Memories Never Die

by C Thomas Cox

Then, just as I was sure I was about to die, the flames retracted into the ceiling, the room returned to seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, and I was again able to move. I sat up, made sure my body was intact, and pulled the blanket over me. I curled into a ball, and tried to control the shivers that the dramatic temperature fluctuation caused. What was that?

  Although I initially enjoyed the cleansing, I had no idea what brought it on. It obviously wasn't real, but for some reason my mind -- or perhaps my soul -- seemed to find it appropriate. Was this experience a twisted penance for some sin that I could not recall? Did I, in fact, kill Scout? I was at a total loss.

  I didn't doubt that I'd done more than my share of wrong. The drinking was no good. Neither was cheating my way through high school. And denying time off to the folks at the soda plant while I spent too many afternoons on the river was cruel. But did any of those offenses deserve the punishment that my mind had dreamt up? I willingly risked my life for my country, after all.

  "You okay?" I jolted into a seated position, and I saw the young man who brought me to my room after I met with Jonas. He must've seen me shivering while he watched me on his monitor.

  I shook my head. Unlike the thugs from the prior night, this guy -- Thomas Cariot was his name -- showed me deference and respect. Instead of looking at me like a sub-human specimen, he treated me as I'd hope he'd treat his grandfather. Perhaps a grandfather with some issues, but a grandfather nonetheless. He was the first person at Oak Ridge around whom I felt comfortable revealing my frailty.

  "Be right back," he said.

  Within two minutes, he returned with a thick Afghan under his left arm and a cup of tea in his right hand. He set the tea on the faux wood table that was next to the chair, carefully draped the Afghan over my legs, and then helped me into a seated position. Handing me the tea, he said, "Anything in particular bothering you?"

  I sipped my tea for as long as seemed reasonable. I wanted to think about how to respond. I couldn't very well tell Thomas that flames from the fluorescent lights were burning my skin, or that the fire was purifying my soul of something I didn't recall doing.

  "It's...it's my wife." I took another sip.

  He sat in the chair, leaned his elbows on its arms, and rested his chin on his fingers. "What about her?"

  I set the mug on the table. "I umpire youth baseball games. I love doing it, but sometimes some of the parents can get pretty unruly."

  "My dad was one of those parents," Thomas said. "Although I was an average-at-best first baseman, he expected me to play like Lou Gehrig reincarnated. And if I struck out looking, he'd let the umpire have it. It was never my fault."

  "Yep, that's the type." I couldn't help chuckling. "I contend with folks more or less like that nearly every game. But their disparaging remarks and aggressive posture are typically confined to one or two plays over the course of a game. And before the last couple days, those confrontations were limited to the diamond."

  His eyes were fixed on mine. "What happened?" The sincerity with which he asked that question assured me that he honestly wanted to know. That no one had told him the story...my truth...that no one else believed.

  "So this guy -- I'm not sure if he was Bradley's uncle or some other relation -- he started on me after he arrived halfway through the fourth inning. Bradley was the starting pitcher, and suddenly he couldn't find the strike zone. He still threw as hard as he had in the first three innings, but nearly everything was high and outside. He was obviously exhausted. Regardless, I just called 'em like I saw 'em. But like I saw 'em wasn't okay with Bradley's relation -- let's call him Bradley's uncle just to keep it simple."

  "So...what did the uncle do?"

  "He started with a sigh." Thomas furrowed his brow. "I know what you're thinking. A sigh doesn't sound like much. But when that sigh -- accompanied by a crooked glare that'll make your blood boil -- is repeated after every other pitch, it gets awfully annoying."

  "Did he do anything else?"

  "Boy, did he." I started gnawing on my lower lip in between phrases. "Though he wasn't around for Bradley's first two at bats, he was there for the third. And when I called a third strike, he mumbled something. Although I didn't catch every word, he definitely said, "take him out." He then caught my eyes, and I'm sure he noticed that I was staring at him. I had to keep an eye on him. I couldn't let him continue to disrupt the game, could I?" Thomas shook his head.

