by Bryan Healey
Happiness should be priority number one...
"I guess I could go back to school."
That's a great idea!
"We'll see what happens."
No, don't see what happens! Make it happen!
"I'll see you tomorrow, Max," and I hear her footsteps dim and disappear...
"Good to see you, Max," says a woman whose name I know only by writing strewn across her door: Dr. Lisa Trevor. "How are you?"
"Okay," I mutter, closing the door behind me as I walk into the room, searching for a suitable place to sit down. "How are you?"
"I'm very well, thank you for asking!"
"Where should I sit?" I finally ask.
"Right there is fine," and she motions at a blue chair across from her desk. It is big and cushioned and looks extremely comfortable for office furniture.
I sit.
"So, tell me a little about why you're here?"
"I don't know," I whisper.
She looks confused.
"You don't know?"
"No." I truly don't...
"Then what brings you to my office?"
She is tapping a pen on her cheek.
"I guess I just wanted to talk."
"What would you like to talk about?"
"I don't know," and suddenly I feel quite silly.
I should know...
"Then let's start by talking a little about your home life. Are you married?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Fourteen years, this winter."
"That's a long time."
"Not long enough," with a quick smile, then no more, my eyes on the floor. She makes me nervous.
"Are you happy?"
"Are we happy?" I echo her.
"Yes, are you happy, with her, with each other?"
"Yes, very. She's a perfect wife."
The tapping stops. "Perfect?"
I nod, softly, continuously. "Perfect."
"Well, you must be a lucky man!"
"I certainly am," my eyes still on the ground.
"Do you have any children?"
More nodding. "A son. Brian."
"How old?"
"He's..." I pause, doing quick math. "Nine."
"That's a good-"
"No, wait..." My hand up, my head shaking out the cobwebs. "Ten. He's ten."
She nods.
"He's ten," I repeat.
"How is he?"
"He's..." I smirk, shake my head. "He's a much smarter boy than I ever was. So very smart."
"You seem very proud."
"I am. Very proud."
I'm still smiling.
"Okay," and she wipes a strand of hair behind her ears. "What do you do for a living?"
"I'm... in between jobs now," I admit.
"Were you laid off?"
"Not exactly," I confess.
"What happened?"
"Well," I grumble, not wanting to admit the truth, to anyone, much less a stranger. "I just..."
"It's okay, Max."
"What?" I finally catch my eyes to hers.
"Whatever it is, it's okay."
"How can you know that?"
"Because you can tell me anything."
"Can I? Are you sure of that?"
"I am." She sounds so very confident.
I sigh, rub my chin, run my fingers through my hair, cupping my ears. "Well," I start, taking another deep breath. "I was caught by my manager under the influence... on the job."
"Oh, I see," and she stops tapping and starts writing on something laying across her desk, furiously. "What were you under the influence of?"
"Pain killers."
"Why were you on pain killers?"
"Originally, for a broken leg."
"Why didn't you stop?"
I shrug. "It hurt."
"Your leg? Does it hurt now?"
"Sometimes," I lie.
"Are you still on pain killers?"
"No."
"How did you get clean?"
"I just... stopped..." And I shrug.
"Cold turkey?"
"Yep," and I nod, slowly, bobbing up and down.
"That's impressive!"
"I suppose."
"How did you do it?"
I cough, adjust in my seat. "I... had an incident. I ended up in the emergency room, almost dead."
"What happened?"
"I just... took way too much, and then I couldn't remember how much I'd taken, and took more. I passed out and woke up to my father."
"Your father?"
"I don't know why he was there."
I'm now looking to the left, very left, avoiding her eyes as fiercely and deliberately as possible.
"Why did you take so much?"
"To kill the pain."
She shakes her head. "The pain would be long gone by the time you took enough to overdose. You were killing another pain, weren't you?"
I chortle. "You mean emotional pain?"
"Yes, I do."
I stop chuckling, sniffle, rub my cheeks. Eyes back to the floor, I run my fingers through my hair again and rub the back of my head vigorously. "I liked feeling numb, yes."
"What were you numbing?"
"I don't know."
"What is inside that hurts you, Max?"
"Nothing hurts me."
"Max," she sits forward, stands from her chair, walks around her desk, rests her ass on the edge of her desk, hands folded in her lap. She is staring directly at me, nostrils flared. "Tell me."
"The memories, I guess," and slap my knees.
"Memories of what?"
"Of the war." I blink, tap my cheeks. "Death."
"Of war? Are you a veteran?" Her hand comes to her chin, her eyes questioning, curious.
"I am," I cough.
"What happened to you? What death?"
