Fifteen minutes later, Jack sat at the kitchen table, an ice pack held gingerly on his contusion, a glass of milk in his other hand. The confusion was clearing, but there remained a lingering sense that something wasn’t right. His hand trembled as he raised his glass to his lips and drank. He was so goddamn thirsty. His throat was on fire, and he was sure he could smell the persistent and distinctive odor of fine powdery sand on his skin—a familiar smell. Jack coughed gently, pushing past a burning low in his throat. He tasted the coppery twinge of blood. Pam came in, wrapped in a blue terry robe, and kissed his cheek again.
“You ok, baby?” She sat beside him at the table and caressed his arm.
“I think so,” he replied.
“Jack, my God! I mean what in the hell was that all about?” Pam leaned her head softly on his arm. “Jesus, Jack, you scared the hell out of me.”
Jack squeezed his wife’s arm and thought a moment.
“I don’t know, baby. I’ve never dreamed anything like that before. God, it was so real.”
Pam gazed lovingly at him and her look made his reality more focused.
“You want to tell me about it?”
“Well,” Jack began slowly, “I was in the war. In Iraq, you know? I guess I was like a Marine, but it wasn’t me. I was, sort of like someone else…” Slowly Jack recounted the details of his dream to Pam as best he could. When he got to the end, the part where he, or Casey or whoever, was shot, he felt a lump in his throat and was surprised when his eyes filled with tears. He looked up at his wife, comforted again by the beautiful gaze which drove deeply into his.
“I just wanted to get home to my girls,” he said and his voice cracked.
Pam held his stare a moment and then stood up. She took the ice pack gently away from his head and examined his wound. Jack could picture her wrinkled brow and pursed lips in his mind and smiled.
“No more bleeding,” she announced.
Then she took both of his hands in hers and pulled him to his feet. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly, her face soft and warm on his chest. Her hair tickled his chin.
“Come on, my war hero. Let’s get back to bed.”
Pam turned and led him by the hand to the stairs. “God, Jack. No more CNN headline news for you for a while, ok?”
Jack chuckled, squeezed his wife’s hand, and then slipped back under the covers of their bed. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Pam curled up beside him under the sheets, her head on his shoulder. Her long hair lay across his chest, which she stroked gently and soothingly. Her touch was like magic.
“Teaching biology too boring for you, Jack?”
Jack hugged his wife and said nothing. As Pam drifted off to sleep, he lay thinking over and over about the images that remained. He was also haunted by a surreal feeling. In the dark he tried to imagine the rest of the room—what color the curtains were, where the closet was. He was dismayed to find the answers that came to him were hesitant and unsure. Unreal was the right word, he thought. He reached out his hand and fumbled for a light on the nightstand. It felt unfamiliar, but he finally found a switch on the base. He clicked it on.
The curtains across the room were blue and yellow, just as he’d guessed—or known, of course. And the closet door, though still uneasily unfamiliar, was right where he had thought it would be.
Pam squeezed her eyes tight and mumbled, “Y’ok?” sleepily.
Jack clicked the light back off and rubbed his wife’s arm.
“Sorry.”
As he drifted off to sleep, Jack was haunted by two things. First was the names of his dead Marine buddies, which ran through his brain again and again, almost like a ringing—Kindrich from Tennessee and Bennet from Texas. The other was the disturbing realization that had Pam not said he was a teacher, which now of course felt right in an unsettled way, he wasn’t sure he could have come up with his job on his own.
Other than leader of Marines.
Hoorah.
Then he drifted away to nowhere, away from his bed, away from Fallujah, to a deep and dark sleep.
A dreamless sleep.
* * *
The unreal feeling quieted but never really left. Jack woke to Pam’s gentle prodding, but he didn’t feel at all rested. He showered and dressed absently, his mind drifting back to his dream over and over again. Though it lacked the intense reality of last night, it still had a quality to it, a rightness that was disturbing. The dream itself and the terror it brought seemed much less intense, but it bothered him how real and vivid his memory of his Marines had been—his friends, as if he really knew them.
