Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel)

by B. T. Urruela

  “What kind of thoughts?”

  I let out a heavy breath, shaking my head. “My dad was a military man. And he did a whole hell of a lot for this country. He was my hero growin’ up. But he wasn’t ever much of a father. His expectations of me were always well above what I could have ever achieved.”

  “Did he ever hit you?”

  “Until I got big enough to defend myself.”

  “And your mother?”

  “We divin’ into all the heavy stuff today?” I ask, grinning.

  “And your mother?” she repeats.

  “No, my mom never hit me. But she pretended my pops didn’t either. She turned a blind eye, and I don’t know which is worse. I think she was bipolar, though she’d never accept havin’ some sort of mental defect. She’d spend days and days in bed, her door locked. She’d only leave to get food, which was few and far between. I don’t think she took all my dad’s deployments too well. But then she’d have these periods where she was the best mother a kid could ask for.”

  “I couldn’t diagnose her without evaluating her, but yes, those examples do seem to sway toward bipolar.” She hesitates, the pen meeting her full lips, her eyes on the ceiling.

  Calm yourself, Bishop. Calm yourself.

  “Was it hard for you being an only child?” she asks.

  “Yeah, it was hard takin’ the brunt of everything. Hard not havin’ someone there to cope with. We moved so much when my dad would change duty stations that I never really got to connect with anyone growin’ up. Not until he retired and we finally settled in Florida, but by then, I was already a teen. Already fucked up.”

  “But in the Army you did connect with others?”

  “Yeah, with a lot of people. But then, you know, you lose some guys, and that always sticks with you, and you end up losin’ others through distance. There’s only a handful I even still communicate with.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Guys don’t keep in touch like women do. We don’t often visit each other. The friendship kinda fades. Don’t get me wrong, if you ever see ‘em again, it’s like a day ain’t passed. But they move on with their lives, and you move on with yours, and it’s like two passin’ ships in the night.”

  “How does it make you feel to not have a closer relationship with them?”

  “It’s hard.”

  “How so?”

  “So, when I got blown up, we were at the end of our tour. We were so close to goin’ home. About a month into my recovery, they were all comin’ back, havin’ their ‘welcome home’ celebrations and enjoyin’ two weeks of leave, and then they shipped off to new duty stations. Meanwhile, I was in a coma all that time.”

  “Is there maybe a little resentment there?”

  “Unfortunately, yeah.”

  “Well, that’s understandable. Did anybody visit you after you got hurt?”

  “Yeah, a few friends from my unit, but that’s pretty much it.”

  “So, you spent a lot of time alone?”

  “Oh yeah. For a good two years of recovery. I had a girlfriend the last bit of it, but I definitely kept her at a distance too.”

  “How did that relationship end?”

  I laugh, shrugging. “Alcohol.”

  “Did you do something? Hit her?”

  “No, no, nothin’ like that. I would never hit a woman. She just didn’t like how much I drank. She wasn’t ready to put the work in.”

  “Tell me the truth. Outside of the past two days, have you been drunk?”

  “Is my honesty here gonna negatively affect the outcome of this program?”

  “No, it won’t.”

  “Yeah, I have.”

  “How much?”

  “I had some beers this past weekend. Jameson on the rocks Tuesday night, just because.”

  “You didn’t go overboard though?”

  “Actually, I didn’t even get drunk. Maybe a little buzzed. Just wasn’t feelin’ the social scene this weekend. I spent a lot of time hangin’ around the apartment.”

  “When you do drink, is there some commonality in what leads you to it? Some feeling, or memory, or experience?”

  I think for a moment; having never really thought about it before, it’s hard to pinpoint. “I think the anxiety has a lot to do with it,” I finally reply.

  She nods. “And what does the anxiety feel like to you?”

  “Well, I get a lot of headaches and jaw pain, because when the anxiety is gettin’ bad, I clench my jaw without even realizin’ it. I notice that my mind runs about a mile a minute. I can’t lock on to any one thing for too long. When some of the things my mind conjures up are hard memories from the past, it’s like … bein’ a boxer, takin’ a right jab, left jab, uppercut, repeat. The thoughts and memories keep comin’. Keep hittin’.”

