“Come on,” Kirby said, walking fast with her hands deep in the pockets of her white coat. The tails of it fluttered behind her as she walked, passing through the double doors with Kris right beside her.
The doors opened into an oversized skyway, glass walls on either side showing the interstate traffic scooting along beneath them. Kris stared out the window as they walked, transfixed as the lunch crowd buzzed by.
“You know, I’ve driven under here a dozen times before but I never much thought about where this thing led to.”
Kirby remained silent as they passed over the skyway, stopping just outside a matching a pair of double doors on the opposite side. She reached out and grabbed Kris by the sleeve of his jacket, signaling for him to stop, before motioning towards the door in front of them with a nod of her head.
“Well, now you know.”
On the door in front of them hung a square metal sign with white letters on a green background.
Welcome to the Portland memorial va hospital.
Kris mouthed the words in silence before turning his gaze down at Kirby, an icy stare on his face. “VA. You brought me to a veteran’s hospital.”
The words held the biting clarity of a statement, without a trace of a question.
Kirby ignored the tone, focusing on the words he chose. “Yeah, there’s some people here I think you should meet.”
Again she took off at a brisk walk, passing through the double doors and on inside. Kris made no attempt to hide the frustration on his face before following her in, again jogging a few steps to catch up.
More than once he debated turning back, or at the least arguing with her over their destination, but opted to let it go. His desperation to be cleared and get back on the field meant he was willing to go through a couple of banal exercises with her if it meant getting a signoff that much sooner.
Without a word of explanation or forewarning, Kirby led him down a side hallway and stepped into a conference room. Inside was a long wooden table with high-backed leather chairs spaced in even increments around it. In the middle of it sat a few pitchers of water, a stainless steel container of coffee beside them. Already some of each had been taken, Styrofoam cups scattered across the table.
On the opposite side of the table a group of twenty-something young men were grouped up. All of them wore similar military style haircuts, none appearing more than thirty years in age. Almost a dozen in total, they were circled around one with hair so blonde it was almost white, his shirt sleeve pulled back to reveal the tattooed image of a 40’s pinup girl on his arm.
“What have you got, Betty Boop there?” Kirby said as a greeting, drawing the attention of all twelve at once. For a moment their faces ranged from angry to frightened, every last one shifting into a smile at the sight of her.
In unison a chant of “Hey!” went up from the group, holding out the middle vowel to several syllables in length. At once the group dispersed, some of the men taking up seats around the table.
Kris watched as the young man with the tattoo and another guy with dark hair shaped into a deep widow’s peak approached. Both of them extended fists toward Kirby, offering bumps as a means of hello.
“You’re late,” Tattoo opened with.
“I know,” Kirby replied. She shook her head in mock disgust and gestured towards Kris behind her. “FNG.”
Both of the young men looked towards Kris and gave him an apprising onceover, dismissing him just as fast.
“Fucking new guy,” Widow’s Peak said. “They’ll do it every time.”
“He one of ours?” Tattoo asked, casting another glance towards Kris.
“He’s a Warrior,” Kirby said, not once looking back at Kris, talking as if he wasn’t even there. “But today he’s just here to listen. A new member of the club, if you will.”
“Ah,” Tattoo said, nodding.
“That sucks,” Widow’s Peak added.
The entire time, Kris watched the back and forth, realizing they had no idea who he was. It was the first time in months he could remember being anywhere and not having people clamoring to get closer.
The first time feeling that way in Portland in years.
“Should we get started?” Kirby asked, clapping her hands together.
At once, Tattoo and Widow’s Peak took up chairs, falling in around the table with the others. Kris waited as Kirby took her spot at the head of the room, sliding into the empty chair beside her.
As his bottom touched the seat he could feel a tingling sensation traveling over his skin. While he appreciated what Kirby was trying to do, the thought of sitting through this made him skittish.
He was a quarterback, a position by definition meant to hide all emotion. Thirty years had programmed him to always put up the solid exterior, no matter the circumstance. He was hardwired through decades of experience to, as Riggs put it, rub some dirt on things and keep going, not bare his soul to people ten or more years his junior.
More than just that was the harsh reality that there was nothing he could say about his time in a jersey that could compare with the stories this room undoubtedly held. He had made an exorbitant amount of money playing a game for years.
These young men were being robbed of their primes doing something most people could never fathom.
“Alright,” Kirby said, bringing the group to order. “Here we are again. So nice to see many of you back with us. Just to go over the ground rules here for everybody new and old, these sessions are as open or as closed as you want them to be.
“We all know we’re here because you’re working to heal some unseen wounds. Beyond that, there are no parameters. If you want to share, you may. If you don’t, you don’t have to. Names, dates, experiences, it’s all up to you.
“All we do ask is that whatever you share be the truth. HUA?”
“HUA,” the group answered in unison.
The exchange was out and over before Kris even realized it, nobody so much as glancing his way as it passed without his participation.
