“Hmmmm. Maybe.”
We sit for a while, and then she sees it in my eyes, and she leans forward and rests her cheek on mine. We just stay like that for a long time, and it must hurt her back to lean in so long. But for me, I just concentrate on taking it all in: the soft orb of her cheek and the smell of her skin and her strong hand pressing into my shoulder.
DR. GHOSH AND MY ABUELA
meet in my room. They must have spoken to each other on the phone, because Dr. Ghosh greets her when he comes in.
“Mrs. Reyes, you’re here. Welcome. I am Dr. Ghosh. How was your trip?”
“Dr. Ghosh. I am pleased to meet you. My trip was fine, and thank you for telling me about Fisher House. They’re very kind.”
“So how’s our patient? Luis, how are you today?”
I’m not sure what to think about having Dr. Ghosh and my abuela in the room at the same time. I’m not going to talk to Dr. Ghosh in front of her, and I wonder if he thinks I will. I nod my head—I think I’m nodding my head—warily.
“I just have a minute, but I knew your grandmother was coming in, and I wanted to say hello.”
Dr. Ghosh says this so that I’ll know he understands what I’m worried about. I should have known that. Dr. Ghosh and my abuela are actually sort of alike, if you think about it.
“I am going to visit the Lincoln monument,” says my abuela. “When do you plan to come in to talk to Luis?”
“I’ll be back tomorrow. About two.”
“I’ll go then,” says my abuela.
And it is done. My abuela isn’t going to make me speak of things while she’s here. That’s Dr. Ghosh’s job. It’s such a relief: to have her here but not to have to tell her why I’m here. She knows of course. If she didn’t know, she would ask. I wonder how much she knows. Does she know about Sam? About that day in the market? About the boy in Las Vegas?
Because the fact that I shot myself would be enough for her to know. I don’t know how she is bearing that, how much it took for her to bear that, so I hope that Dr. Ghosh hasn’t told her anything else. But he might have. Or he might still. And I can’t think about that. I let it go. Who knows what was said. At least as far as Abuela goes.
THAT NIGHT, AFTER ABUELA LEAVES,
I think about the letter I wrote to that third grader. It’s kind of a mystery how Dr. Ghosh could have read a letter I sent to some kid in Nevada. I mean, the kid got it, so how did Dr. Ghosh see it? I’m guessing it must have been a hell of a letter, and the kid’s parents probably complained about it. The Army hates stuff like that. Could I be court-martialed? It’s okay if I am. Because I ought to be sent to Leavenworth for something.
Dr. Ghosh said he would show me the letter, but when I asked him last week, he changed the conversation. Maybe there’s something in his books about not showing a guy his own suicide note. I mean, that must be what I wrote that kid. I shot myself right after. Poor kid. Damn. I can’t believe I sent something like that to a kid.
I don’t remember wanting to kill myself. I don’t remember having that thought once. I was sick about the boy in the market, really loco, but it was nothing like how I felt after Sam got hit. I can’t even explain that to you. I wanted to be dead. That’s true. I wanted to be the one that was dead and not the one that had screwed up. I was afraid, too. I couldn’t get Sam’s half-blown face out of my mind. It was always there; sometimes I could actually see it. Not like in a nightmare, but while I was just sitting around, eating something, or checking my equipment, or trying to actually do my job. I could see Sam’s head. Like I can see my hand right now.
And it scared the shit out of me.
I mean, all the stuff I’d been through. All the explosions. Guys down. And what scares me shitless is this floating head that I know perfectly well is in my imagination, but which seemed totally real. I’d leaned down and held that face. I’d even put my lips to that mouth and tried to resuscitate him. I mean, I couldn’t comprehend it, I couldn’t figure out what had happened; I was just trying to remember everything I needed to do in an emergency. Every way that I could give Sam a chance.
