by Annie Ward
Nothing happened. Ian opened his eyes, and Peter was turning around and sinking down to a sitting position next to Ian. He was smiling. He looked way better than Ian remembered. Blond curls and round blue laughing eyes. A man-child. A character in a fairy tale. Ian laughed with unhinged joy, but his laughter never made it out of his body.
“Pete, you’re okay?”
“I’m good, mate! Aces.” Peter reached into his shirt pocket. “Remember that last cigarette I told you I was saving? It’s for you.”
Ian tried to reply. Nothing came out of his mouth but bubbly blood, all over his shirt. “I have.” He vomited more blood. “To call.” It happened again. “For help, Pete.” His hands wandered over his own body, applying useless pressure. “I don’t want to die yet.” Ian fumbled in his pockets for his radio, found it and pushed the pressel switch. “Alpha?”
“That’s not your radio.” Ian looked at the cell phone in his hand. Again, Peter held out that last cigarette. He waved it enticingly. “Come on. You know you want it.”
It seemed so final, and Ian wasn’t ready to take it. He burst into a hacking cough. He felt like he was drowning and tried to spit it out and there were more frothing bubbles and he now realized that at least one of his lungs was done.
“Pete,” he managed to say. “I have. I have.”
“What’s that, Ian? What’re you trying to say?”
“A chest seal. It’s in my first-aid kit. It was here,” he said, touching his leg. “Can you help me find it?” They both used their hands to search the dark ground around them, but the first-aid kit was nowhere to be found. Where the fuck was it, and why was he wearing jeans? It was way too bloody hot to be wearing jeans.
“You’re going to be all right,” Peter said. For the first time, Ian’s mind had decided to protect someone new. Himself. Ian wasn’t a crier, but he felt a sob well up in his chest and burst out his mouth.
“Lying bastard,” Ian whispered, trying to smile through tears. “I’ve got shrapnel in my lungs.”
“Think about your family. That’s what you said to me. And you, Ian, you won the lottery, mate! You have a wife and a lovely little boy who thought the world of you.”
Ian looked at him, confused. “I don’t have a family. You have the family.”
“I had Ashley and Polly and another on the way. You’ve got Maddie and Charlie.”
“Was that real?”
“Don’t be daft, Ian. Of course it was!”
“Charlie? Oh God, Charlie and Maddie? Oh thank God for that!” Ian looked at the phone in his hand and started trying to call Maddie. The numbers swam in his eyes, and his fingers fumbled. “One time,” he mumbled, imagining he was talking. Not much was coming out. It was mostly in his head. “One time in Iraq I tried to call her from the TV control. John was so mad. My brother. You know him. I was drunk. One time I... This isn’t working either.” He couldn’t do anything. “I fucked up, Pete.”
Peter’s cherubic face suddenly changed to anger. “You did not fuck up. You did not fuck up, Ian. You set them up for life. There will be no wars for your son. And you loved Maddie, right?”
“Always. Still do.”
“Just hold on to that.”
“Can I say goodbye to them?”
“No, mate. I’m afraid not.” Peter brightened. “But you kissed Charlie good-night and told him you loved him. That’s even better than goodbye.”
“I did! Yes, I did. So, I’m not in Kirkuk, am I?”
“No.”
“I’m dying and I’m in my basement?”
“That’s the situation, I’m afraid.”
“How did I get here?”
Peter laughed. “You staggered, mate. Just like back in our drinking days.” He offered the cigarette again, and this time Ian took it. Peter then helped him up to his feet and said, “Let’s get ourselves to the safe zone, what do you say?”
Ian nodded.
They walked, Peter’s arm around Ian, past his beloved computers. He tried to go to them because they were full of cycling photos: Ian in a ball cap nodding off in an armchair with newborn Charlie in his arms, he and Maddie on her parents’ back porch the day they got married, and a gorgeous shot of all three of them and the dogs against the Rocky Mountains at the campsite the afternoon before Maddie hurt herself.
