by Louise, Tia
I don’t even argue. I’m glad to take the wheel. It’ll keep me from having to sit in the back staring at Danny and his stupid-ass face for the next several hours as we bump over hot, dry terrain.
Our truck is second in line, and I wait for the signal we’re loaded up before heading out after the truck in front of me. Danny’s words sting in my brain, as much because I grew up believing them as anything.
I don’t need him telling me I don’t deserve Drew. I know where I came from. I know my status in that fucking town. Small-minded bullshit aside, as pretty and sweet as Drew is, she could easily do so much better—marry a rich man, a man with a pedigree and a mansion, live out her life doing whatever the hell she wants.
The very thought of it causes bile to rise in my throat.
I’ve done my best to rise above my humble beginnings. I have my degree, and I’m serving our country. We’ve been here longer than two years, which means I’ll go home with a medal, an honorable discharge. It’s something to be proud of, and despite what Danny says, it does change things. If she chooses me, I will give her a better life, a life she deserves.
And I love her.
“Danny can fuck off,” I growl under my breath.
My anger at him, my “best friend,” his refusal to budge, acting just like all the assholes I grew up around in that town, it’s a hot ball of fire in my stomach. I don’t know if I can forgive him for this.
I don’t know if I want to.
“We’re all on the road.” The driver’s voice ahead of me crackles through the radio. “Next stop, home base.”
He’s happy, because once we’re back in camp, we can catch up with all our family and friends. It’s a double-edged sword now. I’ll be able to talk to Drew, but so will Danny. I don’t know what he’ll say to her. I don’t know how it’ll affect her, or if it’ll change her mind about us. That thought turns my stomach. I’ve come to depend on her so much. I can’t let her go. My anger toward him burns hotter, and my words float across my brain… If only I could be so lucky…
I didn’t mean it.
Did I?
My cheek throbs, and my body is tight.
A clutch of goat herders on the side of the road draws my attention. Three men in white robes, olive green jackets and shemaghs. Only the militant wear the dark green headscarf. The civilians, the regular guys wear the more traditional Keffiyeh, which is red or black and white checked.
My heart beats faster. I look to the side, and I see a man standing alone. He’s moving past the truck in front of me, closer to my vehicle.
Black eyes meet mine, sparking with hatred. My stomach clenches, he smirks, and I see in an instant what’s about to happen. We have to turn around.
Easier said than done.
I jerk the wheel of the massive, four-ton transport vehicle, but it’s too late.
“NO!” My shout fills the cab.
The blast deafens me.
The enormous vehicle I’m driving jolts into the air, front-end first, and my head slams violently against the back glass. I’m wearing a helmet, but the impact is like a sledgehammer to my skull.
The vehicle twists in the air before slamming to the ground on the driver’s side, jerking my head to the left. For several minutes, I lie there confused.
I stare blankly ahead.
A high-pitched shrill is in my ears.
Men shout all around me, running and pointing. Dust, smoke, and chaos surround us. I can’t think.
I have to think. I’m trained for this.
I force my arms to move, force my fists to release the steering wheel. My fingers fumble as I try to unfasten my seatbelt. My movements are clumsy, disoriented, until finally it comes undone, and I drop against the door.
“Oof!” comes out of my mouth, but the ringing in my ears drowns out everything.
A hand grabs my arm, and I hear a voice like it’s underwater. “Cole! Are you hurt? Can you move?”
I have to move. I nod, pushing against the door, doing my best to maneuver my legs under me so I can stand. I’m stunned and deaf and nausea roils in my stomach. The light blinds me. I have a concussion, I know it. From the haze of my memory, I recite the symptoms, which means I could also have brain swelling.
I could die.
I don’t have time for that.
The door is open, and I crawl out onto the bright beige sand.
“God!” I yell and wince at the sound of my voice.
Every movement is another slice of pain through my brain. Still, I have to help my men. The other trucks have circled around us and snipers are up top covering us. I go to the back of my downed vehicle.
