Nights Without Night

by Marina Vivancos

  The week that followed, before he was able to get in touch again, was filled with sleepless nights. I oscillated wildly between one extreme of the emotional spectrum to another, from one argument to the next. In the end, I could only conclude one thing: it wasn’t about me.

  Whether I understood it or not, whether I agreed with it or not, it wasn’t my decision to make. Even if it killed him.

  When he called again seven days later, I had picked up with a stone in the pit of my stomach. There had been a moment of staticky silence before I simply said, Okay.

  It wasn’t permission. It was acquiescence.

  The training took two years. After the Killings of Yazidis in Sinjar, Isadoro was posted to Iraq in 2014. There, I had no idea what he did. If there is one thing loving someone doesn’t give you, it’s the knowledge of what is happening to them at war.

  The callous my love for Isadoro rubbed against expanded. In a place inside me without conscious thought, I believed Isadoro would never come back, either because he would be killed or because he would continue into a full military career. When T***p was elected, all hope evaporated. Hope I didn’t even know I had, buried in hidden land inside me, was unearthed and pressed into an oil-slick substance that coated everything. I couldn’t stop watching the news, as if doing so was keeping the thread between Isadoro and me tight, but the necessity was exhausting.

  And, then—maybe I should have seen it coming. Should have let myself believe, for a moment, when during Isadoro's last leave we sprawled on the couch, limbs tangled like we were teenagers again, like contact didn’t matter. When I turned to look at him, just to make an asinine comment about the show we were watching drunkenly, and I saw the look on his face. Lost. Fractured. The kind of exhaustion that goes so deep into the cellular composition of your soul that you begin to think curing it would necessitate a transplant of spirit, of personality, of being.

  Fear like nothing I’d ever felt struck me then. It didn’t compare with the news of his first deployment, or every jolt of terror when the TV announced a fallen soldier, or the terrified anger of his decision to join Special Ops. For the first time, it hit me in more than a vague, abstract way that maybe his living body would come back to me, but his soul wouldn’t.

  He’d seen me watching him, and for a moment that terrible look was focused on me.

  “I can’t…I…” he’d said, voice small and barely reaching me.

  “Don’t, then. Don’t. Come back,” I’d blurted tipsily, desperately.

  He’d looked at me from where I was laid across his body, on his chest, and the expression had shuttered. But something lingered in his eyes.

  “Isa…please.”

  It was the most selfish thing I had ever done, but nothing else was possible in that moment.

  He’d run his hand through my hair, and I’d pressed my forehead against his chest. He’d said nothing. Promised nothing.

  I don’t know if that moment influenced his decision to leave at the end of his next tour. Mosul had just been re-taken when he called to tell me. I’d been in the studio and had to sit down hard, letting the chatter around me and the familiar smell of paint and thinner fill my head. It hadn’t seemed real.

  I’d had this dream a million times before.

  For some reason, the intervening time between him telling me and him coming home had been branded by a terror I hadn’t felt since he first deployed. I was afraid his decision would curse him, increasing his chances of injury. Of death.

  “Iván?” Isadoro had prompted as I sat there in the studio, trying to comprehend.

  “Yeah,” I’d replied through a clogged throat. The silence stretched until our time was up. “Please, be careful. Come home,” I’d said as a goodbye. There had been a beat of silence.

  “I will.”

  A burst of laughter from Iva and Ezra drags me to the present. Instinctively, my eyes go to Isadoro. The tick in his jaw is back.

  “I’m beat,” I say, a half-truth. “Can we go?” Isadoro looks at me, eyebrows twitching down for a moment before he nods.

  The cold, street air away from the heated courtyard is a relief. The noise of the bar dampens and is replaced by the night. As we walk, I can see his posture relax by increments and then soften the moment we enter our apartment. The all-day heating I can now afford thanks to Isadoro greets us, and I feel myself relax too. The glow of the living room lights pop to life, revealing the clustered seating and coffee table pointed at the TV, the easel by the window, the attached kitchen. Our two bedrooms are separated by the bathroom and the boiler cabinet. It’s close enough to hear him, sometimes, moving around deep into the night, a restless series of sounds that happen more often than not.

