WE ARE ONE: Volume Two

by Jewel, Bella

  “Well, that’s sweet and all, but I doubt a jury is going to be impressed with what your heart tells you.” Jacqueline smiles tightly.

  “I have to go.” I grab Nuke’s lead and start walking through the lot.

  “Jake, let me take you home.”

  “I’ll drive,” Jacqueline announces, heading toward her car. “We can discuss your case on the way,”

  “No!” I yell, and glance between them. Ellie’s mouth turns down in a frown, Jacqueline looks impatient. I’d be willing to bet that she don’t hear “no” very often.

  “We need to go over your case, Jake,” Jacqueline calls, but I’m already runnin’ down N Section Street, and I don’t plan on stopping.

  In my driveway, I bend double and spill the contents of my guts onto the pavers, while Nuke collapses in the grass. It takes a minute or two for me to catch my breath, but when I do I can’t stand still any longer. The voices in my head are too loud. I take a step toward the porch and my left leg gives out, forcing me to collapse on the ground. I pushed too hard. I ran too fast, too far, and now I’ll be paying for it for the entire week.

  I just had to get away. I couldn’t stand there in front of her and pretend I wasn’t dying inside.

  I push to my feet again and carefully climb the stairs, limping as my breath seesaws in and out of my lungs. Nuke follows, climbing each step as tentatively as I do, and together we limp inside, shutting the world out behind us. I lock the doors and draw all the blinds and turn off my phone, and then I head upstairs to my bedroom and lie on the floor, shielded by the bed and the heavy pants of my dog’s body alongside mine.

  27

  Jake

  Two years, nine months ago

  “Jesus Christ,” Lucky says, wiping the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his fatigues. “It’s hotter than a sweaty nun’s cunt out here.”

  “You know that from firsthand experience?” I say, turning my eyes to the buildings above us, scanning for some sign of life, anything. It’s too quiet. Where are the cars, the rich scents of kabuli, naan and seekh kabab cooked by street vendors, the bustle of people through the market? There are no children here; in every town we’ve been to, from the FOB at Delaram to Sangin to Kandahar to Barmal, there are children everywhere, trying to sell us bootleg DVDs and baseball cards, or charging us fifteen US dollars for a contraband bottle of beer, even if it is some local Afghani shit brewed in a rusted out gallon drum. What I wouldn’t give for a Red Stick Rye right now. Hell, in this heat, I’d even settle for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

  “I thought the preacher was more your thing, Lucky?” Ace mutters, takin’ off his helmet and runnin’ a hand over his pink scalp. He’s gonna be burnt to a crisp out here before Gunner gets done fixin’ the truck. Piece of crap picked a hell of a time to break down.

  Lucky turns and slams his chest against Ace’s, gettin’ all up in his face. “Shut your face, limp dick.”

  “Alright, both of you shut the fuck up and keep your eyes open,” I snap, tired of their bullshit. My head pounds like a motherfucker, and the last thing I want is to listen to them bitch one another out like an old married couple.

  “Yes, sir,” Ace says.

  I glare at Lucky. He frowns. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Put your fuckin’ helmet back on, Ace. I don’t need you takin’ a bullet to the head.

  “Yes, sir.” He fits the helmet to his head, and I clench my jaw as Jones strides over from the other Humvee and lights up a cigarette.

  “What are you doin’?”

  “Smokin’,” he says, as if I’m stupid and need an explanation. Sweat beads over his black skin. His outer shirt is tied around his waist, and the reflection from the sun on his white T-shirt practically blinds me.

  “Is no one actually on the fuckin’ job today?” I shout.

  “Hey what about you, Sarge?” Lucky asks, ignoring my mood. “You ever tap any of that sweet southern Carolina pussy back home? You know, those old-money country club types?”

  “I’m from Alabama, dumbass,” I say, and take the cigarette from Jones, inhaling the sharp smoke before coughing it back up.

  “You don’t fuck sweet southern pussy,” Jones says in a Louisianan drawl. “Southern pussy fucks you. And you don’t mess with those bitches unless you want your dick cut off, pared open, and arranged in a vase.”

