by Kira Blakely
“Really?” She folds her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at me.
Fuck. She’s not buying my bullshit.
“Well, why don’t you tell everyone exactly what you’re reliving?” She leans back in her chair, eyes still on me. “I’m sure everyone here would love to hear it.”
A few of the men in the group nod or grunt in agreement.
“Besides, this is your third session,” Dr. Jackson reminds me. “It’s about time you told us your story, don’t you think?”
I pause and look around the room, my eyes meeting some of the others – weary eyes, sleepless eyes, eyes that have seen far too much, eyes wide with curiosity, wondering if mine have seen what they have seen.
Fine. I guess I might as well tell my story.
Dr. Jackson’s hands fall to her lap, the look on her face changing from impatience to sympathy. “Go on.”
I take a deep breath and lean forward. “My name is Dash Siegel. I was in Syria until a few weeks ago.”
“Holy shit,” an older man in a black shirt mutters. Dr. Jackson throws him a warning glance.
I clasp my hands and rub my thumbs. “Yeah. It’s hell out there, worse than what people see on TV.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I lost a lot of friends. Some got blown up right before my eyes. Some got hit by snipers while they were running towards me. I tried to get them, to carry them to safety, but they just ended up dying in my arms.”
I look at my hands, almost seeing the red taint on them. Blood. So much blood.
“How did you survive?” another man, this one bald and probably just a year or two younger than me, asks.
I shrug, wringing my hands. “Wits and luck, I guess.
Thinking on my feet. Being fast.”
“Is that why they called you Dash?” the man with his arm in a sling asks.
I don’t answer. I just keep looking at my hands.
“Tell us about that scar on your arm,” Dr. Jackson prompts.
I look at it – a scar three inches long on my right arm, running from the edge of my sleeve to my elbow. I’ve tried to cover it with a tattoo of a falcon, but I suppose it’s still obvious.
I run my fingers over it. “I was in Kobane. I met two children there – a girl and a boy, Sara and Anas. They were siblings. Around ten and five. They had lost their parents and were searching for their uncle.”
I rest my elbows on my knees, my hands tucked under my chin.
“They didn’t want to approach me at first. Anas was especially wary, horrified by the sight of the weapons I carried. But Sara smiled at me. She knew I wasn’t the enemy.”
I lower my hands between my knees. “I was helping them, trying to get them somewhere safe. Suddenly, bullets started raining on us. I had them hide inside a house, or what was left of it, and shot back at the enemy. Eventually, the bullets stopped coming. I thought we were safe. But just as they ran out of the house, there was an explosion. I tried to shield them and that’s when something sharp cut my arm
– a piece of roof about this big.”
I try to show it with my hands.
“Anas was safe, but Sara…” I run my fingers through my hair. “She died. Another piece of the roof hit her in the head.”
I hear more curses from the group, this time muttered softly.
Dr. Jackson gets out of her seat and walks towards me, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“That was very brave, Lt. Siegel – both what you did in Syria and what you did just now talking about it.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I’m very proud of you.”
I say nothing, my head bowed. I don’t feel proud, not after failing to save so many lives. I feel exactly what I put on that ad. Broken.
“Let’s give Lt. Siegel a salute and a round of applause, shall we?” Dr. Jackson goes back to her chair.
I lift my head, seeing some of the salutes and hearing the applause. I just nod.
Dr. Jackson sits down, crossing her legs. “Now, who shall we hear from next?”
* * *
I give a sigh of relief as I stand in the hospital corridor, stop- ping to stretch my arms and legs.
I don’t know why these sessions are required. Isn’t it enough that we’ve lived through horrible experiences in battle once? Why do we have to relive them and worse, share them? Everyone there knows what it’s like to be in a war, to kill someone before they kill you, to lie to your comrade and tell him everything’s alright even when his guts are spilling all over, to watch helplessly as your friend bleeds out and dies in front of you. What’s the use of talking about it?