  I hadn’t much questioned the decision of finding an apartment together. I know my mental health will be severely tested when he brings people home, but his takes precedence.

  It had been so long since we spent so much time together for such an extended period that I hadn’t known what to expect. The Isadoro that has come back from war is a mixture of new and old. I recognize his big smiles, his old jokes, the teasing about food and sex. On the surface, he seems fine. Underneath, I can feel something stirring. In the quiet of the night, his vigilant stillness almost seems chilling, simply because it is so different from the façade he tries to keep up during the day. But I know him well enough to recognize truth from fiction. Know the core of him, beyond the smiles and the charm and the stillness.

  We can’t go back to being eighteen and trying would only hurt. But I have no idea what things will look like going forward.

  I’d gotten him a job as a bouncer at the bar I still worked weekends at when Isadoro first arrived home. During the week, I take him to the dog shelter with me, which he now frequents. Part of me was scared I was pushing him too hard, but he never reacts like I feared he would. He doesn’t duck to the ground at the loud barking of the dogs. He doesn’t crumble at the potential violence of being a bouncer or the screaming of drunk patrons. I had this media-fed idea of what trauma looked like—an outward, violent thing—but I’m beginning to think whatever effect combat has had on Isadoro, it is quiet and deep.

  Despite the softening of edges arriving home from the bar has brought, I can see he’s wired and know that even if something is going on in his head, he won’t talk to me about it. All I know is at night, this Isadoro comes out. The silent one who doesn’t sleep.

  We shed our layers and I sit on the couch, grabbing a sketchpad and some charcoal. I know he likes the gentle, scratchy noise of it.

  “Weren’t you tired?” Isadoro asks.

  “Tired of being there.” I shrug. He throws me a look. There are no illusions about what I’m up to, but if it’s not said aloud, he lets me take care of him.

  He sits on the opposite end of the couch, so I can shift and put my feet on his lap. The TV flickers on. His hand wraps around my ankle. Through my fringe, I watch him relax further. I begin sketching. Him, of course, in the light of the TV and the dark, until most of the tension has left him and he can at least pretend to go to sleep.

  **********

  Most of my classes are technology-based, which fits with my career in digital arts, but my favourite ones are those that depend on traditional media. There is something about the slide of a brush, the scratch of a pencil, the press of clay, that is a simple, sensory relief. In those moments of creation, my mind becomes a conduit, the river bank on which the water flows, dragging consciousness with it. My body will feel, but my mind, in a way, will be peaceful.

  I look at the self-portrait I’ve just painted. The pale skin that easily tans, my blue eyes, always a little heavy-lidded, the over-pronounced bow of my upper lip, the sharp chin, the blond hair attempting to hide my large ears. There’s something almost sweet about my face, some sleepy quality which suggests passivity, but my eyes betray me. They stare from the painting, a hard quality to them made almost disquieting by their half-lidedness.

  I only realize I’m muttering in Spa
nish as I re-touch the hair falling over my doppelgänger’s forehead when Iva, passing me, sighs dreamily.

  “I love hearing that accent,” she says. I look at her, smirking. I’ve always thought the Argentinian accent is the Hispanic equivalent of the Irish accent in English.

  “Tú sabes lo que’s bueno,” I say, winking. She laughs.

  “Are you gonna be much longer?” she asks, stopping and putting her hands on her hips. She’s short and thick and gorgeous, a semi-permanent mischievousness to her dark eyes.

  I groan, stretching. “I could take a break before I start on my actual coursework,” I say, and look around the studio, a mess of materials and canvases, people milling about.

  “Cool. We can meet Ezra at The Bean.”

  The Bean is a nice campus café that has the only two things a student asks for: it’s near, and it’s cheap. I ask for a black coffee, having gotten used to the taste due to it always being the cheapest way to take your coffee, and we move to the corner table where Ezra is already sprawled. For such a slim guy, I’m always amazed at how much space he takes up.

