Somebody, Please Tell Me Who I Am

by Harry Mazer

  Ben ran ahead and pulled open the Humvee door. With its armor, the thing weighed four hundred pounds.

  “Back it up, Bronx!” Johnson was shouting. “And follow the Yellow Brick Road home. Around Hadjiville!”

  Mendez jerked the Humvee into reverse. Then he turned and took a wide berth around the two clay shacks, which were now deserted.

  No. There was a kid, a little girl in a ripped white smock, standing petrified in the shadow of the last house. In the pathway of the Humvee was a small, stuffed red doll.

  Tickle Me Elmo.

  Ben remembered. Hayseed had given it to the kid just last week. It was a gift from a Sunday school in a Tennessee church. Now it was splayed out in the sand, and the little girl who left it there was too scared to fetch it. Mendez swerved.

  Catwoman was steady in the mount, her rifle pointed across the desert. “Got the Three Stooges in sight!” she shouted.

  The Humvee shook with her machine-gun fire. Maybe one hundred fifty yards away, one of the men dropped. “Straighten out! Straight! That wasn’t our guy!” she bellowed.

  Ben could feel the Humvee accelerate. The child was staring now, but not at the toy. She was fixing the men in her gaze as if trying to record their faces, her eyes a luminous, steely blue.

  Behind her, a wiry boy stepped out of a door. Maybe twelve years old. He thrust his hand forward, shaking. In it was a sliver of metal.

  Ben felt a fist clutch his heart.

  “The toy!” he shouted. “THE TOY!”

  It was the last thing he said before the Humvee rolled over Elmo.

  September 15

  At 07:43:48:25:07, a shaky finger presses send.

  A signal reaches a hidden cell phone. The phone detonates a small mortar shell packed with screws, nails, and bolts.

  The ground explodes in a hailstorm of dirt and rock. The phone is instantly pulverized. The force upends a four-ton armored vehicle like a toy truck. The metal debris penetrates much of what was left intact.

  The heat incinerates the flesh of soldiers protected by Kevlar helmets, ceramic-shell Kevlar vests, and thick boots. A wave of superheated, extreme high pressure instantaneously boomerangs to extreme low.

  Human tissue violently contracts and expands. The sturdiest structures, bone and flesh, fare the best. But blood bubbles, eardrums snap, hearts go into shock.

  Brains fold inward on themselves and then billow outward, soft as trapped jellyfish. The precise electrochemical connections short-circuit—connections that control thought, smell, taste, touch, sight, sound, movement, memory. Connections that define what it means to be human.

  In a millisecond, that definition changes.

  And, at 07:43:48:25:08, so does the life of Benjamin Bright.

  September 16

  “When did it happen?” Mrs. Bright said into the phone.

  “What?” her husband said. “What happened? Put it on speaker!”

  Niko fought to stay upright. They were all cleaning up after a late summer barbecue, a celebration of Chris’s fifteenth birthday, when the call had come in.

  Mrs. Bright fumbled with the phone for a moment, and then a tinny voice blared out:

  “ . . . medevaced him with several of the other boys immediately after the incident, where emergency care was given en route to Baghdad . . .”

  Oh god, oh god, oh god. Niko had had nightmares about this very thing. Ben’s tank running over a mine. He had made the mistake of uploading The Hurt Locker, even though Ariela had told him he was crazy to do it. “Is . . . is he . . . ?” Niko said.

  Mrs. Bright nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. Leaning toward the phone, she said loudly, “And what’s his condition now?”

  “Stable,” the voice replied. “The tank shielded him from serious physical damage. Some shrapnel in both legs, but no loss of limbs, no severe internal tissue wounds. The size and proximity of the blast, however, has put him into a temporary coma. There are preliminary signs of TBI, but those are to be expected.”

  “TBI?” Mrs. Bright said.

  Chris, who had been manipulating a Rubik’s Cube that someone had given him, piped up, “Traumatic Brain Injury. Ben has Traumatic Brain Injury.”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” the voice replied. “Forgive me for not explaining that, Ma’am—”

  “There are three different scales to measure traumatic brain injury,” Chris said. “There’s the Glasgow Coma Scale—”

  “Ssh, not now, Chris!” Mr. Bright said, then turned back to the phone. “When do you expect him to regain consciousness?”