  I hesitate, but she doesn’t take the pause as an opportunity to speak; instead, she remains focused, waiting for me to continue.

  “Um, there’s this ball of nervous energy, like one of those plasma balls at the Science Center. It’s electric, radiating, choking. I can’t sleep. Don’t want to eat. The only thing that seems to quell it is a substance of some sort.”

  “What about medication?” she asks.

  “I’m on Zoloft. And that’s after tryin’ a hundred other things at Walter Reed. It’s the only one that seemed to work even half-assed without turning me into a mindless zombie. Without it, I’m a goddamn mess. I hate myself.”

  “You hate yourself off of medication, or alcohol?”

  I go to speak, but the words don’t come right away. I think her question over again. “Fuck, maybe both.”

  “Where do you think the hate comes from?”

  “Well, I’m extremely self-analytical, so I do actually have a theory on that. I think it stems from my parents, and never bein’ good enough for ’em. Mostly my pops. I think it led me to this self-deprecation I struggle with now.”

  She smiles. “I think that’s very astute.”

  “I think I wanna start askin’ you some questions.”

  “That’s not why you’re here. I didn’t beat a kid half to death.”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Oh, c’mon now. Half to death? That’s a bit much. And can we come up with a deal at least?”

  “What do you mean, a deal?”

  “Like, I ask you a question, then you ask me a question. One for one.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Two for one?”

  She gives a tight shake of her head.

  “Three for one?”

  She shakes her head again and says, “How about this? Five for one, and no extremely personal questions. That wouldn’t be appropriate, nor do I care to become the patient in my own office.” She smiles, and I chuckle at her last comment.

  “Okay, deal. I think you’ve definitely already got your five in.”

  She nods, motioning with her hand for me to go ahead.

  “Did you just move into this office?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I’ve been here awhile.”

  “Why is it so barren? No photos. Keepsakes. Memorabilia.”

  She grins. “Five for one, remember?”

  “Wait, no, that ain’t fair! It was a two-part question.”

  “I don’t think so,” she says, chuckling.

  “Goddammit. I’m losin’ at my own damn game.”

  “Yeah, shame you underestimated me, Bishop. Now, back to the real reason you’re here. What is it you hate most about yourself?”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “I’ll remember this in four more questions, Carleigh. I think the thing I hate is not bein’ able to shake the awful shit. The shit that sticks with you. I’ve done some counselin’, read some self-help books, I’ve taken the medication and the necessary steps, but I still feel this way. Like I got nothin’, like I’m goin’ nowhere. I feel like my identity has been stolen.”

  “You may not be in the Army anymore, but that doesn’t take away what you’ve done. You’re a hero, Bishop.”
<
br />   “I’m no hero,” I snap. “I was just doin’ my job. I wish I was still doin’ my job.”

  “But you’re not, and you never will again,” she says matter-of-factly. She lifts her palms. “So, what’s next? I know it’s hard, but you’re only stuck in this limbo because you haven’t yet started to move forward. You just need to figure out what’s next for you. Find a new passion and chase it. Besides acting, is there anything else you’re interested in?”

  “I’ll count that as two questions, by the way, since you’re the one who wants to be all technical. What’s next, I don’t know. I get through these classes somehow and figure out a major. And I have other interests, but nothin’ that could be considered career-worthy. I play guitar, a little photography, shit like that. Nothin’ that’s gonna make me any money.”

  “Well, technically, that shouldn’t be your biggest concern. It doesn’t need to be since you have your pension. How are your grades, by the way? Has the fraternity process caused any issues?”

  “And that would be questions four and five, Ms. Jacobs. My grades are shit, to be honest. And while the fraternity ain’t helped, if it weren’t for their mandatory study sessions, my grades would probably be even worse.”

  “Why are you having such difficulty?”

  “That’s a sixth question, Carleigh.” I wag my finger at her.

