by Annie Stone
We still need to keep functioning. We cannot allow ourselves to break down yet. I squeeze Spider’s arm, one of the few places where he isn’t burned or bleeding. What a nightmare. What a goddamn nightmare.
Back at Camp Leatherneck, Spider, Jumbo, and Fire are taken to the CSH, the Combat Surgical Hospital. As soon as they’re stable, they’re flown to Ramstein. I can’t even imagine what it must be like for Fire. To lose both legs… I can’t stand the thought of it. It’s too horrible.
“Killer, they want to debrief us,” Florida says quietly. I can’t believe only two people are left unharmed. We were a team of eight. Now it’s just Florida and me. I look at the wounds covering each of our bodies. I guess we weren’t totally unharmed. But they’ve all been treated, and they weren’t bad, considering. Florida has a gash on his forehead, but no signs of a concussion.
We’re picked up by two other men who are supposed to accompany us to the debriefing. When we get there, we salute our superiors and are told to explain what happened. As we’re in the military, it’s more a sprint than a jog. Questions are fired like bullets, and we fire answers back like a reflex.
No, sir, we only noticed a minute before that something was about to happen. Yes, sir, they caught us cold. No, sir, all three of them were eliminated.
“Sergeant Tilman, you saw them first?” a general asks me.
“No, sir, I heard a buzzing sound and told our commander. The same moment Corporal Davis saw them, sir.”
“How do you know?”
“He shouted ‘fuck,’ and we all looked in the direction they were coming from, sir.”
“And what happened next?”
“Sir, we saw that the rocket-powered grenade was going to be fired any second and tried to find cover, sir.”
“Did you find cover?”
“No, sir. When the grenade hit, I was caught by the pressure wave, sir.”
“You were not injured?”
“No, sir.”
“What happened to the others?”
“Sir, I guess they couldn’t find cover fast enough, sir. As soon as I was back up on my feet, specialist Tyson and I fired at the Taliban. He gave me covering fire so I could examine our comrades, sir.”
They’re quiet for a moment, like they’re going through it again to see whether it all fits together.
“Sergeant Tilman. Specialist Tyson. Before you go out again, you are going to see a therapist. Only once he declares you fit will you be assigned another team. Step away.”
We salute and leave the room. Great. I know it helped Carey to talk about things, but I’m not Carey. I bet once I start I won’t be able to stop, and then I’ll end up talking about things I’m not ready to talk about. But the military has learned a lot in its storied past. Some people came back cripples from the Vietnam War, but those who still had limbs were wounded by the terrors they’d seen and suffered with post-traumatic stress syndrome. Studies right after the war showed about fifteen percent of veterans were suffering from PTSD. Studies done twenty-five years after the war showed that four out of five soldiers reported they were suffering symptoms.
Back then, a lot of it remained untreated. Today, about fifty percent of victims still don’t seek help. Especially soldiers, who often feel they have to be tough and strong, shining examples of masculinity. But I guess this is better than being one of the eight thousand soldiers who commit suicide every year.
“Sit down, Sergeant,” says Major Sawyer, my therapist.
I sit in the armchair. I don’t like the couch. It looks like too many soldiers have confided in him there. Which feels like a bad sign.
“Tell me why you’re here.”
I put both hands on my neck. “We were on a mission in what we thought was a pacified area. My unit was attacked by enemy fighters. Three of our men died, and three were heavily wounded. Only two of us got out unharmed, sir.”
He nods. “You don’t have to be that formal in here. We don’t need to stick to military etiquette. It’s a protected space. Nothing you say in here is going to leave this room.”
Nodding, I release a long breath. I hadn’t realized how tense I’d been.
“How did you feel when your friends were wounded and killed?” Major Sawyer asks carefully.
The situation is freaking me out. Everything inside me rebels against the idea of telling this guy details of my emotional life. It’s nobody’s business what’s going on in my head. Still, at the same time, I know I don’t stand a chance at staying quiet. If I want to go back to active service, I need to cooperate. And I do want to. In spite of everything.
