Grace for Drowning

by Maya Cross

  "I'm thinking about how happy I was just now, and how guilty that makes me feel. I'm thinking about you, about the fact that I've never felt anything like that before, not with anyone."

  The pause that followed said more than words could. It was her asking permission to continue. "It's okay," I said.

  Of course I didn't like her thinking about Tom. I'm not a fucking saint. In an ideal world, I'd be her everything. But I'd learned long ago that there's no such thing as an ideal world. There's just this place, capricious and ruthless and cold. It doesn't give a shit what you want, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you can go on with the business of surviving. I know I sound grim, but I'm starting to think maybe there's a method to the madness. If it wasn't for Grace's fiancé, for the hurt he'd caused, what we had now wouldn't exist. We were two broken halves making something that vaguely resembled a whole. Well-adjusted Grace and decorated soldier Logan didn't belong together. She'd never get me without the shit she'd been through, and I'd never get her without mine. Pain has a way of stripping you down, burning away your masks until it's just the core that's left. We found each other because of that, and so I couldn't begrudge it, no matter how much I might have wanted to.

  "I'm trying to remember what it was like with Tom," she said, "if it was that raw, that...explosive. But I can't. I've got bits and pieces, but they're dim, like I'm looking at an old photograph that's aging before my eyes. He's fading, Logan. I can feel it. I've still got the big stuff — his face, his laugh, his voice, the things we did together — but the details are slipping away." Her fingers looped through mine, turning my hand so she could study it. "I can't remember what his hands felt like anymore, what he smelled like, tasted like. All the little things that made him him. Meanwhile you're here and you're so real. I can touch you, I can kiss you. You're filling in those spaces. It terrifies me, the idea that I might lose all of him, but at the same time, a tiny part of me, a little voice swimming in the guilt, is wondering if maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's better if he just fades away. It would make things so much easier."

  It sure as hell wasn't healthy, but I understood that compulsion. I'd spent plenty of time myself trying to expunge the past from my head.

  "He'll never fade. Not completely. Part of him is going to be with you forever."

  "That's what I'm worried about," she replied.

  I laced my fingers through hers and gave a gentle squeeze. "I know it hurts, but like anything, the bad stuff has a way of drowning out the good. You obviously had some great times with him. Focus on those. They're what will get you through this."

  She didn't seem at the point of tears. Introspective, rather than upset. It was a huge improvement.

  "You're right," she replied. "It's just scary."

  "Yes, it is."

  That seemed to satisfy her. We lay in silence for several minutes. Eventually, her fingers found their way back to my chest, tracing the lines of my tattoos. "You have so many."

  I nodded. "I started on my first tour. We had a guy on our base who was a fucking genius with a needle. He runs a tattoo shop somewhere out in LA, now. Originally it was just a way to commemorate people, you know? Kind of got addicted to it though. I've been adding to it ever since."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "Yeah, it hurts like hell. The ones on my back were the worst. Anywhere that's close to bone." I considered what I was about to say next. It was something I'd never told anyone — part of the long list of shit that probably should have consigned me to the nut house — but she was so open with me, and I felt compelled to be the same way with her. I wanted her to understand me, and that was a compulsion I hadn't had for many years.

  "To be honest, the pain is part of the allure. You see a lot of things during war. You do a lot of things. The pain helps. I don't know if that makes sense, but it's true."

  "It makes sense," she said. Nothing more to it.

  She began studying my skin more intently. At that point, it wasn't really multiple tattoos anymore. Everything had blended together into a single sprawling collage that covered most of my upper body, but there were distinct images within the piece, and her hand began to move between them.

  "Ace?" she asked, pausing on the black playing card on my right shoulder.

  I nodded.

  "What about this?" she asked, fingering a red rose that stretched up the length of my bicep.

  "Rosy. Another guy from my platoon."

  A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Rosy?"