  "He then pulled a phone out of his pocket and dialed someone. His conversation stretched over the next inning. I should know, as I glanced over between pitches, ready to defend myself in case he came after me. I was surprised that he never did."

  "I get that he wasn't happy with your calls, but why'd you think he'd come after you in the middle of the game?"

  Thomas's questions delighted me. Not only was he hearing me, but he was listening. He was the first one to believe my story, so I was anxious to tell him everything. "As Bradley came up for his last at bat -- with two outs in the bottom of the sixth and final inning, no less -- I glared at his uncle. I wanted to make sure he would stay off of the field." Thomas looked like a Kindergartener waiting to hear what happened to Sally and her brother when their mother returned home to the devastation caused by the oversized cat. "The dad shoved his hand inside his pants pocket and extracted his keychain. Attached to the chain was a folded Swiss Army Knife, which he unfolded and pointed at me before fumbling with his keys."

  "Did he say anything?"

  I shook my head. "Not a word...which was awful." I stopped for a second. The fear and rage that twisted my stomach momentarily returned, and I needed to contain them. I feared that if I displayed my emotions to Thomas he'd call security. Although he believed me, he was, after all, a mental health worker in a looney bin. I took a few deep breaths to settle my nerves. "He then looked over at me. This time, however, he was different. Instead of looking like he was ready to pounce, he instead showed, for the first time, an inkling of fear."

  "How'd you know he was afraid?"

  I grinned. "During my active duty, I learned the look on the face of a man who was ready to wave the white flag -- to give up the conflict because he knew he'd already lost. And that look of painful acceptance of the inevitable drifted across the father's face."

  "Wow," Thomas said. "Just...wow. I'm in awe of you military guys."

  "It's nothing." I shrugged. "Just on the job training, I guess."

  He laughed, as though I was a famous comedian rather than retired military. I wasn't sure why, but I didn't ask. I was certain that an ego boost could do me nothing but good. "I guess the knife was the only way he could stave off his fear...the only way he could keep me from doing him harm. Which was, of course, laughable. His sighs and actions were the cause of the whole debacle. I wouldn't have given him a second glance otherwise."

  This, I must admit, was a lie. A total fabrication meant to hide the apprehension that gripped me whenever seeing a man who I could clearly tell was of Vietnamese decent. When watching a recent airing of The Amazing Race reality show, for example, I had to change the channel as soon as I realized the contestants were venturing into Vietnam. Even seeing those faces on television nearly brought me to my knees.

  I was unable to run from Half-Ear in the same way. I had a job to do, and I couldn't let someone of his ilk ruin me. I was going to fight back against his verbal and threatened physical abuse no matter what it took.

  Thomas, as I had hoped, unquestioningly believed my lie. "I knew that you weren't dangerous...that you couldn't do the things they claim you did." I nodded, grateful that he had faith in me -- even if no one else did.

  "So, down by one run in the bottom of the sixth, Bradley worked the count three balls and two strikes. Though I felt compelled to piss off Bradley's dad by calling the next pitch a strike regardless of its location, I couldn't destroy the integrity of the game by taking vengeance on a kid. However, when the ball sailed directly over the plate and right above his knees -- and Bradley didn't swing -- I called him out
. What else could I do?"

  "How did his dad react?"

  "Just as I expected. He bolted to his car and took off. His cowardice belied the false bravado he showed earlier in the game. He knew that, if -- and only if -- he came after me, I wouldn't hesitate to punish him."

  "Oh my God, Jim! That sounds awful."

  I nodded. And then, though I knew it might be a mistake, I couldn't help but add, "That was just the beginning."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Just as Thomas leaned even closer -- as though he expected to hear a secret that could change the world -- someone knocked on the door. Startled, Thomas bolted upright and turned to face the sound.

  Angela White shoved the door open and glared at Thomas with the authority of an Army general. "What's going on in here? You have other patients, you know!"

  "I-I'll be right there, Ms. White."

  "You'd better be." She slammed the door as she exited.

  "I'm sorry, Jim," he said with quivering lips. "I've got to go."

  "I totally understand, son. Go on, do your job."

  He nodded. "I'll be back, though, to hear the rest of your story. I promise."