"I was in combat, a friend of mine died."
"What was his name?"
"Frank." I shook my head. "And Jason."
"What happened to them?"
"They died." A smack of my lips.
"How did they die, Max," and I see her atop of me, looking anxious but caring, her hand now on my knees, which I notice had been bouncing furiously.
"I..." I refuse to cry. "We were ambushed. An IED was attached underneath a vehicle along the road our convoy was traveling on and detonated one car ahead of ours. I don't remember much, and I don't know at all how Frank died. We ended up in a building on the street, waiting for help."
"Were you injured?"
I nod. "I don't remember how, but my chest was bleeding. I wasn't shot, and I didn't have any shrapnel in the wound. I might have just bumped into something sharp, who knows."
"What happened to you once you were inside the building?"
"I..." I sniffle, rub my chin. "It was just me and Jason. We were just waiting for help."
"And then what happened? Did help come?"
"I don't really want to talk about this," and I adjust in my seat, put my hands to my pockets. "It was war, people die. It doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters, Max."
"No," I shout, my eyes aflame. "It doesn't."
"Okay," she nods, removing her hand from my knee. "Okay, Max, if you don't want to talk about it, then we won't talk about it, okay?"
"Okay," I agree, nodding.
"But I will say this..."
I keep my
eyes locked to hers. "What?"
"...it matters."
I say nothing.
"His heart is showing signs of weakening."
My doctor, near the window...
"What does that mean?"
I feel horrendous, every inch aching, burning, searing. If ever I were to wish to not be able to feel, this would be the only moment of weakness in which I would take that wish...
"His pulse is weak, he has a fever and he's pale. I think we're coming up to the end, Mrs. Aaron."
"No, don't tell me that... he... he..."
"Mom," Brian whispers, reassuringly.
There is a long, painful silence...
"When?" Jenny finally says.
"No more than a day or two, I'd say."
"That seems so... so fast," Jenny mumbles. "He looked healthy just yesterday."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Aaron," says the doctor.
"Mom, let's go get some coffee."
Don't leave, Jenny...
Not now...
"Can you all leave?" She asks. "Please."
"Mom, I-"
"Brian, it's okay, just for a moment. Please..."
"Okay," says the doctor.
"Okay," Brian echoes. And footsteps, a closing door and then silence, such silence.
Ever silent, only the agony...
"Max," she finally says, immediately at my ear.
Yes, my love?
"I don't know what to say, Max."
There isn't anything to say, is there?
"The doctor... he tells me that in a day, maybe two, I won't be able to talk to you anymore. He says that you're coming to the end."
The end of life...
"All that means to me is, I don't know which of my visits will be the last. I don't know which talk with you will be my last. This could be the last time I ever say anything to you, the last time I hold your hand..." a pause; is she holding my hand? "...and it's warm. The last time I can see you breathing, feel your heart beating, feel your skin, soft, smooth.
Goddamnit, Max, you'll be leaving me soon!"
I don't want to leave, Jenny!
"What the hell am I going to do?"
She is crying, sobbing...
"What the hell am I going to do?" She repeats.
Oh, Jenny, please don't cry...
"I don't want to watch you die, Max. I don't want to watch your heart stop beating."
I don't want you to watch that, either!
"But... but..." She coughs, still sobbing, crying, desperate. Anxious and furious. "...I just... can't leave you to die alone, Max. I have to be here with you."
Oh, Jenny...
"I will be here, Max. Okay?"
Okay, my love...
"I don't think you can hear me, I don't think you're in there, or... or..." A brief silence; she never finishes her sentence. "But, I'll be here. I won't leave until the very end. I will never leave you..."
I love you, Jenny...
My word, how I love you...
"Hey, sweetheart!"
Jenny is sitting on the couch, reading. A cute little white cup filled with tea is clutched in her right hand, her left in between the pages of her book.
She doesn't look up.
I sit in the deep red cushioned chair, falling into it with a grunt. I place my arms on the inside of the arm rests and hang my head, my eyes on the floor.
"You okay?" She asks.
I look up and see her looking at me, smiling.
I smile back. "I'm okay."
"You look sad."
"I'm okay, baby," I reassure.
She keeps at me, then takes a slow sip of tea before turning back to her book. A few moments of pregnant silence, and, "how's your leg?"
"It's okay."
"No pain?"
"No pain," I reassure.
She is probing, looking for something...
"How was your session?"
"Good," I snort.
"What did you talk about?"
"Um..." I start, looking around the room, trying to keep from meeting her gaze. "I don't want to talk about it, Jenny. It's private."
"Okay," she resigns. She was always respectful.
