by L. A. Witt
“I remind them constantly that you love them,” she said softly. “But it’s harder and harder to explain how that works when you’re gone.”
My stomach dropped. Our eyes locked, and I swore her unspoken thoughts came through as clearly as if she’d typed them on the screen.
Don’t say it, Mandy. Please don’t say it.
It had come up a few times in the beginning, back before the ink had even dried on the divorce papers, but neither of us had mentioned it in a long time. Still, every time we spoke, every time the subject came up of the kids struggling with the divorce and my absence, I braced for it.
“Maybe it would be better if they didn’t see you at all.”
She’d said it out of anger the first time. Desperation the second time. An ultimatum the third time. Now that things were more or less civil, neither of us said it, but it was there. Part of me was terrified she’d get exhausted and throw it out there with more force than before. The other part wondered how long I’d last before I played it myself like a desperate Hail Mary because I couldn’t keep hurting my kids like this anymore. Of course giving up my rights and bowing out of their lives would hurt them too, but would it be worse than slowly eroding their trust by stringing them along with sporadic weekend visits in between long, long absences?
“I’m getting better,” I whispered, wondering if that sounded as useless as it had the previous thousand times. “I haven’t had a drink in—”
“The drinking’s only part of it, Clint. You know that.”
I sighed, raking a hand through my hair. “It’s a start. It’s behind me. I promise.”
“But what about the rest? The . . .” she hesitated, swallowing, “the nightmares and . . .”
Wincing, I looked away again. “It’s better, but . . .”
“How much better will this ever get?”
“I wish I knew.”
She huffed sharply. “And yet you still want me to send the kids to stay with you.”
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you. PTSD, it . . .” I shook my head. “There’s only so much I can do.”
“I know, but . . . this is tough on all of us. You’re not the same person anymore.”
I couldn’t even argue. “I’m still their dad.”
“You’ll always be their dad. But they need more than a face on a screen.”
“So do I.”
Mandy flinched. “This isn’t for spite. I’m trying to protect them and so are the courts. They need a father who’s stable and on an even keel.”
I exhaled. “I don’t know what else I can do. I haven’t had a drink in a year and a half. I’m keeping my career and my life on the rails. I can’t make the PTSD magically go away.”
“But can you get some help with some of this? Even if you can’t disclose it all, there has to be someone—”
“If there was, don’t you think I’d be talking to them?” I snapped. Instantly, I regretted my tone, and softened it. “Mandy, this is hell for me too. I don’t like living with it. If there was someone I could talk to—I mean really talk to—I’d be in their office in a heartbeat.”
Her lips pulled tight, and she looked away again.
As per usual, we were going through the same shit we’d fought over before and during the divorce. We’d do it again next time I called. The only differences now were that I was sober and neither of us had the energy to raise our voices anymore.
“Just tell me what I can do,” I said. “I’m not asking for custody. All I want is to see my kids.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I want you to see them. I really do. But I’m not ready to let them come stay with you alone.”
In the beginning, that confession would’ve had me frothing with anger, but now, I could only nod. “What will it take to work up to that?” It wasn’t her decision, really, but I’d vowed not to drag her or the kids through a custody battle. I wouldn’t petition for joint custody or even increased visitation until I knew she wouldn’t fight me.
“I . . .” She released another long breath. “I don’t know.” She glanced offscreen. “But I need to get them ready for school. We’ll . . . we’ll talk about it. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to you—”
The video shut off.
I swore into the silence and rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. This cold, bitter divide and the custody arrangement stung more and more as time went on. Just over three years ago, Mandy and I were somewhat happily married. In a rut after sixteen years together, maybe, but content.
Then there was that catastrophic incident involving my drone, and everything had gone to shit. Three years, a messy divorce, and a hard-won recovery later, I briefly saw my kids on Skype and during short, supervised visits. I was a stranger to them now, and I couldn’t even be alone with them because her attorney had somehow convinced the judge that drinking myself into oblivion over a combat-related mishap meant I was a danger to myself and others. Never mind that I didn’t drink anymore.
