Military Romance Collection

by E Cleveland

  “Hey, there’s my folks,” Jake’s voice returns to normal as he points to an elderly couple making their way to the building.

  I scour the growing crowd at the front door for my own mother and father, but can’t make them out.

  The receptionist out in the lobby buzzes open the front doors and the families begin to shuffle inside the main building.

  “I should go see them,” Jake smiles down at me. “See ya later, ok?”

  “Ok,” I smile and watch him strut across the lobby to greet his parents. They’re much shorter than him, even his father stands a good six inches smaller than he does. Of course, it’s not hard to feel like some kind of elvish creature next to Jake. He’s at least six-two, but feels a lot taller from the way his heavy, cut muscles fill his towering frame.

  They walk away down the hall together and I redirect my attention to the crowd pouring into the building. My eyes laser in on the unfamiliar sea of faces, carefully watching each stranger enter the facility until it dries up into a slowly trickling stream. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here motionless, watching. My head twists like an owl, desperately searching for my parents. Instead, I see the last few people enter the building and cheerfully greet their daughter at the door. It’s the reception I haven’t had in years.

  Tears fill the corners of my eyes and my gut knots as I spin around on my heel to look back out to the parking lot. I stare for too long, with my breath held, silently hoping that they’re just late to show up. That they’re just slow to get out of their car. That there’s some reason that they didn’t show up, other than the truth.

  I gaze out the window like a puppy in a shelter for longer than I should. The realization finally hits like a tsunami, drowning me in despair. They aren’t here, and they aren’t coming.

  They haven’t forgiven me. Even now, after I’ve tried to put my life back together and get clean. After so many years of us being apart.

  They still don’t love me.

  17

  Jake

  I lead my parents to one of the rooms normally reserved for group therapy. Today, they’ve been reassigned as a place for patients to talk to their family members, although not privately. I look around the room at the other people I’ve come to know sitting in here with their loved ones. It’s not exactly an intimate setting where you can pour out your soul. Not that I want to do that anyway.

  I was annoyed when I found out I couldn’t just take my folks down to my room where we could grab some chairs and chat for a few hours. The staff here informed me that it’s another one of the rules that all visits are confined to public areas only. That way the roving counselors can check in on all of us and make sure nothing is getting too out of hand.

  I think the real reason is that they don’t want people who haven’t seen their husbands or wives in over a month to turn this into a conjugal visit. I quickly look around the room for some empty seats. I spot a few available over by Mabel. I have to give her a second look, because her transformation is jarring. Usually she can be found shuffling down the halls in slippers, no matter the time of day, and baggy sweaters that could double as dresses. Today, she’s all dolled up, in a pale yellow dress. Her white hair is pulled up into a bun with tiny tendrils framing her face, like smoke rising up from a campfire. She’s even wearing makeup and, on her feet, where a fuzzy pair of pink slippers normally reside, she’s got a black pair of flats on.

  Sitting next to Mabel is an old man wearing a sports jacket and dress pants. From the way he looks at her, I know without a doubt in my mind, that the reason we need to have our guests in public places is exactly the reason I suspected. They don’t want sweet, little Mabel and her horny husband getting filthy on their watch.

  “Let’s grab those seats,” I point to the ones I’ve scouted and my parents comply. Mom seems pretty chipper; a big smile is pasted on her face. I know it’s her default mode that’s she’s slipped into right now, she’s not actually deliriously thrilled to be at a rehab facility visiting her son. She’s just putting on a brave face. I glance over at my father. It’s a lot more than I can say for the old man; his mouth is twisted down and his eyebrows are furrowed together as he glances around like he’s looking for someone to yell at.

  “I’m glad you came,” I smile. “I know it was a really long way to travel. What do you think of British Columbia?” I make small talk.

  “Oh, Jake, it’s really beautiful. It reminds me of when I was a little girl and your grandfather took the family on a trip down the Pacific Coast Highway. Just breathtaking, isn’t it Don?” Mom tries to pull my father out of his funk and into the conversation.

  “I guess.” He looks at his hands. He won’t look at me. When they first got here, I gave Mom a hug and held out my hand for Dad, but he wouldn’t shake it.

  “How’s my superstar brother, Cameron, doing?” I plod onward, ignoring my father’s radiating anger.

  “Oh, he got drafted by Miami,” Mom answers excitedly. He and Chelsea will be moving on down to Florida next month. It’s so exciting, isn’t it Don?”

  “Sure is,” Dad’s voice is flat. He’s still staring down at his palms, like he never realized he had hands before and he’s trying to figure out how they work.

  I take a peek around the room to see if any other families are having as much fun as mine. Most of them are either murmuring closely like Mabel and her man, or happily chatting away like the others in here. Not one is slumped over and sullen like my father.

  “What about you Jake? I’ve been so worried about you,” my mother’s eyes fix on mine. I can see she’s not lying, under the layer of makeup she’s wearing, dark bags are still visible beneath each eye.

  “I’m really doing well, Mom. Please, don’t worry.” I answer truthfully.

  “It’s my job,” she smiles at me and, for the first time since she walked in here, it’s genuine.

  “Is this a good program?” She continues, “Is it working?”