With a gentle tug from Peter, Ian moved away from those images and made it past the home movie theater where he would never watch his Star Wars marathon with his son. Then, that was all. Ian rested his eyes and the darkness became whole except for the sliver of light shining on the concrete floor like the moon on water. He and Peter followed where it led, through the wooden door, into the shelter and his final, secure bastion of safety.
MADDIE
Five months later
My mom was right. I was never the same after the boating accident. While I lay in the ICU, sleeping and deep dreaming, I went around in my head. It felt like I was searching an endless maze of a mansion. I found a room where I could rest, located the lights, and like an efficient maid, switched them off one by one. It became a cave-like place. There I found a soft spot, burrowed like a dog in blankets, and I made myself comfortable. I hunkered down, animal and ready, and looked out at the world with shining eyes, from the darkness into the light. I was safe. I was hidden.
It was easy to move to Spain or Bulgaria or jump on a plane to Croatia. It was no problem to cross dirty Balkan borders by bus in the deepest night, and it was not an issue at all to sleep with strangers from The Corner Bistro, nor to befriend drug dealers, drunks and mercenaries.
Ian would not have cared for me as much as he did if I’d never had my accident. He knew I was damaged and he liked it. He needed someone to save. He appreciated my fascination with danger, because that was the root of my fascination with him. My near-death experience under the boat led me to seek out others who knew that moment of blissful survival, and Ian knew it better than anyone I ever met. I did love him. I still do love the Ian that once was.
Many times I have woken up in the one-room apartment I share with Charlie in San Juan del Sur, thinking I’m back in my studio in New York, waiting for Ian to call me, write me, show up, let me know he’s alive. Then I smell the lush frangipani blossoms floating in on the breeze through the screened window. I remember where I am and I can’t bear it. I have to think about anything else. What will we have for breakfast? Where will we play today? When I look down at Charlie sleeping beside me, I know I made the only choice I could. It feels like I can’t bear it but I can. I have to, for Charlie. The sadness is manageable. I have evolved beyond anguish. The best I can do is to muster regret and comfort myself with the truth. He got what he wanted. Me, Charlie and finally peace.
I wish things had gone differently. I wish that Ian had not caved under the weight of his experiences and that he had not painted me a picture of a future that he likely knew he was incapable of living. But what I wish more than anything right now, is that Ian’s brother John would fuck off and leave me and Charlie alone.
* * *
Leo’s Cyber Café is halfway between our apartment and the beach. Charlie and I usually come here once or twice a week, in the mornings. I have a cappuccino and he plays Crossy Road on his new iPad (money no longer being such a huge issue) while I check my email. Two weeks ago, I received a message from John Wilson. I’d only met him the one time in Bosnia when I threw his phone at him, but I’d heard plenty about him over the years. I knew that he was as intelligent—if not more so—than Ian. Also, he loved Ian. I knew that it was John who held the Wilson family memorial for Ian at his house in England.
* * *
From: John Wilson
To: Madeline Wilson
Sent: Friday, 5 January 2018
Subject: Hello
Dear Madeline & Charlie,
I am writing on behalf of our family. I should have written soon
er but it’s very hard to convey our thoughts and feelings about Ian’s death. Most importantly, we care deeply about you and Charlie.
We were aware that Ian had some issues, but we never ever thought that it would come to this. Had we known the depth of Ian’s troubles, perhaps we could have done something, and things would have ended differently. I, for one, believed him when he told me he was done with the vodka. We had some arguments of our own on the same subject over the years.
We (my brothers, sisters and I) would like to reach out to you and make it clear that you and Charlie have a big, loving family in England who are eager to meet you both.
I understand why you have not been in touch. Perhaps you were expecting a cold reception, given what happened, but that’s not the case.
I have six weeks of free time before I’m due back in Afghanistan. I would very much like to come to Kansas as soon as possible with my family so my wife, Monica, and I can meet you and our nephew. Our son, Sam, is eager to meet his cousin. It’s long overdue.