Even when I brought him back. Even when the sergeant said, “Luis, get out of here. You can’t help him now.” Even then, I couldn’t believe it. I kept going back over the day. We were in the Humvee, we were talking shit, and then, nothing, a big blank, and I’m leaning over Sam’s half a face. Why were we out of the Humvee? Why was I on the other side from Sam? What did I do? What was the mistake?
MY ABUELA LEAVES AT ONE
thirty for the Lincoln Memorial. I’m feeling relaxed, so I let my guard down and think about Sam, and that day. I try again to remember what happened just before the explosion. I have to go a little deeper; try to remember.
“Luis, you look troubled. Do you want to talk?”
I didn’t hear Dr. Ghosh come in.
I don’t answer for a bit, because it’s hard to get my brain to shift away from Sam, out of Iraq, and back into this hospital room.
“Were you thinking about Sam?”
I don’t want to talk about Sam, so I don’t say yes.
“I was thinking about the letter I wrote, and the kid. I’d really like to see it.”
“I brought it with me. I thought today might be a good day to talk about it.”
And then he pulls out the letter. Or a copy of it, actually. So that was easy. I thought I was going to have to fight to see the letter. I wonder why Dr. Ghosh thinks it’s okay to show me the letter now.
Dr. Ghosh says that the kid’s principal contacted the Army, and by the time they had sent the letter through all the different commands and gotten it to my sergeant, I was already in DC. Sergeant Reidy sent the letter to Dr. Ghosh. Sergeant said he wasn’t sure what the Army would do about it, but it might be a moot point if I didn’t get better. So that’s how Dr. Ghosh got it.
Now that I’m going to see the letter, I’m not so keen about it. My whole body starts trembling.
“There’s information in it that is startling to the Army, Luis. There may be consequences for it. I don’t know. But I think today is just about you and me and this letter, Luis. It’s not about anything else. Not today.”
Now I’m really shaking, but Dr. Ghosh gives it to me anyway. And it’s my handwriting. My signature. I don’t read so well yet, so I hold the page, and Dr. Ghosh reads the words to me.
Dear Bashkim:
Yes, I have killed people here. I even killed a boy, not much older than you. He was carrying a bag, and around here that means bomb. It wasn’t a bomb though. It was some charred wood that he was bringing home to burn again.
Everybody kills here. That’s what soldiers do. You might as well start killing mice with your baba, or whatever you call your dad, because with a name like yours, someone is going to try to kill you some day.
Luis
I hear these words, and the bed spins. It spins fast enough that I think I’m going to be thrown off of it, and I actually grasp the rails so I can hang on, like a damn roller coaster or something. I hear my breath chugging out of me. Dr. Ghosh just sits there, not saying a word. I look down at my legs, and I will the bed to stop spinning. It slows, hiccups, spins a bit faster, and then finally stops. I am sitting with my back raised off the bed, which is not that easy for me, and my fingers are purple around the bed rails, and I’m panting like a dog after a rabbit. I’m one fucked-up soldier. Dr. Ghosh has set the letter on the tray next to my bed, but I don’t want to touch it.
I don’t remember anything about that letter.
I don’t recognize the kid’s name. I don’t know what I was talking about with his name. I can’t believe I wrote down what happened in the market. I must have already known I was going to kill myself. I must have thought I was going to be dead. And what? I wanted to be sure my abuela knew the truth about me? I wanted to confess to some eight-year-old kid who probably still sleeps on the floor next
to his mom’s bed?
I didn’t think things could get any worse, but the wave of repulsion that comes over me is more than I can bear. I hate everything I have ever done or ever thought. I hate that I exist. I hate that I have failed everyone who ever cared a damn about me. All I have ever done in my life is hurt people.
“Luis?”
I can’t talk to Dr. Ghosh. I can’t breathe. Now I want to die.
“Luis. I know you’re upset. I know you feel bad.”
He doesn’t know. Dr. Ghosh really does not know.
“Luis. This is what I was talking about. About war and stress. Luis, things happen to us that are more than we can take. And we break. We break for a moment, for a while. But that break is not who we are. It’s not the sum total of who we are.”