  I will spare her the details about how long it has taken me to feel like this has been anything but a waste of time, rehab-wise. Obviously, my time here with Holly has been anything but. However, I don’t think she wants to hear about that either. Especially since Holly and I don’t have a real future together. The idea pains me, and I push it away.

  Instead, I remember how, about a week ago, we had a guest speaker that put it all into perspective for me. Instead of the usual array of ex-addicts they parade in here to give us speeches about how much better their lives are now, they had a guest speaker I could relate to. A soldier.

  Sure, he was a Canadian, so not exactly a SEAL, but we’re all brothers in arms. I sat up straighter when he talked about how his addiction started after he returned from duty. One thing he said really stuck with me, “Addiction is tricky, it starts for one reason. In my case, I needed to get out of my own head sometimes. However, even though it starts because of one particular cause, it always continues for another. It morphs. Takes you over. Until you’re not using because of shit you experienced or saw anymore. You’re using because you’re an addict.”

  That hit home for me.

  I look up at my mother, she’s watching me closely. How many nights of sleep have I stolen from her? How much worry, how much anguish, and how much sorrow have I exchanged for her rest?

  “Mom, I really am doing well,” I finally answer. “I didn’t think I needed help when I first came, but I know I’m in the right place now. It’s working,” I smile. “My name is Jacob Armstrong and I’m an addict,” I smile weakly, trying to make light of the confession.

  “That’s wonderful to hear, Jake. Not that you’re an addict, of course, but that it’s working. I’m so happy to hear that it’s working. I’ve been praying for you.” Tears brim her eyelids and she clasps her hands together in front of her heart.

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  “Don, did you hear that? Jake’s getting better.” She urges my father to participate, but he just juts out his jaw in silence. “Donald,
will you stop sulking and speak to your son,” she raises her voice, clearly feeling as annoyed as I am by my father’s attitude.

  “I’m not sulking. I have nothing to say to him,” he spits out the last word like it burned his tongue.

  “Donald Armstrong, I told you not to do this,” my mother leans into him as she hisses her words quietly. I know that the idea of our family making a scene horrifies her.

  “I’m not doing anything,” my father pouts. “I told you I never wanted to come here. You can sit there and act like everything’s all better just because he says he’s an addict or whatever. But, that don’t make a lick of difference to me,” his voice is starting to fill the room.

  “Keep it down, Don,” my mother scolds him. I look around the room, and other families are trying hard not to notice our family scuffle.

  “Why? Why should I keep it down, huh? So, people in this room don’t know what a failure our son is? So, they don’t find out how much he humiliated our family? How he got caught with cocaine by the police and he decided to run away, like a coward?” A wave of crimson is rising up his neck and splashing onto his cheeks as his voice keeps getting louder.

  “I’m sorry for that, Dad,” I admit. “I’m ashamed of what I did, there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about it. Trust me,” I try to jump in.

  “Oh, you’re sorry? Well, then that makes it all ok, doesn’t it? Did you hear that, Bev? He’s sorry. All fixed.” He claps his hands together like he’s brushing of dirt.

  “Don,” my mother drops her head from the now staring eyes of other families in this room, “stop.”

  “No, I won’t.” Dad hops to his feet abruptly. “I won’t sit here and act like everything is ok, just because he’s sorry. Or act like it’s all water under the bridge just because he wants a participation medal for being here. It doesn’t change anything!” He points in my face, “It doesn’t change what you did.”

  I jump to my feet and stare my father down as anger licks at the back of my throat. “How about instead of pretending that what I did was ok, you just pretend not to be such a shitty excuse for a father. Try that on for your first acting lesson, ok Pops? Because I might not be winning any awards for the shit I’ve done, but you aren’t winning Dad-of-the-fucking-year anytime soon either.” I jut my finger back in his face as my mother hangs her head in the crossfire.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He spits back, “You gonna give me some sad sack story about how this is all my fault? That you have some kind of Daddy issues. Save it.” He rolls his eyes hard.

  “You can do that, sure,” I snarl. “You go ahead and stand there like you’ve got any room to look down your nose at me, but you know that you aren’t a good father. Just ask Cameron.” I bite back. “You think a good father only shows love and respect to their kid if they follow the path they want? You think a good dad is only there for their kids when they’re succeeding? You don’t care about me, you never did. Cameron used to joke that I was the golden boy, and what a joke it was. I was the golden boy alright, as long as I lived my life to make you happy. You wanna laugh and say I’ve got ‘Daddy issues’? You’re right, I do. Because I never grew up with a real father, I grew up with a tyrant who just wanted me to live out your failed dreams.”

  My father’s face is absorbed by crimson and he balls up his fist, “You tryin’ to say I’m the failure here?”

  “Yeah, you are. You failed at living your big, wild, military dreams and then you failed at being a dad. I guess I learned from the best.”

  “Hey! Hey! What’s going on here?” A staff member enters the room and races over to us. My father and I don’t move. We’re frozen in rage, staring each other down.

  “If you two can’t be civil and sit down, we might need to end this visit,” the man with wire-rimmed glasses and a comb-over informs us.

