I pull my hands away.
Turn away from the salvation I don’t deserve. I look at her room. At the yoga mat in the corner, the tiny altar draped in prayer beads. At the pictures of her family on the walls.
A sanctuary. But the walls and the paint and the floors are only a building.
She’s the soul of this space. The heart of it.
I can feel the burning of the tattoos against my wrists. Against my back.
“My father sent me to military school after my mom died.” I stare at a painting on her wall, of a dark blue teapot with steam coming from the spout. I can see the lines knitting the canvas together. The way the colors saturate the fibers. “It was worse than B1.” The shame crawls over my skin, hot and cutting, like steel through flesh. “I was thirteen. I’d lost everyone and everything that mattered.”
I can feel the heat of her breath against my neck, an echo of the pain piercing my body.
I shudder. “West Point was a sanctuary for me. It was a place where I could finally feel like a man.” I bow my head. Shame is cold and violent inside me. “I finally felt like I belonged. I got off on punishing those we deemed unworthy. I enjoyed it because for once, I had power.”
She is silent, her breathing mixing with mine. It would be better if she left. If I tell the darkness, it can still judge me. It can still torment my sleep.
The nightmares are my penance.
“Nothing that happened to me is an excuse.” My hands are fists by my sides. “I laughed when one of the guys told me how he’d made some of the female plebes cry. I was a willing participant because it hid the shame of what happened to me. I never spoke up. I never defended any of our plebes.”
My throat is tight. My sins are real. Not pretend. Not wiped away.
“I’ve been a raging fucking asshole for years because I chose to ignore what happened to me before I got to West Point. The same culture you rejected, I enjoyed.” My eyes burn and my chest feels like it’s being ripped apart by the violence inside me. “Because it meant I could pretend what happened to me never happened.”
Her arms tighten around my ribs. Her palms are hot against my heart, like she’s holding it together, keeping it from breaking out of my chest.
And I stay. Because I don’t know where I’m going.
And for once, I have somewhere I want to stay.
19
Caleb
The air in my lungs collapses. I am a vacuum. A void.
Complete and utter emptiness. I want to speak but I can’t. There is no force in the world that can force any more words past the block in my chest.
The air is rushing in my ears. I hear nothing but the static noise of the void. The darkness pulling me back, into the drink. Into the defense.
The pain is raw and cutting. The emptiness its own violence. Our shared toxic little sub-culture at West Point is one she rejected, one I embraced.
And then I feel her move.
The soft silk of her fingertips rests against my cheeks. Her palms are warm over the edge of my beard as she slips around to my lap.
“We can both be sorry for our pasts.” She threads her fingers through my hair. I’m afraid to open my eyes. Afraid that she won’t be real. That this will be a dream.
That I will still be alone.
“I can’t atone for the terrible things I did. I can’t go back and undo the damage I caused,” I tell her. The words are rough. Tearing at my throat.
But they need to get out. I deserve the pain. All of it.
“No, you can’t.” She presses into me, sliding her arms around my shoulders. Moving her body closer. And I’m weak enough to wrap my arms around her, to press my forehead to hers. “And neither can I.” She touches her forehead to mine. “Do you know the parable of the prodigal son?”
“I thought you weren’t familiar with the Bible?”
She makes a noise. “I’m not up on the apocryphal stories but I’m familiar with the Gospels. There are myths that Jesus was familiar with Hindu philosophy.”
I swallow, bracing at her words, afraid of where she’s going.
“There were two sons. One who was loyal and stayed and worked his father’s land. The other son was wasteful, went off and squandered his father’s inheritance. And when the wasteful son returned, the father ordered a banquet and the son who stayed was jealous. He had never sinned. He couldn’t understand why his father would embrace his brother who had lived a wasteful life.” She presses her lips against my neck. “His father said that his first son already had his reward in this life. But that his other son had returned to him and he should rejoice.” Her palm is a solid pressure against my heart. “Because not everyone comes back.”
My eyes burn. The fire in my heart is something different now. Something…cleansing.
“You came back, Caleb. I never knew you before. I don’t know the man you could have been if your mom hadn’t died. Or if your father had been a better man.”
I can’t breathe.
“But you are here. You can’t forget. I can’t forget. And in many ways, the hurt I caused will still echo out through this life and the next.” She nuzzles me, petting my side in a way that I’ve started to crave. “But you came back. You changed.”
I don’t know how to speak. How to respond.
The unconditional acceptance… “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” I whisper.
“None of us do.”
“How?” I swallow hard. The storm outside is mere rain sheeting against the windows now. The violence of it no more than distant flashes. “How can you look at me and know I enjoyed part of what hurt you and…still stay?”
“How can you look at me and not ask the same question? I ignored someone I was responsible for. I abandoned her when I should have protected her. I failed in my duty,” she whispers.
