.

  I stop at the edge of the tech center in the library. Deacon Hunter is there, hunched over his laptop with Kelsey Ryder.

  They’re sitting close, close enough that his thigh is pressed to hers, their shoulders connected in a way that says more than graduate collaboration is going on here.

  Something dark and green slithers through my chest, wrapping around my heart. They look happy. That new, fresh love kind of happy, but it’s the kind of happy that you know is going to make it.

  Deacon isn’t a fucking Boy Scout like our boy Eli. No, he’s got a wild side that came out to play one too many times over the last couple of years. I’ve pissed him off, too.

  Wish I could remember what it was that I’d done. No way to atone for something you can’t remember.

  I turn away from them, unwilling to let them see me.

  I do remember being a dick to Kelsey more than once. I may have offered to let her ride mine. I am not proud of that in any way.

  But that’s pretty much tied to how I started stopping drinking in the first place. Kelsey had always been pretty low key at The Pint, serving me drinks when Eli told her to cut me off.

  But even then, she was off limits, and I plowed right through those limits one night after a few too many shots of Patrón.

  A sick curdle of dread tangles with the caffeine in my belly as I approach my carrel where I’ve stored my laptop and all of my college work that I’m ignoring. The library lets me keep the space so long as I keep paying rent and they don’t care that this is the first time I’ve set foot in here in well over a year.

  I stare at my laptop. The coffee isn’t strong enough for this shit.

  But I’m here, even if I’m not yet willing to admit to myself why I walked into this room today.

  I’m still sober by the grace of God. I might not be after this. This thing I have to confront in the bright fluorescent light of the carrel in the broad light of day – it might break me.

  It’s an easy enough thing to look up. To type in the words Chinook. Crash. November 2003.

  My fingers are stiff, typing those words.

  Then there it is: the War in Iraq headline from CNN. The Chinook got shot down over Fallujah carrying almost forty people, the deadliest day in Iraq since the initial invasion. The deadliest day since Bush declared major combat operations over.

  I read the article. I read the list of names. Only one stands out. The only one that matters to me.

  I read about all the ways my life ended on that day. About the way that so many other people’s lives were altered that day because of a single rocket.

  I can handle a lot in life, but reading this sober is harder than I imagined. I absently rub one of my wrists against the edge of my pants. The pain is familiar. Raw and tender. Reminding me that I’m still here.

  She left. My mom left me alone. Once upon a time, I wanted her to be proud of me. I wanted to go to West Point because she met my dad there. Because she was an Old Grad.

  I wanted to forget that today is the anniversary of that day. I wanted to avoid the pain and the sadness and the memories and everything that her death led to in my life.

  I wanted to go to work today but Bruce—he fucking changed all that yesterday by ripping the scab off the wound I was trying to ignore. I wanted to keep my hands busy today so they wouldn’t do something stupid. So they could distract my mind away from the ache around my heart.

  I can’t go to work today.

  I can’t be around people.

  I sit and stare at the article on the screen. At the face of my mom, lined up with all the other pictures of other smiling faces lost on that crash. Captain Carmella Acardo.

  She never took my father’s name. I never knew why. And before now, it never hit me square in the gut that I didn’t carry her name.

  My throat is tight.

  I don’t know if I can get through today. I don’t know how I’m going to do this.

  But I need to figure it out. Bec
ause for the first time since my life fell apart, I’m determined to put it back together.

  I don’t want to be a disappointment to her anymore.

  I just don’t know how to do it.

  I leave the carrel. Leave my computer on, the door locking behind me.

  I have no idea where I’m going.

  I’m sober.

  But I am lost.

  * * *

  Nalini

  I stumble across Caleb sitting outside of my old studio. He’s there on a stone wall, beneath a green-stained gargoyle on the Gothic church-turned-old bookstore.

  I’m here to pick up some supplies to move them into my storage unit while the lead paint removal team does their thing over the weekend.

