Wings Over Poppies (Over #2)

by J. A. Derouen

  “So you thought you’d come over and invade my privacy when you had the smallest inkling of an excuse?” He looks skyward and shakes his head.

  “I was trying to be a good person and not stand your ass up.” I plant my hands on my hips and stand firmly behind my reasoning.

  “You expect me to believe you’re here to be polite? Do I look stupid to you?” he says in a low, spiteful tone. “These weekly golf games are my attempt to keep you from making idiotic decisions that get you hurt. They are not an opportunity for you to insert yourself into my fucking life.”

  His words hit me like a perfectly landed slap, and his booming voice reverberates deep within me. All of my good intentions and steely determination wash away in an instant with his hateful words.

  What the hell am I doing?

  “That’s it,” I whisper softly. I look up and meet his eyes. “I’m done. I have to be done. I can’t do this to myself anymore. I want you in my life, but I’m done chasing what doesn’t want to stay.”

  I wait for his reaction, but as always, I get nothing in return. His face is sheathed in cool indifference, masking the ever-present anger, always bubbling right under the surface. For once, I want the anger. I welcome it. If his cold demeanor serves as a disguise, maybe the truth lies in his fury. So I decide to push.

  “Don’t you get it? Do you have any idea what you put me through all these years? I never heard a single word from you after you left. I thought I lost you.” My voices loses strength with every word I speak.

  “You did lose me,” he replies in a nearly inaudible whisper.

  “It would have been kinder to have written and told me it was all a lie. At least I could have moved on with my life.”

  He says nothing. Dead. Fucking. Silence. The only indication that he even hears me is the small tick in his firmly clenched jaw. So I keep going.

  “I get that you were injured in Iraq, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I would give anything to spare you from that pain. But that doesn’t give you the right to lash out at me.”

  He expels a humorless laugh and looks away, shaking his head in frustration. “You think this is about my leg? This? This shit?” He drives a fist into the leg in question. “This is the least of my problems. You’re fucking clueless, Alex.”

  “Then talk to me! Tell me something. Anything.” I approach him tentatively as he backs away, hands raised in protest. “Please, West. Tell me something. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  I see his acknowledgment of my words from years past when his fiery eyes meet mine. As quick as the recognition comes, it fades away.

  “Stop trying to fix me, Alex! Fuck,” he roars, his hand swinging forward, smashing into the water bottle on the workbench. Droplets hit my face, and a loud thud erupts when the bottle hits the wall before dropping to the floor. Liquid slowly pours out of the overturned bottle, creating a quickly growing puddle, but neither of us move to clean it up.

  My voice is shaky, but determined. “I’m not trying to fix you, West. I want you to see that I love you, even though you’re broken.”

  I quietly collect my keys and purse, walk to the edge of the garage, and then turn for one last look at the most beautiful man. His words say one thing while his body is telling a different story. He looks so tortured, and I want to run to him. I want to hold him tightly, so close there’s nothing between us, until the pain that owns him recedes. If only I could make him see that I want to share his burden. But the fact is, I can’t let him break me, and that’s where this is heading. Although it hurts me, it fucking kills me to admit, I’m obviously not what he needs.

  I feel an unexpected calm settle over me, and I know I’m strong enough to leave him. I never dreamed I would have to walk away from him twice in this life, but my love for him has always been filled with insurmountable obstacles. In this moment, like never before, the thought of West and me feels unreachable.

  “Goodbye West,” I whisper, before turning away and walking to my car.

  When I reach out to open the car door, I hear a deafening crash coming from the garage. I wince at the sound, and a sob escapes as I digest the injustice of it all.

  I know, my love, I know.

  I quietly enter the kitchen. The sound of clanging pans and the smell of baking cookies serve as a balm to my broken heart. I round the corner and her face falls the moment she sees me standing there. She knows me so well.

  “Oh, sweet child, get over here,” Miss Anna cries, as if my pain is hers.