I’d self-destructed after the mishap, and no one would take it seriously because I’d been in an air-conditioned room in Nevada while the incident occurred in an undisclosed location in the Middle East. And I couldn’t provide details because the mission—including every way it had gone awry—was classified. As far as the lawyer, judge, and my ex-wife were apparently concerned, I had as much of a leg to stand on as if I’d told them I’d been traumatized while playing a bootlegged video game that I didn’t even have anymore, so I couldn’t show them the part that had fucked me up.
I ran a trembling hand through my hair, and wondered when the hell my hair had gotten wet. Was I sweating? And was I really shaking that bad?
Shit. This wasn’t good.
I got up and took a few deep breaths as I paced across the living room floor. I’d gotten the hang of talking myself down if an episode didn’t come on too fast. This one had crept up on me, but I hadn’t passed the point of no return yet, so I walked and breathed and concentrated on not letting my mini freak-out turn into something worse. If there was one thing I hadn’t expected when I’d been diagnosed with PTSD, it was that any significant stress could trigger a flashback, even if it wasn’t related to what had happened. Because that was something I really needed.
Slowly, my blood pressure came down. The shaking stilled. I went into the kitchen for some water—coffee was a bad idea at this point—and took a few gulps while I continued to talk myself down.
As I came back to earth and the panic stopped, I cautiously let my mind return to my conversation with Mandy. What would happen if I finally had to tell her I was dating a man? Maybe Travis, maybe whoever came along after him. She didn’t know I was bisexual. She sure as hell didn’t know about the dozen or so men or all the women I’d slept with in the wake of our divorce. She had no idea how much of that had been self-destruction versus long overdue exploration. Hell, I didn’t know that part. I’d needed sex and distraction, and took it from anyone willing to give it.
But I’d settled into being single. I’d sobered up. I’d come to grips with the side of my sexuality that I’d repressed my whole life. These days, I was comfortable in my own skin, and it felt right to share my bed with a man.
And wasn’t that the problem now? I’d shared my bed with men, women, and on occasion, both. These days, there was only one person I wanted like that, and if things progressed beyond sex, I’d have to be open about him—about us—to my ex-wife. Eventually, to my kids. As if they hadn’t already been through enough. Where was the line between “I’m dropping yet another bomb on you” and “This is part of the newer, healthier, more honest me”? And what if it was like with Logan—I worked up the courage to say “Hey, y’all, I’m with him,” only to realize we needed to split up?
I took another swallow of water.
I didn’t have to figure it all out today. For now, I needed to get to work. I’d figure things out . . . eventually.
Even after I’d been working for a coup
le of hours, the jittery, semipanicked feeling remained. Tonight was going to be rough, no doubt about that, but hell, I wasn’t even sure if I was going to make it through the day. My concentration was shot. All I could think about was how I couldn’t tell my kids when I’d see them again, and how the hell I would eventually tell my family that I wasn’t straight, and why the fuck did I have to have PTSD on top of all this shit?
I put down the training module I was supposed to be revising. Sooner or later, I had to figure out a way to deal with stress in general. I’d debated seeing a therapist on base, but it was pointless if I couldn’t tell them the hard details about the core cause of my problems. Making vague allusions to “something bad” and “a mission gone wrong” didn’t get me very far, so why fucking bother? Man, if that mission were ever declassified, my life would become a whole lot easier.
Until that time, though, I had to get my shit together. I had work to do. And maybe if I stared at it long enough, I’d either remember how to do it, or it would magically do itself.
One can hope . . .
A while later, Travis appeared in my office doorway and tapped his knuckle on the frame. “Hey. Busy?”
I should be, but I’m not getting anything done.
I pushed the training module away. “Not really. What’s up?”
He cocked his head. “You want to go grab lunch?”
It was early yet. Not even eleven o’clock. But . . .
