Memories Never Die

by C Thomas Cox

  She knelt in front of me and held me in her arms. I let my head fall onto her shoulder, and prayed that the comfort and sympathy she provided would somehow absorb my never-ending guilt. They didn't.

  As I allowed myself to understand that guilt was the true cause of my anger, however, I realized that only one thing would possibly help. "Claire," I whispered, "there's somewhere we need to go."

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Claire and I arrived at the Dairy Police Station around two o'clock the afternoon of the funeral. Claire called before we left to let Detective Smith know that I wanted to talk to him.

  "I'm sorry that I haven't been in touch," Smith said as he escorted us into his office which, as was the rest of the building, a remnant of the seventies. "We still haven't been able to determine Mr. Linh's motive." Claire and I sat across from him. "I'll let you know as soon as we uncover anything."

  Claire leaned over and whispered into my good ear. "You sure you want to go through with this?"

  I cleared my throat. "I think I can help you, Detective," I said.

  He tugged on his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "How so?"

  "Well, you see," I said. "Back when I was stationed in Vietnam, I, uh..." Claire reached over and squeezed my hand, giving me the strength to continue. "I shot Anh Linh's father."

  "I wouldn't doubt it," Smith said as he rolled a pencil between his palm and fingers. "I'm sure you shot plenty Viet Cong."

  I gnawed on my lower lip. "That's not what I mean. It wasn't during battle. Anh's father was innocent."

  He grinned. "I'm sure that's what Linh wanted you to believe, but don't buy his nonsense. Of course he'd think is daddy was innocent. Even the most brutal dictators appear innocent to their sons." He leaned forward. "I know you've been through a lot...both fifty years back and in the last few weeks. But don't dwell on anything that Linh told you. Sure, war's a bitch. But that's no excuse for false imprisonment and attempted murder."

  I wasn't getting through to him, and Claire wasn't willing to help me hang myself. I had to do something...to show Smith something that would sell him on my story. I turned to Claire. "Where'd you put my dog tag?" I whispered. After Linh's death, she'd shoved it into her pocket to prevent the police from lifting it from the crime scene.

  "Threw it out," she mouthed. I rolled my eyes.

  "James," Smith said. "Why don't you do your best to relax? I know it's tough, but it'll get easier."

  Claire stood and tugged at my arm. "Let's go, honey. Maybe we can take a walk around the lake on the way home."

  I got up and shuffled toward the door, Claire right behind me. Just as I crossed the threshold, I heard Smith ask Claire when I was going to the VA hospital. I didn't turn around, but instead angled my right ear toward them.

  "Tomorrow morning," she said.

  "I think it'll help him move past his muddled memories. Plus, he'll learn how to cope with the misplaced guilt that his PTSD appears to have triggered."

  We thanked Detective Smith and climbed into the car. "Why won't he believe me?" I asked.

  "He knows you're a good man," Claire said. "Lots of bad things happen during war, and he thinks that what feels like guilt to you now was just the normal course of events then. I can't blame him."

  "But I need him to know the truth," I said.

  "You might just have to live with the fact that you told him the truth...regardless of whether he believes you." She patted my leg. "I think you need to let your willingness to admit your guilt be enough to set you free from its chains."

  I gazed out the window. "Besides," she continued. "Don't you think you've already paid your penance?"

  She was right, of course. What would I really gain from Smith...or anyone else...believing my far-fetched tale of a hunt for vengeance that lasted half a century? Maybe a couple years in prison...if, in fact, the statute of limitations hadn't already expired. Besides, I was the only witness still alive. And, as any psychiatrist would attest, my mind wasn't exactly the most trustworthy...particularly when it related to my time in Vietnam.

  ***

  I took Claire up on her offer to go for a walk on the way home. She pulled into the lakeside lot, and we took our time circling the water on the asphalt path. She laced her fingers between mine.

  "You're going to overcome this," she said. "I'm sure of it."

  "But these memories have been haunting me for most of my life, Claire. How, at my age, can I defeat them?"