I finally dare to look at her. Her brown eyes are warm and sad.
“Do you know what the hardest part of yoga is?”
I frown. “The pants?”
“Ahimsa.” Her voice is steady. She is the calm in the swirling violence of the storm inside me. That’s not fair to put on her. That’s not fair to put on anyone. “Nonviolence. Not just to others. But to yourself.”
Her words connect, reaching the scared and crying child I’ve hidden from the world because he was weak. Because he wasn’t strong enough to fight back against older boys determined to hurt him.
Because he wasn’t strong enough to keep his mother from dying.
“We are most cruel to ourselves. When we refuse to forgive ourselves. When we refuse to let go of the pain and the past. When we refuse to accept what has been. The violence we do to ourselves is so much worse than what anyone else can do to us.”
This isn’t some rehearsed script. This isn’t some speech she prepared for one of her classes. “You’ll always carry the past with you. And it will still hurt.” She cradles my cheeks. Her touch is a lifeline. “But you have to have the compassion to stop punishing yourself. To stop the harm you do every day.” She brushes my hair off my forehead. “You can do penance until the day you slip off the mortal coil. But you don’t have to keep hurting yourself. In that, you have a choice.”
“I deserve it. Everything I’ve done.”
She nods then. “That may be true. And you’re right. You’re not going to wake up tomorrow and magically feel like everything is better. Life is a journey and sometimes, we fall down. Sometimes we take detours off the path we thought we were on.” She swallows. “I won’t tell you that what happened to you is part of God’s plan. I won’t tell you it served a purpose. But for me…I am who I am today because of my past. And I am happy in my own skin. And I fight for that happiness every single day.”
“I’m not as strong as you.” This is my most painful admission. It hits at my greatest fear. The central part of me that is most vulnerable and broken.
“Yes, you are.” She swallows and slips into my arms, pressing her body against mine. “I don’t know where you’re going, C
aleb.” She presses her lips against my throat. “But you won’t have to go there alone.”
Epilogue
Nalini
“You know I don’t like surprises. And I hate being blindfolded even more.”
The only thing keeping me from panic is the warm pressure of Caleb’s chest against my back. “Trust me?”
“That’s the only thing preventing me from freaking out entirely right now.”
“Two more steps.”
He’s taking me into the basement blindfolded. It’s honestly a miracle that I’m still standing and not hyperventilating. “Ready?”
“I have no idea.”
He makes a noise against my back as the blindfold lifts away. The cool November air kisses against my now exposed skin.
But I’m no longer paying attention to the fear of the dark.
My eyes fill with tears as I look at what he’s done. “Happy Diwali,” he whispers against my ear.
I’m utterly speechless. The hallway is lined with small glowing candles, casting brilliant shadows along the wall and the double French doors that lead into one of the lower studios. Inside, though, is a rangoli—a brilliant painted drawing of the elephant-headed god Ganesh with small oil-burning bowls around the outside of the design. The studio is lined with small fragrant candles.
I smile as I notice one in particular at the center of the rangoli painting. “Is that the candle from the storm?”
“Yeah.”
I turn to face him. I narrow my eyes. “I thought you said we weren’t going to make the opening deadline because of the problem with the load-bearing beams?”
He smiles sheepishly. “Surprise?” He rubs the back of his neck. “When you got called to Walter Reed for that research opportunity with the National Intrepid Center of Excellence, I basically roped everyone I know into helping to get this finished in under a week. And I may have lied about the beams.”
“How did you know I was going to get called to Walter Reed?”
He rubs the back of his neck. I’m starting to notice that’s a thing he does when he’s feeling…sheepish. I’m starting to love the gesture. “Maybe I, ah, reached out to my father, who knows some folks there. And asked if they were doing any research on PTSD and trauma and yoga.”
The warmth from the candles caresses my skin. For the first time, the fire isn’t frightening. It’s not terrifying.
“You called your father?” The sheer magnitude of that effort…my heart tightens in my chest.
“It wasn’t easy so, you know, you owe me later.” He clears his throat. “He was just happy that I finally returned his call.”
I laugh and step into his arms, hiding the tears in my eyes. His embrace is welcoming. Welcoming me home. Welcoming the light into the new space. “We’re probably never going to be close. But he made some phone calls for me because I asked him to.”
“Caleb. This…this is amazing.” I nuzzle his neck. “How did you figure out about Diwali?”
“A lot of Google. A lot of reddit forums asking people how not to screw this up. Sam may have linked me up with one of your aunties back in India, who promptly called your mom, who made sure I didn’t screw any of this up.” He rests his forehead against mine. “She wants you to call her, by the way. She says if you don’t, she’s coming to Durham.”
I lay my hands on his chest. The warm beat of his heart is solid and steady beneath my touch. He is solid. A rock.
