by Landis Lain
“I should leave.” Suleiman’s voice was gruff with shame and unshed tears. “You got enough problems. You don’t need to deal with mine.”
“We are supposed to be friends,” she said, quietly, so she didn’t startle either of them. “Talk to me. Let me help you for a change.”
She juggled the baby into a more comfortable position. He was getting so big. Suleiman stayed silent for so long she thought that he must not have heard her. She opened her mouth…
“The correct name for it is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” Suleiman said, before she could say anything else. “PTSD. I just call it Suleiman’s crazy time.”
Sasha nodded. He gave her a shame faced look and then looked back down at his hands. He rubbed his face with his hands.
“How often does it happen?” she asked. “The nightmares, I mean.”
“It hasn’t in a long time,” he said. “Almost a year now.”
“Okay?” prompted Sasha.
“I used to play video games all the time growing up,” said Suleiman. Sasha blinked at the non-sequitur. “World at War, Call of Duty, Black Ops, you name it, I played it. I was war crazy, you know?”
“So, you always wanted to be a soldier?” asked Sasha.
“Yeah,” said Suleiman. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Joined up the day after I graduated high school. My parents begged me not to go, but I was eighteen. I played football. Not a scratch. I was indestructible. I was a man. A patriot. College was for kids. I could handle it.” He stopped there. She said nothing, just looked at him and waited for him to continue.
“Then after,” he said, staring at the floor. “I couldn’t wait to get out and go to college.”
“When did you get out?”
“Almost two years ago,” he said. “Got out, and came straight to MSU, like the next week. Moved into the dorm. It was time to play and be a kid again.”
“Then what?”
“The night horrors started. I was playing some game, I don’t know which, Black Ops or something. We were drinking and clowning, you know just kicking it like fellas do when there are no women around. I fell asleep. Next thing I know, I’m in the video game and there is blood everywhere. I’m screaming and cussing and shooting. I come to and my suitemates are about to call the police. It’s why I couldn’t live in the dorm anymore. Freaked the brothers out too much,” said Suleiman, shaking his head. “No more video games or liquor for me. Crowds make me anxious, too.” He shuddered.
“You hated being a soldier that much?” asked Sasha. She rubbed a finger over Ricky’s soft face and put the pacifier back into his mouth.
“The soldiering part I could handle,” said Suleiman. “It was that ‘thou shalt not kill’ thing that messed up my head.”
“Did you have to kill anybody when you were in the service?” asked Sasha, eyes wide.
Suleiman shrugged. “I was a Marine, a warrior. I was in combat. The first tour in Iraq, I was all cocky and ready to do battle again. Got wounded. Came state side. Got patched up. Got deployed again. The second tour, I coped.”
“How many people did you have to kill?”
“I didn’t stop to count,” said Suleiman, with a snort. “I didn’t stop to check. It was combat. Maybe I didn’t kill anybody. Maybe they didn’t die, you know? I got shot. Maybe they got shot, too and lived. That’s the only way I can keep from going out of my mind, believing that, you know?”
Sasha touched his shoulder, the place where the bullet had left a puckered scar “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” said Suleiman. “I’m sorry, too. I never would have been able to dream up some of the crap that happened when I was there. So, I didn’t talk about it and it got to me, you know? Made me crazy.”
“Why did it make you crazy?” asked Sasha. She stroked his shoulder with her hand.
“I was supposed to be this big, bad marine, you know?” said Suleiman. “I woke up screaming and crying and freaked out all the time. I was afraid to go to sleep.”
“How do you usually get through your bad dreams?” asked Sasha.
He snorted.
“Exercise like a maniac, lift weights,” he said. “If I was too tired, I wouldn’t dream. Then, that stopped working.”
“What did you do?”
“It took me a while, lots of counseling until I figured out that it was the nightmare of waking up to find out everything was true and that I was going to have to live with it for the rest of my life that got to me.”
