New Title 1

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  I called Ches each day, but there wasn’t much I could tell him. I heard the hope in his voice every time I called, and every time I could only repeat the same words, “There’s no change.”

  The chaplain visited us daily, and told me not to give up hope. Sometimes he prayed with me; sometimes he brought me a sandwich. Both were equally welcome.

  I’d been there four or five days, the colorless hours merging together, when David told me that Sebastian was stable enough to be moved. Some news, at last.

  “We’re going to bring him out of the coma, then he’ll be sent to the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. From there, on to Bethesda in Maryland or Walter Reed in DC. I’m not sure which.”

  “Will I be able to go with him?”

  He sighed. “Normally, I’d say that was highly unlikely. But, off the record, Caroline, if you can use your Press connections, then maybe.”

  “Thank you,” I said, quietly, touching his hand.

  He smiled briefly.

  That was all the encouragement I needed. I was on the phone to my editor within 20 minutes and I refused to take ‘no’ for an answer. I promised as many articles as he wanted, exclusive interviews and photographs of life in a military medical center. In the end, he agreed to help. I don’t know how many strings he pulled in Washington, but he promised me he’d get me on the same flight as Sebastian.

  When I returned to Sebastian’s room, I couldn’t work out what was different – and then I realized it was too quiet. The ventilator had stopped working. I panicked, looking around wildly for help, but then… I saw that Sebastian’s eyes were open, and he was looking at me.

  He spoke, and his voice was so soft and hoarse that I could barely hear him.

  “I knew you wouldn’t give up on us,” he said.

  We were flown out that evening, and arrived at the medical center in Germany at dawn. The critical cases were taken off first: those with brain injuries and missing limbs. We waited on the chilly tarmac for 15 minutes before the rest of us were loaded onto a fleet of blue buses.

  We were met by the Head of the Critical Care Team, and the army chaplain.

  “You’re here at the US army hospital. We’re going to take good care of you. We’re praying for you. You’re here at the US army hospital. We’re going to take good care of you. We’re praying for you.”

  Over and over again, the tired-looking chaplain repeated the words, as stretcher after stretcher passed him by, the syllables blurring and becoming meaningless.

  Sebastian held my hand tightly but didn’t speak.

  We were there for just two nights while Sebastian was ‘processed’.

  The harried but sympathetic staff gave me a small, cell-like room in the women’s quarters. Day and night the injured arrived: there wasn’t time to learn the names of the soldiers with so many identical injuries who streamed through the hospital, some from Iraq, most from Afghanistan. They were treated and moved on. Treated and moved on. An endless flow of mutilated flesh and tortured minds.

  Sebastian had the option to go back to San Diego or to an East Coast facility. We decided it would be easier if we were near home – my home – our home, and we flew out to Walter Reed in Maryland on a Thursday at the start of May.

  The journey from Germany was long and painful for Sebastian; he didn’t complain once, even though I could tell he was in agony, his body covered in an unhealthy sheen of sweat. But he didn’t speak to me either, and that scared me.

  There were many who were far worse off. One young man I spoke quietly with during those dreary hours was named Lance. He’d lost both legs and one arm. He told me that he was ‘glad’ it had happened to him, because he wouldn’t have wanted it to happen to any of his buddies in his platoon.

  He was 22.

  Our arrival back on US soil was without fanfare. I traveled with Sebastian the whole time and saw him settled into a unit, before I found myself accommodation nearby in a cheap motel. There were other wives and family members staying there and we became close, sharing our hopes and dreams – or rather, forging new dreams that were far more limited in their scope than formerly.

  Liz’s memorial service came and went. I sent a letter to her editor, asking him to read it out for me, and I asked him to recite the poem ‘High Flight’ by Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee. I knew it had always been a favorite of Liz’s.

  Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

  And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

  Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

  Of sun-split clouds – and done a hundred things

  You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung

  High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there

  I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung

  My eager craft through footless halls of air.

  Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,

  I’ve topped the windswept heights with easy grace

  Where never lark, or even eagle flew –

  And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod

  The high untresspassed sanctity of space,

  Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

  I said a prayer for her, too, alone in my motel room.

  For nine weeks, I waited and watched with anxious eyes as Sebastian slowly began to heal.

  He was given intensive physiotherapy to help him use his left arm, but, more particularly, to walk again. He became breathless and tired quickly, but, in the face of so many with worse injuries, he hid his true feelings. I think I was the only one who could see the simmering anger beneath the surface.