  "I believe you. Now get!" I grinned as he took off.

  Immediately after he crossed the threshold, Angela White returned to my room. The White Whale -- I decided that this name seemed appropriate for her, both in relation to her size and to her ability to destroy the aspirations of those who dare cross her -- walked toward me and hovered, more like a bird of prey than a marine mammal. "Sorry about him," she said, pointing her oversized digit toward the door. "He wants Dr. Spangler's job, but his undergrad grades aren't good enough to get into a decent medical school."

  When I didn't respond, she said, "I see you decided to work with us rather than fight what's best." I nodded sheepishly. Although I'd reported to men larger in stature and power than her, I had never met someone who could intimidate by merely raising an eyebrow. "Good. Now that we have that nonsense out of the way, I'm going to explain how things are going to work while you're at Oak Ridge."

  "Yes ma'am."

  "Although you'll stay in your room the majority of the time -- including for meals -- you will attend a morning group therapy session with your peers." I was terrified as to who she considered my peers. "After that session, your group will go for a walk outside, weather permitting." Not too bad, I thought. Like prison, but without bars -- except for the ones on the windows, of course. "You'll then return to your room for lunch and rest. If you want, you can check a book out of our library for use during that time." To counteract her labored breathing, she carefully sucked in a massive breath. "Then, just before dinner, you'll receive individual counseling in your room -- similar to what you experienced last night with Dr. Spangler, but without the drama." When she raised her eyebrow, I lowered my head. I didn’t dare try again to argue my side. "After dinner, a mental health worker will take you to the shower facilities to wash up and change."

  She paused, and I inhaled deeply. My life for the next twenty-three days was going to be miserable...all due to that Vietnamese jerk. "Let's go," she said, glancing at her watch. "Your first group therapy session is just about to start."

  I stood and willingly followed her. Although I had her by a few inches in height, I was certain that she'd defeat me in an arm wrestling match.

  After trailing her down the dim hallway for a couple minutes, we arrived outside a room with a closed door. She opened, it, gave me a slight shove, and locked me inside with three lunatics.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  "Welcome, Jim," Anita Spangler said as I entered. Rollie stood guard behind her, giving her the confidence to face me without fear.

  "Dr. Spangler," I said, nodding.

  "Please have a seat." She gestured toward the steel folding chair at the right end of the four chairs situated in a semi-circle and angled toward her. I did as I was told.

  The other three chairs were occupied by a group of men ranging in age from twenty to their mid-forties. All possessed cheerier dispositions than I, and none seemed to harbor my resentment for Dr. Spangler and the rest of the Oak Ridge establishment.

  "As this is Jim's first meeting, why don't you each introduce yourselves and give Jim a brief summary of the reason you sought Oak Ridge for care. Lionel, why don't you go first?"

  "Sure thing, Annie," said a forty-something gentleman to my far right. A scar hovered over his left eye, and another was situated near the bottom of his chin. Although I was surprised that he called the doctor anything other than Dr. Spangler, it comforted me to know that she allowed him to do so without protest. "Name's Lionel Falkner, and I'm mighty glad that Oak Ridge took me in. The VA…the folks who helped pops...helped me get in Oak Ridge when their own facilities were full." I nodded, knowing full well that the Veteran's Administration doesn’t always have the resources to provide the services retirees deserve. "Spent six months in Kuwait and Iraq during Desert Storm, and those six months were the worst of my life. Saw things that'd make your blood run colder 'an if you were covered in ice and locked in a Yeti cooler." He clasped his hands together, and I noticed a quarter-inch nub where his left pinky finger should have been.

  "Can you tell Jim what made you decide to seek inpatient care?" Annie asked.

  "Mm-hmm," Lionel said. "I signed up for some outpatient treatment soon after I got back to the States. I'd been having some awful dreams, and I knew talking to someone was the only way I might be able to get rid of 'em." I nodded, as I experienced something eerily similar after I returned from Vietnam. "The treatment helped for a bit, and I was able to function, more or less. Other than a dream every month or so, sleep didn't hide itself from me anymore."