It’s like a large animal lying on its side, the rest of the herd surrounding us for protection.
“It was an IED,” a man shouts.
“Impossible. We cleared these streets yesterday.”
I don’t have time to wait for the end of their argument. I have one thing on my mind, one person. Every time I signed off, I promised her I’d look out for him. I can’t break my promise now.
Staggering down the length of the vehicle, I round the tailgate and pull back in horror. A severed half of a torso is on the ground in front of me, two legs apparently cut off from a body by the weight of the truck falling on it.
Medics run back and forth shouting and shoving past me. I’m still trying to clear my ears, trying to clear my vision. I’m seeing double.
“Lieutenant? I need you to sit down and let me check your vitals.” A young woman pulls on my arm, but I shake her off.
“Danny?” My voice seems too quiet. “Danny?” I roar louder, wincing in pain.
“Cole!” Our CO is in my face. “What happened?”
I push past him. I can answer these questions later. Right now I have to find him. Drew would expect me to find him, make sure he’s okay.
The chaos of emergency personnel shoves past me. The closer I get to the back of the truck, the worse the carnage. My fellow soldiers are lying on their sides, blood soaking through their uniforms.
“No.” My voice is inaudible to me, but I know I said it.
Panic tightens in my chest, restricting my breathing. Through my double vision, I see his fair hair. His helmet is off. He’s lying on his side with one arm twisted behind his body.
The fist he hit me with is swollen on his chest.
He’s not moving.
“Danny!” I rush forward, but my head tilts. The nausea has caught up with me, and I stagger to the side to vomit. No food comes up. It’s only foam and mucus.
“You have a concussion…” Another set of hands grips me, but I shake them away.
I pull up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand before falling to my knees. The noise of my ragged breathing is in my ears. It’s a roar louder than the shrill of my blasted hearing.
Everything is chaos. Medics are dragging bodies out of the truck and lining them up on the sand for treatment. I strain my eyes to where I last saw him. I need to know if he’s still alive.
“Gray.” Something catches my leg as I try to pass, stopping me.
Looking down, I recognize Warren, one of the infantrymen in our squad. I drop to my knees, seeing at once his injuries are critical.
“Are you in pain?” I pull his torso in my arms, his back to my chest as I scan the area for a medic. “I’ll take you to where they’re treating the others.”
“No…” His voice is breathless, and I can feel his body sagging. “It’s not worth it. I’m not going to last much longer.”
“Don’t say that.” I wrap my arms across his chest, squinting my eyes against the gaping wounds, the blood soaking his pants. “They can help you.”
“Will you help me?”
“Of course. I’m trying to—”
“Just stay here a minute.” He exhales heavily. “Just get me through. To the other side.”
I hold him tighter against my chest, refusing to hear his words. The noise around us seems to fall back. It seems to dim and slow as I hold o
nto him through his final breaths.
Men jog past us, carrying stretchers and setting up triage. Nobody seems to notice as I hold a boy from Arkansas in my arms, sitting on the desert sand, watching as he takes his final breath miles and miles away from home.
His body goes slack, and I know he’s gone. My eyes sting, and I look around. I have to find someone to take him into the truck, to take him home.
As gently as I can, I lie him down on the sand. My hand is on his chest, and I lean into his ear, even though he can’t hear me anymore. “I’m getting help. I’ll be back.”
Dropping my head, I wipe my hand across my brow. I’ve never seen it this bad. I guess I’ve been lucky. I’m not sure I can get anybody to come check Warren, but I have to try. I have to let someone know about his death.
I take two steps when I collapse again. My head is getting heavier. It’s pounding in my ears now, and I’m starting to feel weak. I’m at the back of the truck when I see him.
“Danny…” My voice breaks as I rush forward, dropping to one knee at the side of his body.
His hazel eyes stare at the sky, seeing nothing.
“No.” My hands are on his chest as my insides splinter.