  “No need to end it, we were already done,” Dad doesn’t blink or unlock his eyes from mine. “Let’s go, Bev. We’re leaving.”

  “Don, please. Can’t you just sit down and talk this out. We came all this way,” Mom protests weakly.

  “I said, we’re leaving!” Dad roars.

  Mom stands up and runs her hands over her dress pants, pulls her purse on her shoulder and forces herself to hold her head up.

  I don’t watch as my father storms out of the room. He doesn’t deserve any more of my attention. Instead, I look at my mother. I hate that she’s crying. I hate that, after everything, I’m still causing her more pain.

  “I love you, Jake,” she whispers and gives me a hug.

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  “He’ll come around. I know he will,” she tries to reassure me.

  “Sure.” I answer, giving her a quick squeeze. Mom follows my father out into the hall and out of the building.

  “No he won’t,” I mutter to myself. “He’ll never change.”

  18

  Holly

  I try not to watch how happy the other patients are with their families as I make my way down the hall to my room. The smiles. The hugs. The love. Did my family ever have those moments? I know we did. Back before we fell apart, with a hole torn into our hearts that would never heal. Back before Heather died.

  I fight to keep the tears locked up inside, threatening to spill from my broken soul. I’m tired of feeling this way. This guilt. I want to let it go. I need to let it go.

  Then do it.

  The thought flits through my mind like a butterfly flickering in and out of a warm summer sky. Mesmerizing and beautiful.

  I stop in front of the door to my room and lay my hand on the handle. No. I let my fingers slide off the door knob and my arm falls to my side. I’m not going to go wallow in self-pity anymore. I’m not going to hide from the things upsetting me. My parents didn’t show up, and yeah, that sucks, but it doesn’t mean I’m dead. It’s time to stop letting other people control my feelings, letting them control my life.

  My mind flashes to Knox, the man who controlled everything I did for five years. He told me what to eat, what to wear, who I could talk to, when I could talk. The worst part was: I let him. I never tried to escape, even when he started beating me, even when he did worse than that. I told myself it was impossible to get away.

  And I was wrong.

  I stand straight and push back my shoulders, turning on my heel, I make my way back up the hall. If I could stand up to him and start over, then I can face anything. I’m not hiding anymore. I’ve already made it through hell and lived to tell the tale. If that didn’t break me, nothing can.

  I march down past the common room full of patients and their loved ones. This time, when I let my gaze wander over them, I don’t feel sad. My time will come. I’m not sure when or how, but I know in my heart that I’ll be happy again. This too, shall pass. The Alcoholics Anonymous mantra that we’ve repeated in here a hundred times, pops into my head.

  In the meantime, I need to figure out what to do with myself right now. I look around the facility and all the public spaces are filled up with visitors. I don’t want to hide in my room, licking my wounds. However, I don’t want to sit down next to any of the families like some kind of creeper either.

  Shuffling my feet along the tile floor, I make my way to the mail room. I know I don’t have any mail, but it gives me a place to go. That’s all I’m looking for right now.

  “Hey there, I’m Kyle,” a short, pudgy man with wiry hair smiles at me. I can’t help but stare at his clothes. His sweater looks like one of those joke ones you see people wear to ‘ugly sweater parties’.

  “Uh, hi,” I manage to answer.

  “Can I help you with something? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” his brown eyes twinkle cheerfully.

  “It’s Holly, I just… wanted to check on my mail.” I finally pry my eyes from the clash of colors and patterns on his body.

  “Like the sweater, huh?” Kyle answers.

  “Isn’t it for Christmas?” I blurt out.

  “
No, why do you think that?” His face erupts into a smile and I can’t help but feel like he wears this thing just to mess with people.

  “It’s covered in penguins,” I point to the design.

  “You can wear penguins any time of year,” he pulls down on the hem of his gaudy fashion choice and smoothes his hand over the wrinkles.

  “In May? I mean, I guess so. But, it’s red and green,” I laugh.

  “So are flowers,” he answers with a straight face. Now I’m starting to wonder if he really does think this is a year-round sweater and I’m offending him.

  “I guess you’ve got me there,” I smile. “I like it,” I lie.

  “No you don’t,” Kyle meets my eyes and I blush. I guess I did offend him after all. “It made you smile though, and that’s worth it to me. If I can wear a dorky sweater and make someone’s day in here a little brighter, then I don’t care how silly it looks,” he explains.

  “That’s really nice,” I laugh, relieved that I haven’t insulted his tacky taste.

  “So, Holly, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need a last name to check your mail.”

  “Sure, it’s Evans,” I answer.

  Kyle whirls around and searches through one of many filing cabinets lining the back wall. “Evans, ok, just a sec,” he runs his hand over the drawers until he reaches the one for names starting with E. I watch as he flips his nubby fingers through the folders in the drawer until he almost reaches the back. “Evans!” He sounds excited as he pulls out a couple of envelopes, “Holly Evans. Here we go, you’ve got mail today.”

  “I do,” I peer curiously over to the mystery letters in his hand.

  “You sure do, now I just need you to sign this sheet,” he pulls a clipboard from the top of the filing cabinet with a pen attached to it by a string, “to mark that you’ve gotten them.”