by Claire Cain
“All good here, darling. We’re plugging along. Enjoying the blueberries from Costco, despite it being midwinter!” My dad was perpetually delighted by the ability to get ripe, bulk blueberries in winter.
“Well… good.” I felt my frustration rising at the fact we couldn’t talk about the things that mattered to me anymore, separated as we were by the fundamental belief that some things mattered and some things didn’t, but which ones were in a given category was at issue. It was no longer a given that I believed the things they raised me to believe, and I was afraid that had started wedging us apart when I left for college.
“Glad you’re settling in well.”
“Thanks. Listen, I better jump off and get ready for bed. Busy week ahead!” I was sure they could hear the shortness in my voice.
Another Sunday night call done, another disappointingly surface-level interaction. I wished we could bust through this awkwardness that had snuck in over the last few years, but I wasn’t up to being the one to pioneer that trail just yet.
To say the morning had gotten off to a rough start would be a gross understatement if there ever was one.
Typically, I wore glasses. I liked wearing glasses because I was used to them, and I found my eyes didn’t get as tired when I wore them, especially if I was facing long hours staring at a computer screen. But I did like to have contacts, and I did like to make sure my eyes weren’t inching closer to the inevitable blindness I knew I’d face as I aged (thank you grandmothers on both sides, who stared unseeing at large-print books under magnifying glasses, never surrendering their autonomy to read despite their ocular revolt, for being the harbingers of my future).
What this meant was I went to my eye appointments religiously. Every year and a day, I was there. And of course, my appointment came up just weeks after I moved, but a person can’t squeeze in more than one eye appointment within a year, or she’s going to pay out of pocket and that was not on my list of expenses to deal with. I found a local place one of Alex’s friends recommended, and I scheduled an early appointment. It just so happened it was the morning before I began my interviews and transcript reviews for the project, but since the appointment was early, I knew I’d feel good having it out of the way before the rest of a very busy week.
I didn’t plan for dilation. I didn’t. And I knew I should have because eye docs liked to look in the back of your eye and glare at your optic nerve, or whatever it was they were doing when they dilated eyes, but I hadn’t had to do that in years. I had the bright light-flashy thing instead, and I much preferred it, despite the mild sense of trauma I felt afterward as I blinked and the glare and shape of the light took minutes to disappear. I made the mistake of telling this doctor as much, and in his effort to be thorough, he ended up insisting, despite my many and varied protests, that I must have the full work up.
What I should also explain is that I hated the eye doctor with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. I started having the pleasure of glasses at seven. Seven. I was legally blind in one eye by eleven. When people told me to order from those precious online shops where you could get two pairs of ultra-hipster frames for $35, I wanted to yell at them and punch them and tell them to take their toddler glasses and shove them up their nostrils. Or now that I was in the South, I’d just say, “Bless your heart.” Because one did not simply order adorable, cheap glasses when one’s lenses would be an inch thick without the very expensive compression technology the fancier, in-person retail stores offered.
I didn’t mind my glasses, nor did I mind my contacts. What I minded was going to the ophthalmologist and finding out I was one step closer to being unable to see. I was one half point on the vision Richter scale from being uncorrectable. I hated the eye doctor like people with a grill full of cavities and a history of root canals-gone-wrong hated the dentist.
In the end, all of my efforts to persuade this man, Dr. Randall Johnson, to simply refract my eyes without dilation and send me on my merry way with an updated glasses and contacts prescription, failed. Utterly. And I walked out of the office with murder in my eyes.
Or rather, I walked out and looked like a serial killer, only identifiable as something else by general lack of composure. (Of course serial killers are composed—their bloodlust steadies their hand.)
I arrived to work that morning with a sweat-stained green blouse, my winter jacket strewn over my shoulder since even the twenty-minute commute to the office on base hadn’t given me enough time to cool down my nervous sweating, and my hair a frizzy, maniacal mess despite my attempts to tame the fly-aways sprouting from all directions around my once-demure bun.