  “Unclear, Sir,” came the reply. “It will take some time to know the extent of the damage.”

  “You just said there was no damage!” Ben’s dad blurted out. His face was bone-white, his eyes wide and hollow-looking.

  “In situations such as this,” the tinny voice continued, “there may be a degree of memory loss, mood swing, severe headaches. With bleeding, there is risk of certain kinds of stroke. Encroachment on the cranial nerves could affect eye movement, muscle control, touch, and smell. Things of that nature.”

  “Things of that nature,” Mr. Bright murmured.

  “Where is he now?” his wife asked.

  “Landstuhl, Germany, at the moment, sir,” the voice answered. “He is safe and breathing well. We believe Benjamin is stable enough to fly to Walter Reed tomorrow or the day after. Can there be someone there to meet him?”

  “You bet your four-star ass,” Mr. Bright said.

  His wife gave him a sharp look. “Thank you so much, Captain. We will be there.”

  September 16

  Ariela hated waking up after one o’clock p.m. It meant you might not make it from the dorm to Prince in time for lunch, and you were stuck with having to pay somewhere else or starve until dinner. Plus, it was a Sunday and she had planned for a marathon session at the library to work on a paper that was due the next day, and she was ripped at herself for partying so late last night. Not to mention the fact that, upon her return, she had to sleep on the common room sofa because her roommate Kate had a guy in their bedroom, with whom she argued until five a.m.

  Rushing to get out of the room, she was in no mood to receive a text from Niko. “Leave me alone,” she murmured, setting her phone to vibrate and sliding it into her backpack. She leaned into her mirror and fixed her unruly mountain of bed-hair.

  “I take it that wasn’t your boyfriend,” said Suzanne, her other, less volatile roommate, who was from Vermont and woke up with perfect straight hair every day, not that there was any causal relationship.

  “I wish,” Ariela replied, swinging her pack over her shoulder. “It’s his best friend.”

  “Yeah? What’s he look like?”

  Ariela laughed. “You don’t want to know. He’s been a mess since Ben left. He’s more worried about him than I am. And that’s saying a lot.”

  Before leaving, she adjusted her ring snugly. It had become too big over the last month, a reminder that she’d lost ten pounds since arriving at Chase College. The insomnia and lack of appetite had taken their toll. It was abnormal to lose weight during freshman year, her envious friends never ceased to tell her. But it was also abnormal to have a fiancé, let alone a fiancé who happened to be in a war. Everybody was pretty cool about it; they asked all the right questions and didn’t look at her like she was some kind of simpering war bride. But still, it would have been nice to have one friend who knew what this felt like.

  Suzanne was ready now, so they both barged out of the suite and rushed down the corridor. In the bathroom someone was gargling aloud to a blasting iPod dock. They went down the stairs and out the front door, into a warm September afternoon.

  “Is he gay?” Suzanne asked.

  “Ben?” Ariela replied. “I hope not.”

  “No! The best friend!”

  “Just a little compulsive. Plus he’s still a high-school senior, so he’s near Ben’s family, and all the reminders. . . .”

  They crossed the street and turned r
ight onto Center Path. This was Ariela’s favorite part of Chase, a gentle gravel/dirt path that bisected the campus and served as a gathering place for students. She liked the sense of comfort and familiarity here. Even though she’d only been in college a month, she already knew pretty much all the faces.

  “Have you heard from him lately?” Suzanne asked.

  “Niko?” Ariela said. “All the time.”

  “No, your boyfriend. Fiancé. Whatever.”

  Ariela sighed. “Not really. He can’t write a lot. The webcam doesn’t work, and they can’t really use the phone. So it has to be e-mail. And even that’s not great, because everyone has to line up, so there’s pressure to finish, and everyone’s looking over your shoulder. It sucks.”

  “Sext him, baby,” Suzanne said. “Let the whole base get off.”

  “Oh god, you’re giving me naughty ideas.”