  She stopped and turned to me. "I think you're looking at this the wrong way." She gestured toward a bench, and we sat, hand still in hand. "See all these people," she said, gesturing toward the totality of the path. I nodded. At least fifty others, ages ranging from two to ninety-two, were following the same asphalt ring as we were...circling the same body of water. "They all live with memories. Many of those memories are good, but I bet my life that more than a handful are terrible."

  "I'm sure you're right, but do you think any of them murd..." She held her finger to my lips.

  "I'm not comparing their memories to yours, honey." She massaged the top of my back. "I just want you to realize that everyone has to live with his or her own memories...they can never be wiped out. They can never be, as you say, defeated."

  We watched a one-legged duck hop from its perch on top of a boulder into the water, where it began to swim. Although it had trouble swimming in a straight line, it took its time, corrected its course as needed, and cruised into position to gobble up a handful of the pieces of bread that three children tossed into the water.

  "I'm sure the doctors you'll meet tomorrow will teach you how to live with your memories...to live with them rather than kill them. To reduce their impact on your life rather than to repress them. To learn from them, and become an even better man than you already are."

  I held my open arms toward Claire, and she fell into them, resting her head on my chest. I kissed the top of her head, and we sat silently for an hour.

  I cherished the time we spent together the rest of that day. Although we didn't speak much, we didn't require words to express how we felt about one another. And we didn't need words to enjoy just being close.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  The evening came and went, and before we knew it we woke to the sound of the alarm clock blaring...and beckoning me toward the VA hospital. I kissed Claire's forehead and climbed out of bed.

  Instead of the dread that I expected my new -- but temporary -- home to inspire, I welcomed the opportunity that the hospital provided...but that I didn't deserve.

  I was prepared to learn to co-exist with my memories. I wanted to learn from other soldiers who lived through similar trauma...who watched others give their lives...who took the lives of both the guilty and the innocent. I wanted to get better for Claire...and for me.

  After changing into jeans and a short-sleeved button-down top -- Claire had suggested a golf shirt, but I politely declined -- I woofed down my last homemade breakfast. I gave Liz a hug, asked her to take good care of Claire for me, and carried my suitcase to the car. After depositing it in the trunk, I climbed into the passenger seat and Claire hopped behind the wheel.

  We listened to a classic rock station as we cruised east toward Philadelphia on Route Thirty. I rolled down my window and let the wind tussle my hair. "I'm going to come back better than ever," I said. I winked at my bride.

  "I don't doubt it." She grinned, and I longed to kiss her on the spot.

  ***

  In what felt like record time, we arrived at the garage adjoining the hospital. Claire took a paper ticket from an automated machine, placed it on the dash, and found a parking spot. I fingered my deformed but painless ear.

  Although I was certain that war...and life...had damaged the bodies of other soldiers more brutally than Anh's bullet did mine, I was suddenly aware that my deformity might bring me at least some attention. "Just tell them you went ten rounds with Tyson," Claire said with a wink. "That'll put an end to any questions."

  Her w
it...and her ability to feel what I felt...always amaze me. God, I love her.

  I grabbed my luggage and we walked, side-by-side, into the main lobby. When I told the receptionist my name, she said they'd been expecting me. And when they ushered us into a small office to fill out some paperwork, I knew I was finally in the right place.

  Images of military veterans lined the walls, and each veteran -- some uniformed, some in civilian clothing -- bore both the scars of war and a smile that indicated that they'd learned how to live with war's memories.

  Although the mere presence of the framed pictures confirmed that the VA hospital was a much better fit than Oak Ridge, not knowing the individuals entrusted with my care made me a bit nervous. I even asked Claire to complete the intake forms, as my trembling hands were unable to do so.

  After we finished, a female mental health worker walked Claire and I toward my room. Claire wrapped her arm around mine as we wandered halls littered with both workers and patients. We shuffled past veterans with head bandages, wheelchairs, and walkers. We saw doctors in scrubs and neckties. And my nerves began to grow.

