Home is Where My Heart Is

I didn't see Brandon or Savaren on the way out, but that was okay. Both were likely with their families at that moment. Savannah pushed me in my chair across the airport and we remained silent after escaping the welcoming crowds. It was hard to talk about anything after the initial hysterics because it had been so long and I had ten thousand things I wanted to ask but couldn't figure out what to ask first. One question was asked when I thought out loud, where was Mom? Savannah pushed me along and said mom was waiting in the car.

Her voice was the sweetest sounding thing in the world. It was as if she sang everything that came out of her mouth. Another question came to mind and I asked, "How did you recognize me? I must look terrible." I ran my fingers along the scar across my face. The right side of my face was still very sore despite all the pain drugs since the hospital and it was partially blue from taking a rifle butt to it. That all seemed so long ago; it was hard to believe it had only been about five weeks.

She just said, "I knew it was you because I never forgot your face. Even behind those scars, I still see the you I love."

The walk to the parking garage took a while, and she eventually asked me, "How did you get hurt?" But I told her that I would tell her and mom later. When we reached the car, mom got out, and it was much like the emotional feeling in the terminal. We all hugged for a long time and I felt the old comfort of mom's embrace, something I was convinced for most of that nine years was a feeling I'd imagined in psychosis.

The car ride home was full of mom asking questions about my letters. Mom's incessant questions seemed to indicate something long in the making but never truly seen since I had been gone: recovery. On that ride home, I heard the voice of my mother more than I had in nearly my whole life. Mom was always a relatively quiet woman, and that only turned into perpetual despair after Dad was killed the year I left. I'd seen little changes in her based on the letters over time, between topics shifting from gloom and doom to what she and Savannah were up to. I recalled that one phone call back in 69 when I was over a year gone, and how shocked I was to hear her then. But, when I heard my mom bombarding me with question after question, I sometimes didn't even bother answering, just taking in the voice of my mother who appeared to be born anew at the return of me. Then I'd see Savannah sitting by my side, smiling at me, and listening to the joy in mom's voice.

After enough unanswered questions, Savannah told mom to stop bugging me, saying, "You'll have the rest of your life to ask him about his time over there" Only for mom to respond to Savannah in a close motherly way, and continue talking.

In the end, they were abundantly curious about me, and perhaps begged only to hear my voice again, but they didn't know why I was back home. All they knew was that I left them a phone message a few days ago, and showed up in a wheelchair. I recalled how I completely forgot to write them any letters while I was in the hospital, and how the last letter I sent them was about how bored I was at LM-5. Some of mom's letters were about that gap in regular letters, but I answered them as just being occupied. They still had essentially no idea why I was in the same car as them. For all they knew, and based on the chair, I accidentally fell off a watchtower.

Eventually, there was silence when I looked out the window as we rolled through the Georgetown streets. The place was coming back to me as I recalled the old memories from a decade ago. Savannah sat in the back seat with me and simply watched as I took in the old neighborhood. My eyes looked everywhere; it was like this place was foreign to me. I watched the cars pass by, people walking, families playing in parks, happy dogs walking with their owners, and I didn't know what to do. I actually started getting nervous from all the innocence and happiness. I hadn't seen anything like that in so long. Even at LM-5, the summer camp duty station had its own strange filter since the joy being had there was from brain corrupted soldiers. Memories from nine years of war and death hovered at the back of my mind as visions of pristine yards and painted homes reverted to concrete ruins of the Red Zone. The parks we passed were twisted into the fields of stumps leading to the deep woods around LM-5, and distant car horns sounded like gunshots before my brain could correct the sound. Feeling the innocence merge with warzones of my past, I caught the eye of Savannah, and she placed her hand on my sore leg with a smile. Her eyes were still unbelievably hazel and sparkled like diamonds. Looking into her face erased my bubbling memories in an instant yet again.

We pulled into the driveway as I studied the house I could always envision but never realize. It was the same house that I grew up in, the same house that I lived in up until I left. This time though, the house was all bright and shiny and wonderful. I recalled days of my childhood where that house had an overcast sky above it reminiscent of Montreal, but shook the thoughts out and saw its new paint in the light of a wonderful present day as they helped me out of the back seat. They set me in the wheelchair, and together they lifted me up the five steps in front of our door. Upon entering my old home, I looked around in amazement. They remodeled the inside and when mom noticed my expressions, she said, "You can have Savannah to thank for this, her job gives her great benefits, which she poured into this house's fixture."

They both looked at me simultaneously and said together, "Welcome home!"

Each room was better than the next. There was new paint on the walls and new furniture that was a little more up to date. The stairs were fixed, and a new television set was sitting in the corner by the front door. The most recent thing and the biggest surprise was the new member of the household, a Mr. Handy robot came rushing out from the upstairs, and began hovering in front of my chair, extending a cup of coffee, and greeting me with a "Welcome home, Master Levin, a pleasure to make your acquaintance!"

Savannah smiled at my bewilderment and said, "His name is Peter. He cleans up the house and keeps mom company when I am not around. He's just a Mr. Handy model B. kinda like the ones in the military magazines!"

Dad, mom, and I were always too poor to have a robot butler when I was growing up, and I remembered my dad had a trust issue with robots, but seeing the robot, I heard her words again and thought casually about Montreal. It wasn't like personal robots were a brand new thing in the world, but her mention of "Peter's" military variant reminded me of Montreal as I told her, "We didn't use robots in Canada. I mean, we had the turrets posted along the Green Zone, but none like this!"

I studied the thing even more before my face twisted to a bitter one at thoughts of how robots would've drastically helped in some of the Montreal day to day. Robots on perimeter patrol at The Square would've cut back the number of boys who'd been abducted on night watch. Why the fuck didn't we get to use robots over there!? My boys and I must've been expendable in Montreal if robots weren't fucking Sherman!