  “Yo,” he greets as we sit, putting the phone he had been fiddling with on the table. “Anybody else feel like throwing themselves off a building even though the semester has just started?” he says with an exaggerated grimace.

  “And mess up this pretty face?” I drawl. Ezra laughs, putting his chin on his hand and fluttering his eyelashes at me.

  “It is a very pretty face,” he says. I shake my head, rolling my eyes.

  “But not as pretty as mine,” Iva says, making a kissy face at both of us before laughing.

  “True that. What eyeliner is that, by the way? Joaquin would look so good in eyeliner…” Ezra says dreamily. Iva and I share a look.

  “Oh my God. You are obsessed,” Iva says, but she’s smiling.

  I know that Iva, Joaquin, and Ezra used to go to the same high school, Iva a year behind. From what I’ve learned, Iva and Joaquin have always been tight, but they didn’t really know Ezra until Joaquin got together with him the year before last; though I think they only made it official last spring.

  “But he’s so pretty,” Ezra whines.

  “Save it for the bedroom,” Iva says, which only causes Ezra’s eyes to become unfocused.

  “Oh, Lord,” I say as Iva laughs.

  The conversation veers, inevitably turning to complaining about our workload before we ban shop-talk and settle for gossip.

  “How’s Isadoro?” Ezra asks eventually, expression turning serious. I sigh a little, shrugging.

  “He seems fine,” I reply. Ezra hums, eyes sharp. He’s a lot more perceptive than his often-flippant attitude would suggest.

  It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it, but it feels like betraying Isadoro, somehow. Even with him away, it’s been me and him for a long time, and the topic of Isadoro’s mental well-being seems especially private.

  The truth is, I’m not sure how he’s doing. During the day, he functions; he eats, cleans up, goes out to the dog shelter. He even goes to his job without a problem. But he doesn’t sleep. I hear him walking around his room, or the low murmur of the TV, and it makes me wonder. Makes me remember that one time during one of his leaves. I’d stepped out of my room in the middle of the night and stopped short at the sight of him panting on the couch. His eyes had been wide, sightless, and when he turned to look at me—I’d never seen an expression like that before. Wild and splayed open, it was a primeval horror. It’d turned my lungs to ice.

  I’d gone over to him slowly, the fear contagious, and he’d let me pull him into my arms and take him to my bed. He was usually resistant to such open displays of help, but this time he didn’t resist. I could barely breathe, he was shaking so hard, but I just stroked the short bristles of his hair until it subsided. We lay there, awake but silent as the sun rose, and I drifted away.

  In the morning, I’d woken alone and exhausted, but had dragged myself out of bed to find Isadoro in the kitchen. He’d avoided the subject, looking stiff and wary. I hadn’t pushed it, but I’d pressed the palm of my hand to his clothed back.

  “I’ll always be there for you, Isa. No matter what,” I’d said. He’d tensed further before his shoulders slumped a little as he’d nodded.

  It never happened again, but I’ll never forget the fear in his eyes. The helplessness.

  I’m snapped out of the memory by the chime of Ezra’s phone. He picks it up, his expression going goofy.

  “Urgh. I can tell it’s Joaquin by the look on your face,” Iva says. Ezra sticks out his tongue at her, typing away. “Tell him to bring the pasta for tonight by the way. Forgot I don’t have any,” she asks. Ezra nods.

  With a sigh, we collect our things not long after, the never-ending slew of work waiting for us. Before we part, Ezra stops me, looking at me steadily.

  “I wouldn’t treat Isadoro like glass if I were you. I don’t mean not to be considerate, but…stand your ground,” he says. I frown but nod.

  “Okay. Back to business,” Iva says as Ezra leaves and we start walking back to the studio. I sigh, nodding.

  Back to business.

  **********

  When we were little, Isadoro and I used to play games of pretend. I’d be a mage, he’d be a warrior. I’d be Pikachu, he’d be Charizard. I’d be a wizard, he’d be a dragon-wrangler. On, and on, and on.