This war is not only about terrorists attacking the United States, it’s also for all our brothers who have already died in battle. We’re avenging them every day.
“Like a loser,” I finally admit.
“Why?”
It’s pretty obvious, but I indulge him. “Because I couldn’t help them. Because I got away unharmed while Fire lost both legs.”
“Were you standing close to the enemy fire?”
I shake my head. “No. Not as close as some others. I think Spider was closest.”
“What happened to Spider?”
I look at the floor. “He was hit in the stomach. There was blood everywhere. So much blood. It was coming from his wound, but also from his mouth and his ears. They operated on him and sewed him back together, but it’s looking bad.” I swallow. The idea that Spider may no longer be with us is abhorrent.
“How do you feel when you think about him? About your friend?”
I run my hand across my face and press my fingers against my temples. “Guilty. He’s a much better person than I am.”
“Why do you think that?”
I lean forward, putting my elbows on my knees. “Spider’s the kind of person who’s always there for you. You can fuck up a lot, and he’ll still be there to help you clean up the mess. He’s a great commander. He has a natural air of authority about him you just have to respect without him having to do anything about it.”
“Sounds like a good friend.”
I nod. “Yes, a very good friend. It kills me to know he’s on his way to Germany, and I might never see him again.”
“Have you ever lost a friend before?”
I’m quiet for a moment and think about Joey, and for some reason, that leads to thinking about my other friends, too—Devon, Killian. And Carey. Somehow, I’ve lost him, too.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to talk about that?”
I shrug. “Joey Montana was killed a few months ago. He was one of two friends I knew from boot camp. The other one, Killian, is at Force Recon now. We made it through BUD/S together. But we haven’t really kept in contact.”
“So you feel like you’ve lost him, too?”
“Kind of, yeah.”
“Friends we leave behind or grow apart from are not completely lost to us. We have a chance to get in touch with them again.”
“Even if something happened that makes it…impossible?” The major doesn’t know it, but I’m not talking about Killian anymore.
“Impossible is nothing. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. I know that sounds like an empty phrase, but it’s true.”
“What if I’m the reason they never want to be my friend again?”
“That’s easy. We can change if we want to.”
I nod, but that doesn’t really answer my question. “What if it breaks my heart to be in touch with this person?”
He looks at me for a moment. Behind his round glasses, his small eyes observe me closely as he says, “Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind?”
He’s got me. I look at my fingers. And that reminds me of Mac’s fingers, looking so tiny between mine.
“My brother Carey… There’s this girl. This woman, I mean. She’s my dad’s girlfriend. I fell in love with her. In the beginning, I thought it was just a crush, but the more I got to know her the more I fell for her.” I swallow and look at the floor, unabl
e to look at him because I’m so embarrassed. My buddies were killed in war, and all I can think about is Mac and the fucked-up situation we’re in. And here I thought I was over her.
“I thought we had a chance,” I go on, “but…my dad loves her. And she loves my dad. My brother just told me she had a baby. So there’ll never be a chance for us now.” I stop talking for a moment, trying to contain my emotions. “It kills me to know she had a baby with somebody else. And it kills me to know that somebody is my dad. It kills me that she doesn’t want me.” I absentmindedly stare at the design in the wood floor. “And it kills me to know I’ve lost my little brother because of her.”
“Why?”
“He’s still living at home and keeping in touch with her. So I’ve shut him out of my life as much as I can. I don’t want to hear about her, don’t want to know anything about her. I can’t.”
“You don’t have to stop talking to your brother just because you don’t want to talk to her.”
“But what chance do I have? He loves her. Not like me, but like a brother loves his sister. She’s his best friend. She’s part of his life. He’ll talk about her.” Agitated, I run my hand over my short hair.
“So tell him not to.”