  He isn’t wrong. You don’t mess with southern women, and if you do, you have the sense not to tell your Marine buddies about it, because she will find out. They always find out.

  “Gunner, I need an ETA on that vehicle.”

  “She’s done.” Gunner slams the hood of our Humvee. “What crawled up your ass today, farm boy?”

  “I don’t know, maybe the fact that we’re broken down in the middle of the fuckin’ tribal areas one hundred miles out from a known Haqquni stronghold, and everyone’s actin’ like we’re on fuckin’ vacation.”

  “We ain’t broken down no more,” Gunner says, winking bright blue eyes at me. “Relax. We’ll be home before you know it.”

  “All y’all get back to the trucks,” I shout to my men. Jones just looks at me. “That means you, too.”

  “You gotta spring me from that team, Sarge—bunch of pasty-assed, braindead motherfuckers. I don’t belong with them. Switch me out with Ace; they can geek-speak to one another in Klingon or some shit.”

  “Get back to the truck, Jones.”

  “Come on, sir. We’re practically neighbors, you and me.”

  “Truck. Now,” I order, and turn my attention to Ace and Lucky who are literally having a pissing contest against a nearby wall. Jesus Christ. It’s like babysitting a bunch of toddlers.

  A rusted out pickup speeds around the corner on screeching tires and comes to a halt thirty yards from where we stand. All my men go on alert, their rifles raised and at the ready. “Hold your fire,” I shout.

  An older man sits in the driver’s seat, watching us as the car idles.

  “Sarge?” Jones says beside me in a warning tone. “He’s going for the glove box, sir. Permission to shoot the towelheaded motherfucker in the head before he blows this village sky-high.”

  “Hold your fire, Jones,” I command. I grit my teeth and dart my gaze left and right, scanning the road and surrounding buildings for an even bigger threat than our new friend.

  “Sarge.”

  “Stand the fuck down, Lance Corporal!” I inch forward as I shout to the Afghani man, “Put your hands up and get out of the vehicle.”

  He sits and watches. His hands are raised, but the windshield is thick with dust so it’s impossible to make out his facial expression.

  Movement—he opens the door and steps out. He’s drenched in sweat, that much I can see from the way his kameez sticks to him, but who the fuck isn’t sweating in this heat?

  “Get down on the ground,” I command.

  The man speaks to us in Pashto. I understand about every fifth word: Allah, glory, death.

  “Ace, help me out here,” I shout. “What the fuck is he sayin’?”

  Ace takes a step back, his gun still trained on the man as he glances at me. “Death. Death to all who forsake Allah.”

  The man reaches inside his vest, and I pull the trigger. He hits the ground with a thud. Blood seeps out across the dust, and the shots ring in my ear.

  I take a deep breath, and my men holler. Jones pats me on the back and exhales in a rush. “You had me worried for a minute there, sir.”

  Lucky jumps up and down like a chimpanzee on crack. He salutes the dead man by giving him the finger. “Take that, motherfucker.”

  Gunner chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief as he moves around to the driver’s side of the Humvee. “See, what’d I tell ya? Home before you know it.”

  I open my mouth to give the command for everyone to get back in the truck, but Ace takes several steps toward the body and the world rocks on its side. The blast is so sudden, so quick that one second Ace is walking toward us, the next he explodes in a clou
d of dust and red. I’m on the ground, thrown away from the truck. My whole body screams with white-hot pain. Dust and what I’m sure must be blood cover my face.

  I cough and crawl through the desert sand until I stumble on one of my brothers. Jones. He chokes on the blood bubbling up out of his mouth. I crawl closer, unable to move faster for the pain. The dust hasn’t settled, and I can barely see a thing save for his dark skin and bright red blood against it.

  “Hang on, Jones,” I shout. I assume I shout, ’cause I can’t hear a fucking thing. Where are the rest of my men?

  I reach out and grab Jones’s shoulder. He begins convulsing, and I hold him down, tryin’ to pry his jaw open so he won’t swallow his tongue. “Don’t you fuckin’ quit on me, Jones; we still haven’t given you that transfer. You wanna die beside those Klingon cocksuckers?”