As a little girl in a wheelchair wheels past me, I find myself staring, remembering Sara. She was just about the same age, her hair the same color – black, except hers had patches of gray from soot and brown from mud. I still remember her eyes – blue and full of hope. I still remember her smile, her…
“Dash?”
I turn my head in the direction of the dulcet voice, which is like a lighthouse calling me away from stormy seas.
“Janine,” I greet her, smiling.
This time, she’s wearing a black cardigan over an apricot dress with a gold belt, the bottom part draped like a tulip and stopping just above her knees.
Elegant and sexy.
“Hey.” She returns the smile, her hands clutching the strap of her purse. “What are you doing here?”
“I… dropped by to visit someone.”
Her eyes narrow in suspicion. It took me too long to say that.
“An old friend who’s recovering from injuries,” I add.
“Oh.” Her brows straighten.
“What about you?” I put my hands in my pocket as I lean on the wall.
Janine glances behind her. “Well, my Mom had a–” “Janine.”
She stops as someone else calls her name – a much older woman wearing a white blouse, a long blue skirt, and a pink bandana around her head, lines under her eyes and around her pale, thin lips.
“Mom.” Janine goes to her side, taking her arm. “I thought you and Dr. Morton still had plenty to discuss. I haven’t bought your medicine yet.”
Mom?
My eyes grow wide. Oh, fuck.
Just when I’m contemplating if I should make my exit, her eyes meet mine.
“Who is this?” she asks as she stares at me curiously. “Um…” Janine tucks some strands of her hair behind her ear as she glances at me. “This is Dash Siegel, my…” She takes a deep breath. “My fiancé.”
“Fiancé?”
Janine narrows her eyes at me.
“Yes, that’s right,” I confirm, stepping beside Janine and putting my arm around her waist. “Janine and I are engaged.”
“Engaged?” Mrs. Davidson’s eyebrows go up, then her gaze dart towards Janine’s bare ring finger. “Since when?”
“For a few days now,” Janine answers, hiding her hand behind her. “I know I’m not wearing the ring, but that’s because I was going to tell you first. I was going to surprise you.”
“Oh, you surprise me, all right.” Mrs. Davidson’s eyebrows furrow.
“But don’t worry, there is a ring,” I assure her. “I’m sure Janine has it in her apartment.” I look at Janine. “Don’t you, babe?”
“Of course,” Janine answers as she returns my gaze, patting my shoulder. “I’m keeping it in a very safe place.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone?” Mrs. Davidson still looks confused, and I can’t blame her. I didn’t want to announce our engagement so sloppily.
“Well, I, um…” Janine swallows. “I didn’t want to burden you with all that right now.”
“Honey, did you think I wouldn’t be able to take this?” Mrs. Davidson looks disappointed. “I could use some good news!”
“Well…”
“Well, now, I guess the cat’s out of the bag,” I supply, bringing Janine’s hand to my lips as I look into her eyes. “Which is good because I can’t wait to marry your daughter.” “I’m sorry but what was
your name again?” her mother asks.
“Dash,” Janine and I answer at the same time.
“Well, Dash, I don’t mean to be rude but how long have you known my daughter? How did you even get to know her?”
“Well, I–”
Janine gives me a look of encouragement.
I slip my hand inside my pocket, tapping my thigh. “I met Janine at a bar.”
“A bar?” Mrs. Davidson’s eyes grow wide.
“A dessert bar,” Janine says as she squeezes my hand. “Because I don’t really drink.”
I raise an eyebrow. She doesn’t?
“Dessert Fantasies,” she continues. “I brought home chocolate cupcakes from there once. Dad loved them. Do you remember?”
Mrs. Davidson doesn’t answer, giving me a quizzical look. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who likes cupcakes.”
“Oh, he has a sweet tooth, trust me,” Janine answers before I can, placing her hand on my chest.
“I do,” I second.
“We were reaching for the same cupcake,” Janine continues.