Oh, and murder eyes.
Somehow, I made it through my meetings all morning, and I said a prayer of gentle blessings on the Ellie of a week prior who’d tucked a spare white t-shirt under her desk just in case. It wasn’t a blouse, but it was better than the disaster area that was my upper half in the wake of my nervous eye-dilation breakdown. So now my cute and functional black pencil skirt was paired with a plain white crew-neck t-shirt, and I can’t lie to you, I pulled it off. My necklace replaced, the white t-shirt looked like I wasn’t trying so hard and wasn’t quite as put together. But no sweat-riddled proof of my emotional instability when it came to all things eye-exams, so it was hard to complain. This was a small mercy.
Because of the amazingly poor timing of my dilated eyes, I couldn’t even type notes. Having typed my too-many-pages-long dissertation during my PhD program and about a million other pages between writing assignments, proposals, grant applications, and my personal writing, I could type fairly well without looking at the screen. I tried to take a few notes, taking a painstaking moment or two every so often to make sure my fingers were in fact hitting the right keys, and thanked the good Lord I remembered my recorder for the day.
The fact that I’d have to follow up with every soldier I’d spoken with once I could read close up without making my eyes feel like magnets polarized against any computer screen only fueled the simmering rage and sense of injustice I felt low in my belly. It was in my guts, seeping into my bloodstream, and I knew the day wouldn’t get better.
I could tell I’d end it in one of those crying jags that made you feel even more stupid and annoyed with yourself because what you were was mad, not sad or in the mood to cry at all, but you didn’t happen to be a kickboxer who could just beat up a punching bag. Nor was I someone who was particularly disposed to punch-dancing out her rage. So, crying, and probably stress-eating something made with butter, was in my future.
By the time Sergeant Harrison walked in, I was hungry, emotionally exhausted thanks to my internal pity party, and physically frustrated with my inability to perform basic tasks.
Oh, and I felt naked. I don’t know about you, but having someone stare at my optic nerve hours before left me feeling a little bit like I was walking around topless.
“Ma’am,” he said in his gruff voice from just outside my door frame.
“Hello, Sergeant Harrison. Thank you for coming.” Keep it professional. Get through this one, and you can cry a little bit while you eat some sub-par Burger King since yeah, of course you forgot to pack a lunch today.
“Everything all right?” Harrison asked, still standing and inspecting me. For him to comment on this, he whose words were used with great effort, must have meant I wasn’t pulling off my I can do this despite the terror of ophthalmological invasion look as well as I thought.
I looked at him through the dark rims of my glasses, his face ringed in a halo of light and his posture ruler-straight as I’d come to expect from him already. I didn’t want to interact with this man more than I had to, knowing as I did that his curt replies and quite possibly, his general dislike of me, would be the overriding sensation of the morning.
And yet, he’d asked. And I didn’t have much left in the way of coping strategies or filters.
“All right? Oh, yes. Sure. Everything is perfect. I forgot my lunch, so I’m going to be sentenced to eating Bu
rger King again, and I have a headache and you probably think I’m on drugs because I’m standing here looking at you with shark eyes, but in fact, I just had an eye exam, so you don’t need to be worried.”
I shoved my glasses back on my face and squinted so I could make out his face in the bright office. He was smiling. Well no, he wasn’t smiling. More of a smirk, really. He was smirking at me, but it was the most expression I’d seen on his face to date that wasn’t accompanied by dislike.
“Did you say, ‘shark eyes’?”
“Yes. Look at me.” I opened my eyes wide despite the discomfort it caused and pointed to my eyes. “I look like a serial killer with shark eyes about to commit murder.” I let out a frustrated breath. “Anyway, sorry about that entirely unprofessional outburst. Please, have a seat and let’s get on with it.” I gestured to the chair across from me and then sat in my desk chair.