  I don’t even know if the rest of the team are still alive. I can’t see past Jones’s shoulder, and I can’t hear jack-shit. The fitting seems to have slowed but his brow is caked with sweat and blood, and the dust around us is as thick as Lucky’s skull.

  When a bomb goes off in Afghanistan, all that’s left is dust and fear, because you can’t see a fucking thing, and adrenaline plays tricks on you. It makes your blood pump faster, it makes you feel alive when you should be dead, and it masks the pain completely. It’s when the pain starts creeping back in that you have yourself a problem, and me? I’m getting real close to having a problem.

  Jones’s breath comes in pants, too fast for him to be taking in oxygen that might do him any good. His eyes go wide, and he stops convulsing—he stops breathin’ altogether.

  “Jones,” I yell. My head swims and I pat my hand down his chest. His abdomen is soaked with blood, but beyond that, there’s nothing—just wetness and a gaping maw of flesh and bone where his stomach should be. The kid was ripped apart.

  My stomach clenches, and I’m about to lose my guts when my nerves all clamor at once. The signals are all messed up. I try to move my feet, and my arm twitches. I can’t move my left arm for the pain.

  I stare down at the blood seeping through my fatigues. Nausea rolls over me again. I go down like a ton of bricks. I’m numb, flat on my back in the dust, hurt, bleedin’, and too damn tired to keep on fightin’ so I close my eyes.

  28

  Ellie

  Spencer had a bad night. So bad that I’d spent the entire evening consoling him in his bed, in mine, and at one point in the kitchen when he decided the beds and the couch were too hot. He’d wet himself at school yesterday, and the other kids had made fun of him. I’d gotten a call to come pick him up right after Jake left his lawyer and me standin’ in the Fairhope police department lot, scratchin’ our heads.

  I’d been worried sick all night and hadn’t slept a wink. I felt like hell. My son needed me. Jake needed me. There was never a question of who needed me more, or where I should be. I would always put Spencer first, but it didn’t stop the guilt from practically suffocating me. I didn’t know how to be everything they both needed, and I was terrified of letting either one of them down.

  As I expected, we hadn’t seen Jake at the park this morning, and the second I’d dropped Spencer off at school, I headed for Sea Cliff Drive. All morning I’d had this niggling feeling in my gut. There was something terribly wrong, I just knew it. It’s why I sat in my car staring up at that big house, too scared to go in. Too afraid of what I might find.

  A gust of wind hits me as I walk up the front porch steps. I knock, but there’s no answer. I turn the knob, and push it open the remainder of the way and head inside. My legs tremble as I climb the staircase and make my way down the hall toward his bedroom.

  I carefully push open the bedroom door. Jake sits on the edge of the bed, his eyes squeezed tightly closed, a pistol in his mouth. I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. He doesn’t look at me.

  Nuke barks and scratches at the other side of the bathroom door. He’s desperate to get out, to reach his owner. That’s what he’s supposed to do, to save Jake, and he can’t do that because Jake has locked him in the bathroom.

  “Jake?” I whisper. I don’t know where he is right now, but my Jake, the Jake I know isn’t seated on the edge of the bed. This is Jake the Marine. This is the Jake that frightens me, the one I never cared to meet again. I sob, “Jake, honey, put the gun down.”

  His eyes snap open. He looks at me as if he doesn’t know me. His hands are steady; they don’t tremble like mine do.

  “Honey, you’re scaring me. Set the gun down, please?” I beg through my tears. “You don’t want to do this.”

  He removes the gun from his mouth, and blinks several times, as if he’s confused. The first sob is a loud guttural cry, after that, his face contorts in pain, but no sound comes from his mouth. I’ve never seen a man so ruined, so broken. My heart squeezes, but I don’t go to him because his hand is still on the trigger, and one wrong move and Spencer might not have a mamma no more. “It hurts so fucking much. I just want it to stop. Why won’t it stop, Elle?”