  "He was young when he started — a nice little Christian boy from a nice little Christian family. He hardened up fast enough, but in the beginning, he wasn't prepared for the sort of shit army guys talk about. It was rare a day went past when something didn't make him blush. And so, Rosy."

  She laughed. "That's horrible."

  "It's a term of endearment," I replied. I actually found myself smiling too. It had been a long time since I'd thought about that. I needed to follow a little of my own advice. Given all the shit that we'd been through, it was easy to forget that some of my best memories involved those guys. They were gone, but those moments weren't.

  I'd never explained my ink to anyone before, not even Fi. She'd remarked on how beautiful it was, but she never asked questions, which meant she didn't really get it. It was more than art. It was personal, intimate. I'd chosen to have these symbols etched onto my body forever, and they were part of who I was. Sharing them was sharing pieces of my soul. I'd have given that to Fi if she'd asked, but the mere fact that she didn't meant that maybe she wasn't worthy. Grace, however, was worthy. She understood the pain behind those symbols. I'd never felt so close to her as I did in that moment.

  She continued to explore me, fingers dancing across images of dog tags, sugar skulls, a battlefield cross, before eventually coming to rest on the largest piece, the one that covered both sides of my chest. It was beautiful work; tombstones set in dark soil with a storm brewing behind them on the horizon. "And this?"

  I hesitated, feeling my mouth go dry. "That's not for a friend. It's...worse than that."

  She didn't ask for more. I think she could tell from my voice that this wasn't an easy topic to discuss. I could have left it at that — she wouldn't have pushed — but I felt strangely compelled to continue. She knew most of my secrets now, and she hadn't fled. That still seemed incredible. I never thought I'd actually find someone who would tolerate my bullshit. But now I wanted to know if she really could take it all, not just what had happened to me, but the things I'd done as well. There was more to my pain than loss. There was also guilt. So much guilt. Part of me was afraid of where the conversation might go, and how she might react, but I found my mouth opening nonetheless. Maybe I wanted her to absolve me somehow, or maybe I just needed someone else to understand.

  "That tattoo is for all the other people who died over there."

  "The other people?"

  I nodded. "I had a pretty fucking naive view of military life before I joined. I had all these visions of heroic battles, fighting the good fight and protecting our freedom and all that propaganda bullshit. But the war over there isn't anything like you expect. It's not two armies digging ditches and charging with bayonets in the middle of an open field. It's sneaky and messy and brutal. Ambushes, night strikes, suicide bombers, air raids."

  Memories were playing through my mind again, ruined buildings, bodies, smoke and screams. I forced them away. I didn't want to break down in front of her again.

  "A lot of the fighting took place in local villages. The enemy was ruthless, and they were happy to use whatever they could to gain an edge, including civilian lives. People died because of us, Grace. Regular people, just minding their own business."

  "But that's not your fault," she replied. "You were there to protect them."

  "I'm sure our good intentions will be appreciated by all the families that we ripped apart." It came out harsher than I intended. I could almost taste the bitterness on my tongue. "I'm sorry. I know that objecti
vely we were doing a good thing, but theory and reality have never been further apart than they are over there. The bottom line is, we brought the war to them. All those bombs, those bullets, they wouldn't have been there if not for us, and a lot of civilians would still be alive."

  She exhaled slowly, her eyes pinched with concern. "Maybe," she replied, "assuming they weren't killed by their own government. And the ones that did survive would be living in fear, always looking over their shoulders. Look, I'm not going to pretend war isn't awful. It's an ugly, heartbreaking thing, and I'm sure a lot of innocent people lost their lives, but nonetheless, I think you were incredibly brave going over there. You risked your life to make the world a better place. You stood up for what you believe in. Not many people have that sort of conviction."

  "I don't feel brave. I feel like an idiot."

  "Well you're not."

  I shook my head. "You don't understand! The things I saw, the things I was a part of..." I felt this horrible grinding sensation take up residence in my stomach. We were delving into the heart of my guilt now, the stuff that kept me up night after night. Maybe it was pointless. Maybe it was impossible to get it if you hadn't been there. But I had momentum now, and the words kept coming.