  “Ah, well, at least there’s no competition, right?” Suzanne said. “As they say, ‘no horizontal mazurka with a lady who’s wearing a burkha.’”

  “Did you just make that up?” Ariela asked.

  “Speaking of horizontal mazurka . . .” Suzanne was looking over her shoulder at a tall, tired-looking guy who was lurching across Mather Avenue. “Oh, Colter, make me happy,” she said under her breath.

  “That’s a name? Colter?” Ariela said.

  “Yes. And even though he looks like that, he’s rumored to be smart. And god, can he sing. You should come to the a cappella meeting tonight. I’m trying out for the Creeks. We could be in it together.”

  “Will you stop?” Ariela said. It was about the ninetieth time Suzanne had bugged her about that topic. A cappella was not theater, and Ariela was way more interested in that.

  “You are such a purist,” Suzanne said.

  Ariela’s phone vibrated again but she ignored it. They were passing through the stone gate into the main part of campus now. Some of the trees were already changing color. The sun glinted against the glass expanse of the art building, and the black crow statues on the roof of Hansom Hall seemed about to fly away.

  She imagined Ben walking with her. He would love this place, she thought, but it would be small for him. With his talents, he’d probably be better off at a big university or a state school. Preferably one nearby. “Does Ohio State have a big theater department?” she asked.

  “Huge,” Suzanne replied. “If you like impersonal universities where people live and breathe football and speak in charming grunts. Why? You thinking of transferring already?”

  “Just asking. For Ben.”

  “Tell him to come here. We can share him.”

  As they veered off to Prince, Suzanne’s phone chirped. She quickly fished it out of her shoulder bag and made a face at the screen. “Five one six area code?” she muttered.

  “Long Island,” Ariela said. “My neck of the woods. Answer. You may have won a trip for two to Lake Ronkonkoma.”

  “Is that a real place?”

  “Must be. I hear it on the train announcements.”

  “Hello? . . . Who?” Suzanne held out the phone, stared at it, and held it out to Ariela. “Weird. It’s for you. Niko?”

  Ariela threw up her hands. “How does he know your number?”

  “He must really like you.”

  “He’s being a pain in the butt. Can you take it? Tell him I can’t talk now. I’m being waterboarded as a sorority ritual.”

  Suzanne raised an eyebrow. “I charge for answering service duties, five hundred a minute.”

  “Okay, okay.” Ariela grabbed the phone. “Make it quick, Niko. I’m in the middle of lunch and the rats are descending on my tray.”

  “I asked at student housing,” Niko’s voice said. It sounded distant and bloodless.

  “What?” Ariela said.

  “That’s how I knew about Suzanne. You were ignoring me, so I called them and asked who your roommate was.”

  “And they just gave you her number, just like that—to a total stranger? Are we in a time warp?”

  “They wouldn’t, until I told them it was an emergency, and you were Ben’s fiancée,” Niko said.

  Ariela stopped in her tracks. It felt as if background and foreground had suddenly merged, so she was seeing everything with equal focus: a squirrel’s mad dash up a tree, a security cart nearly colliding with a skateboarder, a guy in a blue T-shirt juggling three oranges, the clock on her phone clicking to 1:27. As if the intensity would somehow slow time, would prevent Niko from continuing. “What emergency?”

  “You need to come home, Ariela.”

  “Why?” she replied. “Tell me why, Niko.”

  “Just . . . come home.”

  “I’m five hundred miles away, I can’t just come home!” She tried desperately not to raise her voice. She didn’t think she was raising her voice. But now Suzanne was looking at her in horror. “Tell me what happened. Where is Ben? Is he all right?”

  “No,” Niko said. “No, he’s not. He’s been hurt. And we’re all going to Washington to see him. There’s a flight out of Columbus at 6:45, American Airlines. I can pick you up at Washington National. We already reserved the ticket.”

  Ariela let her arm droop. She mumbled a reply but the sound seemed to be coming from somewhere else. She felt Suzanne taking the phone from her hand. She heard her say something to Niko and then good-bye.

  Then she saw nothing except the cool grass beneath her as she sank to her knees.

