He put the sandwich on his plate and turning leveled his gaze at me. “We broke up, okay?”
I fell silent. I’m sure my face showed my disappointment because he turned back to the table. During the party preparations I’d secretly dreamed of Ashley and Taylor’s getting back together now that he was home, maybe even getting married and having children. Weren’t those all the things a mother hoped for her children?
Mercifully, the telephone rang. I hurried to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mrs. McClellan. It’s Jack.”
“Jack!” I turned to face Taylor. Jack had been the closest of Taylor’s group of friends, a kind of brother. Surely Jack would be able to break through the ice barrier that Taylor had created around himself. “It was so good to see you the other night. Long time. Too long! Thanks for coming.”
“Sure. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Great to see Taylor again. Hey, is the old boy around?”
I met Taylor’s gaze, eyebrows raised in question.
Taylor scowled and shook his head.
I couldn’t keep my opinion from my face. “Oh, uh,” I stammered, uncomprehending why Taylor wouldn’t want to talk to his best friend, “I’m sorry, Jack. He’s sleeping now. He’s not feeling well. . . . What? Oh, it’s probably just the flu. You know how it is with air flights.” I rolled my eyes. I was a terrible liar. I didn’t think Jack believed me. “Sure, I’ll tell him you called. Love to your mother. Bye.”
I lowered the phone and looked pointedly at my son. “Jack wants you to call him back.”
Taylor looked at his plate.
“Oh, and he mentioned something about a party.”
Taylor answered fast, like a knee-jerk reaction. “I’m not going to any party.”
“Oh, honey, you need to get out of this house. See your friends.”
“I don’t want to go out.”
“But why not?” I replied, in almost a whine. Then with encouragement: “It would do you good.”
Taylor didn’t respond, but he shifted in his chair.
“If you’re not ready for going out with your friends, maybe we could do some Christmas shopping together. Maybe even go to Charleston. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
He lowered his head and put his fingertips to his forehead. “I don’t want to go anywhere,” he said with a flare of anger.
“Oh.” I took a breath. “You don’t have to get snippy.”
“Mama . . .” There was a tone of apology. Taylor paused, then dropped his hand. His eyes squinted against the light. “I have a blinding migraine.”
My anger fled, replaced with concern. “I have some Tylenol.”
“I eat fistfuls of stuff like that and it doesn’t do anything.”
“It might be the flu. There’s so much of that going around now. And you’ve been traveling. Have you seen a doctor?”
Taylor burst out a short laugh. “Yeah, I’ve seen a doctor. I saw one right before I came here. He wouldn’t give me any more pain pills. He’s afraid I’ll get addicted.” Taylor snorted as if that were preposterous. “So now I’m left to suffer and begin all over again with a new set of doctors in Charleston.” His hand slammed the table. “What’s the point? They don’t fix anything anyway.”
“Here, let me check your forehead.” I walked closer to put my hand on his forehead. He waved it away brusquely. “I’m just checking to see if you have a fever.”
“I don’t have the flu. Or a fever. Look.” He held my gaze. “My bandages are off, but the injuries are still there. In my head.” He tapped the side of his head for effect. “In my brain. That’s why I have migraines.” Taylor pushed the chair back and climbed to his feet.
“Wait,” I cried, shooting my arms out in an arresting motion to stop him from leaving. He pushed past me. “Taylor,” I cried, a knot forming in my throat. “Don’t push me away. Don’t push your friends away!”
Taylor spun on his heel, his face coloring. “They’re not my friends!” he shouted back, hands in fists at his thighs. “My friends are dead. And it was my fault. Mine! I was the officer in charge. I was responsible for them. And they died. You tell me why I’m alive and all my friends are dead!”
I stared into his eyes, so tortured with guilt and unspeakable sorrow. My heart was breaking to see him in such pain. “Oh, Son, it’s not your fault.”
He swore under his breath and headed out of the room.
“Let me help you!” I cried.