  My purse hits the floor with a thud, and I run across the kitchen to meet her. She catches me in a hug, squeezing me tightly.

  “Oh, my girl, it’s going to be all right. I’m here, and it’s going to be just fine. You’ll see,” she croons, rocking me side to side as I sob into her neck.

  I’m where I need to be. I’m home.

  “Beautiful War” by Kings of Leon

  “Mirrors” by Andrew Ripp

  “WEST, YOU KNOW how this works. Therapy is useless if you’re not mentally present. Grunts and huffs do not qualify as answers. Am I wasting my time here?” Caroline asks with a bite of irritation.

  She has every right to be aggravated. I can’t focus on her questions about dreams, anxiety, and everything else PTSD-related, no matter how hard I try. I’ve been crawling out of my skin for days. The hollow feeling keeps growing, burrowing deep into my chest.

  If she wants me to participate, there’s only one thing I can talk about. My focus is painfully singular. “I finally drove her away.” I cross my arms and look away, racked with guilt.

  “Whew! Thank God for that.” Caroline claps her hands. “Now we’re finally getting somewhere.”

  “What?” I’m shocked at her reply.

  “You heard me. We can really get started now that you’ve pulled your head out of your ass. Lord knows it’s been buried up there for quite a while.” She frowns at me and shrugs her shoulders.

  I jerk back and stare at her in disbelief. “Is this normal therapist-client communication?”

  “Are you a normal client?” she asks as she raises her eyebrows. “You know I’ll do what’s necessary. That’s why you chose me, although you may be regretting that right about now. Tell me something, West. Why do you hurt Alex?”

  She asks the question as if she just asked the color of the sky. If only it were that simple. If only I hadn’t asked myself the exact same question more times than I could count.

  “That’s not an easy question, Caroline. I don’t know why I do some of the things I do.”

  “I’m not here for easy answers, West, and neither are you. Dig deep and answer the question. Why do you hurt her?” She continues to push, and I know she won’t give up until I answer. She’s not going to let this go.

  I spring up out of my chair and run my hands over my face in frustration. “Fuck, I don’t know. Just the sight of her makes me angry. The sweeter her words, the more irritated I get. I’m like a pot always on the verge of boiling over. She can set me off with a single word, and then I feel so guilty after. I can’t win.”

  “Why are you angry?”

  “I don’t know!” I snap as I start to pace.

  Caroline stays unusually silent as I wear a hole in her carpet. My thoughts feel jumbled, a tangled mess I’m struggling to unravel.

  “I’m not even sure if I’m mad at her. I’m just consumed with this ever present resentment, and she’s standing there like the perfect target.”

  Caroline sits up straight in her chair, her interest peaked. “What do you resent, West?”

  I stop pacing and turn to her. Is she serious? The better question would be what don’t I resent.

  “My fucking life.” I grit my teeth, barely containing my fury. I clasp my hands behind my neck to calm the shaking.

  “Are you referring to the life you created when you returned home? The one where you isolate yourself?”

  I stop pacing and glare at her. “Watch it, Caroline.”

  “Why didn’t you
contact Alex when you returned from Iraq?”

  “That’s not the issue here.”

  “Answer the question, West. Why didn’t you contact her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Stop,” I warn, barely holding onto my temper. I feel like a caged animal, and my eyes turn to the door.

  Caroline gets up and walks to the door, effectively blocking my exit. “You’re not leaving until you say it.”

  “Fuck!” I yell, gripping the back of the chair. I rest my head on my hands for a moment, hoping for calm to find me. “She doesn’t want me, Caroline. Can’t you see that? She wants him, and we both know he died in Iraq. She doesn’t want this,” I say as I pound my fist into the side of my head. “A fucking head case with a metal leg. She’s searching for something that doesn’t exist. Not anymore.”

  “Those are your words, not hers. You’re projecting your feelings onto her, West. Can’t you see that?”