“You don’t understand. The last time I talked to him, the first words out of his mouth were about Mac having her baby. I can’t do it. It would drive me crazy. If I call him again, he’ll tell me something else about her. He won’t give me a chance to tell him not to talk about her.”
“Write him an email.”
“But my inbox is full. I don’t want to read what’s in there.”
“Emails from your brother?”
I nod. “And from her.”
“Okay, so create a new account. Write an email to your brother. Ask him not to talk about Mac the next time, not to tell her about your new email account.”
“You think?”
He nods slowly. “It’s clearly torturing you not to be in touch with one of the most important people in your life. I understand that you don’t see another chance to have a good relationship with Mac, but you can have your brother back.”
I need to ask. I hate that I’m such a pussy, but I need to ask. “What about Mac?”
He gives a little shrug. “Some people believe it’s better to keep the people you love in your life even if you cannot get exactly what you want from them.”
“What do you think?”
“That’s not important. What’s important is what you think. Do you believe you can keep Mac in your life if she’s happy with your father?”
I don’t even hesitate. “No.”
“So there’s your answer. As long as nothing about her relationship with your father changes, nothing is going to change about your relationship with her.”
“Even if it did change, it doesn’t mean we’d be together.”
“That’s true. We cannot change others. We can only change ourselves.”
“But how can I forget her?”
“You probably can’t. But you can learn to live with it.”
“How?”
“Take it one day at a time.”
21
Mackenzie
I look at my daughter Hazel, playing in the sand. She makes me so happy. By ten months, she learned to walk, and at fifteen months, she’s turned into a true whirlwind. You have to keep an eye on her all the time, or she’ll wander off somewhere on her own. She’s completely fearless, always looking for new adventures, getting up whenever she falls, and just going, going, going.
We’re at the beach, and Carey’s running after her. He’s crazy about his niece. She wrapped him around her little finger the very first moment they saw each other. He would do anything for her, including murder, I’m fairly sure.
It’s nice at the beach, not really sunny enough for sunbathing, but warm enough. Tomorrow, Hunter turns twenty-three. I wonder whether he’s already on his way back to Afghanistan. His second deployment has to be starting within the next few days. At least that’s what Carey told me, when I begged for information.
I miss him. Every single day. I miss seeing him with Hazel, though I’m not sure you can miss something you’ve never even known. But the longing feels the same. I wish Hazel could experience her dad looking at her like her uncle does—with unconditional love.
I still hope he’ll make it back to us one day. Hazel has Hunter’s brown hair and brown eyes and looks exactly like him. Her fluffy curls—I wonder whether Hunter’s hair is curly, too, when it isn’t buzzed—are so soft I want to touch them all the time. But she’s not always up for it. It’s already happening much too often, her refusing my cuddling. My independent girl is very good at making her wishes known.
“Mommy!” she calls, laughing. Like every time she says that word, my heart cramps up with a mixture of happiness and sadness. Happiness because she’s saying mom before dad, and sadness because I would have loved to miss out on that triumph if I could have had Hunter by my side instead.
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Tum. Ball!”
I get up from my blanket and kick the little ball over to her. Smiling, she tries to pick it up but doesn’t quite catch it—and then, suddenly, she has sand on her tongue. She sits down, smacking her face with her little hands.
“Sand is ick,” Carey says, and I give him a severe look, because I don’t want him to use baby language. “Sand is gross,” he corrects himself.
“Much better,” I say and sit down next to Hazel to wipe off the sand she hasn’t eaten yet.
“Dross!” she coos cheerfully.
Carey laughs and picks her up. He swings her through the air, and she laughs boisterously. He kisses her cheek, and she beams at him. She’s definitely her uncle’s child. She only liked me for as long as she was breastfeeding.
“I have to start watching what I say now, huh?” he says contritely.
I shrug. “I just don’t want to keep up the baby language. I want her synapses to connect properly.”
“Did you hear that? Mommy wants you to go to Harvard,” he tells Hazel, sounding completely serious.