“Mind if I turn off your light, ma’am? It’s bright enough coming through the window, and I feel a headache coming on.” He flipped the office light off before I answered, then took his seat. The change in lighting was such a relief I sighed audibly and wanted to sink down into my chair, but instead I sat up straight and crossed my legs.
“Thank you. I should have done that earlier.” Really. Why hadn’t I?
“Transcripts,” he said, and he handed me a dark green file folder with neatly stacked papers inside. High school transcript, college transcript, and graduate transcript all included.
“Yes, this is exactly right. I apologize but I can’t review them in detail today.” I took a deep breath and worked to quell the ever-growing rage tantrum I could feel. “But I’ll take a look as soon as I can and if I have questions, I’ll email you. For now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to record the interview portion.” I placed my finger over the record button and looked at him hopefully.
He nodded.
“Ok, first if you could simply state your full name, rank, time in service, and then when and where you acquired your college and graduate degrees.”
“My name is Sergeant First Class William Jacob Harrison. I’ve been in for fifteen years. I earned my Bachelor of Science degree from Austin Peay State University while here at Fort Campbell my first time seven years ago, and I earned my graduate degree from New Hampshire University online over the course of two years, culminating in my degree completion last May.”
“Good. Now can you tell me what led you to pursue higher education during your time in service?” And so it went. I asked a question, he answered it with appropriate but never generous detail. His answers were similar to many of the others I’d heard: I wanted to use tuition assistance while it was available. I wanted to ensure I had a degree so that upon leaving the Army I could begin working. One of my favorites from the morning with several younger soldiers was I was bored, and it seemed like a good idea.
But the graduate degree, that was different. “Can you tell me about your experience getting your master’s degree?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said and looked at me with those eyes, and no, I hadn’t mentioned I thought he was the man from the plane. Maybe he didn’t recognize me, and that would be embarrassing, plus hello, off topic.
I waited for him to continue. “Please, go ahead. What made you pursue a master’s?”
“There are two answers to that question, but the one best serving your purposes is I felt I had the opportunity at the time, I found a program that suited me and even worked with me during a relatively unexpected deployment, and I wanted to have a leg up when I got out and started the job search. I know simply being a vet isn’t going to do me much good.”
“I’m afraid you’re right about that, despite Veteran’s Preference programs. Can I ask what the second answer is?” He’d piqued my interest with his comment.
“Yes, ma’am, you can ask me. But no, I won’t tell you,” he said from his seat, back ram-rod straight with perfect posture. As I took him in, sitting there, radiating self-assurance but now sensing it wasn’t misplaced or blustering like I’d thought at the barbeque weeks ago, I was surprised. I hadn’t expected him to tell me no.
“Uh… ok. Fair enough. I think you’ve given me all of the basics, and now it’s a matter of organizing the data. If I have more questions, I’ll be sure to contact you via email.” I stood and offered him my hand, and he stood and took it. We shook hands and I gave him a small, professional smile. He gave me a slight nod in acknowledgment and then was gone.
I watched him leave and then sat back down, my mind sifting through the information he’d given me. He had some helpful insights. He was a pretty peculiar guy. Who offered up two answers but wouldn’t share them both? He clearly didn’t understand what kind of catnip that was to someone like me who wanted all the answers all of the time.
I didn’t want to admit it because it was a dangerous thing to think, but this guy had a completely intriguing drive and a compelling brain. Who completed a master’s degree while deployed? Soldiers, that was who, but it wasn’t like it was even a job requirement. He was one of those people, like me, who liked to learn. Whatever the second reason, I would bet the unspoken one was that he liked to learn.
I bet he liked to read too. I wondered what he read. All Vietnam histories and the autobiographies of generals. Maybe he read something surprising, like female comedian autobiographies, although it was nearly impossible to imagine his stoic demeanor cracking up over the pages of Bossy Pants. Maybe he—
Whoa there, shark eyes.
I’d launched into full-on inappropriate-land with this guy. It wasn’t like I was thinking about his body—Oh please do not think about his very tall, broad-shouldered body—but thinking about someone’s private reading list?
