Chased

by Hazel James

  “It’s easy. I’ll teach you. Besides, I saw your garden in the back yard. I’m positive you’re going to be an expert arm wrestler.”

  Like a light switch, her frown transforms into a grin that takes up her whole face. Abigail may favor Patch in looks, but she has her mother’s smile. “What’s that?”

  “This?” I lift the photo album in my arms. “These are very special pictures of your dad that I wanted to bring to you and your mom.”

  “My daddy is an angel in heaven. He watches over me when I’m sleeping and playing outside and when I have to get shots at the doctor. I hate shots.”

  I nod in agreement, focusing on the last part of her statement to keep from crying before I even get inside. “I hate shots, too.”

  “Abigail, why don’t you help DH get settled on the couch? I’ll bring some sweet tea and cookies, and we can look at his picture book.” My pint-sized hostess takes my free hand and leads me inside.

  “It’s this way, but you have to take your shoes off and put them on the blue mat right here or else Mama gets upset.”

  “Is that so?” I wink at Kelsey, who shakes her head at Abigail. “Thanks for telling me so I don’t get in trouble,” I whisper.

  After arranging my shoes, Abigail pulls me into the living room and nestles herself beside me on the couch. Kelsey joins us a few minutes later with a tray of snacks, and I take one final deep breath before opening the photo album.

  “Abigail, your daddy was my very best friend. Would you like to hear some stories about the things we did together?”

  Hours later, Kelsey and I wave goodbye to Patch’s parents and Abigail, who’s having a sleepover at their house, and return to Patch’s grave. The service is over, but I’m not ready to leave yet, despite being exhausted from holding it together all afternoon. Both of us bypass the bench to the left of his grave and sit on the ground instead. Well, I sit. Kelsey sprawls belly down and plays with the lush blades of grass that have grown in since Patch’s funeral—just one more reminder of how long he’s been gone.

  “I missed a lot of things when I was deployed. Home-cooked meals, comfortable beds, the usual shit. But I didn’t realize how much I’d miss grass. How dumb is that?”

  “That’s not dumb at all. Matt told me he missed carpet. And no,” she holds up a hand, “before you take that and run with it, he wasn’t referring to the sexual kind, although I’m sure that applied, too.”

  I shake my head and laugh, until my eyes fall back on the letters carved into the smooth marble headstone. More than anything, I wish the words Matthew “Patch” McNabb would change into someone else’s name.

  They don’t.

  “It still seems like a bad dream, you know? Like one day I’m going to wake up to learn we both survived the explosion, and I’ve been in a coma for the last two years.”

  Except that would mean Paige isn’t real, and that’s not something I want either. It’s fucked up when both situations mean I lose someone I love. Well, not that I love Paige. I mean, sure, she’s great. I like being around her. Plus, she’s got an awesome rack and the sex is phenomenal. But there’s no way it’s love.

  Shit like that takes time.

  Right?

  Right?

  My heart rate shoots into the 160s as the thin fibers of anxiety wrap itself around me, tighter and tighter, until they’re a blanket of chains I can’t escape. “Are you okay?” Kelsey asks, her voice sounding distant and metallic. “You look a little queasy.” I gulp air to suppress the bile dancing up my esophagus, because the only thing worse than discovering you’re in love while sitting at your best friend’s grave next to his widow, is puking on it. Kelsey sits up, and with the touch of an experienced mother, rubs my back until the worst of the nausea passes and I can breathe normally again.

  “I used to get a lot of panic attacks. What caused this one?”

  “Guilt and fucked up realizations.” So much for the reprieve I felt this morning at Aunt Helen and Uncle Kurt’s. I guess it’s easy to think everything’s okay when you’re not sitting in front of a tombstone.

  “Why guilt?”

