True North

by Allie Juliette Mousseau

  J, you awake?

  A minute later, bleep.

  Yeah. What’s up?

  What’s up? That was loaded. It was one a.m. and I couldn’t sleep.

  Just tell me.

  No way! You made me promise!!!

  When I’d gotten back to school I’d called Jules and told her I didn’t want to know anything about him and to promise that even if I begged and pleaded she’d say nothing to feed my addiction.

  Go back on it!

  Fuck that!

  I’m going crazy! Please, put me out of my misery!!!

  Liv, you’re my best friend. I can’t lose you over my brother.

  She was still sore. She had the right to be, I’d waited a week after I left before I called her. We’d never gone that long without talking and she was freaked out.

  I’m sorry, but I’m dying … please.

  My Immortal dying?

  I had just played “My Immortal” on loop for over an hour.

  You know me too well.

  Silence.

  Her ring tone startled me.

  I answered it.

  “If I’m going to tell you, you have to turn off the song,” Julia said.

  “What do I put on then?”

  “Oh, Liv, you’re crying!”

  “That’s usually what happens when you listen to ‘My Immortal,’” I crowed.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked, attempting to soothe me.

  “Everything.”

  “Just throw it all out there?”

  “JULES!”

  “Okay, but it’s not easy.”

  That was the first hit. I felt a wrecking ball pummel through my gut.

  “He didn’t come home the night after Wild’s, or for two days after that either.”

  A voice that sounded like it came from outside of me asked, “Where did he stay?”

  “None of us know. He just showed back up on Tuesday. We found him in the morning, raiding the fridge. He tried to act like everything was normal and we sort of played along, but he didn’t look right. He had these dark circles under his eyes and his expression was … I don’t know … empty. Like there was nothing going on behind his eyes. It was sort of scary. Then for two days he sat on the couch in the living room, drinking and watching TV until he passed out. But in the middle of the night he’d start to scream.”

  “What? What do you mean scream?” I pressed.

  “I mean blood curdling screams. Caleb and I raced to see what was wrong, but he was sound asleep. We kept away from him, afraid he wouldn’t recognize us at first if we grabbed him. So Caleb shouted his name really loud and I was … just … crying. He didn’t hear us. Caleb finally said, ‘Fuck this,’ and shook him awake.”

  She started crying. “He asked us what we were all looking at and Caleb asked him if he was alright, told him it sounded like he was having a nightmare—but it really sounded like someone was killing him. He told us he was fine, got another beer and went back to watching the TV again—it was like four in the morning.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “The next day he slept late then acted like nothing had happened. But every time a noise was made, like Caleb’s truck door slamming closed at lunch or when I dropped the mayonnaise jar on the floor, it’s like he jumped right out of his skin! And his hands shook real bad. Then during the evening he kept walking by the windows and looking outside. I asked him if he was waiting for someone, and he gave me a sideways glance but didn’t answer me.”

  She went silent and I waited. I’d seen his hands shake at the club.

  “He left the next morning without so much as a note, and we haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  That was over two weeks ago! “What about your mom and dad?”

  “They’re busy, what else is new? But they didn’t seem particularly worried. Caleb says Jake’s a big boy and it’s none of our business, but he’s totally lying. I heard him call everybody we know and ask if Jake was hanging out at their place.”

  “Did Caleb find him?”

  More silence.

  The silence answered for her. “Not even an email?”

  “No. We don’t know when he’s supposed to report back for duty either. I mean … nothing has been normal with him for a long time. It’s like I don’t know him anymore. He would hardly eat or talk to us at all either, and, Livie … I’m scared.” She sobbed into the phone.

  Her crying made mine stop.

  That’s when I started to pace. “I’m sorry, Jules.” It was so lame, but I didn’t have any comforting words to offer. Everything will be okay sounded like a condescending lie that even I didn’t believe at this point.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

  I didn’t either. So she cried as the wheels spun out of control in my mind. When we finally hung up there was only one word that described how I felt …

  Powerless.

  Three days of numbness. Three days of classes I didn’t pay any attention in. And one failed pop quiz. My English professor was so surprised he offered me a redo. I took the test again late that afternoon after school and passed with an A. I was really just going through the motions. Now instead of being just hurt and angry, I got to mix those into a toxic emotional tonic along with frightened and concerned.

  Scott asked me out again, but I said no. I couldn’t deal with that too. But the next day I found a vibrant, single red rose in my backpack at math. It may have been stupid of me, but I pretended not to notice it. I had already said no and I didn’t want to be romanced. I wanted them to find Jake. That morning Jules sent me a text that Caleb, Nate and Josh had searched all around in a fifty mile radius for him. They even checked the National Park and bird sanctuary where he had taken me when I was there. No Jake.

  My mom used to pray with me when I was little. I now hated praying because it made me think of her, but I was praying for Jake and kept asking God to bring him back home safely.

  When class ended I went to my room to grab some food and put the rose in water—no need to let it die. Of course I checked my phone for any texts—nothing.

  For weeks I’d been desperately trying to let go of Jake. Now it was quite the opposite, I was holding on desperately to any hope I could muster. I thought about what Jules had said about the way he was acting and remembered the night at Wild’s when he’d pulled me under the table and couldn’t stop shaking.