Jack wondered if he had somehow incorporated real people into his dream, like Dorothy had in The Wizard of Oz. Not only could he picture them as they had been in battle together, but he found he could picture them in other settings as well. He had a vivid image of Simmons laughing, eating brown rice out of a brown plastic bag, and leaning against a sand berm. He had what felt like a memory of dragging a shit-faced Chuck Bennet, out of a bar near Twentynine Palms Marine Corps Base in California. He had fallen down beside Kindrich’s Mustang and then started laughing uncontrollably. The clarity of these “memories” bothered Jack even more than the images from his nightmare. Where in the hell had those thoughts come from? He knew Simmons had a girlfriend, but he couldn’t remember her name.
Jack realized the water running down on him from the shower head had turned lukewarm. He pushed the thoughts from his mind again and escaped the now chilly shower. As he toweled himself off, he forced his mind instead to his girls. That was the only reality he needed. The thought of them and his life with them made any attachment to the characters from some crazy dream seem ludicrous.
Pam and Claire are my reality.
Jack looked at himself in the foggy mirror, squinting to somehow see behind his own eyes. He saw nothing but his own face. Why did these “memories” seem so goddamn real?
In contrast, as he walked around his house, kissed his wife, and sipped his coffee, he felt unnatural. Or staged, maybe. Yeah, that was more it. He felt like he was role‐playing, almost. The undertone really bothered him and he couldn’t shake it. The only thing that felt completely real and natural about the whole morning was Claire. He picked her up from her high chair to kiss her good-bye, and she grabbed his nose, burped, and then smiled a giggly smile.
“Daaa-dy,” she cooed.
Jack felt overwhelmed for a moment by his love for his little girl—by her look, and touch, and smell. The feeling seemed to push his uneasiness into the background. By the time he slid into the driver’s seat of his green Volvo, the feeling was just noise, barely available to his senses, and easily drowned out by Toby Keith singing about his “Whiskey Girl” on the radio.
The school day passed by smoothly at first. As Jack got into his role of teacher, the dreamlike quality dissipated. He taught his third‐period class a review of the cell cycle, and answered his students’ questions without thinking. That was good, because on the few occasions when he did think about the questions, he would feel a momentary panic, as if he didn’t know what he was talking about. Then the answers would just pour out as soon as he opened his mouth.
A few times he felt the nagging sensation of getting away with a charade. The ten minute breaks between classes, when the room was quiet and he had nothing to focus on, brought the anxiety back and the surreal memories with it. He could almost smell the distinctive odor of Iraqi dust. Then the next class would begin and the images would fade away again. By lunch period the dreamlike feeling again seemed only background noise, and he headed out of his classroom to get something to eat.
“Hey, Jack!”
Jack turned around and saw a man about his age looking at him with curiosity. He was dressed in chinos and a black T-shirt under a blazer. Jack felt his heart quicken, but he didn’t know why.
“Yeah?” he answered uneasily.
“You may have the others fooled, but I know what’s really going on here,” the man said
in a thick Chicago accent, his hands on his hips.
“What do you mean?” Jack shifted uneasily and felt his mouth go dry. What was this guy’s name? Chad?
“Lunch room is this way, pal.” He looked stern. Jack stood still, unsure what to do. Then the man laughed and strode over, wrapping an arm around Jack’s shoulder. “I thought you quit smokin’, dude!”
Jack relaxed and let out his breath.
“Yeah, I did. Just habit I guess.” Jack didn’t remember ever smoking. He turned and walked in the other direction with his friend.
“You bring lunch or are we scoring burgers?”
“No…uh…I didn’t bring anything,” Jack answered.
“Sweet!” his friend replied, rubbing his palms together. “Finally took a stand against Pam’s healthy life plan, huh?”
“Yeah,” Jack laughed. That felt right somehow. Salad and dressing in separate Tupperware. He relaxed again.