  “I see I wasn’t good enough for her back then, and I’m sure as hell not good enough for her now. That’s the only truth I know, Caroline.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it,” she yells as she approaches me and places her hands on my shoulders. “I don’t need you to just hear me. I need you to feel me. I need you to digest my words and make them part of you.”

  I resist the urge to pull away from her, not wanting her to see my obvious weakness. I know Caroline will have her say, and I’m only prolonging the inevitable by not meeting her eyes. I look up at her—unshed tears on full display. I wait for the inevitable pity, but it never comes.

  “Son, it’s okay to hurt, to feel the pain of all you have endured. It’s all right to acknowledge the guilt you feel for surviving when others haven’t. But it’s not okay to live there. It ends today, do you hear me?” she asks as she squeezes my shoulder.

  “Yes,” I whisper, nodding my head.

  “Good. That’s good. We’ve made a great deal of progress today, West. I’m proud of you.” She pats my cheek and smiles, looking more determined than ever. She walks calmly back to her desk and flips open her calendar. “Same time tomorrow?”

  “My next appointment is in a week.”

  “No, son, your next appointment is tomorrow.” Caroline points her pen at me and narrows her eyes. “Now that we’ve extricated that head of yours, the real work begins. We’ve got a lot to do.”

  One Week Later

  “Do you want some coffee? Or how about a sandwich? I could make you a grilled ham and cheese just like I used to.” My mom leaps up from the table and flings open the refrigerator door, doing her best to make her idle hands useful. Her nervous energy is palpable, and guilt grips me knowing I’m to blame.

  “Mom, please, I’m fine. Just come sit down, okay?” I tap the seat of her chair in invitation and keep my voice gentle and even, hoping the calm will transfer to her.

  This is the first time I’ve come to visit her in Shreveport, and I’m an asshole for waiting this long. There are so many feelings I’ve kept pent up, refused to share, or completely ignored, and it’s time to face all of them. It’s time to face her and Lucy.

  Every time a tour ended, I made up an excuse to stay away from home. I tagged along with a bunkmate on a backpacking trip through Europe. I helped a buddy at his dad’s cattle ranch in Montana for extra money. The one thing I refused to do was visit my family who missed me and meet my mom’s new husband.

  Mom and Lucy visited me in San Antonio several times, never with great success. I was a short-tempered dick who couldn’t see past my circumstances. It didn’t take long for me to demand my mom stop visiting, and I’ll never forget the look on her face when I did. But, at the time, that’s who I was—my leg was gone, my head was a mess, and my words flowed like poison from my lips.

  Once I moved to Providence, she made several visits with slightly better results. I made a conscious effort to be pleasant, but it was always forced and unbearably tense. Lucy never came once I left San Antonio. I’m not sure if Mom made that decision or if Lucy did. I don’t blame either one of them. She was too young to understand any of this. Fuck, I didn’t understand it at the time. It’s taken a long time for me to come to terms with my feelings … my guilt … my misplaced resentment.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here, Mom. It’s been a long time coming…”

  She reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers, squeezing gently. Her smile is placating, and she shakes her head in denial. “Don’t you worry about that for one second, West. The important thing is you’re here now. I don’t want to waste one second of my time with you worrying about apologies.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my chair and force myself to meet her gaze. “The thing is, Mom, I owe you some explanations, and I need you to hear me out.”

  She nods her head and smiles grimly. “If you say so, West, but I don’t know why you want to rehash the past. I just want my son back.”

  I wince at the tears I see building in her eyes. I’m humbled by the forgiveness she’s so willing to offer without a word of explanation or apology. I don’t know how she can pardon years of bad behavior with the blink of an eye, but I’m grateful for it. However, I still need to own up to what I’ve done. “We need to do this because I need to apologize to you.” I hesitate for a moment and stare absently at the swirling pattern of the granite countertops. They’re a far cry from the cracked formica of our rental home, that’s for sure, and although I hate to admit it, it stings a little. I meet her eyes again, determined to get the words out. “I never set out to hurt you, Mom. I need you to know that, but I know that’s what happened all the same. I should have called when I was deployed. I should have come home in between tours. I was so selfish. But once you met Alan, I didn’t feel like I had a place anymore.”