“You can’t!” he shouted back.
I watched him retreat down the hall, heard his heavy footfalls on the stairs, and flinched at the slamming of his bedroom door. My breath released in a shuddering sigh as my arms dropped to my sides.
“Mama?”
I swung around to see Miller standing at the back door, his blue wool scarf wrapped around his chin up to his open mouth. He’d returned home from school. His eyes were wide with fear and confusion. “What’s the matter with Taylor?”
I shook my head and ventured a weary smile. “I don’t know, honey.” I walked to Miller’s side and put my arm around his shoulder. The parka was cold but I was grateful Miller didn’t flinch. “I don’t think he knows, either.”
No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty.
—A Christmas Carol
Chapter 11
Taylor
I was back in Afghanistan. I stepped out from my barracks into a blast of heat. It felt like stepping into an oven and I was the turkey, all trussed in my body armor and helmet. Sweat began pouring down my back, my forehead, stinging my eyes.
“Let’s load up,” I ordered. Me and thirteen other men climbed into assigned Humvees in the long convoy. Doors slammed shut. Someone in mine yelled out to crank up the AC. It was just another day in the sandbox. Another routine tour of the perimeter. We took off with a jolt. Jon was strapped in the gunner’s turret. The merciless sun baked the landscape, turning it a hundred shades of yellow. Dave was sitting next to me, telling me how he was going home for Christmas and who was going to be there, and all I could think was that he had a helluva big family. Then he told me what they’d eat for dinner, elaborating about his mother’s chocolate bombe cake. He described it with loving detail—the rich chocolate center, the whipped cream on top—I wanted a taste of that cake so bad and told him so.
Then he took off his helmet, just to wipe his brow. It was against regulations, but what the hell. It was just for a minute. One minute I was looking at his face, and the next I heard a deafening explosion and was flying. Then everything went white. I couldn’t hear anything but the pounding of my heart in my ears. I blinked but couldn’t see anything.
“Dave!” I shouted, my throat burning. A fine dust filled the air and my lungs. I could hardly breathe and coughed my guts out. I tried to struggle to my knees but my back was twisted and I screamed with pain.
Panic swelled with helplessness. I was vulnerable. I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, I was hurt. But my sense of smell was working overtime, picking up the acrid and pungent scents of diesel fuel, burning rubber, and something so bad it left a taste in my mouth. I rubbed my eyes and strained to see through the fog.
My sight gradually returned and I realized I was in a billowing cloud of smoke. As the smoke dissipated, I saw I was lying in my own blood, my leg bent at an odd angle. My back was twisted. But I could move my head. I saw bodies—parts of bodies—and burning metal chunks and wheels of what was once my convoy. Wreckage was everywhere. When I could hear again, the screams were deafening.
“Dave! Where are you?” I cried in a panic.
I looked wildly for my gun, groping around my useless body. My heart pounded faster and my blood pressure rose and my muscles tightened. Suddenly I felt something in my hands. I grabbed it tight.
“Help me!”
“Taylor! Stop! Wake up!”
I heard crying and whimpering. I blink
ed hard, coming further out from the gray smoke. Through the haze I recognized my bedroom. Then I saw my mother’s eyes.
“Mama,” I said in a choked voice.
“Taylor, let go of me,” she said tightly.
Awakening further, I saw that I was kneeling on the mattress and gripping her arms. My fingers sprang open as I immediately released her. She slumped back a few steps, rubbing her arms.
“Mama, I’m sorry,” I managed, breathing heavily. I still felt the heat of the desert on my back, and my mouth was so dry I could hardly talk.
She was breathless with fear, still rubbing her arms. She looked at me with a combination of concern and caution. “You were having a nightmare,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “I heard you cry out.”
“I have them every night,” I said.
I sat back on my haunches and mopped my face with my hands. When I realized where I was in my mind, in my crazed state, what I could have done . . . Just the thought that I could have really hurt my mother scared me like nothing before.