  "Toward the end of my second tour, our forces were making a big push into the center of the country, trying to pry a little territory from enemy hands. My unit was always on the front lines, in the thick of the fighting. One day, we had a group of militants on the run, and they retreated into a nearby village. Our intelligence said they'd been using it as a base for the past few weeks, after the residents apparently fled, but we didn't have any more information. We pinned them down in there, but they had some heavy firepower and we weren't making any headway, so I called it in to get further orders, maybe some support. It was standard procedure, but this time..." I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyes shut tight, as though I could just sink into that simple darkness and forget all of this. "Of all the things I've ever done, that's the one I'd give anything to take back."

  Grace's hand wrapped around mine and she gave a comforting squeeze, but she didn't speak. It was one of those pauses that can't be filled, one that trembles under the weight of what is coming next.

  "Halfway through the call, our radio died. The fucking thing never seemed to work right. I kept meaning to replace it, but..." I gave my head a shake. I was drifting, my brain desperately fighting to avoid finishing the story. "The brass sent support, but it was in the form of an air raid. We hadn't scouted the village properly. We had no idea who was down there. Normally, that would mean the bombers would stay away, but somewhere along the line wires must have gotten crossed."

  The way she was staring at me with wide eyes said she could see where this was going.

  "I tried everything I could to reestablish connection, but it was pointless. There was nothing I could do. They leveled the place." I drew a long, shuddering breath. My chest felt like it was filling with cement. "The first thing I saw after the explosions finally stopped was a child stumbling out of the smoke. A fucking child!"

  "Jesus." The horror in her voice mirrored what was rising inside me, that aching guilt that had threatened to swallow me so many times in the past.

  "I can see that moment in my mind like it happened yesterday. He was so goddamn small, and he was just painted black with dirt and soot from head to toe. What really sticks with me though were the sounds he was making, this fucking gut punch of a cry that just made me want to burst into tears on the spot. I've never seen a more frightened person in my entire life. His world had literally exploded around him. I felt this overpowering urge to run to him and scoop him up and tell him it was all going to be okay, but that wasn't true. Nobody else walked out of that place. When the dust finally settled, we found fifteen villagers in the wreckage — all women and children. The militants had been holding them hostage."

  She sat in stunned silence for several seconds. I didn't blame her. That was how I'd felt ever since that day. "But that wasn't you, Logan. You tried to stop them."

  "But I was a part of it!" My voice cracked despite my best efforts. "I was the one who called it in. I was the one that didn't stop the enemy before they found shelter. We killed them, Grace! There are no excuses for that!"

  I turned away, no longer able to look her in the eye. I half expected her to make an excuse and leave. In the end, it was this guilt that drove Fi away. She'd said she was there for me, but it was a superficial offer. She didn't really want any part of my torment. She wanted the carefree man I'd been before, the one that had died back in that desert. Once she understood that he wasn't coming back, she began looking at me differently. I couldn't stand seeing that sadness in her eyes, that tiny tremor of fear.

  But Grace didn't react that way. I felt her arms embrace me from behind as she planted a gentle kiss on my neck. "I'm so sorry you went through that, Logan. I can't even imagine how horrible it must have been, but you can't blame yourself. You did everything you could."

  I didn't know how to reply. My breath was coming in fits and spurts now, and I realized I was crying. I blinked hard, trying to will the tears away. I didn't want her to see me like this, so fucking broken.

  "It's not just that day," I said. "How many other times did that happen without me even realizing? How many other orphans did our war make? Even if you ignore the civilians, soldiers have kids too. I just don't know how to justify it anymore."

  She exhaled slowly, seemingly lost for words. What did I expect? What response is there for this?