  He’s just sitting there, staring, seemingly unaware of the bright light of the sun illuminating him. Like the universe itself is making sure I see him.

  I tried to find him yesterday when he left the warehouse. Tried and failed. I tried to hide my disappointment that I couldn’t find him but I didn’t do a very good job. We emptied out the rest of the space. If Cricket and Bodhi noticed anything was off, they said nothing.

  Seeing Caleb there in front of the remains of my studio makes me feel a little bit off-kilter.

  Something inside me calls to him, draws me nearer when I’m not entirely sure his body language is something I can read. Or if it’s something I even want to.

  The supplies I need to move become a distant memory. It is Caleb I am focused on now. His eyes are bleak, his skin pale and drawn. The only movement he makes is to run his thumb over and over one of his wrists. It’s a terrible thing that now I notice the scars I felt yesterday when I ran my fingers over the letters on his wrists. The Latin letters can’t hide them now.

  He looks up as I approach. He tries to smile and it falls flat and empty, and it’s only a moment before he looks away. “I’m not going to be very good company right now,” he says.

  But he doesn’t move. And I don’t run.

  “I’ve found that that’s exactly when we need others around.”

  He swallows hard. “That’s not always true.”

  “No, but it’s mostly true most of the time.” I sit next to him on the wall, close enough that my arm brushes against his back where he’s facing away from me. “You really don’t look like you should be alone right now.”

  He makes a noise that’s somewhere between disbelief and telling me to fuck off.

  I’m not sure which.

  “You don’t have to talk about it,” I say quietly. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to give it voice.”

  He glances over at me. Not really at me; more like in my general direction. “Are you supposed to be a therapist? Telling me that compressing things down gives them power? Like one of those sleeping bags that we ball up and stuff into that little black bag?”

  It’s my turn to make a noise. “I’ve never really heard personal trauma referred to like a sleeping bag, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

  He’s silent for a while and I let it ride. Sometimes, silence is what people need. To just let the thoughts tumble through the grey matter in our brains. To see what sticks and what doesn’t.

  Most people have a hard time with silence. We’re social creatures. That social aspect comes with noise. But silence—silence breaks that human connection even as it connects us to something fundamentally bigger than any of us.

  “How did you decide what you wanted to do with your life?” His question is quiet. Almost like he’s afraid of how I’ll answer it.

  I don’t reply for a long moment. It’s not hard to miss the way he’s leaning into me. Just a little. He may not even be aware of what he’s doing but I take comfort from the pressure.

  It fills something inside me.

  “I needed help after Syria. I was hurt pretty bad and in a pretty dark place. I cut myself off from my family, from my friends. Everything. The fire… It took so much from me.” I breathe in quietly. The memories don’t hurt anymore. “I lost a part of who I was in that darkness. I didn’t know how to be around people after that. And it hurt on a spiritual level because I have such a big family. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself back.”

  At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  “One of the counselors at Walter Reed invited me to yoga. I refused. At first. I was angry. Frustrated. Everything hurt.” Another breath. “I wallowed for a while. But then I started to feel the need for it again. The need for the movement. The need to stop feeling like a bucket of shit.”

  Now he’s looking at me. Watching me as I tell the story. Watching me when I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to be watched as I go through the recitation that’s become so rote as to become automatic.

  At least in my head.

  “You were at Walter Reed?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “You said you got blown up. You didn’t say you were sent to Walter Reed. ”

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “I got burned pretty badly in the explosion.” I rub my hand against my right thigh, feeling the damaged flesh. “That’s part of why I hate the dark.” I swallow hard. “The burns got me sent first to Walter Reed, then San Antonio.” I breathe out, deep, slow. “They’re healed now. I can even feel a little bit of sensation in some places. So it’s coming back. Maybe.”

  “Jesus, Nalini, I didn’t know.”

  I try to make my smile genuine, but it’s not easy. “I don’t really talk about it. I’m not ashamed of it. But I’m not using it as my calling card, either.”