“Haawad.”
“We have to buy her a Veritas T-shirt,” I say, making Carey laugh.
“Oh no, she’s going to go to college in San Diego,” he says. “I’m not letting her go that far away, especially not when she’s eighteen.”
“Eighteen.” She beams.
Carey runs his hand over her soft head. “That’s my girl. You’re so clever.”
He looks at her the way teens look at their favorite celebrity. It’s incredible how much he adores her. It makes me so happy. Carey’s such a great young man. And considering he’s not even twenty-one, he has an amazing sense of responsibility. I don’t know what I’d do without him.
“You two.” I smile.
“Two!”
“Maybe she’s going to be a mathematician,” Carey jokes, throwing her in the air again. She squeals when he catches her. My heart stops every time he does that, but I know he’d rather chop off his own hand than let anything happen to her. She’s safe in his arms.
“Are you hungry?” I ask her. “Or are you full from all the sand you’ve eaten?”
She smiles and smacks Carey’s face. “Sand.”
He strokes her little tummy. “Had enough? Or can we fit some more in there?”
“Um-um.”
“That was pretty clear,” I say and fold the blanket. I pack our stuff while the two of them run around a bit. Carey’s a saint, because my child never gets tired.
We drive home, and I fix us something to eat while Carey gives her a bath. The bathroom is always flooded afterwards, but it’s so cute seeing the two of them together in there. I lean against the doorframe to watch them have fun. He washes her hair and arranges her soaked strands into little horns. He hands her a mirror because she wants to see herself.
She plays with the bubbles, blowing at them and making them fly around—because I made the mistake of showing her how to
do that once.
“Mommy!” she calls when she sees me, proudly blowing little clumps of froth at me.
I clap my hands. “Yay, it’s snowing!”
She laughs and leans back—and falls back into the water. Before I can react, Carey has already pulled her up again. She coughs up water, looking more surprised than terrified. I kneel down next to Carey, and when she starts crying, she stretches her arms out toward me.
“It’s okay, honey,” I murmur. “It’s okay. Carey saved you.”
She nods and looks at him but snuggles up to me. I mean, honestly, staying dry is overrated, right? It’s nice to know she still needs me in times of crisis.
Carey lovingly smooths back her hair. “I’ll always save you, baby.”
She smiles at him and sits down in the tub again. I wind up the little plastic frog that can move its legs and swim in circles, even though she finds it less spectacular than we thought she would when we bought it. With her little watering can, she pours water over the frog, then over our hands and arms. And finally, over Carey’s head, which signals the end of our bath.
Carey wraps her up in her tiny bathrobe and takes her to her room to get her dressed while I set the table. When they get back, we eat together. Hazel still gets mushy baby food, but she prefers to eat what we’re eating. Or rather: she prefers to play with what we’re eating and make a great big mess. Because, obviously, she’s perfectly capable of eating all by herself, so she starts screaming if we try to help her. The little brat.
I tuck her in and kiss her, and then we wait for uncle Carey to say good night and turn on her little music box. She loves that thing. Carey bought it, obviously.
“Have you heard anything from Hunter?” I ask when we adults are finally sitting alone on the couch.
He nods. “He’s flying back to Afghanistan tomorrow. He’s in Germany at the moment.” Hunter contacted Carey asking that they stay in touch but that Carey doesn’t talk about me. Since Carey was much too happy to hear from his brother, he agreed. He doesn’t tell Hunter anything about me and Hazel, but he tells me things Hunter writes to him. Not everything. After all, I’m sure they talk about things that should stay between them. But at least I know how Hunter’s doing. I know his friend Joey was killed. And his friend Spider was heavily wounded in action and didn’t make it in the end. I also know Killian was sent to Iraq with his FORECON team. I wonder whether Hunter’s jealous. That’s something he trained for and quit just because he wanted to get away from me. Does he hate me for it? Driving him into that decision? I hope not, but it wouldn’t surprise me.