“Shapin’ the young minds, pal?” his friend asked as they walked through the double doors into the noisy lunch room. Young teens laughed and talked loudly at the round institutional tables spread out around the room. Jack scanned the colorful homemade posters scattered randomly on the walls, telling of upcoming club meetings and a dance next Friday.
“Doing my part, Chad,” Jack replied easily. They grabbed trays and slid them down the twin metal bars, past prepackaged salad and little bowls of Jell-O. Chad stopped in front of the grill. A middle‐aged woman stared back at them with a wry smile from under her blue, net-covered grey hair.
“Two cheeseburgers, Sheila, but you can put ‘em both on one bun,” Chad ordered.
“You know I’m not supposed to do that,” Sheila said with an insider’s smile.
“Yeah, yeah. Come on, sweetie. And extra fries with that, ok?”
Sheila sighed and turned to Jack.
He smiled. “Same,” he said.
Jack followed Chad out of the line with his tray, and the two wound their way through the scattered tables to the exit. Several yards down the hallway, Chad led them through a door marked Faculty Lounge. Inside several other teachers chatted at one of the two tables and Chad set his tray on the other.
“Soda?” Chad asked, reaching into the large refrigerator.
“Sure,” Jack replied. Chad tossed his friend a diet Coke underhand, which Jack caught easily. On a TV in the corner the CNN headline news reporter, clearly chosen for bouncy, blonde good looks and full lips—a decision highlighted by her low‐cut blouse—droned on about stock market trends. Jack slid into a chair and took a big bite of his double cheeseburger.
“Mmmmm.” He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until that first bite.
Chad took a huge bite of his own dietary sin and rolled his eyes in delight.
“Yeah,” he exclaimed with a full mouth. “Being bad tastes pretty damn good, eh, Jack?”
Jack smiled his reply and twisted the top off his Coke. Then something the TV blonde was saying caught his attention—something about Fallujah—and he turned quickly towards the screen. The picture was file footage of Marines advancing through the streets of a war torn and dusty town.
…for the town of Al Fallujah. The fierce fighting continued yesterday, but not without casualties on….
“I think we ought to talk to Anderson about…”
“Quiet!” Jack ordered sharply, his hand outstretched towards Chad. The curt command caused Chad to stop in midsentence, his mouth open, and then he followed Jack’s gaze towards the TV.
…numbering perhaps as high as 50 killed and hundreds wounded or captured according to several military sources. Coalition forces suffered yesterday as well, with three Marines reportedly killed and another seriously wounded during a brutal firefight in the city’s war-ravaged streets. The names of the killed and injured Marines were not released, pending notification of families here at home. Although military authorities report that coalition forces now control nearly half of the city, they caution that the violence there is far from over. Elsewhere in Iraq, a car bomb has reportedly killed one soldier while four others were wounded in an attack near the town…
Jack’s face paled and a cool sweat spread over his whole body. His throat tightened, and he could hear his pulse pounding in his ears.
“Kindrich from Tennessee, Bennett from Texas…” he muttered. Their faces were vividly clear from his dream. And who else? Who was the third? He knew who the wounded Marine was—Sgt. Stillman…Casey.
Jack felt the room closing in on him, and thought he might suffocate if he didn’t get somewhere with more air. His throat burned low down, but he didn’t have any saliva to swallow. He rose and pushed his chair back from the table so abruptly that it tipped over backwards and crashed to the floor. Then he bolted for the door. His stomach churned as he stumbled into the hall.
“Jack! What the hell?”
“Excuse me,” Jack choked out over his shoulder as he went rapidly down the hall, towards the light from the glass door at the end. As he got closer to the door, the hallway began to tilt and far off he could hear the sound of gunfire. He was only vaguely aware of someone calling out his name as he pushed through the door and into the cool air outside. Jack sucked in a deep breath as he leaned back against the wall, then he fell forward as vomit rose in the back of his throat. He dry heaved twice, managed to keep the bite of Sheila’s secret double cheeseburger safely in his stomach, and spit the bile taste out of his mouth onto the flowers planted beside the school wall.