That was personal. And I wasn’t thinking about anyone else’s reading list. He was a unique case—the first time I met him after the plane incident I’d called him a violent Neanderthal, but so far he’d proven himself to be a high-achieving, professional, compulsively courteous special case—I couldn’t be thinking about his bookshelf.
The thing about a bookshelf was that it said a lot about a person. If I went into someone’s house and their shelves were riddled with fantasy and mystery, I knew a thing or two about what they liked. Maybe they’d have piles of contemporary romance lying around. Maybe they’d have self-help books, or cookbooks, or civil war histories. These things gave a person hints, and when that shelf was in a person’s home, it was personal.
Enough with the bookcase.
If I was right, and I was 97.5% sure I was (2.5% margin of error, of course), then I had met him before. He’d been calm, capable, reassuring, thoughtful, and coming home from his father’s funeral. That paired with this perfectly-postured, highly educated, professionally successful Army persona was… dangerous.
Chapter Three
Finally, the weekend. Somehow the week had felt much longer than five days, and I still blamed the eye exam fiasco of Tuesday for propelling me into a week of slow progress, lack of focus, and general frustration, despite my excitement over all of the data I’d gathered. As I pulled the two cloth bags full of groceries out of my trunk and slung one over each shoulder, I knew the schedule my evening would take.
Change into sweatpants
Pour a glass of wine
Turn on the oven for the store-bought pizza I had been dreaming of all day
Sit on the couch and watch some horribly insipid romantic comedy
I found solace in the impractical and impossible. And sure, part of me hoped I’d find myself in my own version of a marriage of convenience-turned-true love story, but I also liked that I was guaranteed a happy ending. With all of the frustration and uncertainty, I could sit down and shove my face full of calorie-packed pizza while watching the women and men onscreen deal with completely surmountable problems—and I knew they would win out because I’d seen them all before. If I hadn’t, as long as I wasn’t sitting down to an indie film, I was guaranteed it would fulfill the implicit contract that comes with a R
omantic Comedy or Romance—the happily ever after.
I smiled to myself and let my mind wander to the book I was working on. I’d spend some time tomorrow writing after a run. I’d been pecking away at my first book, and I was finally feeling good about it. I felt like it had potential, and it was about ready to send out to agents. Better, I’d found an agent I thought was a perfect match for me and the book, and I couldn’t wait to be at the point of querying her and seeing whether she’d think so too.
I did my best not to think about it and get anxious because it was something I was even keeping quiet from myself. Like maybe my parents, the Drs. Kent, wouldn’t criticize the impracticality of writing a novel if they never knew how much I wanted to be a writer, and if I never admitted to myself it was happening and holding all of my hopes in it. In the end, I wanted it—in a very real way, and that was what brought me here.
I shook off that heavy train of thought and rounded the corner of the pathway between buildings in the apartment complex. It was a nice place that kept the grass trimmed and had paved walking paths between the buildings and around the perimeter. Sometimes, if I had absolutely no other option due to time, I ran four loops around and got two miles in. It was better than nothing.
But not tonight. Tonight, I would allow myself a full night off—from exercise, from writing, from research review, from caring about what the pizza would do to my arteries or my mile time.
And then I saw him.
The apartment on the ground floor of the building to my left, on the end, he was standing there on his patio in a t-shirt and jeans with his back to me, sipping a beer and talking to Luke, who was still in uniform. I ignored the fact I could tell it was him from behind, which made no sense. Other than the seconds-long retreat he’d made after I bumped into him at my briefing nearly a month ago now, I’d never seen him from behind. I couldn’t see more than two feet away the last time we met in my office, so he was nothing but a moving greenish blur as he left that day. When we’d deplaned off our flight, he’d slid out of his seat and stepped back so I could precede him out of the plane. I hadn’t thought about the courtesy of that gesture at the time since I was so focused on exiting the aluminum coffin as quickly as I could.