I rest my forehead against his and close my eyes. “She’ll come anyway, with my dad. She’ll cook and you’ll eat, regardless of whether you like spicy foods or not.”
“Didn’t you say she was a big time computer programmer? She cooks, too?”
“My mother has many talents. Keeping her daughter from going to West Point was not one of them.”
It’s so easy to stand here, in the light of a hundred candles with a man who has come to mean the whole world to me. Who knows my sins and who has touched my heart.
A man who has helped me stand in the light without fear.
A flawed man, but a man who has struggled to find his way.
His hands slip to my neck, embracing me. Holding. Simply connected, body, mind and spirit. I rub my thumbs over the black letters on his wrists. “Where are you going, Caleb?”
“I don’t know. But wherever it is, I hope it’s with you.”
Afterword
Dear Reader,
Alcoholism is not something I take lightly. Most people do not wake up one morning and decide to stop drinking. For those who manage to recover, it remains a lifetime of work, with many struggles and years of pain, both inflicted and experienced. I know first-hand the terrible scars it leaves on families. I know that the portrayal of Caleb’s recovery is not typical and some may find fault with it. Research suggests there are two things necessary for recovery: first, a willingness to change; and second, a strong support group. Caleb hitting rock bottom was the element of change necessary to start on his journey of self-discovery and recovery.
In my research on yoga and trauma recovery, I learned that yoga and mindfulness is a way of linking thoughts to actions, and those actions can lead to successful recovery outcomes. In no way do I mean to portray yoga as a magic cure-all for addiction, but rather my intent has been to demonstrate the validity of scientific studies which support the efficacy of yoga and mindfulness as effective elements of a larger treatment plan.
Which brings me to the next challenge in writing this book. As I learned more about the spiritual elements of full yoga practice and philosophy, I learned more about the cultural history of India and why Indians, especially Indians in the diaspora community, are sensitive to portrayals of yoga that strip away the roots of the practice. Cultural sharing is a norm across human history, but deliberate erasure of cultural practices is a form of ethnic destruction. Some Indians are particularly wary of this due to a history of invasions and forced religious conversions in their homeland and within their cultures from the sixth century onward. My intent with this book is to portray the spiritual side of yoga that has helped me so personally while also portraying it as something that is fundamentally Indian in its origins. Most importantly, I wanted to show respect for the culture and traditions of the family and friends who made me and my family feel so welcome during our visit to Mumbai in December of 2017.
Any mistakes are purely my own.
Go back to the beginning…
* * *
Stay focused. Get a job. Save her father’s life.
* * *
Beth Lamont knows far too much about the harsh realities of life her gilded classmates have only read about in class. She’ll do whatever it takes to take care of her father, even if that means tutoring a guy like Noah - a guy who represents everything she hates about the war, soldiers and what the Army has done to her family.
* * *
Noah Warren doesn’t know how to be a student. All he knows is war. But he’s going to college now to fulfill a promise and he doesn’t break his promises. Except he doesn’t count on his tutor being drop dead gorgeous and distracting as hell. One look at Beth threatens to unravel the careful lies Noah has constructed around him.
* * *
A simple arrangement turns into something neither of them can deny. And a war that neither of them can forget could destroy them both.
* * *
THE FALLING SERIES
Before I Fall: Noah & Beth
Break My Fall: Abby & Josh
After I Fall: Parker & Eli
Catch My Fall: Deacon & Kelsey
Until We Fall: Caleb & Nalini
* * *
Note – these books are fiction. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidence
* * *
The Falling Series, Book 1
Jessica Scott
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ter
Chapter One
Beth
My dad has good days and bad. The good days are awesome. When he's awake and he's pretending to cook breakfast and I'm pretending to eat it. It's a joke between us that he burns water. But that’s okay.
On the good days, I humor him. Because for those brief interludes, I have my dad back.
The not so good days, like today, are more common. Days when he can't get out of bed without my help.
I bring him his medication. I know exactly how much he takes and how often.
And I know exactly when he runs out.
I've gotten better about keeping up with his appointments so he doesn't, but the faceless bastards at the VA cancel more than they keep. But what can we do? He can't get private insurance with his health and because someone decided that his back wasn’t entirely service related, he doesn’t have a high enough disability rating to qualify for automatic care. So we wait for them to fit him in and when we can’t, we go to the emergency room and the bills pile up. Because despite him not being able to move on the bad days, his back pain treatments are elective.
Bastards.
So I juggle phone calls to the docs and try to keep us above water.
I leave his phone by his bed and make sure it's plugged in to charge before I head to school. He's got water and the pills he'll need when he finally comes out of the fog. Our tiny house is only a mile from campus. Not in the best part of town but not the worst either. I've got an hour before class, which means I need to hustle. Thankfully, it's not terribly hot today so I won’t arrive on campus a sweating, soggy mess. That always makes a good impression especially at a wealthy southern school like this one.
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