  Just after we walked through the double doors leading into the mental health ward, however, the atmosphere began to change. The hallways were quieter, patients appeared to be largely confined to their rooms, and the fluorescent lights weren't quite as bright.

  "Here we are," our escort said as she stopped just outside an open door to our right.

  As soon as we crossed the threshold, Claire and I were surprised to find that the room contained two beds. "I thought most of your rooms were singles," she said.

  "They are," the mental health worker said. "But one of our patients requested to share a room with Mr. Richmond. Dr. Solomon approved the request...said it seemed like a great idea."

  "Really?" I asked.

  Claire glanced at me. "Any idea who it is?" I shook my head.

  Before I had a chance to ask, a familiar voice said, "Hey, man. So glad to see you again."

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  I shook Lionel Falkner's outstretched hand. "How'd you get here?" I asked.

  "Long story," he said. He turned to Claire. "Is this the missus?"

  "This is my beautiful Claire."

  He took her hand. "How do ya do?"

  After the exchange of pleasantries ended, he said he'd give us some privacy while we said our goodbyes. He dug into a novel while Claire and I stuffed my clothes into my bedside dresser.

  "I'll visit in a week," she said.

  "I can't wait."

  "And we'll talk every night, right?"

  "Yep, every night before lights out."

  "You sure you have everything you need?"

  "Nope," I said with a wink. "But if I left anything at home, I'm sure you'll be happy to bring it to me."

  She wrapped her arms around me, and I pulled her close. "Feels so good to know you're in good hands...that you're safe," she said.

  "I feel the same way about you." Since Anh Linh was out of the picture and Liz was still at the house, I no longer had to worry about her. "You're my forever," I whispered.

  "You're my always."

  ***

  "I love that mushy stuff," Lionel said as soon as Claire departed. He set down his book and sat upright. "Always gets me right here." He pounded the side of his closed fist against his chest.

  I dragged my chair next to his. "So, how'd you end up here?" I asked. "I thought you liked Oak Ridge."

  "I thought so too...until Thomas Cariot took you away."

  Hearing Thomas's name caused the hairs on my neck to stand on end. "But what's that have to do with you?"

  "Didn't you hear?" I shook my head. "After you're incident, the 'ministration investigated how Thomas was able to get you outta there. A bunch of his lower paid co-workers admitted that Thomas bribed 'em. He 'parently paid 'em to keep quiet while he did whatever he wanted to his old man patients." He cringed once he realized what he'd said. "Oh, sorry."

  I chuckled. "No worries. You're right...I'm not exactly a young-un."

  He grinned. "Anyway, you're not the first one he yanked outta Oak Ridge. The cops found the bodies of the others at Thomas's place in the woods." He furrowed his brow. "Did he tell you 'bout his shack? And did you know 'bout the bodies?"

  "I guess you could say so." I blinked hard, hoping that the blink would shove the images of my stay with Thomas into the deepest recesses of my mind. Although my blink wasn’t one-hundred-percent effective, I was able to ignore the images just enough to continue our conversation.

  "After I heard 'bout all he'd done...and the mess that Oak Ridge had become -- figurin' out which employees were safe to keep and all that -- I circled back to the VA. Not sure if you remember, but they was full when I'd applied before." I nodded. During our brief time together at Oak Ridge, his story was the most vivid tale that I heard during my one group therapy session...and the most similar to mine. I recalled clearly that Oak Ridge was his second choice.

  "This time I lucked out. They'd just discharged a couple fellas, so they had room."

  "I'm glad it worked out," I said. "But how'd you end up in my room?"

  The corners of his mouth turned up. "Last week, I overheard a couple nurses sayin' that you'd be joinin' us soon. I remembered how you acted at Oak Ridge -- you know, all nervous and stuff, as if you was gonna melt like the Wicked Witch." He was right, of course. "But I felt like, during our short time together, that we had some sort of connection. And I felt like our stories were close enough that maybe we could help each other."