  To other soldiers and to the staff, he seemed cheerful and worked hard at whatever exercises he was given. But to me, he was closed and distant. He’d always been so honest and open with me; I felt lost and alone – more truly lonely in his company than when I was by myself.

  It soon became obvious that the extent of his injuries would render him unfit for duty. One of the prerequisites of being a Marine was the ability to run without a limp. The doctors thought it extremely unlikely that Sebastian would ever be able to walk without using a stick, let alone run. A medical discharge was the most likely scenario.

  The military was generous to those wounded in combat, and although Sebastian wouldn’t qualify for a medical pension, not having served his 20 years, he was told he could still expect to receive between a third and half of his current salary. He would be a disabled veteran.

  Those words sent him into a fury: he ranted at me for nearly half an hour.

  “I won’t take it,” he growled.

  “What? Why not?”

  “I just won’t,” he said, with finality.

  “Sebastian, you deserve that – after everything you’ve been through…”

  “I’m not fucking taking it, Caro. I’m 27. I don’t fucking want disability pay!”

  “Okay, tesoro. That’s your choice.”

  I think the fact that I wouldn’t fight with him just made it worse. He had vast reserves of pent-up anger, and I was the nearest target – and probably the only one he felt he could take it out on.

  The military also offered him the chance to take college courses through the GI Bill, but he wouldn’t discuss that either. The list of unmentionable topics became longer each day.

  The tense silence between us was exhausting. At a loss, I thought it might help if I gave him some space and let him come to terms with everything that had happened, without my constant presence – and without what he seemed to feel was my constant interference.

  I decided we needed a break from each other and I wanted to go and check on my house, too. Alice had been going over there regularly, but I longed to be in my own home. I really thought it might help our tenuous relationship if I just visited Sebastian on the weekends. It was also getting expensive staying in the motel, although I didn’t mention that to him.

  We were resting on a bench in the grounds after Sebastian had managed to
walk almost 200 yards, leaning heavily on a crutch. It was hard for me to see him struggle when he had always been so strong and vigorous; but how much harder it was for him, I could only imagine.

  “You did well today, Sebastian.”

  He grunted an answer, and I couldn’t tell if he was agreeing with me or not.

  I sighed, then took a deep breath.

  “I’ve been thinking I should go back to Long Beach. Just to make sure everything is okay at home. I want to try and start working a bit more…”

  My words died away as he looked at me with something like loathing.

  “You’re leaving me.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “No, tesoro! Why would you say that? No, never!”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me, Caro,” he shouted. “You’ve made it pretty fucking obvious you don’t want to be here. Well, fine. Just fucking go.”

  And he turned away from me.

  I tried to speak, but I choked on the sounds.

  “Please, Sebastian,” I said, touching his arm. “That’s not what I’m saying: I just wanted to… try and get some… some normality. I’d visit on weekends.”

  He shrugged me off.

  “Don’t fucking drag it out, Caro,” he said bitterly. “I’m not completely fucking dumb.”

  I stood up suddenly, and the movement made him look up.

  “Damn you, Sebastian!” I yelled. “I’m not leaving you! You’ll never get rid of me, so you can just stop trying. Right now.”

  He looked away again.

  “Whatever,” he said.

  That was a bad, bad day. I wondered how much further we had to fall – and I dreaded finding out. But I also realized that although Sebastian sniped and snarled at me day after day, he needed me to be with him. I decided to stay in Maryland: Alice would be able to continue looking after the bungalow.

  We’d manage – somehow.

  Seven days later, the Physical Evaluation Board Liaison Officer, a friendly but efficient woman whom I knew as Joan, told Sebastian that the PEB would, ‘authorize his disability separation, with disability benefits, as he had been found unfit and his condition was incompatible with continued military service’.

  Sebastian was no longer a US Marine.

  Chapter 17

  The day Sebastian came home should have been the happiest of our lives, but my love was broken in body and spirit.

  I arranged for a taxi to pick us up from the airport. Nicole and Jenna had both offered to drive us, but I thought it would be better for him to have a quiet return; Sebastian was in no shape to meet my friends, no matter how well-meaning.

  Alice had been to the bungalow to clean and air it, and had also promised to stock up the fridge.

  I’d booked a wheelchair to take Sebastian from the plane to the airport’s entrance, but he refused to even consider it.

  “I’m not fucking using it, Caro, so just drop it,” he snapped at me.

  I quietly acquiesced, and watched his slow and painful struggle through the terminal building, using the crutch to support his right leg, which still couldn’t bear his weight.