His words are just washing around me. I want to grab hold of them, hang on, but I don’t want to be saved again. I don’t want to keep coming back and then have to fall again. I can’t listen to him.
“Luis. We’ve been talking together almost every day for weeks now. If there was ever a man who did not want to kill a child, it is you, Luis. I know this is not what you wanted to do. I know that it was a break. I know what you have been carrying.”
I can’t hang on any longer. I cry then. I cry and cry, and I don’t think I will ever stop, and Dr. Ghosh gets right on the bed and holds me.
WHEN MY ABUELA COMES BACK
after dinner, I see her register that something has happened. She can see it in me, but she says nothing. And I don’t say anything that night, because I don’t know what she is thinking, and I wouldn’t know how to bring up the letter I wrote to that kid if I did want to talk.
But having her there helps me think about it. In my mind, I pretend that my abuela does know about the letter and what I wrote, and that we’re talking about it. I think about what she would want me to do. I think about that kid the way my abuela would think about a little boy.
It changes everything. If I think like my abuela. If I think of myself like my abuela thinks of me.
A FEW DAYS LATER, AFTER
Abuela has gone home, I get a chance to talk about the kid with Dr. Ghosh. The boy in Nevada. The one who got the letter.
“Do you know anything about him? Did he read the letter?”
“I know he read it. Everybody regrets that. Somebody should have read the letters first before they handed them out to the children, but nobody thought of it.”
“Yeah. Do you know anything else?”
“Not much. The principal was pretty upset. And the parents, of course. That’s about it.”
“I need to do something about it. I need to do something for that boy.”
“Hmmm. Yes, I see. It might not be easy. Nobody is going to want to put you back in touch with him.”
“But I have to, Dr. Ghosh. I have to do something. I can’t leave it. That letter. It was so cruel. I can’t do anything about everything else. About Sam. About . . . about everything. But that’s a kid from Vegas. I just can’t leave it like that. Please. Please, help me do this.”
Dr. Ghosh starts to say something, but then he stops.
“Okay. Luis, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe there’s a way to contact the school principal. Maybe. I’ll try.”
And that’s the first time that I want something. The first time I have wanted anything since I woke up in this hospital. There has to be something I can do for that kid. And that’s the only thing I want. If my abuela never believes in me again, if I spend my life in Leavenworth, if I die in Iraq, I just want to do something for that kid. I want to do something right.
Maybe it’s my Mexican roots. Maybe it’s because of what my abuela did for me. Maybe it’s just that he’s another boy. A boy who is alive. Maybe it’s what I said about the kid’s name. I don’t know. But ever since I thought of the kid and realized that he was out there, that maybe I could change one thing, it’s all I can think about. Doing something for that kid.
I don’t want to scare him, of course. His parents are already mad at me. But I just can’t leave that letter like that. He shouldn’t grow up thinking a man sent him a letter like that and never fixed it.
THE THING IS, I CAN’T
actually write a letter by myself. I can’t hold the pen, and I can’t write. I can read characters, and sometimes words, but it is hard for me to see a set of words. I haven’t read a sentence yet; I can only see part of a line. I am working on reading with my occupational therapist, so I decide to tell her that I want to write a letter and see if she will help me. I trust Alison.
ALISON AGREES TO HELP ME,
but since I’m in therapy, it comes with a set of conditions. When I can read three lines without help, she’ll write the letter. I remember to tell her that she’ll have to print, because the letter is going to a child. I think about what she might imagine from that detail, and it’s so far from reality that I feel a bit discouraged. Still, when I have the letter, I’m going to ask Dr. Ghosh to mail it to the principal. I’m going to do something about what I did to that boy.