  “I’m the reason Patch is dead,” I quietly confess to the grass. I can’t even look at her.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I see her shift forward out of the corner of my eye, but shame keeps me rooted in place as I tell her about the sequence of events leading up to the explosion. It’s a truth only Clay and Paige know. Everyone else just assumed my PTSD was caused by the blast itself or a heaping dose of survivor’s guilt, and I let them. I didn’t need their judgment on top of my own. “And I’m sort of in love with this girl, and that makes me feel like an even bigger pile of shit. Why should I get to have something you can’t when it’s my fault in the first place?” The words taste sour coming out of my mouth, and they hang in the air like a lead balloon as I await her response.

  “And that’s the fucked-up realization part?”

  I nod.

  “What makes you think I’m never going to be in love again?” Her tone causes me to raise my head, and her expression has ‘are you fucking stupid?’ written all over it.

  “Well, you used to say all the time that Patch was the love of your life. And now he’s gone.”

  “He was the love of my life—the one I built with him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t find love again one day. Matt’s death didn’t make me stop wishing in happily ever afters, and it shouldn’t make you feel like you don’t deserve one of your own, either.”

  I rub my beard while I process her words. Patch always said he hoped Kelsey would find someone else if he died, but who thinks their backup plan will become reality? “I just remember how destroyed you were at the funeral and assumed those kinds of feelings don’t go away.”

  “They don’t. I will always love Matt, and a part of me will always be missing, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to be happy. And as far as his death being your fault, I call bullshit. If you want to point fingers, point them at me.”

  “Why you?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “I’m the reason he joined the Air Force. I saw free health care and a guaranteed paycheck. They don’t deploy like the Army and Marines, so I figured it was safe.”

  “Yeah, but you had nothing to do with him stepping on an IED.”

  “Neither did you.” I start to protest, but Kelsey’s steely gaze makes me think twice. “I don’t place any blame on you,” she continues, “just like no one in Matt’s family places any blame on me. Don’t keep beating yourself up for something you didn’t cause.”

  “You sound like my counselor.”

  “I spent eighteen months in therapy. It starts to rub off on you after a while. Something else I learned—don’t waste opportunities. If you love this girl and want a future with her, go for it.” She smiles, and surprisingly, I find the corners of my mouth doing the same. We sit in silence for the next few minutes watching the sun make its final descent in a sea of fiery orange and pink, taking with it any doubts I had about releasing my guilt once and for all. As with most major events in my life, the sky has the answer. I look down at my black dress shirt knowing I’ll add it to my pile as soon as I get home.

  When Clay rounds the corner and sees me on the treadmill, he stops in his tracks, taps the face of his watch twice, then shakes his wrist and checks the time again. He says something, but with my music going, all I can lip-read is the word “early.”

  I punch the stop button and ride down to the end of the machine while I pull my earbuds out. Clay’s eyes drift to the readout—five miles in thirty-nine minutes—then focus on me again.

  “Weren’t you in San Antonio last night?”

  “Yeah,” I grin.

  “And now you’re here, at eight in the morning, with five miles logged?”

  “Yup.” My smile grows wider as I grab my water bottle out of the cup holder and take a drink. He’s still staring at me when I twist the lid closed and lead the way to the battle ropes. “I called the
front desk this morning to see if I could switch appointment times. I have last-minute plans today.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Building a bookshelf.”

  His head tips to one side. “I’m a little lost here, dude. I got your text last night saying the service went well, and now you’re here, halfway through your workout, talking about a bookshelf?”

  “Exactly.” He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and that makes me laugh because I’m not lost at all. Not anymore. I thought about everything Kelsey said on the drive home. By the time I got back to my apartment, the thought of saying I love Paige out loud made me smile instead of panic. I lift the ropes and start my first set of alternating waves, relishing the burn that takes over my arms. Everything inside me is alive, and it feels so fucking good.

  “Time.” Clay clicks his stopwatch at thirty seconds. “What happened last night? And don’t give me anymore non-answers.”

  “Goals happened, Clay. And at the risk of making your massive ego any bigger, you were right. I feel better.” I ignore his smirk and blast through the next nine sets, then take a quick water break on the bench next to the boxes. He tosses me a towel and sits on the rubber ground in front of me.