Just then a shadow passed over him, and the thump, thump of a UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter broke the stillness of the air. He turned his head upward towards the sound, his eyes wide with panic—but the blue sky was empty and silent. A hand on his shoulder made him reel around on one heel, his left hand up defensively, his right reaching behind his hip for his M16A rifle, but he fumbled about grabbing only air.
“Jesus, Jack! Are you ok? What the fuck is going on?” Chad’s face was concerned and frightened.
“Mr. Keller?” Two young girls stood a few yards away, their fourth‐period books clasped tightly to their chests.
“Everything is fine here, ladies. Get on to class now,” Chad said without looking over at them, his voice cracking. The girls shuffled around the two popular teachers and slipped through the door into the school without speaking.
Jack steadied under Chad’s firm grip on his shoulders. Then he stepped back gently out of Chad’s awkward embrace.
“Sorry, man...I, uh…” Jack felt his mind begin to clear a bit. “Man, those burgers must have been laced with E. coli or something. I suddenly got overwhelmingly nauseated. I just about barfed once I got out here. Sorry about all that.” Jack managed an awkward smile.
“Sick?” Chad looked unconvinced.
“Yeah…man, I still feel like I might puke,” Jack replied, the charade more convincing as it took on a comfortable shape.
Chad stepped back without thinking, as folks often do when they think they might get hurled on.
“You do look kinda sick, actually. Jesus, you’re pale as shit.” Chad seemed to relax a bit. “Maybe you should go home. We’ll get one of the subs for you.”
Jack shook his head and took a deep breath. He felt better, his face warmer.
“No,” he replied. “I think I’m all right. Man, it just hit me all of the sudden.” Jack wiped the last of the sweat from his forehead. “Just give me a second.”
“Sure, sure,” Chad answered. “Take what you need. You want me to hang here with you?”
“No, I’m good now. Get back to your lunch. I’ll be in, in a minute.”
“Ok,” Chad agreed. Then he laughed. “You really scared the shit out of me, man. I thought you knew someone from the news. God, you should have seen old Ms. Foster. I think you might have made her pee herself a little.” Chad went back through the door. “Come get me if you need me.”
Jack nodded and smiled as the door closed. Then he leaned back against the wall again.
Kindrich, Bennett
, and someone else. Why would he know that? What was going on? Jack settled on the only reasonable explanation.
He was losing his fucking mind.
Chapter
3
The rest of the day remained a haze in the background of his thoughts as Jack drove home. Twice during the afternoon periods he had floated off in midsentence, his thoughts in a place that, as far as he knew, he had never been. These had been followed by awkward silence as he drifted back into reality, only to find himself gazing out over a sea of confused young faces—his students, who whispered and giggled uncomfortably.
Fifth period was his free period and he spent the entire fifty minutes in the faculty lounge, flipping through the channels to find more information about the Marine deaths in Fallujah. Names. He especially, desperately, needed names. If only the names would be released, he could prove to himself he knew nothing of this place or these people, that his dream and the report were a frightening coincidence. Perhaps he had even heard the story the evening before, and it had rooted in his unconsciousness, coming out as the terrible fantasy later in his sleep.
But the news reports barely even mentioned the battle, the loss of three Marines apparently less interesting to America than how the coming Christmas season might affect stock market trends, a huge fire in an empty warehouse in some South Carolina town, and a story run three times about a girl in New Jersey who dumped her newborn in a trash can (the baby survived, the girl was sorry, but was still being charged). The radio on the ride home provided no more help.
Jack was frightened, but unsure of what. Perhaps the idea of being crazy? Wasn’t that what you were when you had no control over your own thoughts? He found the returning sense that the world around him was less real than his nightmare—that his whole life felt made up—even more concerning. Try as he might, he couldn’t conjure up any emotional details of his life.
Fade to Black - Proof Page 2