  “Just answer it.”

  “Okay, but I get two.” I put my hand out. “Deal?”

  She eyes my hand but does nothing. “Answer the question, Bishop.” She fights a smile on her face.

  “I fuckin’ hate classes. I hate the material and just bein’ in there. Half the kids in my classes are fuckin’ morons who think they’re still in high school, and the professor is a dude two years older than me, and not a professor at all, come to find out, but a grad student. Did I mention I hate the material?” I chuckle. “I find myself starin’ at the clock on the wall a hundred times over the course of an hour. Lately, I’ve been taken back to somethin’ an old squad leader said to me once, when I was about a year into the Army. He asked me what my plans were when my contract was up. I said I wasn’t sure. At that time, bein’ an abused private and shit on by everyone, I really wasn’t sure. The freedom of college sounded intriguing. He asked me, ‘How did you do in high school? Did you like it?’ I said, ‘My grades were shit, and I hated goin’ to class.’ He laughed and said, ‘Stay in the Army, son.’”

  We both laugh.

  I lift my hands. “So, at the end of the day, maybe he’s right. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out for this school shit.”

  “Or maybe just not the classroom environment. Have you tried online courses?”

  I nod. “While I was at Walter Reed recoverin’, I took a few, but I don’t have enough willpower for that shit.” I hesitate a moment before adding, “Hey, that was another question!”

  She smiles wickedly. “Go ahead and ask yours, Bishop.”

  “What happened with your husband?”

  Her eyes shoot to her ring finger and she sighs. “I told you no personal questions.”

  “Do you like me, Carleigh?” I ask, catching her off-guard.

  “Huh?”

  “Do you like me? Do you think I’m a good dude?”

  “Absolutely. In the little time I’ve gotten to know you, I think you’re a ‘good dude.’ Why?”

  “Well, I have this weird trust thing with doctors. Always have. Too many fuckin’ assholes at Walter Reed who don’t give a shit about their patients. And the VA system … shit, I won’t even get into that. So, with all the experiences I’ve had, it’s hard for me to connect with a doctor. Especially in the mental health field. With somethin’ like this, I want there to be a level of trust between us. A connection.”

  “I want that, too.”

  “Part of that is me gettin’ to know a little about you. I like you too, Carleigh. I think you’re a good lady.” I chuckle. “And I’d like to get to know more about what makes you tick. If you have a little internal scarrin’ of your own, even better. Then we can relate.”

  “He cheated on me,” she blurts. “Had been for years, I guess.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, twenty-plus years of marriage, and who knows how much of it he was cheating. There were a million red flags … it’s just, when you love someone that much, it’s easy to look past those signs. It’s easy to look past the verbal abuse. It’s funny, being a therapist, helping those in messed up situations and eventually finding yourself in the same.”

  I smile. “Do you have sessions with yourself?”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “You got me there. I analyze every single move I’ve ever made more times than I could comfortably admit.”

  “It’s not such a bad thing. It can be. But recognizing and acknowledging past mistakes is a very mature and responsible thing to do. We must take accountability, but not dish out unnecessary blame. You made a mistake. You’re human. Move forward and learn.” Her eyes trail to the clock on the wall and then back to me. “We’re just about out of time, but we’ll continue this next week? I want to talk more about the school stuff and maybe come up with some goals for the future.”

  “Sounds like barrels of fun,” I say, giving her a thumbs up.

  “Get out of my office, shithead.”

  “Carleigh, language!” I smile, standing from the chair. “Thanks for everything. And hey …” I wait for her eyes to meet mine, and when they do, I continue, “Forgive me for sayin’ it, but your ex is a fuckin’ moron. Any man who would risk losin’ you for some extra shit on the side never deserved you to begin with. Same goes for a man who would talk down to you, or talk bad about you. You’re a catch, Carleigh.”

  “Well, thank you. Flattery doesn’t get you very far in this office, unfortunately.” She grins.

  “Good thing I was just speakin’ honestly then, huh?” I wink, making my way to the door. Turning back, I add, “Bye, Carleigh.”