I loved that about her...
She always cared to ask, though...
"What are you reading?"
She laughs. "Why do you ask? Do you want to read it with me?"
"I suppose not," with a smirk.
"Max," and she rests her cup on the coffee table and puts her book on her knee, pages down. "You know that I'm always here for you, right?"
"I know that, babe."
"And you know that I'll always love you?"
"Of course I know that."
She sighs. "If you ever... need to talk..." She swivels, her legs on the floor, her facing me completely and her eyes now to the ceiling. "Just know that you can talk to me."
"Okay," was all I say, with a brilliant smile, and I stand and head into the kitchen to get a drink.
I'm thirsty...
"Your wife is sleeping," Sarah tells me.
She is whispering.
Is she? With me?
Is she beside me?
Why can't I feel her...
The pain is everywhere now, far more furious than ever before. It is almost unbearable...
"She must love you very much."
Yes, she must...
"I would give anything for that kind of love."
You'll get it someday, Sarah. I know it.
"But I'll never know it."
Don't say that, Sarah. Please-
"Max," and suddenly she's fierce, serious, in my ear. "I know that you're... shuffling off... soon. If you... can... hear me..." I think she's crying, but she's talking so softly that I can't tell. "Say hello to Michael when you get there. He'll..." And a brief sob. "He'll want to meet you. I told him so much about you."
Oh, Sarah...
Oh, Jesus...
"It's okay," she breaths. "Really, it's okay, it's okay, he's not hurting anymore. And... he... well, he got to go the way he wanted. I don't know that you can ask for much more than that, right?"
Jesus, no...
"I know I wouldn't ask for anything more."
Sarah, I'm so sorry...
"I don't think there is anything as important as death. It's the only thing that we're guaranteed to share. Only the living get to die. That makes me feel, I guess, a little special, in an odd way."
You must be a wreck...
"I'll join you two soon, Max."
Sarah! No!
"I'm so sorry, Max!"
No! Sarah!
"I'm so-"
"What are you doing?" Jenny...
"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, I-"
"What are you doing to my husband?"
"Nothing, ma'am. I'm doing nothing."
Then footsteps, rapid, fading fast and gone.
"That was odd..."
Jenny! Go after her!
Stop her! Talk to her!
"I think she was crying..."
Jenny...
Oh, Jesus...
"Why was she crying over you, Max?"
It's not fair...
"So odd."
It's just not fair...
"Tell me about Jason."
Her pen is again tapping against her cheek. Her eyes move over me casually, as they always do, sizing me up, weighing my words with my movements.
"What about him?"
"How did he die?"
I grunt. "I've told you, I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to think about it."
"But you know that you need to, Max."
"I-"
"You know that, don't you?"
"No, I don't know that."
"Max," and the tapping stops, she leans over the desk and rubs her chin. "You need to talk about that day, about what it did to you."
"It didn't do anything to me."
"You feel responsible, don't you?"
"No! I didn't do anything wrong!"
"Then what did you do?"
"I don't-"
"Were you unconscious?"
"No."
"Did you watch him die?"
"Excuse me?" I cough, shift uncomfortably.
"Did you watch him die?" She repeats.
"What the fuck kind of question is that?"
"It's a simple question, Max."
"It doesn't matter, does it?"
"Of course it does!"
I shake my head, cough, shift again. "Yes."
"Yes?"
"I saw him die."
"Well, that matters, Max!"
"Why?" I grumble.
"That can tear at a man and change them, hurt them! You need to talk about that, Max!"
"No, I don't!" I shout, coming to my feet.
"Max-"
"What does it matter?" I scream, now pacing. "What difference would it make to tell you about how I watched him get shot in the face? Do you want to hear about the blood that covered the wall and floor? Do you want to know what his brain looked like? Because I fucking saw it! Is that what you want to hear?"
"Max-"
"I watched a man shoot my friend. I watched him die, watched his arms and legs go limp and his lungs stop breathing. Then I watched the man that killed him try to kill me, and I watched that man die. I shot him, I killed him! Is this what you want to hear?"
"Max, please-"
"Do you want to hear about how I carried their bodies out of the building, dropped them in the sun, got their blood and brain all over my uniform, which I then had to smell for the next day. Is that what you want to hear me talk about?"
"Max-"
"Is this what you want?" Tearing at my shirt.
"Max, please, calm down!"
"What the fuck do you want from me?"
I'm very nearly hysterical now.
"Max! Please! Sit!"
"No!" And I slap my thighs, viciously. "I will not sit, I will not be told to sit, told how to feel, told how to cope, told how to heal! You can never understand, and my telling you will not help!"