“Salted caramel,” I say at the same time as she says, “Red velvet.”
Oops.
Janine squeezes my hand again.
“Yeah, it was red velvet,” I say, scratching my chin with my other hand. “Which is crazy. I actually prefer the salted caramel, but for some reason, I just had to have a red velvet that time. It must have been fate.”
I pull her closer to me, remembering how she asked me the other night if I believed in fate.
I continue, gazing purposefully into her goldenrod eyes, “I knew from the first moment I saw her.”
“Aww.” Janine gives me a sweet look.
“You just looked at each other and that was it?” Mrs.
Davidson asks incredulously.
“Yes,” I answer as Janine says, “Of course not.”
“There was more to it, I’m sure,” I say quickly, stroking Janine’s hair. “But all I can remember now is how beautiful Janine looked that afternoon, and how we talked until it was evening, and I walked her back to her apartment, and we…”
“Said good night,” Janine finishes, looking at her mother.
“And I thought we’d never see each other again but then he kept calling me and even when he went off to war, he kept in touch.” She taps my chest. “It was sweet.”
I hold her hand. “I couldn’t have survived all those years without you.”
“You went to war?” Mrs. Davidson asks me, concerned. “You’re a soldier?”
“A Marine,” Janine and I answer at the same time.
“I was deployed in a couple of places but I’m home now,” I explain to ease her mother’s worry. “And the first thing I did when I got home was to propose to Janine. And she accepted.”
“Of course I did.” Janine gives me a sweet smile as she touches my cheek. “Why on earth would I say no?”
I kiss Janine’s hand again. “And that, Mrs. Davidson – or should I say Mom? – is our story.”
“Yeah,” Janine agrees, nodding. “That’s pretty much it.”
Mrs. Davidson touches her chin. “Well, that’s a nice story.”
“A great story,” I say. Janine glances at me.
“I wish I’d heard it before. But I am happy for you both.” Mrs. Davidson nods. “I’m just still in shock, I guess.”
“It’s perfectly understandable,” Janine tells her. “Please take your time to let everything sink in,” I add. She just gives another nod, looking away.
“I have to go,” I say, letting go of Janine’s hand so I can offer mine to her mother. “But I have to say it’s good to finally meet you… Mom.”
Mrs. Davidson shakes my hand weakly. “Olivia will do.” I turn to Janine. “I’ll see you soon, babe.”
“You will. Just—”
The rest of her sentence disappears as I kiss her, one arm around her back to pull her against me.
It’s just supposed to be a quick smooch, the icing on the cake to make it look, well, like a cake, but I find myself unable to pull my lips away from hers, addicted to how soft they feel and the taste of her lipstick.
Finally, Janine pulls away though from the dazed look on her face and her red cheeks, I can tell she enjoyed the kiss thoroughly. That can’t be fake.
Just like the stirring in my crotch can’t be fake.
Fuck. I’ve forgotten how amazing it felt to kiss her. “Well, bye.” I force myself to walk away from her. “Wait.”
I stop at once, looking at her expectantly.
She points to her lips. “I think you have some of my lipstick on.”
Oh.
I quickly wipe it off before turning on my heel, feeling her stare on my back. I keep walking until I’m outside the hospital where I pause to take a big gulp of air as I run my hands through my hair.
What the hell just happened?
I can’t believe I just met Janine’s mother and I’m not sure she believes our story.
Well, at least, she knows about us now.
I walk to my car only to stop again when another realization hits me.
Oh, fuck. I need to introduce Janine to my mother too.
6
Janine
Breathe, Janine. Just breathe, I tell myself that for what seems like the hundredth time already, taking a deep breath as I stand outside the chic Charleston in Little Italy.
Ever since Dash told me I’d be meeting his mother, I’ve been anxious, almost to the point of hyperventilating. I know I have to meet his mother, of course. It’s what engaged couples do. Still, I’d failed to really consider it and now that I’m faced with the circumstance, I can’t help but feel terrified.