“Oh,” said Sasha. She shifted the baby to look at her bruised
wrist. “I know that feeling. You get up; in your mind the day is going to be okay. Then, WHAM! Suddenly you are back in the nightmare again.”
“Yup.”
Suleiman straightened.
“Can I hold the baby?” he asked, suddenly.
Sasha looked at him warily. She glanced down at Ricky napping in her arms and back up to meet Suleiman’s eyes. He smiled at her.
“I won’t freak out again, I promise,” he said. “I’m awake now.” She handed the child to Suleiman without speaking. Ricky went without a fuss.
“I went to the VA,” he said, cuddling the baby close, as though he needed someone to hang on to who wouldn’t mind being touched. “Checked myself in and did counseling for months. Read everything I could get my hands on and you know what?”
“What?”
“This is not new,” he said. “In old times, it was called having battle demons. In World War I, I think they called it getting shell shocked. Then it was battle fatigue, now PTSD. Once I figured that out, that I wasn’t the only one, I could cope, because lots of folks before me coped, you know?”
Sasha nodded.
“My granddad was in Vietnam,” said Suleiman. “He would never talk about it, until I came back from Afghanistan and went bonkers. He used to come to the VA and sit beside me and listen to my episodes. He gave me a bible and prayed with me.”
“Did it help?”
“I’m not as loony as I was then,” said Suleiman, one side of his mouth kicking up. “It must have.”
“That must have been so hard,” said Sasha. “I’ve had some bad stuff but… I don’t know how you made it through. My problems don’t sound so big, now.”
“Every struggle is real,” he said, smiling for the first time. They both laughed. “Don’t let anybody tell you it’s not. Your problems are real for you and you gotta deal with them.”
“Okay,” she said, shying away from her demons. “I see a therapist, too.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it helping?”
“Sometimes, no,” said Sasha. “Others, yes.”
“Good,” said Suleiman.
“You hungry?” she asked. “I can make breakfast since there is no more sleep happening for us big folks.”
Sasha ran her hand over the sleeping baby’s back as he rested against Suleiman’s shoulder. The baby opened his eyes and smiled.
“Yes,” said Suleiman, rubbing a hand over his face. “All that screaming worked up an appetite.”
“What do you want,” said Sasha. “I owe you for staying here with us, last night.”
“Whatever,” said Suleiman, standing. He nuzzled the baby. “Friends don’t keep score. I’m about to take junior here and we’ll take a shower and get ready to face the hordes at daycare, while you cook. We got some man talk to share.” He walked to the bathroom door.
“It’s Sunday,” said Sasha. “No daycare. Mommy care today.”
“Oh yeah,” said Suleiman. Ricky grabbed his nose and he nuzzled the baby and blew a raspberry on his small belly. Ricky laughed. “Sash?”
“Yes?” She met his eyes.
“When you tell me that you’ve had some bad stuff,” he said, turning to face her. “You didn’t take a gun and kill anybody.”
Sasha flinched and looked down.
“You were at war.”
“Being abused is not your fault,” he said.
“I pu
t myself in the position,” she said stubbornly.
“And you’ll get yourself out,” he said.
“I’m trying,” she said, looking down.
“That’s what you can do.” Suleiman waited until she looked up at him again. “Even if you did, kill somebody that is, if you were protecting yourself or something, I don’t care. Life is too short, you know?”
REASSURED
November 20,
I think I have post-traumatic stress disorder. I didn’t realize there was a name for how I’ve been feeling. When Suleiman told me about his troubles, I felt like he was walking around in my life. I’m always screaming and crying and terrified inside. It’s not what I’ve done, but the fact that I must live with the consequences that freezes my blood. I was the instrument of my own destruction. Suleiman was ashamed that he’s not so tough. But I felt better after he had his nightmare and told me that he might have killed people in battle. He’s not perfect, but he can still walk around upright, so maybe I could do it, too. Suleiman let me see him, the real him for the first time and I was glad. Because the real him is still good, even if he did bad things. Is it okay if you do a bad thing for a good reason?