  My fingers glided over my chest of drawers. I wanted what was in there. Was it a good idea? I’d taken it off and hidden it for a reason—a good reason. But without it close to my heart I felt even more broken; as if my whole heart was shattered. I pulled open the drawer and took out my Celtic knot, which I had wrapped and hidden in tissue paper. I fastened it around my neck.

  He won’t talk, Nate and Jules had said. Why?

  I sat at my desk, turned on my laptop and did what I should have done before. I was angry at myself for not having thought of it earlier.

  I Googled—Afghanistan and the year. He had served several tours and I wasn’t sure exactly when or where he was, so I brought up several tabs and searched for Afghanistan articles from the Associated Press, the New York Times, the Huffington Post and other reliable sources for the year he’d stopped communicating.

  That put me in mind of another thing—he had kept in contact his entire time at boot camp, through his graduation and training with Special Ops—even when he first got stationed in Afghanistan he’d called and Skyped. I remembered his automatic rifle behind him in the Skype session. I had asked if he was trying to prove to me how badass he was by letting me see it—I thought for sure he was—he laughed and said he was actually required to have it with him at all times.

  I sorted through them, one picture and article at a time: broken demolished buildings; dirty, concrete strewn streets; victims of suicide bombs and gunfire; people lying in bloody puddles; people blowing themselves and everyone around them up in crowded marketplaces or safe zones; people—old, young, civi
lians and military, mangled and bruised; everyone carrying guns—angry and scared; everyone terrified and ready for violence; buses packed with civilians, blown up by rockets; people setting themselves on fire outside of the bases in protest; dismembered bodies of civilians; Afghan police left on the ground with their blood seeping into the dirt around them; so many of our soldiers dead, crippled or otherwise injured; drug use; war crimes; torture …

  Pretend I never left…

  I felt a tear slide down my face.

  War was filthy. Jake had been in the middle of it for three years.

  “You make me remember who I was and who I wanted to be.” His mouth warmed my ear, tender but sensual. “Liv, I lost that guy.”

  “Let me help you find him.”

  I hadn’t done a very good job of helping him find himself; instead I ran away with my tail between my legs, licking my wounds and feeling like it was all about me.

  It all made me think, and I lugged my Intro to Psych text out of my pack. I knew what I was looking for. I wasn’t a shrink and had no intention of diagnosing him but all these behaviors sounded more like symptoms.

  I found the chapter on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD, and started reading. It all made perfect sense, like puzzle pieces falling into place.

  “Fuck,” I breathed into the air around me as I leaned my back against the chair. Now what do I do? He had been trying to open up to me the best he could, and I blew it, and I didn’t even know how to find him to make it right.

  I closed my laptop and lay on my bed, picking up my mp3 player and scrolling to Seether’s “Broken.” If there was anything like telepathy … if I concentrated on him hard enough … would he be able to feel me?

  “Where are you Jake?” I asked aloud.

  I tried not to panic thinking about Jake with PTSD. Some of the stories in my textbook and that I’d seen on the internet were so severe—people came back from Iraq or Afghanistan or even Vietnam for the matter and committed suicide because they couldn’t get a grip on the force of their emotions, some self-medicated, becoming alcoholics or drug addicts to ease what they felt, others got into trouble with the law. I’d even read of one vet that ran over the border to Mexico to one of the worst places he could find—a place that was overrun with drug cartel—so he could relive what he’d gone through in many ways. He couldn’t face normal society again. That was a huge similarity between most PTSD sufferers. And, to make it worse, most were embarrassed to seek out help because they didn’t want their commanders to label them as weak or cowardly. Most sickeningly, they had examples before them to solidify that fear into reality, where soldiers had sought help, were told to suck it up then spiraled out of control, getting themselves involved in crimes, violence or suicidal behavior. That led to the other fact that had scared me to death: that the suicide rate for military personnel was higher than that of the entire United States.

  What if he …? I squeezed my eyes as tight as I could and begged whatever god was listening to please bring him back to us safely.

  I put “Broken” on repeat and then twined my fingers together, pretending it was really Jake’s hand, and that he was lying here next to me. I may have looked ridiculous but, somehow it was comforting.

  I woke up in the middle of the night. The lights were out but, in the glow of the moonlight from the window, I saw Lara was asleep on her side of the room. My battery had died on my mp3 player. I stirred myself to use the bathroom and went down the hall to one of the shared bathrooms on our floor. When I came back I glimpsed the clock. Four-thirty a.m. No way was I going to be able to get back to sleep. It was only an hour earlier than when I usually woke up so I decided to get on my running clothes and hit the pavement to clear my mind.

  The morning air was crisp, cold and clean, opening my senses. My lungs expanded and my eyes turned sharp in the dim light of the streetlamps and early hints of dawn. The campus was quiet, only a few campus police cruisers along with a guy in a van throwing rolled-up newspapers onto porches passed me. School was going to suck today, and I wondered how I’d ever get through it.