We don’t want the tragedy that occurred to result in any further anger or alienation. Please consider how much it would mean to all of us to have you and Charlie in our lives.
All our love to you both,
John
* * *
I didn’t answer him and hoped that he would bugger off back to Afghanistan. He didn’t. Last week the email he sent took a somewhat different tone.
* * *
From: John Wilson
To: Madeline Wilson
Sent: Friday, 12 January 2018
Subject: Hello again
Dear Madeline,
It’s not my intention to harass you. I am fully aware that you and Charlie are going through a lot right now. I only have a short time before I must return to Afghanistan for the foreseeable future. In the event that you’re willing to see me, I would like to make my travel arrangements. I will not be bringing Monica and Sam. I realize that was probably far too much to ask given the delicate circumstances.
I wasn’t going to mention this until I saw you, but Ian and I were co-owners of a rather large estate in Caldy of which fifty percent now belongs to you and Charlie. Though my desire to meet with you is fully about solidifying family ties, I do have some documents for you to sign as well. I can arrive in Kansas City as early as Wednesday. Please do write me back this time.
Sincerely,
John
* * *
He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know I’m smart enough to realize when I’m being baited.
And now today. Charlie and I have only just arrived at Leo’s Cyber Café. My cappuccino is still too hot to drink. Charlie’s little chocolate-chip pastry remains untouched. We have been here less than five minutes, and in that time my entire world has lurched onto its side. I can barely see the screen in front of me. My heart is pounding out of my chest, so loud that I look around to see if anyone else in the café can hear it. Yes, they are all staring at me. My ears are ringing, and my throat feels like it has been stuffed with algae. I can’t swallow. I can’t even breathe. I put my head down between my legs and count to twenty. It feels like I’m on a boat, lurching over waves.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?” Charlie asks, tilting his head thoughtfully to the side, putting his hand on my shoulder like a grown-up.
The floor is filthy with crumpled sugar packets, cigarette ash and dust bunnies. I gag and mumble, “I dropped something, baby.”
The overly friendly owner with the muttonchop sideburns is suddenly rubbing my back. “Señora? Señora? Estas bien? Estas enferma?”
I have to pull it together. I sit up with a big sigh and smile. “I’m fine. Estoy bien!”
He smiles and walks away. I hit Print the seven times that it takes to print my seven fucking emails and shut down. After retrieving my papers from the printer I pay our bill, wrap Charlie’s pastry in a napkin and put it all in my big beach bag. I take Charlie’s hand, and we walk out into the blazing sun and down to Paseo Del Rey. I realize that I have forgotten to cover my scar with my sunglasses. People are staring at me. I stop and pull myself together. Hat, glasses, smile. Nice pretty lady.
Charlie starts to head out toward the water, but I say, “Wait, honey. Come with me.” Just up the street is the Iguana Bar. It’s the kind of place where no one is going to think twice about a mom with her son ordering a Macuá at ten in the morning. Such a thing exists. Thank God we’re not in Kansas anymore.
There’s no server behind the bar. Two old men are playing chess on the patio, and a couple of drunk American boys in fraternity T-shirts are swaying on their bar stools and watching fútbol on the television, but there’s no server in sight. Charlie spies a rack of chips and chicharrones hanging behind the bar. He suddenly looks like a starving adorable puppy. I brought him to Nicaragua, and now he loves pigskin fried to a bubbly crisp.
“Mommy, I want chicharrones!”
“Okay,” I say, looking around for the goddamned server. I smack my hand down on the bar. “Hello?”
A woman walks out from the kitchen and past me without meeting my eyes. She grabs some cleaning products and a rag. She leaves silently. “Excuse me,” I yell at her back. “Perdón!”
Nothing.