  “So you spent the day with Kelsey and Abigail. How do you feel about that?”

  “Sad, but good. It was hard not having Patch there—I kept waiting for him to come through the door. We looked at some pictures I brought with me, and I got to see his parents at the service last night.”

  “And did you apologize to Kelsey?”

  “Yeah. I told her the truth about dismounting the helicopter, and she wasn’t mad. She said to stop blaming myself.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. It’s time to let all that shit go. It won’t make me miss Patch any less, but I didn’t bury the IED and I didn’t tell him where to walk. He was a PJ in a combat zone. He knew the risks, just like I did.”

  “Well hot fucking damn, my little boy is growing up.” He wipes a fake tear from his cheek, earning him a good-natured middle finger in response. “What are you doing next, since it’s obvious you’re running this training session?”

  “Thirty-six inches,” I say, pointing at the wooden box. Clay’s low whistle pierces the air, but he doesn’t question me. I’ve been practicing with a couple of stacked tires and some plywood at the shop, and I’m ready to see if my leg can hold up to the added height.

  “What’s the deal with the bookshelf?” he asks.

  I bring both arms back, crouch down, and jump, landing with ease on the top of the box for the first time since the blast. I’m only three feet off the ground, but it may as well be Everest. “My girlfriend has a shit ton of books, but they’re in plastic bins under her bed. I thought I’d surprise her with a bookshelf before she goes to work tonight.” It takes three more jumps for Clay to blink again, and three more after that for him to finally speak.

  “Huh. I always wondered what it would look like when hell froze over.”

  Ignoring his ribbing, I complete my last few jumps and hobble back to my gym bag. “Yesterday, you said you wanted to talk to me about something. What’s up?”

  “What makes you happier—fixing people or fixing cars?” Clay snags a thirty-five-pound dumbbell off the rack and starts a series of triceps extensions while I chug the rest of my water and pack up.

  “That’s like comparing apples to oranges.”

  “Just answer the damn question.”

  “I guess people.” I rub the back of my neck. “There’s more adrenaline in that, anyway. Why?”

  “My buddy Preston is a paramedic. He said one of the guys he works with is moving in a couple of months. Maybe it’s time you consider working in the medical field again.”

  “I don’t know, dude. I’ve been out of it for a while. I’d probably have to start school all over again.”

  Clay replaces the dumbbell with a metallic thunk that echoes in the mostly empty gym. “Maybe not. You might be able to renew your certification. And if you can’t, so what? Use your GI Bill and take the damn courses.”

  “Why are you so concerned about my job?” Slinging my bag over my shoulder, we head for the front of the building, but Clay blocks my path so I can’t leave.

  “What did you say your goal was for therapy?”

  “You and your fucking goals.” I shake my head, but smile. Clay is a rehabilitation ninja with the power to fix bodies and minds while never losing sight of the overall objective. He’s perfect for this job. “I wanted to get back to the old me.” He gives me a knowing glance and steps to the side.

  “Just think about it.”

  I do for exactly seventeen steps, which is the distance from the front door to my truck, where I see two legs dangling off the tailgate. “Hey!” I toss my bag on the concrete and storm around to the bed of the truck. “Who the fuck do you—”

  “Is that any way to talk to your mother?” Sheila’s raspy words come out in a puff of smoke as she sits up. Her weathered fingers flick the cherry off her cigarette, then she tosses it to the ground like she does everything else that’s of no use to her.

  Like me.

  “Get. Off. My. Truck.” The vile taste of hatred fills my mouth, and the muscles in my jaw get their own workout as I struggle to control the red filling my vision. She moves, but slowly, like she knows I’m counting the seconds before she’s no longer physically touching what’s mine. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  She points at the highway. “There’s a soup kitchen down that way that serves breakfast. The shelter I’ve been staying at is closed during the day, so there’s nothing to do but walk around. I saw your truck, thought I’d wait for you and say hello.” She tips her head to the side, her dull brown hair hanging limp over her shoulder, and studies me. “I’ve been out for a few weeks now and bought a bus ticket to come up here and get my life back on track.” I wish the only roads leaving the Cooke County Jail went south… to Hell, not Mexico, though I’d take that too, if it meant she couldn’t cross back over the border again.