  The taxi driver chatted away during the journey back to Long Beach, and I tried to keep up a desultory conversation while Sebastian stared out of the window.

  I thought I detected a slight change in him when he saw the ocean, today a sharp, slate-blue under the August sunshine, but then he closed up and the shutters on his emotions came crashing down again.

  When we arrived at my bungalow, the driver collected our bags from the trunk and deposited them on the porch. I stood back while Sebastian struggled from the car, desperate to help him, but knowing he’d hate it and resent the interference.

  “Dude, what happened to your leg?” the driver suddenly asked him.

  “Bomb.”

  “Say what?”

  “Bomb: got blown up.”

  “Cool!”

  I thought Sebastian would smile or roll his eyes or give some indication of the callousness of the driver’s comment, but he didn’t. The light had gone out of his eyes and I didn’t know what it would take to rekindle it.

  We’d find a way. We’d always find a way.

  But it was hard.

  Sebastian was exhausted and in pain. He made his way to my couch and lowered himself carefully, biting back the groan that rose to his lips.

  “Do you want to lie down, tesoro?”

  I badly wanted him to make a joke, to say something about me wanting to get him into bed as soon as possible, but he didn’t. He just shook his head.

  “I’ll stay here for a while.”

  “Okay.” I hesitated. “Well, I’ll put your bags in the spare room for now: we can go through them later.”

  He didn’t answer.

  I shoved his duffel bag and backpack under the bed. I decided I’d unpack these when he was asleep. He didn’t need to see his uniforms now. I didn’t even know if he’d want to keep them.

  When I walked back into the living room, he was staring into space.

  “Are you hungry? Would you like some pasta?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  I bit back my words, which would have insisted that he eat something.

  He’d lost weight, a lot of weight, his face gaunt, and his beauty, which had always seemed so tangible, had become ethereal.

  “Maybe later,” I said, softly.

  He didn’t answer.

  I felt odd and ill at ease being home after such an extended absence and Sebastian’s silent, volcanic presence intimidated me.

  “This wasn’t what I’d planned,” he said.

  “It’s not what either of us had in mind, but we’ll deal, won’t we?”

  “I thought I’d be carrying you over the fucking threshold,” he said, his face twisted with disgust.

  “That doesn’t matter, Sebastian. We…”

  “Yes, it does fucking matter, Caro!” he shouted, making me jump. “It really fucking matters! Christ, can’t you understand something as fucking simple as that?”

  I blanched, his anger cutting me to the core.

  “I’m sorry, Sebastian, I just…”

  “Just what, Caro?”

  “Nothing,” I muttered, walking into the kitchen, and holding onto the sink.

  I will not cry. I will not cry.

  I needed something to do with my hands to stop them from shaking: I hunted through the fridge, trying to think of something he might like to eat. In the end I kept it simple: a cheese sandwich with lettuce and tomato. It wasn’t really the sort of thing I enjoyed eating, but I hoped if I had the same food, it might tempt him.

  I took two plates into the living room and set one down next to him. He didn’t even look at the food, just continued staring into space, as if his outburst had never happened.

  I tried not to panic: it was relatively new and he’d been through a lot. How trivial that sounded – he’d nearly died and he was a long way from recovering – even all the doctors still failed to agree on how full that recovery would be.

  I couldn’t stand the silence. Eventually, I turned on the TV, something I rarely did when I was by myself. I had to change channel several times before I found something that didn’t have news programs or anything to do with Afghanistan. We ended up watching something about meerkats in Africa: very educational – neither of us heard more than half a dozen words, and Sebastian didn’t touch his food.

  “Do you have any beer?”

  “Oh, no, sorry,” I stuttered. “I could open some wine?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’ll do.”

  I opened a bottle Chianti and watched him drink three glasses, one after the other. He would have finished the bottle if I hadn’t taken it into the kitchen.

  “Caro, what are you doing with the fucking wine?”

  No. I wasn’t having this. He wasn’t going to drown his sorrows in a bottle.

  “You haven’t eaten anything, and you have to take your pain killers, Sebastian. So, no, t
he wine stays in the kitchen.”

  He exploded. Swearing at me, shouting and yelling. Who the fuck did I think I was? Who was I to tell him how to live his life? And on and on.

  I hoped that when he’d finished, he’d have got some of the poison out of him, but he soon reverted to the cold silence that hurt the most.

  By about 9 pm, his face was gray with tiredness.

  “Should I show you where the bedroom is?”