The last words I said to him fill my ears as a noise bubbles up in my chest. It’s feral, howling like a wounded animal. The pressure expands upwards to my temples, inside my ears, blinding pain in my skull.
Two medics are beside me, taking me by the arms and pulling me to my feet, away from my friend. I try to struggle, fighting to get back to him, but they’re too strong. The last glimpse I have is his straw hair in the dust, his vacant gaze open to the sky.
Chapter 5
Drew
One year later
“You can’t keep this up. It’s not healthy.” My best friend is in my office fussing.
I arrange a small bouquet of bright yellow chrysanthemums on my desk and check the air freshener on my windowsill. Rose water and ivy, relaxing scents to help my patients feel at ease.
“Can’t keep what up? My job?”
“This celibacy. It’s been too long!” She shoves a lock of dark hair behind her ear. I’d never thought she could pull it off with her skin tone, but she’s rocking it. “Flick your bean, hit the home button, rub one out.”
“Are you talking about masturbation?” I roll my eyes, not even pretending to be surprised.
“Orgasms are scientifically proven to relieve stress, reduce migraines, cut down belly fat, improve sleep—”
“I have a vibrator.” Leaning down to my computer, I check my next appointment.
Hunter McFee is waiting for me, and I lean back with a sigh. I’ve learned more about Watergate through his paranoid delusions and conspiracy theories.
“Wrap it up. Hunter’s waiting—”
“It’s been years. You need human contact. Skin on skin.”
“I hug my dad every day.”
“That’s just gross.”
I take her arm and walk her to my door. “It was actually a very popular mid-1970s public service campaign popularized by a Kentucky senator and the Mormon church aimed at decreasing juvenile delinquency through touch therapy. Remember, ‘Have you hugged your child today?’”
“Okay, nerd. Stop using psychiatric history against me. We didn’t all graduate with honors.”
We stop, and I can’t resist. “You’re lucky that’s the only thing you didn’t get in college.”
Her eyes narrow. “Are you calling me a slut?”
“Slut shaming is one of the most damaging forms of social control aimed at young women learning to explore their sexuality.”
“Feminist theory 101?”
“Social cognition.”
She nods, holding the door open before she leaves. “Will you let me know before you decide to quit this place and become a professor? I could use more clients.”
Shaking my head, I start back for my desk. “Not interested. I’m here to help these people. Send in Hunter.”
“What am I? Your secretary now?”
“You’re my best friend since second grade. Now hurry up.”
Hunter paces into the room seeming more agitated than usual. “Alexander Butterfield was not trying to be a whistle blower.”
“Good morning, Hunter.” I wait for him to get control.
He straightens, clearing his throat, but still blinking rapidly. “Good morning, Miss Harris. How are you today?”
I respond with the practiced social cue. “Very well, thank you. Would you like to sit?”
“Yes, thank you.” His hands clench in his lap, and he blinks fast at the floor.
“Now, why is Mr. Butterfield on your mind today?”
“He wasn’t trying to be a whistle-blower. He decided he would only tell about President Nixon’s White House taping system if asked directly.”
Through the years, I’ve learned Hunter’s anxiety flares up when he senses a confrontation.
Keeping my voice calm, I go back in his chart. “The last time you told me about Mr. Butterfield, you’d been putting trash bags in your neighbor’s can.”
“Mrs. Green never fills her can. She would never have known I’d done it if she hadn’t asked me directly. I wasn’t going to tell her.”
Nodding, I look at my notes. “What happened when you told her it was you?”
“She said she wished I’d asked her.”
This is good. “What else happened?”
“She said I could continue putting my bags in her can when mine was too full, and I offered to roll her can to the street with mine on trash days.”
His face relaxes, and I smile. “Has something happened with Mrs. Green?”
He shakes his head. “I am not using any of her belongings.”
“Okay.” I hold my smile, waiting.
The clock ticks, but he deflects. “Have you ever heard of Martha Mitchell syndrome? Of course, you have. You’re a therapist.”