  "A lot of the stuff I saw over there, I'm never going to forget." I continued. "It's fucking burned into my brain so deep that I see it even when I'm sleeping. Even now, some days the guilt is so strong I just want to end it. That's actually why I joined Final Blow. When Charlie came to me and suggested putting me in the ring, I didn't do it because I wanted to fight. I did it so someone would put me out of my misery. That first night, I showed up at the cage after an all-day bender. I hadn't slept, I'd polished off a bottle of Jack and I fully expected the guy who was waiting inside to put me on the ground, but as soon as fists started flying, my body just went on auto pilot, and before I knew it, he was the one who was down." I shook my head. "Couldn't even get that right."

  I felt the overpowering desire for a drink, that unquenchable itching at the back of my throat that set all my nerves alight. If Grace hadn't been there, I'd probably already have been out the door and sprinting toward the liquor store. But the feel of her fingers against my skin, that soothing contact, held me back. She was still here. I'd given her everything, and she was still here.

  She brought a hand up under my chin, tilting my head up until I was staring her right in the eyes. There was such compassion there, it was almost heartbreaking. "Remember what you said to me that night in the alley when I asked you how you coped?" she said. "You can't take responsibility for other people's actions. You didn't force the enemy to take hostages. You didn't command any attacks or drop any bombs. All you did was follow procedure and try to keep your men safe. Your team may have been present, but that doesn't make it your fault."

  I desperately wanted to believe her, but the memories and tears were coming thick and fast now. Some things you just can't rationalize, no matter how logical they seem.

  "I guess it's a case of do as I say and not as I do then, isn't it?" I managed to choke out.

  "That's not good enough. You need to forgive yourself, Logan. You're a good man. Maybe the best I've ever met. You put your life on the line to try and make a difference. You went above and beyond the call of duty to help me, and you didn't know me at all. Those aren't the actions of a monster. They're the actions of a hero."

  "A hero would have done something more."

  We didn't speak again for the rest of the night. In spite of how raw the conversation left me, I was glad we'd had it. She had all of me now, all of the chaos and the anger and the guilt, and she hadn't flinched. I didn't know what I'd done to deserve her — in fact I was
damn near positive I didn't — but now that she was mine, I was going to make sure she stayed that way. Nothing was going to take her away from me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Logan

  Two days later, I was due back in the ring. My opponent was a local guy named Brock, an amateur who was a plumber by day. We'd fought once before, and I had won. From what I'd seen he was improving and would probably put up a good contest, but after the daunting prospect of taking on Caesar, it was a bit of a letdown. Still, I threw everything I had into my preparation. I wasn't one for half-assing things.

  The morning of the fight, I woke with the familiar tingle of anticipation in my stomach. I love that sensation, like there's a potent electrical charge raging beneath my skin. It would be there for the entire day, heightening everything. Booze and drugs have nothing on that high. I went through my usual preparation, two light training sessions followed by some alone time in the gym as night fell. A lot of fighters like to psych themselves up with aggressive music before stepping into the ring, but I've always preferred silence. I already carry around all the aggression I need inside me. Calmness and focus is what I'm lacking.

  At just before eight o'clock, I headed out behind the bar and into the fighters' room. It wasn't much, some dented lockers and a couple of hard wooden benches, but it did the job. Brock was already inside, preparing, when I arrived. We nodded to one another, but didn't exchange any words. That was normal. Ordinarily, most of the Final Blow guys were friendly enough, but on fight nights, everyone turned into the strong silent type. It's kind of hard to hold a conversation with someone who you'll be attempting to knock unconscious in a few minutes.

  I began my warm-up, which mostly consisted of a series of rapid body weight movements — think television aerobics on steroids. A lot of people are still under the impression that the best way to warm up for exercise is with static stretching, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Stretch an elastic band too much, and it loses some of its spring. Muscles are the same way. If you're going to be doing anything where power is a factor — punching, throwing, swinging a bat, running, basically any form of sport — then you want your body to have all the elasticity it can. That's how you generate force. My goal when warming up is to get my blood flowing, my heart pumping and my muscles warm.