  “I know, honey. I’m here, but I can’t help you while you’re holding that thing.” I nod toward the Glock and ease closer to the bed. It takes a beat for him to hit the magazine release and disarm the gun. Jake hands me the clip and pulls the slide release back violently. A shiny gold bullet pops out of the ejection port and he catches it midair, checks the barrel, and releases the slide. It’s second nature to him, like knowing what angle I have to cut a client’s hair on in order to create perfect layers. He passes the gun and the single bullet to me, and I place them both in my purse.

  My voice tremors as I say, “Why is Nuke locked in the bathroom?”

  He don’t answer; he just stares at a spot on the carpet by my feet. Now that I can breathe again, I survey the room: tangled sheets, half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, and a tiny orange bottle of pills. “I’m going to let him out, okay?”

  I open the door, and Nuke about knocks me over in an effort to get to Jake. He nudges into his owner’s lap, but he may as well not be there for all the attention Jake pays him.

  “You need to stop shutting this dog out. I know you’re hurting, but you’re not letting him do what he was trained to do.”

  “I don’t want to hurt no more, angel,” he slurs. “I don’t wanna be the one left behind. I’m done. I can’t do this no more. Those men were my brothers, and I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save Gunner or Jones. I couldn’t save any of them.”

  “No one could, Jake.” I say, softly. “You know that, in your heart you know, but suicide is not the answer. You’re stronger than this.”

  “I’m not like this ’cause I want to kill myself, Elle. I’m this way because I can’t,” he shouts and rakes a hand through his hair, pulling so hard I’m afraid he’ll scalp himself. “I got nothing to live for, and yet I still can’t pull the trigger. It isn’t war that destroys you—it’s the guilt. It’s being the one left behind, the one saved. That’s what they don’t tell you.”

  “You got nothin’ to live for? What about us?” I yell, quickly losing my temper. “What about Spencer and Nuke? I know what you went through wasn’t fair, but—”

  “Not fair?” he says incredulously, his voice pitched low and angry. I think I preferred the shouting. “They butchered my men in front of me; they blew half of ’em up, and tortured the others until their bodies gave out. They made me a monster, Elle. What’s not fair is that they didn’t finish the job before those Green Berets found me. That is what’s not fuckin’ fair.”

  I inhale a shaky breath, tryin’ as best I can to keep the tears at bay. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yes,” he says through his teeth. “I do.”

  I stalk over to the nightstand and pick up the bottle. He grabs my arm and pulls me to him. “What are you doin’?”

  “You can be as mean a son-of-a-bitch as you want, but all of this is the whiskey talkin’,” I say, wrenching out of his grasp, “and I will not stand by and let you drink yourself
to death.”

  He laughs. “Darlin’, I’m already dead.”

  29

  Jake

  The way Elle’s eyes fill with tears hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. She pushes past with the bottle of whiskey, heading for the door.

  I let her go. There’s plenty more where that came from.

  She turns abruptly, her face red, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. I wanna wipe them away, but I don’t deserve to touch her. Not like this. “You know what really hurts, Jake, is that you can’t even see what’s right in front of you.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Me,” she whispers. “I’m right here. I don’t pretend to understand what you went through, and maybe the possibility of a future with me don’t matter to you, but it matters to me. You matter to me. I love you, Jake, but I can’t watch you destroy yourself.”

  “What did you say?” I move closer.

  She takes a step back. Her gaze searches mine and she whispers, “I said I love you.”

  “Then you’re stupid.” I snatch the bottle from her hand.

  Elle flinches and a sob breaks free from her chest. She closes her eyes and nods. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  “I can’t be responsible for you and your kid. I can’t even look after my own damn self, and if you were any kind of mother, you wouldn’t want me around Spencer.”

  The sharp sting of her palm meeting my cheek is a welcome relief. I got so used to being hit when I talked back that I crave it. I push too far and pray for violence to ensue because it’s the only way I know I’m still alive. It cements the fact that I’m still here, serving out my penance, trudging through this purgatory we call life.

  Her gaze razes me where I stand and she brings her hand up again, but I catch her wrist and draw it to me, draw her to me, pressing in against her warm body. She gives a choked cry, her eyes wide and fearful as she stares up at me. I realize I’m holding her too tight. I’m crushing her wrist and I didn’t even know it. She jerks away but I pull her back, which causes her to struggle more.