I swung my head up to look at her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she answered quickly. She reached over to the light and flicked it on. The golden halo of light was instantly comforting. “I’m fine.” Then she stepped closer, albeit carefully, the way one would approach an injured animal. “But you scared me. Your eyes were wild. Like you didn’t know me.”
I sighed and shook my head. “I was still in my nightmare,” I said in a low voice. “It’s so real. I was back in the war.” I could feel my heart rate speed up just remembering. “I was in hell,” I said, ending it. I was shaking and needed to pull myself together. Looking up, I saw her stricken face watching me. I was scaring her. “You should go back to bed.”
Her face crumpled in worry. “Will you be okay? Should I wake your father?”
“No. I just need to be alone.” I looked at her and felt the weight of what I’d done. “Thanks for waking me up. I didn’t know it was you. I’m sorry I grabbed you.” My gaze raked her arms, studied her face, her stance. “Are you sure you’re all right? Please tell me, did I hurt you?”
She rubbed her arm but shook her head. “You scared me more than anything.”
“Mama, I’m sorry.” My voice broke and I bent my head in shame.
“I know,” she answered quickly, but she didn’t come closer. “Will you be all right? I can sit up with you.”
“I’m awake now. But, Mama”—I looked up and held her gaze—“I want you to promise me that if I’m sleeping and having a nightmare, you won’t come near me. You won’t let Miller near me. I don’t know what I’m doing. Promise me.”
Her eyes were round with fear. “I won’t. I promise.”
I exhaled my fears and nodded. “Good.”
Her gaze scanned the room. Clothes and trash were strewn about, and dirty plates from my scrounging through the kitchen. The room smelled of stale food and the telltale scent of cigarettes.
“Maybe later I can get in here and clean this place up. That’ll help you feel better.”
“I’ll do it.”
“I’m happy to do it.”
“No!” I barked in a knee-jerk reaction, my voice so loud I startled her. I quickly collected myself and said in a softer voice, “I’ll do it.”
“Well,” she said, at a loss for words, wringing her hands. “Okay then. I’ll check on you later.”
“I don’t need you to check up on me.”
“Don’t you?” Her eyes flared as she pinned me with her sharp gaze. I’d pushed her as far as she’d go. Now she was my mother again, not taking any more insolence from her child.
“You’re holed up in this room, not showering, not eating, having horrible nightmares. Smoking cigarettes when you know I don’t allow smoking in the house.” She reached out to indicate the near-empty bottle of bourbon on the bedside stand. “And all that drinking isn’t good for you. It’ll rot your liver.”
I brought my shaking hands to the mattress and clutched it tight. “Right.”
“Don’t be smart with me. I’m still your mother.” She paused as emotion welled up in her. “I don’t like to see you so unhappy. You just need to pull yourself together, that’s all. Clean yourself up. Go out some. Get a job. Snap out of it! You’re such a great man. Your whole future is waiting for you.”
“Stop it!” I barked out. Then, closing my eyes, I said softly, “Please.”
Her lips opened, as though she were about to say something else, but thinking better of it, she turned to leave without another sound.
“Mama,” I called after her.
She stopped and turned, her face appearing wounded.
I thought of how she cleaned houses for others to make ends meet, how she kept a tidy home, cooked for her family, woke in the middle of night when her son cried out. No matter how tired, she was always there, giving more of herself and never complaining.
“I’ll shower tomorrow. And shave.”
The lines on her face eased as she brightened. “Good. And then I’ll come in here and clean your room.”
I watched my mother leave, then grabbed the bottle of bourbon and drank it dry. Shower and shave, I thought bitterly. If only that would make me feel like my old self. The man I once was. I knew that man was the son Mama was still waiting for. Not this mean, angry, crazy man I’d become. I couldn’t be touched. I couldn’t go out. I couldn’t get rid of the memories. Hell, I couldn’t sleep. Get a job? How could I get a job, much less hold one down? I tossed the bottle into the trash bin.