  After a two mile run, I took the dorm steps two at a time. I’d have time to shower and even finish up some extra assignments. When I reached my door I saw another red rose leaning between the door jamb and knob. This time a note was attached: I want to see you again.

  It was so pretty and sweet, it almost made me sad. If only it could have been Jake trying to pull me back to him. I lifted it to my nose—the scent was so beautiful and fresh. That was funny, Scott must have left this after I took off.

  I pushed through the door. Lara was dressing.

  “Hey lady!” She looked at the rose. “An admirer,” she sang.

  “Yeah, it’s Scott, he wants to see me again.” I put the rose in the vase with the first one.

  “Are you going to?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll talk to him today after math and let him know I’m touched by the gestures but I’m really not interested.”

  “You’re not interested? Come on, he’s hot and he’s obviously got a crush on you! I thought you were going to move forward?” She tied her sneakers.

  “I can’t. I still love Jake.” There, I said it.

  “Whoa! Love? You sure?”

  I laughed lightly, or maybe bitterly. “Yeah. I think he was trying to reach out to me before and I didn’t understand, but I think he might be dealing with post-traumatic stress from when he was in Afghanistan. I’ve waited this long, I can’t give up yet.”

  She looked at me like she was worried. “Are you sure you’re not just fooling yourself and are under some delusion?”

  “Nope! Not sure at all.” I bounced into the bathroom to shower and end the conversation. I’d already made up my mind to see this through, and that was what I was going to do.

  The day was uneventful. I did my best to concentrate in classes because, no matter how hard I thought, I couldn’t figure out any way to get back to Jake or find him if he didn’t want to be found.

  Usually I drifted onto the what-if-I’d-handled-it-differently? train. What if I hadn’t let him push me away? What if I hadn’t run away the next morning? What if I’d just grabbed him and kissed him with every bit of the passion I’d held so long for him? Would he still have forced me away? Would it have opened him up?

  STOP!!!

  Scott never showed up for math class. Well if he was up at five a.m. delivering roses he must have been cutting class today. I really didn’t want to go another day without ending it, so I swung by his apartment. Number five.

  I knocked.

  “I’m dying and can’t come to the door,” a voice called out.

  “I’m not the truancy officer and you’re not dying so just open up,” I answered.

  “Olivia?” He perked up. “Hot damn, I’m having feelings of resurrection.”

  A minute later Scott appeared in a pair of shorts, an open robe and his cocky smile.

  “You look like shit,” I remarked.

  “You definitely know how to throw compliments.” His smile never faltered. “You, of course, look amazing. Want to come in?”

  “I don’t know, are you contagious?”

  “Probably. Let’s find out.”

  “Scott, I just wanted to tell you that I was really touched by the roses, they were beautiful—my favorite even—but I can’t see you again,” I explained.

  “Roses?”

  I put a hand to my hip. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. The first one was in my backpack during math class and the second was on my doorknob this morning. It was really sweet, and if I wasn’t totally wrapped up in that other guy we sort of talked about, you’d definitely be on my date list.” I lied—way too much of a man whore for me, but I thought it sounded good.

  “Damn, it’s one hell of an idea … but um, I haven’t given you any flowers,” he confessed.

  “Okay.” I felt my brow crease in the middle. “Are you sure?”

  “Sorry, señorita, if it had been me I w
ould totally take credit for it.” He started to laugh but ended up burying his face into the crook of his elbow in a coughing fit instead. When he recovered he said, “But it sounds like you do have another admirer.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but I had already started walking away. “Oh, um, hope you feel better soon.”

  “Good luck with your mystery man, Olivia.” Scott smiled and I gave him a thin smile back.

  Another admirer? Scott couldn’t have been up at five in the morning running around the campus delivering flowers, not the way he looked.

  The note said I want to see you again …

  What the hell did that mean?

  Maybe the flower wasn’t for me and was really for Lara? But that didn’t explain the one in my backpack. And how did anyone get it in there in the first place?

  My brain was starting to hurt.

  I got back to my car’s warmth and texted Jules.

  Chapter 11

  “Only One in Color”

  Trapt

  Any word?

  I waited. No answer.

  I sighed. It was going to be a long weekend of freaking out. I stopped by the store on my way home for some snacks and then at the last minute turned into the art supplies store for some stuff. With so much work to do this first year I didn’t have much time for my own personal art projects, but this weekend my homework was too light. There would be nothing to sink my wandering mind into. An art project would be perfect. I grabbed paints, brushes, canvas and an easel. It was expensive, but I could afford the splurge. It was study related, I told myself.

  I carried my goods upstairs and let myself in. Lara had left a note on the table that she’d be at a party and gave me directions if I felt like going.

  Perfect, I thought. I’d have the place to myself tonight.

  I ate a yogurt, grabbed a bottle of water and put my mp3 on the docking station to blast Trapt. I was alone, and working with earbuds in got in the way of the free flow of the brushes. Tonight I had no one to answer to. I stripped out of my school clothes and walked naked through the room to my dresser. I pulled on a white tank and a pair of blue boy-shorts and then I spread a tarp out to protect the floor. I set my paints up on the table beside me, mixed them and then set the canvas on the easel.