“Alright, who wants to go first?” Kirby said, peering around the table. She swept her gaze from left to right, getting through the progression twice before a young man with red hair and a heavy splash of freckles jerked his chin up a few inches.
“Please,” Kirby said, motioning towards the center of the table.
The young man slid himself forward to the edge of his seat and propped his forearms on the table, his fingers laced in front of him. He kept his gaze aimed at the coffee urn before him, focused on his own distorted reflection in the smooth steel side of the pot.
“I know I haven’t been here in a while. I recognize a couple of faces around the table, but I admit that most of you I don’t know. If we’ve met and I just don’t remember, I do apologize.”
He paused for a moment as a visible quiver passed over his face, his bottom lip beginning to tremble. Kris did his best to avoid eye contact, to keep his focus shifted away, though none of the others did.
They stayed locked on, waiting, almost willing him to continue.
“I have my good days and my bad,” he said. “Some days, the whole world is just too...amplified. Lights are too bright. Sounds are too loud. I just want to sit in the shower with the lights off, the warm water falling around me.”
The young man stayed in the same position for several long moments before looking up, the tension of the moment broken. He unlaced his fingers and sat back in his chair, nodding at the others around the table, a non-verbal sign that he was through.
On the opposite side of the table Widow’s Peak flicked his hand into the air, his index and middle finger swinging upward in a makeshift peace sign. Kirby pointed to him, giving him permission to take the floor.
“I’m not trying to jump in on you,” he said, glancing across at the redhead. “I just wanted to add that I know the feeling. Some days I wake up, and it’s clear. I feel just like I did before all this, you know?”
He paused, looking around as a few heads bobbed up
and down in understanding.
“Other times though,” he stared off a moment, letting his voice fall away. “Sometimes it feels like the pressure is so strong, I just want to take a drill and drain it all away.
“I mean, I know I can’t, but that’s what it feels like. There’s just so much pounding around the inside of my skull and if I could just let it out, I’d be alright. Is that normal?”
Another head or two nodded in assent.
“You know, it’s important that you all remember, there is no such thing as normal,” Kirby said, her voice somewhere between skilled clinician and concerned friend. “The brain is a terribly complex thing. Just a few millimeters can separate memory from vision, motor function from feelings.
“Every one of you has suffered some form of trauma and it would be almost impossible for any two to be the same.”
Some of the men stared back at her as she spoke, held in rapt attention. Others, like Kris, stared down at the table or the opposite wall, listening without looking.
Kirby let her words hang in the air a moment before pushing forward again. “Okay, who else would like to share today?”
The slightest hint of an impulse formed in the back of Kris’s mind, nudging him towards raising his hand. For just the briefest of instants he considered telling the group how he hated what his body was doing to him. That he couldn’t stand looking in the mirror because all he could see was someone letting down his friends and teammates.
That every day he wasn’t able to play, Marc Dumari was getting the better of him.
Luckily, a hand went up before he ever had the chance.
“I have something I’d like to share,” Tattoo said. He was reclined completely back against his chair, his hands flat on the armrests, staring straight ahead.
He waited several long moments before saying anything, pushing himself upright in his seat. His right leg began to move up and down, beating out an incessant pattern beneath the table.
“Two nights ago I had a dream,” he said, his gaze aimed down at his lap. “You all know the kind.
“I was on guard duty, hunkered down in my foxhole on the graveyard watch. For the first couple hours I was good. The stars were out, the night was clear, but somewhere in there I drifted off to sleep.”
His voice betrayed the slightest bit of a crack as he looked down at his thighs, the top of his head visible to Kris. He stayed bent over for several long seconds, the only sound a deep sniffle.
When he raised his head again, his eyes were bloodshot and glassy. Moisture sat in pools at the bottom of them, threatening to slide down at any moment.
“I came to a few hours later with some Haji in the hole with me. He had a knife out in front of him, a long serrated blade that flashed in the moonlight.
“I stayed right where I was, pretending to still be asleep until the last second, then I shot forward and swatted the knife away with the butt of my rifle. I pinned him down and drew my fist back, ready to take his head off.”
As he spoke, he balled his hand into a fist and cocked it back, holding it next to his ear.
“And then he screamed. Not the death cry we all know. Not an angry, violent yell. A scream.
“My mother’s scream.”
Tattoo lowered his cocked fist back to his lap, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. The tears below his left eye finally gave way, sliding down the length of his cheek.
“In my state, I couldn’t tell who she was,” he said, his voice lowered to almost a whisper. “I could have killed her, you know?”
The tear on the right side matched the left, leaving behind a thick streak on his skin. He raised his gaze to the faces around him, checking each of them in turn, finally landed on Kris.
“And that would have killed me, you know?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The pace back was much slower, Kris and Kirby unimpeded by the empty hallways of the VA hospital. The Friday afternoon crowd had thinned out to nothing more than a few sparse handfuls of people, most of them already wearing coats and heading for the door.