“Yeah.” I pushed my chair back and got up. “That sounds like a good idea.” Wasn’t like I was getting anything done here.
Most days, I’d walk over to the Navy Exchange and pick up something unhealthy from the food court. The thought of all the noise, though—people talking, kids crying, wrappers crinkling, TVs blaring—made my skin crawl.
Instead, we went over to the O club, which was considerably quieter. Travis didn’t object, thank God. I really didn’t want him to see me getting agitated from everyday noise. Wouldn’t that be fun—explaining to a former fighter pilot that I was so traumatized by my time as a remote aircraft pilot that I couldn’t even handle the damn food court.
We sat down at a booth, and Travis didn’t even open his menu. Instead, he folded his hands on top of it and looked right at me. “What’s going on?”
I gulped, which probably didn’t help. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve been on edge all morning. You’re either ready to jump out of your skin, or off in your own world.”
That about summed it up, didn’t it? “I haven’t even seen you all day. How do you—”
“Clint.” He inclined his head. “We talked at the coffeepot an hour ago.”
I blinked a few times. Had we talked? Shit, I didn’t even remember getting coffee.
“And,” he went on, “I said hi to you in the hallway—twice—and you didn’t respond.” His brow creased. “Look, I know that thousand-yard stare. You don’t have to give me details, but I want to make sure you’re okay.”
I ran my thumb back and forth along the edge of the menu, almost hoping for a papercut to distract me from that jitteriness that was rising again.
He leaned closer. “Just tell me if you’re okay. I’ve seen guys with PTSD before, and . . .” He let his raised eyebrows finish the thought.
Oh fuck. Did that mean the rest of the office had caught on? That was just what I needed. A building full of ex-pilots figuring out the guy who used to fly drones allegedly had PTSD. It was well-documented on paper, but I hadn’t met a lot of non-RAPs who took it seriously.
But if there was anyone in that office I could trust, he was sitting across from me.
“Okay.” I scratched the back of my neck. “Yeah, I do have it. Stress triggers it, and I was Skyping with my ex-wife this morning, so . . .”
“So that triggered it.”
“Yeah.” Suddenly self-conscious, I squirmed under his scrutiny. “I know it probably sounds insane to a ‘real’ pilot, but RAPs get PTSD too.”
Travis nodded. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
I studied him. “But do you believe it?”
“Yes.” He didn’t miss a beat. No hesitation whatsoever.
“Really?”
“Of course. Admittedly, I know nothing about what you guys do or how it affects you, but I mean . . . I know how fighter pilots can be affected by dropping bombs on targets. We’re miles away before the impact, and we see everything from a distance, but it still gets to you.”
I sat back. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s true. I guess not many people think we’re susceptible to it, you know?”
“I’ve heard. Believe me.”
“And I guess I get it.” I blew out a breath. “It’s not the same as being at the front lines. We’re not in any physical danger. No one’s shooting at us. We don’t jump when doors slam or cars backfire. Not like the guys who’ve been boots on the ground.” I thumbed the edge of the table, watching that instead of looking at him. “And we can’t talk about it. It’s like this shit happens, and there’s nowhere for it to go. Even if we could talk about it, people don’t take us seriously. I mean, yeah, we’re in a cushy-ass room on the other side of the world from the actual war zone we fight in. But we’re . . . I mean, we’re . . .”
“You’re still in a war.” Travis’s voice was smooth and calming. “You still have to kill people, just like the rest of us.”
I couldn’t hide the full-body shudder. “Yeah.” I lifted my gaze. “We do.”
He nodded slowly, and folded his arms tightly on the edge of the table. I wondered if he was tempted to put a hand on mine. Damn shame we were in public, because I could have used that contact right then.
“Look,” he said after a moment. “War is hell for everyone involved. I was dropping bombs on targets I couldn’t see, going so fast I was out of there before anyone knew what hit them. No one can tell you you’re right or wrong for being affected by the part you played in the ops.”