  "Thanks, man. You’ll never understand how much that means to me." Confident that things were finally looking up, I clasped his hand -- the one missing most of its pinky finger -- between mine.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  The next couple days cruised by without incident. Lionel introduced me to a few Desert Storm vets, I adjusted to meals that tasted like they'd been cooked at a high school cafeteria, and Claire called me at nine o’clock each evening. God, how I missed her.

  Every day at two o’clock in the afternoon, Lionel and I traveled to an outdoor courtyard misnamed The Garden. In that area between two of the hospital’s buildings, a quarter acre of stamped concrete surrounded two rose bushes in need of trimming.

  We sat with a dozen veterans who served primarily in Iraq and Afghanistan -- I was the only one old enough to have served in Vietnam -- and focused on the advantages that our service provided us. From our ability to overcome adversity to our willingness to look death in the eye, we were each given gifts unique to those on the front lines. We discussed how we could use those gifts to better society, our families, and ourselves.

  We also talked about memories that our service indelibly tattooed on our brains. Those memories, just like our abilities, would live with us forever. Instead of dwelling on the suffering that those memories caused in our past and present, we needed to learn from both the horrors and the victories that our actions, and the actions of those around us, caused.

  "Our time in The Garden," I said to Lionel one evening while we sat in our room, "helps me feel like I’m whole again. Like my time in Vietnam actually added pieces to my life." I shook my head. "I used to think that 'Nam only took pieces away."

  "Speakin’ of takin’ pieces away," he said. "I keep meanin’ to ask you what happened to your ear. I think I’d remember if you was missin’ half of it when you was at Oak Ridge."

  I sighed. "Went ten rounds with Tyson since I saw you last."

  He grinned. "For an old fella, you’ve got some spunk."

  I chuckled. "For a young fella, you’ve got some patience…you need it to put up with me."

  He opened a book and pulled out a three by five picture tucked inside. He walked over to my bed and sat beside me. "Looks like your ear was whole back then, too."

  I took the picture from him, held it up to my eyes, and dropped it. I jerked my head toward him. "How’d you get this?" I asked like a man who'd just eaten a gallon of cookies and cream ice cream t
opped with peanut butter cups, hot fudge, and speed.

  "Found it in a Cracker Jack box."

  I rolled my eyes. "I’m serious, Lionel. How, in the hell, did you get your hands on a picture of my squad?"

  He jumped off the bed. "I knew it!" He jumped at least a foot of the ground. "I knew it was you, man! I was sure…I was so sure. And I was right. Look at me. I was right, man."

  "What?"

  "You're him."

  "Him who?"

  "Him!"

  He pointed to the image of me, in my Army greens, just before I boarded the flight that would ultimately take me to Vietnam.

  "Right," I said. "But how did you get this?" I picked up the photo from the floor and waved it in his face.

  He pointed at the picture. "Look more closely," he said. I sighed and again turned my attention to the photo.

  As I scanned the faces that I hadn't seen since the landmine ended my service, I realized something that I was surprised hadn't hit me before. The gentleman standing on the left end of the picture -- Thomas Falkner -- bore a striking resemblance to the gentleman with whom I shared my room at the VA hospital. "Tommy's...your...dad?"

  He nodded like a bobblehead. "Yes sir!"

  I couldn't believe it. The son of my best friend on the squad...the one man with whom I regretted not making an effort to keep in touch...was my roommate.

  I stood up and threw my arms around Lionel. "You're father's the best. Not only did he always have my back, but his corny jokes kept our squad in good spirits." Lionel nodded as though he'd heard hundreds of similar jokes himself. "How's he doing, anyway?" I kept my hands on his shoulders as I took a half-step backward.

  The smile that'd persisted on Lionel's face ever since he showed me the picture disintegrated. "He lost the toughest battle of his life...the one with diabetes."

  "Oh, no," I said as I wrapped my arms back around him. "I'm so sorry."