“I wanted to help Suleiman, you know?” said Sasha. “But I felt like I’m so messed up why would he listen to me?”
“The blind leading the blind?” asked Dr. Michelle.
“Cliché, but good one,” said Sasha, with a rueful smile. “More like the stupid cat trying to teach feline to the dog.”
Dr. Michelle laughed. “That’s excellent! I’m going to use that on one of my annoying know-it-all colleagues when they get on my nerves.”
Sasha laughed. She was starting to enjoy her therapy sessions. They were a place to let off steam and regain her balance.
“It really helped me when Suleiman told me that he had to go to counseling for a long time,” said Sasha.
“Why?”
“Because I kind of felt like people who have to go to a shrink were nuts,” said Sasha.
“And now?”
“I feel like everybody might be a little loopy,” said Sasha. “Or else why do people do so many things that don’t make sense.”
“Explain what you mean.”
Sasha shrugged. “It’s like when Suleiman threatened to kill K Smooth, it scared the mess out of me, but a part of me was like ‘yea!’ And then when Suleiman said they might hurt my baby, for a minute I was all about kill K Smooth right now, before he gets the chance. That’s kind of out there, isn’t it?”
Dr. Michelle chuckled. “You are a situational pacifist, huh?”
“What is that?”
“You are all about peace until somebody you care for is threatened?”
“Exactly!” said Sasha. “That’s messed up!”
“That is protect mode,” said Dr. Michelle. “Everyone has the capacity for violence given the appropriate threshold provocation. A threat to Ricky is sufficient cause. That is mother instinct and it is very normal.”
“Oh.”
“Most people will protect someone they love to the point of violence,” said Dr. Michelle. “Every mammal does it. It is a part of who we are. That is why we have rules and laws in place to keep people from using violence every time they get provoked.”
“Oh.”
“So, you are not crazy,” said Dr. Michelle.
“That’s a relief” said Sasha.
“At least not about this issue,” said Dr. Michelle. She grinned. She picked up a small pillow from the chair she was sitting on and smacked Sasha in the head with it. “The jury is still out on others! En Garde!”
Sasha laughed, grabbed the pillow from behind her head and the fight was on.
CHERISHED
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving,
This morning, Mother Jones called me and asked me all pitiful like to come over her house to help her cook because her ‘Arthur-it is’ was acting up something fierce. Mama loaned me the car, so Ricky and I went. I chopped so many vegetables for dressing my fingers were as raw as my soul. But I was thankful to feel safe, for even one day.
They cooked all day. Sasha felt nauseous from all the sampling she had done. She and Ricky had licked the cake batter from the bowl and tasted cornbread for dressing. She’d sampled bananas, vanilla wafers and pudding. She’d eaten the little bowl of leftover sweet potatoes from the sweet potato pie filling and devoured the fried corn. The greens weren’t quite done, but Sasha sneaked a taste of them, too.
“So, how is school young lady?” asked Mother Jones. Her children were arriving from various airports late tonight, so Sasha was Mother Jones’s only help.
“Difficult,” said Sasha.
Sasha sat at the kitchen table shelling pecans for the pecan pie. Mother Jones peeled apples for apple cobbler. Ricky was sitting in an ancient high chair, resurrected from the attic. His neck was swathed with a hand towel. He sampled food, crowing when he liked something or spitting out the food that did not agree with his baby palette.
Sasha put a nut into the nutcracker and squeezed hard. “I didn’t realize college was going to be so hard.”
“So, you ready to quit school because it’s difficult?”
“No, ma’am,” said Sasha, squeezing harder on the nutcracker. The nut shot out of the nutcracker and rolled across the table, uncracked. “Why don’t you buy these nuts already shelled?”
Mother Jones snorted. “Young folks always want to take a short cut.”
“It would be easier,” said Sasha. Her fingers were feeling a little raw, from squeezing the old-fashioned metal nutcracker.