17
* * *
Bashkim
MRS. MONAGHAN SAYS THAT the principal wants to meet with me today. I am going to go there right after lunch. I must be getting more mature, as Mrs. Monaghan says, because I am not too upset about this. I have been to the principal’s office a couple of times on my own before school. She likes me to feed her fish. Dr. Moore is not so bad, and she keeps food in her office. She needs kids to eat it, because some people donate it to the school, and she does not want them to think that she wastes it. I have a lunch, though, so I won’t be able to eat any of that food today. Maybe just a cookie or something.
I go straight from the lunchroom to the office. I am not tall enough to see over the counter, so it is a little while before Mrs. Hartley, the aide, realizes that I am there.
“Hi, Bashkim,” she says. “Are you here to see Dr. Moore? She is waiting for you.”
I wait for Mrs. Hartley to unhook the gate into the office, and then I walk back to the principal’s room myself. Like I said, I have done this before.
“Bashkim, it’s nice to see you. Thank you for feeding my fish. Would you like something to eat?”
“No, thank you. I just had lunch.”
“Good. Well, Bashkim, I have something interesting to talk to you about today.”
I really am getting more mature, because I am not worried that she is going to say anything terrible. She does seem a little worried, though.
“Bashkim, I have received a letter from the soldier who wrote to you. He wants to write to you again.”
I am worried when she says this. I don’t like to think about Specialist Luis Rodriguez-Reyes, and whenever anyone asks if I want to talk about him, I say no.
“Bashkim, I don’t think your parents would want you to communicate with this soldier. And I respect your parents’ wishes. But I also think that Specialist Rodriguez is very sorry about what happened, and he wants to make up for hurting you, and I think that reading his letter would be helpful.”
I am confused. I really don’t want to read that letter, and I don’t understand why Dr. Moore is saying that she respects my baba and nene but that she wants me to read the letter. She knows how Baba feels about soldiers. If I read the letter, I couldn’t tell my baba. Does Dr. Moore want me to lie to him?
I say nothing.
“Bashkim. This is an unusual situation. I don’t want to get you in trouble with your parents. But I also want you to know that there are lots of good people in the world, and that sometimes an adult can make a mistake and still be a good person.”
“I know that.”
“That’s good, Bashkim. I’m glad you know that.
“Bashkim, now you know I have the letter and I have read it and I think it would be nice for you to read it. Why don’t you take some time to decide if you want to read it,
and if you want to tell your parents about it, or if you would like me to tell them about it. And whatever you want to do, that’s what we will do.”
I am getting a headache sitting here, and I don’t even want a cookie anymore. So I tell Dr. Moore that I will think about it, and I go back to class.
I THOUGHT ABOUT SPECIALIST LUIS
Rodriguez-Reyes’s letter all weekend. I asked my nene if she thought the soldier who wrote me was a bad person.
“Oh, Bashkim. Are you thinking about that letter? He might be a bad person, but he also might be a good person. I don’t know.”
My nene stops sweeping, and she looks out the window for a long time. I am not sure if we are still talking, but I don’t leave the kitchen, just in case.
“Writing that letter doesn’t mean that he is bad, Bashkim, because war is very hard on a man.”
I listen carefully, because maybe she is talking about Specialist Rodriguez, and maybe she is talking about Baba.
“Maybe the war that soldier is in is too much for him. Maybe he is a good man, and he was never supposed to be in a war.”
I don’t ask my nene any more questions, because I am not ready to tell her about the letter, but I listen. Is Baba a good man? Is prison the same as a war, if you never did anything wrong to get there?
ON MONDAY I STOP AT
the principal’s office to feed her fish. She is not there, but I tell Mrs. Hartley that I want to talk with Dr. Moore. About nine o’clock, Dr. Moore comes to get me in Mrs. Monaghan’s room. We walk to her office together.
“Do you want to see the letter, Bashkim?”
I do, so she lets me have it when we are in her office. She says she is going to stay right there doing her work, and I can talk to her whenever I want. I see right off that Specialist Luis Rodriguez-Reyes knows letter form too.
November 24, 2008
We Are Called to Rise Page 13