Charlie climbs up on the bar stool and stares at the chicharrones, then at me, then back at the chicharrones. Finally a young, bearded, very handsome man with his hair pulled back in a bun comes whistling through the front door, packing his new cigarettes. “Que quiere, Señora?” he asks cheerfully.
“Una chingada bebida,” I answer irritably, immediately regretting it. Be sweet, I say to myself. No need to demand a fucking drink.
He raises an eyebrow, and as he goes behind the bar he says in perfect English, “You talk that way around your kid?”
“He doesn’t speak Spanish.”
Charlie says, “I do, too.”
“Can I have a Macuá, please?” I say politely.
The bartender is slow, probably stoned, and his jeans hang low on his hips. I can see his underwear and the hair under his armpits as he mixes my drink. His earlobes are gauged with giant rings. I am about to apologize when Charlie, still on the bar stool and with his arm outstretched toward the chicharrones, topples over.
I leap to his assistance, but he is fine, sprawled on the dirty floor giggling. “My God, Charlie! What’s wrong with you?”
The bartender is annoyed with me. “Here’s your drink.”
As I’m digging through the beach bag with Charlie’s napkin-wrapped pastry, pages of printed emails, an iPad, flip-flops, trash and bottles of water, he says, “On the house.”
I put on my sad, kind, messed-up face and finally locate some money. “I’m sorry. I really, really am. We received some bad news this morning. Can I get that package of chicharrones for him, please? Charlie, I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’m getting your snack, sweetie.”
The bartender rethinks me and hands over a bag of the chicharrones. Charlie is elated, practically giggling in anticipation. “We all have bad days,” he says. His eyes travel over me. “Come back and see us again when you’re in a better mood.”
We walk across the sand. Charlie shovels a fistful of chicharrones into his tiny mouth. I can hear him chewing. My hand is shaking, leaving little droplets of alcohol behind me like a bread-crumb trail. “Okay, this is good,” I say when we reach an umbrella with two chairs for rent by the water.
I squelch my drink into the sand and dig through the bag, throwing sand toys this way and that. I sink into my chair.
I feel numb with fear and nerves. I stare forward at Charlie with his trio of plastic toy trucks, hauling sand and making puddles at the water’s edge.
I have done what’s best for Charlie. With so much violence and horror in the world every single day—shootings, bombings, beheadings, massacres—what’s the big deal about sacrificing the father to sav
e the son? If Ian wanted to believe God was dead so we better go hide, I thought the opposite. Anything was possible, anything was permissible, if you were smart and strong enough. Had Ian wanted to live? He’d be alive.
I’d started thinking about how our lives were going to go, Charlie’s and mine, almost immediately after my fall. I sat on that patient table wearing a blood-soaked T-shirt from Target and my pajama pants and went over and over the argument Ian and I’d been having.
Charlie was in the tent asleep with the dogs, and Ian and I were about twenty feet away at the picnic table next to a campfire drinking boxed wine.
“I think we should take Charlie to see your family in Liverpool soon,” I said. “He can get to know all his crazy aunties and uncles and play with his cousins.”
“I’ll think about it,” he’d answered.
“What’s to think about? Let’s start planning. We’ve been married for over four years now, and I’ve only met John and Jimmy. I want to go to England and meet the rest of your family.”
“Charlie’s too little. I get sick of airports, Maddie. When I’m off I just want to be with you and Charlie and relax. Away from everyone and everything. Like we are now.”
“You’re sick of traveling, but I haven’t been anywhere other than a campsite and our house since I got pregnant with Charlie.”
“It’s a nice house. Nothing wrong with that. Better than sweating your arse off in Yemen, like me.”
“You said, ‘If we move to Kansas we will save so much money that we’ll have more for taking trips.’ You said that.”
“And we will! When he’s older. I’m not fucking flying around the world with a bloody three-year-old, Maddie. You know how I feel about it.”
“If you and John really do have a ton of money in that bank account that you’re both so cagey about, we could hire a nanny to stay with him and go somewhere ourselves!”