  He sighed. "Then one day a couple years ago, the dreams stormed back into my nights without givin' me any warning. It wasn't until a few months into those terrifyin' episodes that I realized what triggered ‘em. You see, I'd seen a documentary about the war, complete with Colin Powell and General Schwarzkopf. And that documentary, 'specially the footage from the war itself, did me in. I wasn't able to sleep a full night 'til after I'd spent a few months here at Oak Ridge."

  He half-grinned while he kneaded his fingers together. Though he still felt some repercussions from his days stationed in the Middle East, I could tell he was delighted with the change that he felt Oak Ridge brought to his life.

  I was happy for him. As someone who experienced his share of war-induced nightmares, getting free of them is an amazing accomplishment -- no matter how that freedom is attained.

  The gentleman to his left gnawed continuously on his lower lip. He knew he was up next, but he didn't seem nearly as ready to speak as Lionel.

  "Your turn, Paulie," Annie said.

  His entire body rocked back and forth as though he was sitting on one of the wooden rocking chairs outside Cracker Barrel, and he seemed intent to continue doing so until someone forced him speak up. Lionel took the initiative. "It's okay, buddy," he said as he rubbed Paulie's back. "Remember -- you're safe in here. I promise."

  "But...but...I just...I just can't talk about..."

  Annie grabbed the laminated picture of a five-year-old girl from a folder that was setting on the floor beside her. She handed Paulie the picture, and said, "Remember, Paulie. You're doing this for her."

  He stared at the image for a few seconds, and then drew it in to his chest. "All for you, Jess." I was certain the picture was of his daughter, the one who must’ve been his primary inspiration for overcoming his past trauma. I tried to do the same for Charlie years earlier, although I did so in an outpatient setting.

  "I was enterin' a four-alarmer -- a five-thousand-foot place that I was sure belonged to some doctor or lawyer."

  "Paulie," Annie briefly interjected, "is a firefighter."

  "Yep, that's me. At least that was me."

  He pressed his lips together and focused again on his rocking. "You don't have to tell me your story if you'd rather not," I said.

  "Naw," he said. "I
t's what Annie here says I gotta do to get past the fear."

  I shrugged. Though I wasn't sure she was right, I couldn't destroy the poor man's hope. "Anyways, when the lady who fled the house screamed that she wasn't able to find her cat, I was the dummy who ran in to find it." In addition to rocking, Paulie began to tremble. "Though flames were tearin' apart the top floor and causin' drywall and floor joists to tumble down, I raced through the foyer and through each room on the first level. I did everything I could to find the poor lady's kitty."

  I couldn’t help but think about my own poor Scout. He loved me even when I forgot to feed him. Even when I yelled at him for chewing up my old sneakers. He was the only one who loved me unconditionally, and he didn't deserve his fate.

  We spent some of our best times on the river -- in the boat with that double-crosser Gene. But golly, he had so much fun jumping off the side and swimming. He even retrieved the occasional duck that Gene blasted from the sky. He loved every aspect of his doggy life, a life that was cut way too short.

  "After rummaging through each cabinet and looking behind every piece of furniture, I decided I wouldn't be able to find the cat," Paulie said. "But by then I was trapped. Though I was able to dodge flamin' debris to get to the foyer, drywall from the ceiling blocked the open front door. I couldn’t get past."

  He cradled his head in his hands. "It was horrible. I looked to the windows, but they were blocked, too. So, with nowhere else to go, I decided to dive through a small opening above the pile of drywall. Only I couldn't jump high enough with my air pack and coat weighing me down. So I threw them off and dove over the pile like a running back -- only I'm not exactly the athletic type." He gripped his stomach and bent forward. "I didn't jump high enough, and my stomach landed on top of the drywall, forcing me to chuck my ham and cheddar sandwich all over the porch. I hung like a dish rag hangs over a kitchen faucet.

  "In the few seconds it took for my squad to yank me out, the flames licked at my white t-shirt 'til it caught fire. They spread over the cotton, and soon my trunk was being burned from all angles." He began convulsing as though he was still being roasted on a human-sized skewer. Watching him do so was horrible, and I was thankful that I wasn't there when he lived through it.