“True,” said Mother Jones, sucking her teeth. She finished coring an apple without breaking the peel. She sliced off a few small slivers and put them on the tray in front of Ricky. He crowed his appreciation and crammed a piece into his mouth.
“This baby sure likes to eat.”
Sasha nodded. “Mmhmm.”
“It might be easier, but it is also more expensive. My daughter, Angel, sent me these pecans from Georgia, express mail. Georgia pecans make the best pecan pie. Why would I buy old pecans from the grocery store when I can get them fresh from the shell for free?”
Sasha kept cracking nuts.
“I might give up a little flavor for convenience,” she said.
“You want diamonds and mink coat results with t-shirt effort.”
Sasha chuckled. “Is that another way of saying I want something for nothing?”
“You said it, Missy,” said Mother Jones, smiling. “Still want to be a doctor?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You know you have to go to school for eight more years and then work for pennies while you do a residency?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why don’t you take a short cut?”
“I don’t think there is one,” said Sasha.
Mother Jones nodded with satisfaction. “Exactly.”
“Okay,” said Sasha, wrinkling her nose. “I’ll quit whining.”
Although her fingers were a little sore, Sasha felt the best she had in a long time. Mother Jones’ kitchen was cozy and cluttered, just the way a grandmother’s was supposed to be. Johnny Mathis was crooning on the stereo and Mother Jones was reminiscing about Thanksgivings past when she herself was a girl. Sasha felt warm and cared for. Safe.
Both of Sasha’s grandmothers were long dead so she hadn’t had the experience of just sitting and cooking and listening to all the stories of the past. It made her feel warm, as though she was wrapped in a cinnamon scented ancestral hug.
“You can whine all you want,” said Mother Jones. “Just so you get those nuts cracked.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I ever tell you about the time my Uncle Caleb got hit by a horse and buggy and got his leg broken in three places?”
“No ma’am,” said Sasha, fascinated. “A real horse and buggy? Like in the old movies?”
“Well, yes,” said Mother Jones. “I’m old, child. Anyway, my grandmother had told Uncle
Caleb to stay out of the road. But it was coming up on Thanksgiving and they were waiting for folks to come. He was excited. He snuck out and waited by the road,” said Mother Jones, her eyes dreamy and fond.
“My Uncle Caleb, he was a hard-headed boy….”
Sasha listened to Mother Jones drone on about her Uncle Caleb and cracked nuts. It was a good day.
CRIPPLED
December 7,
Thanksgiving was nice. Mama, Ricky and I went to Mother Jones’ house and ate like starving dogs. Her family is nice. I came back to school all fired up and ready to study for finals. I was okay for almost two weeks. Then, my phone chirped. I didn’t recognize the number. But, I knew who it was even before I answered. I had been warned. Answer or else. So, I answered. It felt like the devil spoke into my ear. I could feel my whole soul say no. But the words, they just would not come…
“So, what’s up, Sweet Thang?”
Sasha’s stomach dropped into her toes. She reached over to the small bed table and switched on the handheld tape recorder that Suleiman had bought for her. He’d left to spend the upcoming holidays with his family in Detroit, as his finals were done. Sasha missed him already. She put her phone on speaker.
“You there?”
“I’m good.” She could barely get the words out through the constriction in her throat. She had been sitting up in bed, next to Ricky while he slept, trying to finish her language arts paper when the phone rang.
“Surprised to hear from me?”
Sasha snorted. “Your flunky relayed the message clearly, Dragon Dog. I’ve been waiting for your call.”
“What’s up with the Dragon Dog?” he asked, sounding surprised. “You used to be the only person besides my mother to call me Craig.”
“My eyes have opened,” she said. “What do you want?”
“You ran from me.”
Sasha said nothing.
“You remember what we talked about the last time I saw you?” he said.
“I remember almost everything you ever said or did,” said Sasha. She dropped her feet to the floor and sat on the side of the bed, clutching the sheet with one fist. Her hand was shaking. “I haven’t said anything to anybody. Why are you calling me?”