Rubbing my palms together I felt desperation stir in my gut. I had to do something for money. I’d saved enough while in the Corps to keep me going for a little while. I’d lived modestly. But it was running out. After it was gone, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I’d applied for disability four months ago and was still waiting. Who knew if I’d ever get a cent?
And I was a fraud. I didn’t come home because of Christmas. I came home because I had nowhere else to go. I didn’t know how tight money was for Mama and Dad. I wanted to help them, the way a good son should. Instead I was a burden. Worthless. I couldn’t stay with my parents forever. But what could I do? Where could I go? I only knew I couldn’t go on living like this forever. Not in this hell. Not making the lives of my family hell.
My heart cried out with the anguish of Marley’s regret. I thought again of the damned ghost’s ponderous chain. The chain forged of his misused, miserable, miserly life. I fell back against the mattress, feeling the unbearable weight of the links of my own.
Darkness is cheap and Scrooge liked it.
—A Christmas Carol
Chapter 12
Miller
This was turning out to be the worst Christmas ever.
Everyone was on pins and needles and all because of my so-called Christmas present—Taylor. It had been over a week and still he stayed in his room most of the time, sulking, smoking, playing loud music, and using the Internet. No way my mother would’ve ever let me get away with that. I heard Mama arguing with Dad at night. Dad said Taylor just needed to shape up. Mama said he needed to see a doctor. That he was getting worse, not better. Me, I’m just getting mad at him for making everyone worry.
I caught Mama standing outside his closed bedroom door, her hand pressed against the wood, her ear close, listening, looking like she might cry. I knew she wanted to go in there to open the curtains and clean up the room, but every time she tried, Taylor barked at her that he just wanted to be left alone. I went up and knocked on his door a couple of times. I wasn’t sure what to say, but his being my brother, I felt I should visit. But he never let me in.
The worst was when Daddy went in Taylor’s room last night. He’d just come back from a carpentry job. He walked into the kitchen to find Mama crying. Daddy puts up with a lot, but he can’t bear to see Mama cry any more than I can. Then he saw the angry yellow bruises on her arms and got real angry. I mean, his face was as red as a beet.
“That’s enoug
h,” he’d ground out in that voice that always sent me running for cover. Daddy turned on his heel and headed to Taylor’s room, mumbling words I could only catch on the fly, like no kid of mine and not gonna put up with it.
“Alistair, stop!” Mama called after him, but he wasn’t listening. “He was having a nightmare!”
She hurried after Daddy down the hall. No one was aware of me close behind. My heart was pounding as hard as their footfalls on the wood floors.
By the time I got there Daddy had already pushed open the door and stormed into Taylor’s room. Mama stood at the open door peering in. She held out her arm to keep me out. I peered in around her to see Daddy standing at the foot of Taylor’s bed. Taylor sprang to his feet, alert, eyes glaring and arms out, poised to jump. Then he pulled himself back to stand erect, legs wide. He was still in his boxers and T-shirt. His beard was thicker now and the room stank like the cabin we used for hunting trips.
“Who do you think you are?” Daddy shouted at Taylor. He was busting loose with all the tension he’d felt for days. “You dare hurt your mother?” He reached out and roughly pushed Taylor’s chest.
Taylor stumbled back a few steps, then instantly reared up and put his fists up, eyes glaring. Next to me, I heard Mama suck in her breath.
Daddy didn’t back down. He took a step closer and jabbed his finger right in Taylor’s face. “Nobody hurts your mama. Nobody makes your mama cry, hear?”
I didn’t say anything but I wanted to shout at Daddy that he’d made Mama cry plenty of times. But I couldn’t speak. I held my breath as the two men glared at each other. They were evenly matched. He was the same height as Taylor and nearly as broad. Taylor might’ve been through war, but Daddy had had more than his share of fistfights.
Then Taylor dropped his hands and clasped them behind his back. He stared straight ahead, legs wide in a military stance, seeing no one.
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