  September 17

  “He smiled.”

  “Well, I don’t think so . . .”

  “He heard my voice, and he smiled!”

  “I think it was a reflex.”

  “Gas.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what we always said when he was a baby. He’s not smiling, it’s just gas.”

  “Right. Right. I remember that. Right.”

  “He’s not a baby. He knows we’re here.”

  “He looks so cold. Should we get the nurse?”

  “How long before he’s normal?”

  “He is normal!”

  “The doctor said—maybe a couple of weeks, depends on the tests.”

  “What kinds of tests? What are they going to do to him?”

  “They say this kind of injury is unpredictable, Ariela. He had minimal penetration—”

  “No bullets or shrapnel to the head.”

  “Right. That can cause the most overt damage. But this is TBI, traumatic brain injury. He’s lucky to be alive.”

  “Is he going to be conscious again?”

  “They think so.”

  “Because he’s already missed, like, eleven Mets games.”

  “Well, you can tell him all about them, Chris. When he wakes up.”

  “Can I bring the newspaper next time?”

  “Of course.”

  “He really doesn’t look so bad.”

  “The hair will grow back, right?”

  “He looks lumpy and weird. I mean, not weird . . .”

  “He looks so peaceful.”

  “Oh, there, Ariela, don’t cry. Look at him. Imagine how happy he’ll be to see you.”

  “Do you think he’ll be normal in time for his b-b-birthday? So we can celebrate?”

  “That’s five months away—he’ll be running the marathon by then.”

  “And making his Broadway debut.”

  “He hears us, I know it! I can tell.”

  “Hey, bud. Do you know you’re a hero? Do you know that we love you?”

  “The Mets swept the last series in St. Louis, four to nothing, three to two, and nine to eight in eleven innings. They came back from four runs down, with a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth!”

  “Does he have a radio? Maybe we can turn it on for the games.”

  “Right, Ben? You can hear?”

  Noises and voices. Hear. Yes. Voices loud.

  “We all love you, bud. We’re so glad you’re home. Hey, we spoke to Lieutenant Nelson. He says you were among the best he ever saw—”


  “Are. You are.”

  “—and you’re going to be decorated for your bravery, too. Okay. Hey. Anyhoo, they’re gonna chase us out. We’ll be back tomorrow morning, okay?”

  “Chris is bringing a radio!”

  “The newspaper, too. I’ll read you the sports section! The Reds had a perfect game. The chances of a perfect game occurring are one in one hundred fourteen thousand.”

  “Did you feel that, sweetie? That was from Ariela, on your left side, and here’s one from me, mommy.”

  Hurt. Scratch. Bad. Stop.

  “We have to meet with the doctor now, but we’ll be in the next room.”

  “Bye.”

  Sleep.

  September 17

  Niko fidgeted with this cell phone, even though it was off. The small briefing room made him feel claustrophobic and he didn’t like looking at Doctor Parini.

  She was nice enough. Friendly. Actually fairly cute, for a thirty-something doctor. That was the point, really, the perfect makeup and put-together hairstyle. It made everything strange and unpleasant. The measured voice and steady glance as she talked about Ben’s “condition.” Saintly. The class valedictorian all prepped for a blind date. You couldn’t help but feel you had to thank her.

  So nice of you to take the time out of your busy schedule to tell me how my best friend went to Iraq and came back a vegetable.

  Mr. and Mrs. Bright were raw-eyed and looked about ten years older. Ben’s brother Chris was peppering the doc with Chris-questions. She was sizing Chris up, her face uncertain and analytical for a moment, then suddenly snapping into an expression of composed competence. She had probably assessed his “condition” too, pinpointing his place on the autism spectrum to the exact decimal. Ariela had been calm, almost emotionless, when he’d picked her up at National, but from the moment she stepped into the hospital she’d been clutching his hand. She had a killer grip and he’d had to pry her loose, but now he wished he hadn’t. That pain was preferable to this.

  “Imagine you’re in a familiar place,” Doctor Parini said. “You’ve been there a million times. Then, one day, there’s a blinding snowstorm.”