“I wish I could tell you that was enough to stop them.”
“I know.” Travis paused. “You want to know what fucked me up and keeps me awake at night? And why I can’t fly anymore?”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t so sure I did want to know. “You said something about landing in stormy seas, right?”
“Yeah. Thing is, I flew missions on three separate combat tours.” Travis swallowed. “And I lost my wings and my ability to sleep because of a training exercise.”
“A training—” I blinked. “Really?”
“Mm-hmm. The carrier landing that fucked up my back? It wasn’t during combat ops. I wasn’t even carrying ordnance.”
“Wow. So . . . what happened?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “A wave hit the ship when I was coming in to land in the dark during a bad storm. Flight deck jumped, and I almost hit the stern, but pulled up just enough. I mean, we still hit it, but not dead-on, thank God. I lost control, slid across the flight deck, and we ejected right before the bird went in the drink.” It was his turn to shudder, which made his breath catch. He grimaced, shifted again, and slowly exhaled. “I don’t remember anything after that, but my RIO and I both barely pulled through. He’s in a wheelchair now. Paraplegic. One of the SAR swimmers got fucked up too.” He exhaled slowly and met my gaze. “It’s been eight years, and I still get flashbacks from the parts I remember and even the parts I don’t.”
“Jesus,” I breathed.
“Yeah.” He moistened his lips. “I have chronic pain from it. Nightmares. I’d rather cut my wrists than watch that scene in Top Gun.”
I didn’t have to ask which one.
“My best friend was in a similar crash. They didn’t eject or go off the deck, and he more or less walked away from it, but you won’t hear me tell him he shouldn’t be traumatized from his crash just because mine was”—he made air quotes—“‘worse.’”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Most people don’t,” he went on. “Thing is, a lot of people are traumatized by different thing
s. It’s not like front line combat vets have the monopoly on PTSD. Hell, my daughter’s got it.”
I sat up. “What? Kimber has PTSD?”
“It’s . . . well, it’s a long story. Something that happened when she was a teenager, and something else from a party she went to a couple of years ago that rattled her pretty hard.” He paused. “In fact, it’s one of the reasons she still lives with me. She’s got a good job and could go out on her own, but she stays with me because we both get each other’s PTSD. Her mom has a hard time handling it, and they stress each other out. But me and Kimber, we get it. We’re both messed up from completely different things, but we still get it.” He met my gaze. “So I’m not going to judge yours.”
“Wow,” I said. “I can’t imagine what it’s like when your kid has it.”
His lips tightened and he nodded. “Seeing it in her is worse than having it myself. Especially since I can trigger it.”
“You . . . how?”
He avoided my eyes for a second. “Mostly if she can’t reach me. If I say I’ll be home at a certain time, or that I’ll call or text, but I don’t? She panics. Even when she knows I probably got tied up in a meeting or something, she can get into a downward spiral pretty fast.”
I hesitated, then asked, “What caused that?”
Travis took a deep breath. “When she was fifteen, I went on deployment. We had a designated day and time every week when I’d call her. And one night I didn’t call. Her mom told her that sometimes the phones on the ships don’t work, or I might have been working, and she was fine with that . . . right up until her mom shook her out of bed the next morning to get on a plane to Germany because no one knew if I was going to make it.”
“Wow. Poor kid.”
He nodded. “So if there’s one thing I regret about my career, it’s how much it’s affected my kid. But the point is, I know PTSD is very, very real. And you don’t have to be at ground zero of a war zone to be affected by the war. So you’d better believe I’m the last person who will question if yours is real, or if you’ve got a good reason for it.”
He couldn’t have known what a relief that was to hear. Or, hell, maybe he did. Just talking to him brought my blood pressure down a few notches. As much as I wouldn’t wish PTSD on my worst enemy, there was something to be said for being in the company of someone who had it. If he had it, he understood it, and that had an almost paradoxical effect.