Kris walked with his head aimed at the ground, his heels dragging along the tile. His face was twisted up in thought as he chewed on what has just transpired.
Deep inside he wanted to believe that he was different than the young men he’d sat and listened to. They were soldiers, combat veterans that had been subjected to enormous physical and emotional trauma. He was a quarterback, a man paid to play a game.
There was no way the two were on the same plain.
Still, as he sat and listened to the stories being told, he couldn’t help but notice the parallels. While he had never woken up frightened, arm cocked to punch a loved one, he knew the feeling of bright lights and loud sounds. He’d felt the sensation of his body swaying back and forth, even as he stood rooted in place.
He even recognized the feeling of so much pressure building up in his head that he wished there was some way, any way, to release it.
“You’re being awfully quiet,” Kirby said as they passed through the double doors of the hospital and out into the skywalk.
Kris worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth and nodded. “Wasn’t that the point of bringing me here? To make me stop and think?”
“Depends,” Kirby said, glancing over at him. “Did it work?”
Halfway across the walk Kris stopped and turned towards the wall. He leaned forward and gripped the black metal railing running waist-high along it, letting his body rock forward until his forehead was pressed against the glass. It felt cool against his skin as he looked down at the traffic below, thick with the afternoon rush, backed up for miles in both directions.
“What do you think?” Kris asked, a hint of bitterness in his voice.
Kirby stepped up alongside him, her hands thrust into the pockets of her white coat, the railing resting across her hips. “I think right now you’re torn. You’re caught between trying to come to grips with your situation and still wanting to prove everybody wrong.”
“Standard stuff, right?”
Kirby shook her head from side to side, her hair brushing against her shoulders. “I’ve been doing this a long time. The first thing everybody thinks is they can beat it, and then they want to go out and try.”
Kris tilted his eyes up to look at his own reflection in the glass, knowing full well she was right.
“So what should I do?” Kris asked.
Kirby turned away from the window and rested her backside against the railing, her body just a few inches from his. “I can’t tell you what to do. Every case is different.”
Kris’s eyes slid closed as his head nodded up and down. It was exactly the response he was expecting to hear.
“Tell me something at least,” Kris said. “Anything.”
A long moment of silence passed between them.
“Well,” Kirby finally said, the word sliding out with a sigh, “it is Friday night.”
“Okay,” Kris said, pushing himself back away from the glass a few inches. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you keep focusing solely on football,” Kirby said.
Kris drew himself to full height, trying to parse out what she was telling him. When no answers came to mind he turned towards her, letting his confused face relay his question.
Kirby turned her head to face him, the right side of her mouth curled up in a smile. “There are other life affirming activities you know.”
Chapter Thirty
The scent of plumeria filled Kris’s nostrils. It drifted up from Kirby’s hair splashed across his shoulder and chest, finding its way into his nose. For a moment it took him back to a trip a few years before, to Maui for the all-star game.
At the time, the scent had driven him crazy, inescapable as it floated on every island breeze. Now, lying in his satin sheets still damp with sweat, it seemed to fit his mood perfectly.
Beside him, Kirby lay on her side, her hips pressed tight against him. Her left leg was draped over his, her fin
gertips idly grazing his right hand. She lifted his palm to face her and slid her fingers between his, locking them together and giving a light squeeze.
“So this is the most famous right hand in Portland?” she asked.
The question pulled Kris from his memory, drawing a small snort from him. “Didn’t realize there was such a thing.”
Kirby kept their hands locked, rolling them from side to side atop his torso. “Do you know of any others that have thrown over four hundred touchdowns in this town?”
Kris cocked his head to the side and glanced down at her, only managing to see the thick dark hair atop her head. He held the pose a moment, an eyebrow arched, before dropping his head back onto the pillow.
“Been boning up on your Wikipedia, huh?”
“Ha!” Kirby said, sliding her fingers out and using them to poke him in the palm. “Just because I’m a woman I’m not supposed to keep up with football?”
“Who’s our starting running back?” Kris shot back.
Kirby sat in silence for several moments, trying to place a name. “Uh, well...”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Okay, fine,” Kirby said, balling her hand into a fist and punching at his hand. “There’s been quite a bit of talk around the hospital lately about you. Been hard not to notice.”
“About me?” Kris asked, again raising his head up an inch or two off the pillow. “What? Do they suspect...?”
“Oh, God no,” Kirby said, shaking her head against his shoulder. “They’re all still too busy jockeying for how they can find themselves in this position to even consider me being here.”
“You’re kidding me,” Kris said, dropping his head back down. Around him the satin pillowcase puffed up, grazing against his ears.
Kirby waved her hand and said, “Everybody has The One.”
“The One?” Kris asked, more than a little skepticism present in his voice.
“Yeah, you know,” Kirby replied, returning her fingers to his palm. “That one person that if the chance arises they are allowed to sleep with, no questions asked.”
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