  “Bye, Bishop,” she says as she passes me that gorgeous smile, before she shoos me away.

  WE’RE AT THE BEGINNING OF Hell Week, whatever the fuck that means. I’m thankful for getting last Thursday off from pledge challenges, at least, but I imagine if they felt the need to give us a break, these next five days will be nothing short of absolute dog shit. They haven’t told us anything since giving us a list of things to bring with us in a backpack—a change of clothes, a flashlight, hygiene products, and a brick—leaving us here in the basement to fend for ourselves. Mac has been bitching since Brady left us an hour ago, moving from the couch, to the bar, to the stairwell, and back again. Jeremy sits on the bar top as he has since we were left here, and Carter and I sit on the Semen Couches, fucking around on our phones.

  “Fuck!” Mac yells, checking the fridge for the thousandth time. “I can’t take this shit much longer.”

  “Mac, it’s the beginning of fucking Hell Week!” Carter shouts, louder than I’ve ever heard him get. “Chill the fuck out.”

  “I’m just saying, let us do something here other than picking each other’s assholes.”

  “Where have your hands been, Mac?” Jeremy says with a laugh.

  “You haven’t felt that?” Mac asks, grinning.

  “You fuckers need to just calm your tits and just play a game on your phone or somethin’. You’re workin’ yourselves up for no reason,” I say, and Jeremy shoots me a glare.

  “You talkin’ ’bout me?” he says. “I’ve been mindin’ my own business, thank ya very much.”

  “Okay, but you’re eggin’ him on.”

  Jeremy points to Carter. “So is he,” he argues as the opening doors draw our attention toward the stairs.

  Trevor strolls down first, Damian following close behind.

  Damian motions toward the back wall. “Line up, pledges!” he shouts.

  We link up in front of the concrete wall and await further instruction.

  Trevor paces in front of us, as he always does, and says, “Damian, do you have th
e bottle?”

  “I do,” Damian responds, pulling an empty beer bottle from his back pocket.

  “Do you know what to do with it?” Trevor asks, more of a statement than a question.

  Damian lifts the bottle, eyeing each of us as he does, before he slams it to the ground. It shatters in pieces, scattering across the concrete floor. He eyes the remnants of the bottle, and then each of us again, in a drawn-out process. He pulls a few glue sticks from his other pocket and tosses them atop the shattered remains of the bottle. “Glue it back together,” he says. “You should be able to drink out of it in four hours.”

  With that, both Damian and Trevor make their way back up the stairs as we unlink and scan the mess of glass across the floor in front of us.

  “How the fuck are we supposed to do that?” Mac lifts his arms and drops them dramatically.

  “Well, you got what you asked for Mac. You happy?” I shoot him glare, letting out a frustrated sigh.

  “Seriously.” Jeremy leans over and picks up one of the glue sticks. “How the fuck are we gonna do this?”

  “It had to have been done before,” Carter reasons.

  I shake my head. “Like Archie’s fuckin’ Tower? And who the fuck exactly is gonna be drinkin’ out of this thing?”

  They all avert their eyes.

  “What the fuck did I get myself into?” I groan.

  “For real,” Mac adds.

  “C’mon, Prez. You gotta be our leader here,” Jeremy says, shrugging. “How do we do this?”

  I let out a whoosh of breath, my hands meeting my hips as I observe the mess of glass shards around us. “We start puttin’ it back together, I guess.” I sigh. “Let’s start collectin’ up the pieces.”

  Our fingers cut and bloodied, the bottle is finally back together, though drinking out of it isn’t likely. Trevor has it in his hands and eyes it over for a moment, inspecting it, and then he passes it over to Damian, who then inspects it himself.

  After a moment, he looks at us and then throws the bottle back down on the ground, shattering it to pieces for the second time.

  “Not good enough! Do it again!” he yells, turning around and leading Trevor back up the stairs.

  “Motherfuckers!” Mac yells once the door has closed behind them, his face bright red.