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” He drags his hand through his hair. “That means the morning we spent in the basement…the storm…”

  “It was an act of god that I didn’t spaz out completely,” I admit softly.

  He lifts his hand, touching my shoulder. It’s not gentle. Not hesitant. Strong. Reassuring. Warm.

  “I’m grateful you were there,” he says after a moment. “I mean, without the personal trauma and all.”

  Now my smile is more genuine. I rest my hand on his thigh. I’m not sure if I need the connection more or if I’m offering it to him. “That’s the heart of it, isn’t it? The stuff we carry around?”

  I lean into him, shoulder to shoulder, the simple human need for connection. “I’ll listen. If you want to talk.”

  16

  Caleb

  I follow her to her apartment, her hand threaded with mine the entire time. I’m not sure what I’m doing. I’m not sure what I’m going to say. It’s all tangled up in my lungs and making it hard to breathe. But it’s easier. To be here in her space.

  Her apartment is small, overlooking the new luxury apartments near the Harris Teeter grocery store. Hers is not one of the luxury apartments. It’s small and clean and tidy. Pictures of her family are scattered along the wall leading to her bedroom. Pictures that look like they were taken in India. Some in Maine.

  She’s smiling in all of them.

  Her palms are warm as she slips behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist. “I have a big family.”

  “Is that a saree?” I point to one of the pictures with her and several other Indian women in brightly colored dresses. She’s wearing bright gold and turquoise blue.

  “Yeah. It was one of my cousins’ weddings.”

  “It looks complicated.”

  She makes a noise and it vibrates through my back. “Draping a saree is a life skill that every auntie in India can do.”

  “Can you drape one?”

  “Yes.”

  I turn into her embrace. Her hands slide around my waist and her head comes to rest against my chest. My arms slide around her shoulders but she is the one holding me. Her embrace is quiet. Strong. Warm. Filling me with connection.

  With something as simple as a hug.

  Part of me tries not to break a little at the well of emotion her touch has unlocked.

  I clear my throat. “I meant to come back yesterday. I’m sorry.”

  “
I was worried. And since I don’t have your phone number, I couldn’t stalk you to make sure you were all right.”

  I make a noise. “Are you asking for my number?”

  “For purely professional reasons.” I love hearing her voice vibrate against my chest, my throat.

  I close my eyes, savoring the touch of her skin. The heat. The warmth. The pure human connection that’s been so missing in my life. That I used to fill with drunk sex and obnoxious behavior.

  “My mom died in a Chinook crash with thirty-eight other soldiers. Turns out, reading about it is a lot harder than just remembering it.”

  “Jesus.” Her words are a whisper. Filled with horror. And something else I don’t want to consider.

  “And then I couldn’t stop reading. About the war. About the lack of armor when they invaded. About the lack of planning that went along with everything.” The anger grips my throat once more, squeezing the air out of my lungs. “My mom died because we were stupid. Because our brilliant military leaders failed to plan. I’ve been reading about the thirty-eight people who died with my mom. And we sent them there, to be slaughtered. Why? Because some stupid politician lied to us? That’s why my mom died?”

  My voice breaks. I can’t speak anymore or I might start to scream. The impotent rage is back, boiling. The need to drink is strong. Damn near driving me to The Pint, Eli’s warning about not coming back unless I can stay sober be damned.

  Her fingers are tight on my back.

  I don’t want this. I don’t want her pity. I don’t want the empty platitudes that are really the only answer to the futility of what we did.

  I slide her hand off and push away. Going anywhere but here. Needing to get away. To get space. Air. Something.

  I start to head for her door.

  Her voice stops me. “Where are you going, Caleb?”

  Her question cuts at me. Digs deep into old wounds that never healed. “I think I need some space.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  I round on her, my fists balled between us. “Don’t. Don’t tell me what I do or don’t need. Don’t tell me I need to let this out and not bottle it up. You don’t know what this is like. What my entire fucking life twisted into after she left me.”