  La Portera was the detailed map at the start of the fantasy book. Water reservoirs were seas. Orange trees were spooky forests or thick jungles. Every hill a mountain, every dip Death Valley.

  One time, when we were eight, we’d been battling an Ash Dragon—although to those with an untrained eye it would look like the piled remnants of burnt tree clippings. We’d defeated it, of course, but I’d been terribly injured, a streak of ash across my leg depicting the infected wound. We were caught in the fantasy, and Isadoro had rushed toward me, inspecting the imaginary wound. In this iteration of the game, I was a mage and instructed Isadoro on what to get me for the poultice cure: an orange, some dirt from our favourite unploughed field, leaves from our Mesa Oak. I’d rested in the shade as Isadoro ran madly out of sight despite the scorching heat. He’d come back sweating but triumphant, looking ridiculous with his pockets heavy with dirt. He’d watched me with real concern as I mixed the orange with the dirt, applying the paste on with a leaf.

  Even at that age, I wanted that. The focus of his attention. Isadoro, all for me.

  I’d sprang to my feet, cured, and the smile he gave me was blinding.

  We’d soldiered on, deciding on a much-earned snack of mandarins. We’d eaten them below the powerlines of a cable tower. We pressed our fingers against each other’s and felt our skin buzz, electricity passing from one to the other, and smiled.

  **********

  I text Isadoro to get a few things from the supermarket, Iva’s mention of food having inspired the idea to cook together.

  Despite all his years with canteen food in the army, Isadoro isn’t a bad cook. He used to spend time in the kitchens of las titas, hoping to lick a spoon but getting chores instead. They’d been an inspiration for his charm, even if his grandfather tempered that with discipline.

  I can’t help but feel a little resentful towards Isadoro’s grandfather. Without him, Isadoro would never have gone off to war. Not because Frank talked about his time in Vietnam, but because the composition of his morals had seemed to have solidified in his service. I could spot the exact grooves in Isadoro’s moral compass that had been carved by how inflexible Frank had been about his idea of right and wrong.

  To me, Isadoro’s desire to enlist had seemed almost like a type of stubbornness. The decision was a mollusc, clinging to its perch the more you tried to argue against it. Not the bad press following the invasion of Afghanistan, not the documentaries or the protests, or my own largely unspoken but obvious opinions on the matter, could alter what was right.

  Even then, I didn’t think he’d do it. War—that was something which happen
ed to other people. Until it wasn’t.

  I’d laughed when he told me he’d enlisted. I’d thought it was a joke. But he’d looked at me, expression set, and my own face had fallen. I’d been dumbfounded. And I could see it then, what the clench in his jaw meant.

  There was nothing I could do to change his mind.

  I’d swallowed my opinions whole. Even when they choked me or sat heavy in my stomach, I kept them mostly down. There was nothing much to say—we could have the conversation in our heads. I thought it was sick that he was joining a corrupt system for a faulty cause. He believed it was a duty to change corrupt systems from the inside out. I scoffed at the idea that the primary reason for the U.S. invasion had been to protect us. He maintained that regardless of motivation, the threat was real, and the damage already done—it was our responsibility to fix it.

  And on, and on, and on.

  So, we hadn’t said anything at all. It would only create fissures I couldn’t afford, fearing they would widen with his absence.

  I open the apartment door and take my coat off. It’s late, and Isadoro is home, waiting for me on the couch. He looks unfairly attractive in loose sweatpants and a sweater, but the fact barely registers in my desensitized mind. He’s flipping through one of the sketchbooks I keep lying around. He does it a lot, and I don’t mind. I keep the ones filled with drawings of him in my wardrobe. They would give me away in a heartbeat.

  We argue briefly about the recipe before going into the kitchen to cook. The scene is disgustingly domestic as we talk about our days, moving around each other to chop and stir as if this is the norm. He mentions his morning run and I heckle him for running in shorts in the January cold. He tells me about his visit to the dog shelter, his voice going soft as he talks about what he won’t admit is his favourite dog, an old mutt with scraggly fur but a no-nonsense attitude.