  “Why would you say that, West? You’re my son! You’re Lucy’s brother. My marrying Alan doesn’t change that.” She’s obviously confused, and I can understand why. She doesn’t share my warped sense of logic.

  “I felt a great deal of resentment when you married Alan, Mom. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s the truth. I worked so hard to pick up the extra slack, to have extra money to help with the medical bills, and in one fell swoop, Alan wiped all the problems away. He was the hero, flying in to save the day. You didn’t need me anymore; Lucy didn’t need me anymore. When you started refusing my paychecks, I felt so useless.”

  She can’t hide the dumbstruck look on her face, and I hesitate. As much as I want to stop, as much as I wish I didn’t have to own up to my feelings, I know it’s time to come clean.

  “I hated Alan,” I whisper, my eyes closing in embarrassment.

  A sob escapes her lips, and she covers her mouth. I hear the metal chair legs dragging the floor, and her arms wrap around me in an instant.

  “My sweet boy, you always bore the weight of the world on your shoulders, didn’t you? Even if Lucy and I didn’t need your money, we still needed you to take care of us. Can’t you see that? We’ll always need you, West.”

  My shoulders heave as I struggle to remain in control of my emotions. “I need you too, Mom. So much more than you know. I’ve been so angry for so long, I didn’t know how to be anything else. I’m done pushing away the people I love.”

  We hold each other for a long while, just soaking in the acceptance. My mother lets out a humorless chuckle.

  “Life is so ironic. When I married Alan, it was the first time in a long time that I could look you in the eye and feel proud of myself. I no longer needed to rely on my son to financially help me. You should have never carried such a heavy burden, West. How could that same moment be the reason you stayed away?”

  I shake my head in wonder. “How utterly appropriate. Irony seems to be my lifelong companion.”

  She smiles and pats my cheek. “All is forgiven, son. Don’t say another word.” She checks her watch and squints her eyes at me. “Now, Lucy, on the other hand, she may be a tougher nut to crack. S
he’ll be home in about thirty minutes, and let me warn you, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  I don’t doubt her for one second. But I packed enough clothes for three nights, so I’m more than willing to wait Lucy out.

  No matter what, I’m here to reclaim my family, and that’s what I’m going to do.

  The dew from the grass soaks through my running shoes as I trudge up the hill of Caddo Cemetery. It’s only eight in the morning, but the Louisiana heat and humidity leave a thin sheen of moisture on my skin. In all fairness, the sweat is partly from the heat, but also from my nerves.

  I traipse around the headstones, gripping my grocery bag, looking for the familiar name, wishing to God it wasn’t here—that he was still alive.

  I see the American flag and an overflow of flowers several rows away, and I know without even reading the tombstone I’m almost there. I stop cold and run my hand over my face, squashing the urge to run in the other direction, hating myself for my weakness.

  My approach is slow, but deliberate. I keep my eyes on the worn path, the fresh flowers in various stages of wilting, the plastic ones losing their color at the edges. I look at anything and everything to keep my eyes from seeing his name etched on that marble stone.

  I open the grocery bag and remove the contents one by one, placing each of them on top of the tombstone. A pack of American Spirit green cigarettes, a bag of Jack Links beef jerky, a bottle of Heineken, and the latest edition Playboy magazine—all of Red’s favorite things.

  I step back and run my fingers along the grooves of his name. Barry Christopher Redman. The dates below his name gut me, knowing it should just say, “way too fucking soon.”

  I met Red early on in my service, two Louisiana boys dropped into the hot as fuck desert. We initially bonded over our mutual affection of gumbo and cracklins, and basically anything that reminded us of home. But our friendship grew over the years and became so much more than that. Red was my best friend, my brother.