“I’ve heard of it. What does it mean to you?”
“Martha Mitchell syndrome is when you know what’s happening and no one will believe you.” His fingers twist in his lap. “Martha Mitchell was the Cassandra of Watergate.”
I don’t answer. Sometimes asking questions moves Hunter farther away from what he needs to tell me. Instead, I make a note on the yellow legal pad. Afraid I don’t believe him. Martha Mitchell syndrome. Won’t tell unless asked directly. Alexander Butterfield.
We wait a few moments until I notice his time is running out. “I’m here to help you, Hunter. I want to believe you.”
“The X-Files took the nickname ‘Deep Throat’ from Woodward and Bernstein’s account of their mole during the Watergate investigation.”
Another warm smile. “I actually knew that one.”
“Fox Mulder wanted to believe. The question is, did he really?”
We’re quiet again, and the clock winds down. Finally, I take a chance. “Is there something you need to tell me, Hunter? Do you know something?”
His breath hitches, and he blurts fast, “My neighbor steals yard ornaments and hides them in her garage. She does it every night. Hundreds and hundreds of them. She can’t even park her car inside anymore. She takes them and keeps them a few days, then she returns them to the yards where they belong. Oh, God!” His cheeks are pink, and he covers his face with his hands, exhaling loudly. “I never should have told you. They shot down Dorothy Hunt’s plane over Chicago because she knew too much. Are you planning any plane trips to Chicago, Miss Harris?”
“I’m not planning any plane trips.” I place my palm on my upper chest and take a deep breath. “Look at me now. Let’s practice our deep breathing. Inhale… Exhale…”
He’s still agitated, and he’s huffing like a train.
My voice is calm, steady. “Breathe with me, Hunter. It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s not. First the trash bags and now this.”
I lightly pat my chest to get his attention. “Deep breaths, okay? Can you breathe with me
?” He’s frowning, but at last he does what I’m saying, inhaling and exhaling. “Good job. Now let’s think this through. Why would Mrs. Green want to steal yard ornaments?”
“She’s implanting them with tracking devices to create a network of government surveillance all over town.”
Nodding slowly, I continue breathing. “Or…?”
“Or she’s a Russian spy gathering intel for the Soviets like in that show The Americans.”
My lips tighten, but I do not react. I keep my voice steady. “How old is Mrs. Green?”
“Eighty-five, but don’t be fooled. Russian intelligence agents are powerful until the day of their deaths. Did you see the movie Red Sparrow?”
“I did not.” My voice is smooth. “Is Mrs. Green a creative person?”
“She has the most creative lawn of anyone in our neighborhood. She leaves big patches of uncut grass after she mows, and the wildflowers in her beds are out of control.”
“Remember the last time you talked to Mrs. Green about a problem?” He nods, and I continue. “It worked out very well, and you learned she’s really a nice neighbor.”
“So is Kerri Russell.”
I hear the outer door opening and closing, and I know our time is up. “For this next week, I’d like you to take a chance and ask Mrs. Green about the yard ornaments. She might have a very simple and reasonable explanation.”
He stands and goes to the door, stopping just as he reaches it. “Will you come and visit me in the hospital?”
I almost forget myself and ask why. “Do you remember the crisis phone numbers?” He nods, and I smile. “Use them in case of an emergency. We’ll talk about this more at your next appointment.”
His shoulders relax and he gives me a weak smile. “You really are kind, Miss Harris. I hope I haven’t endangered your life.”
“Remember your assignment. Try talking to Mrs. Green this week. Ask her about the yard ornaments.”
“I’ll try.”
The door closes behind him, and I shake my head, smiling quietly to myself as I make a note of his progress and his assignment. He really is getting better at this, getting closer to confronting these fears. I lay the Mont Blanc pen on my notepad. It’s the one gift my father gave me when I graduated with honors, with a concurrent master’s degree, and became a licensed therapist.