What if Mrs. Siegel doesn’t like me?
All Dash has told me is that she’s been rich all her life and that’s scary. What if she thinks I’m too poor? What if she thinks I’m after Dash’s money? What if she starts interrogating me and comes to the conclusion that I don’t belong with her family?
Just looking at the façade of this restaurant with its elegant glass doors and its contemporary signage, I already feel like a fish out of water. I’ve been to Little Italy before but never to this place. I’ve heard about it, though, about its award-winning chefs and, of course, its expensive menu.
Oh, boy. I sure hope I remember which utensil is for what.
Breath, Janine.
“Ready?” Dash asks as he places an arm around me. “No,” I tell him honestly, biting a finger.
He chuckles, squeezing my shoulder before whispering in my ear. “Don’t worry. You look fabulous.”
Do I? I know I picked one of my best dresses – a black and green lace dress with sheer, long sleeves – and I put on my diamond earrings and my more expensive make-up. I even pulled my hair back into a chignon, spending more than an hour and using a bunch of pins to keep the stub- born strands in place. Even so, I don’t have the confidence to walk in through those doors.
“I know it’s not easy,” Dash goes on. “I was damn scared when I met your mother.”
“You were?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “You seemed like you were enjoying yourself.”
I still remember that kiss he gave me, which made my heart do flips and lingered on my lips for a while.
“Then I acted well,” Dash says. “And you will, too.” He rubs my back.
I sigh. “At least you met my Mom at a hospital, not at some fancy restaurant that’s probably in the bid for a Michelin star.”
“At least you had time to prepare.”
I look at him. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
“Relax.” He takes my hand. “Everything will be fine.” Will it?
Dash kisses my hand. “Trust me, sweetcheeks.” I frown. “Call me that again and I’ll hit you.”
He laughs. “There. That’s the Janine I know.” He places my arm around his. “Shall we go in and meet your mother-in-law?”
I take another deep breath, nodding.
We step forward, those black doors pulled open by the maître d’ to let us in.
At once, my heart beats faster. The sight of the white linen tables with the fresh rosebuds and the oversized leather chairs in shades of apricot and cinnamon make me more nervous. I almost want to turn on my heel and leave, but somehow I make it to the back of the restaurant on Dash’s arm. Mrs. Siegel is already seated at a table with just a glass of wine for company.
And she’s beautiful. I expected she would be in her fifties but she looks like she’s just in her forties, hardly a wrinkle on her face. Her hair is the same color as Dash’s and like mine, it’s all been swept up to the back of her head, except it’s apparent hers was done professionally, precisely, no strand out of place. She’s wearing a gray dress but it doesn’t look at all boring, fitting her thin body perfectly with a string of pearls to match.
I draw in another deep breath. This is my mother-in- law? She’s gorgeous.
“Mom.” Dash lets go of my arm so he can put both of his around his mother. “Thanks for coming.”
She smiles, pressing her cheek against his. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“And this is Janine Davidson,” he introduces, extending an arm to me.
I step forward. “Good evening, Mrs. Siegel. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Have I said that right? I’ve been practicing it all evening.
Mrs. Siegel doesn’t answer, simply smiling as she looks at me from head to toe. I suppose she’s still trying to figure out if the pleasure is mutual, which I think largely hinges on who I really am.
Dash pulls out the chair directly across his mother and I sit down carefully, knowing his mother is still eyeing me above her wine glass. He then sits in between us, straightening his tie.
Mrs. Siegel smiles at him. “Let’s order, shall we?”
She and Dash place the orders for five courses while I simply go over the menu in silence, my mouth watering at the description of the dishes and eyes wide at the prices.
Unbelievable.
Soon after the waiter leaves with the orders, another approaches, pouring wine into our glasses.
Mrs. Siegel lifts hers. “To Dash, our soldier who’s finally come home.”