  “There’s nothing here for you.”

  “My family’s here, and y’all are my best shot at starting over.” She smiles, revealing yellowed teeth and ulterior motives. Sheila Rhoads only smiles when she wants something.

  “You have no family here. You and Kevin made damn sure of that when you stole my truck on top of all the other shit you did to me as a kid. So like I said, there’s nothing here for you.” I maneuver past her and slam my tailgate shut, then fish my keys out of my gym bag and unlock my truck.

  “Andrew, please, can’t you just give me a little money to get back on my feet? I promise to leave you alone.” The stale smell of desperation oozes off her and mixes with my rage, creating a toxic brew of fucked up in the Battles parking lot.

  “Don’t,” I say, my back turned toward her. “Don’t you dare call me that. If you need money, there are hundreds of street corners to choose from.” With that, I leap into the cab and peel out, leaving her in a cloud of disgust and burned rubber. I planned on going straight to Lowes after the gym, but I head to the car wash first.

  I need to get all traces of Sheila off my truck and figure out how she knew it was mine in the first place.

  “PLEASE CAN I CLIMB IT? Just once?” Ali’s little brother, Tyler, bundles his fists below his chin and bats his impressively long lashes at her, but she must have a heart of steel because she doesn’t even flinch when she stares back at him. I’d have caved after two seconds.

  “And have you break your neck a week before we fly to China? No way. Mom and Dad would murder me. Besides,” she chides with a gentle undertone, “DH built that for Miss Paige’s books, not for your feet.” She offers an apologetic smile as she cuts the last of Tyler’s French toast, proving she’s not as immune to his puppy dog eyes as I thought.

  DH returns to the dinette with a jug of orange juice and fills our glasses. The small table is crowded with four guests, but I’ll take this over eating alone any d
ay. “I’ll tell you what, bud. How about I build you a jungle gym in your back yard?”

  He may as well have just promised to deliver a bucket of puppies with Tyler’s name on it. “Really?” he squeals, his eyes almost as big as his mouth.

  “I have to talk to your mom and dad first, but yes, really.” DH ruffles Tyler’s near-black hair and returns the orange juice to the fridge. When he sits down on Ali’s left, she pokes his shoulder.

  “Who are you and what have you done with DH?” she asks with a quizzical look. “You went from being a male w-h-o-r-e to a guy who cooks breakfast for dinner and builds stuff?”

  “It’s not like it’s hard.” He waves a slice of bacon in the air, not bothering to address the first part of Ali’s statement. “I bet with me, Eric, Uncle Kurt and your dad, we could have it done in one afternoon.”

  Tyler, wiggling in his seat like Jell-O in an earthquake, turns his attention back to Ali. “Can you call Daddy and ask him right now? Please?”

  She holds up a finger in Tyler’s direction. “Who’s funding this? Because Mom and Dad are forking money out left and right for this adoption. I don’t think they’d mind the idea of a play area in the back yard, but those things cost money.”

  “I’ll take care of it, as long as they’ll help with the labor. Consider it a combined Gotcha Day and early Christmas present from me. I bet I can even get my buddy Robbie to come over. I ran into him at Home Depot this morning when I was buying wood for Paige’s bookshelf.”

  “Robbie?” Ali asks.

  “He’s a former Marine. I used to work out with him at Battles, but he hasn’t been to the gym in a while. Hey,” he says, turning to me. “Will you remind me to talk to Clay about getting him back in some sessions? Based on our conversation this morning, he could use it, and I don’t want to forget.”

  “You got it.” I smile to cover up my momentary shock at the significance of his request. DH is continuing to open himself up to me, and that includes acknowledging his limitations and trusting that I will accept him as is—not an easy feat for anyone, especially a person with PTSD. The bookshelf he built was a wonderful surprise, but this gesture somehow means even more to me.