I truly was impressed by Peter the robot and looked forward to learning all his features, but mom and Savannah noticed I was thinking more than I should about certain things. After a moment, Savannah ordered the robot to the kitchen before they sat down on the living room couch, motioned for me to do the same, and looked at me.

I'd returned to normal thinking by the time I sat down, but their faces had a cloud of worry over them as mom asked, "About that lumber mill? We have to know what happened to you."

Hearing the question and remembering how I was bound to have to answer that at some point, I sat there in my chair thinking of what to say for quite a while. Never once did their faces change, but they were patient. The details of what happened were too graphic, and even in my letters over the years, I never really explained any details of how graphic my life truly was, if I wasn't outright lying about how sunshine and rainbows things were.

So, I said the first that came to mind in vague remembrance of the true incident, "We were ambushed, or caught off guard. Chinks- Er, the Chinese stormed the facility and killed just about everyone at LM-5. I was knocked out in the middle of the fight."

That was the simplest version of the story I could think of.

They sat there quietly, then mom asked, "How did you get in the wheelchair?..." She knew what she was going to ask wasn't true, but pathetically added, "Did you fall during the attack?"

I almost chuckled at that, but I looked up at mom and Savannah's worried faces, begging for another one of my watered-down truths or lies like in my old letters. I answered plainly, more focused on seeing their faces than images of the experience, "I was shot in the pelvis. It got shattered, but they fixed me up well enough during my stay in Juneau Hospital…. I still can't walk, but they said that I should be better in a few months with regular treatment."

Savannah and mom breathed deeply but seemed to be holding something back as their faces remained worried. Savannah then let out a little steam as she asked generally, "How did that happen?..." Confused by the meaning, she wiped a tear from her eye as she said generally again, "I thought you were safe at that place..."

Hearing those words, I recalled thinking the same thing as I said as much, "I thought I was safe too... After the Alaska Front shifted focus from Fairbanks to the Anchorage push, our boys moved so fast they forgot to pick up the stragglers. Reds were hitting small outposts since Fairbanks fell, so nobody at LM-5 saw what was coming till it was too late."

Savannah wiped away a few more tears, and mom did the same as mom said, "I'm so sorry that happened to you and your friends, David."

Caught in a dull recollection of the moment, I heard the screams of my friends who survived Montreal only to die at LM-5. I saw the women of my life sitting on that couch, feeling emotions I was unable of feeling myself, and said, "It got me home, so if there's anything about the attack I'm thankful for, it's that" as the screams continued.

Looking into the eyes of both Savannah and Mom and hearing an uproar of gunfire outside the house, I really was glad my friends died since it landed me back in the arms of those I loved.

We talked a little more as I collected myself, but they easily learned that I didn't want to talk about anything related to any point before the airport. Later that night we sat at the dinner table for a little welcome home get-together. Mom invited some of her neighbor friends over for dinner who also were eager to welcome me home. I again thought back to how mom was a lonely widow with zero desire to leave home the last time I saw her. I quickly learned to see mom in a new way, not as the hollow ghost of a woman who lost her husband, but as a lively and caring woman with friends in the community, a son she was mistakenly proud of, and Savannah, who was almost a daughter to her and an angel who helped her in every way imaginable while I couldn't.

I didn't even remember some of the names of those neighbors that night, and some of them were new friends of mom. All the husbands asked me about the war and how I got injured, a topic I again watered down in every way possible, but some of the senior men understood why I didn't have much to say regardless of what they knew about my service. The food mom made was the best I had eaten in years. She made steaks with garlic seasoning, mashed potatoes, and grilled corn, all of which reminded me of the LM-5 chow hall, but took on new tastes and memories when I saw who was sitting on my left and right.

As the night drifted to a close, the neighbors went home one by one saying they were pleased to meet me on the way out. Then, I was left all alone with Savannah and Mom again. I was bound to the wheelchair, so I couldn't go up the narrow stairs to my old room. Instead, Savannah slept on the couch nestled in my arms. She laid there very carefully so as to not break my pelvis again, but I almost couldn't sleep while I listened to her soft breathing and felt every one of her little adjustments against me. I don't know when I finally fell asleep, but I woke up to the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen, and Savannah wasn't in my arms anymore. I looked over at the clock across the room seeing it read, 8:22 am, and thinking how that was probably the best sleep I ever had in my entire life. It wasn't in a bed, but because I was home and holding the woman I loved, it was beyond words. Minutes later, Savannah and mom came in setting the breakfast down on the coffee table across from me, and took seats on the other ones to eat their own, talking with me all the while.

Throughout those first days after I got back, they asked me all sorts of questions about things that weren't related to any touchy subjects. Mostly, they asked me about life at LM-5 and things regarding what day-to-day was like. I explained most things of that nature in letters over the years, but I think they just wanted to actually hear me now. Thankfully, they referred to things I said in most of those letters, so I didn't have to recall everything I'd ever written, only back it up. However, I found myself not having to think too much about what I would say as time slowly went on. I never really had to think about what I was saying when it came to Savannah and mom, and that was especially the case regarding life at LM-5. Once the memories of the battle were disclosed at least in part during that first real talk, I found myself able to talk about the mostly enjoyable parts of my experience without too many intruding memories.

I told them how I had access to pretty regular information at LM-5, and mentioned some things I had in letters, but since we mostly just kept up with celebrities and other crap, that was what we talked about. They knew since I arrived at LM-5 that I wasn't interested in war-related news, so mom and Savannah took a fun interest when I talked about the celebrity news we kept up with out of boredom. That TV in the living room was almost a waste of money since it was barely ever on after I got home. Mornings were spent talking and enjoying each others' company until it was time for Savannah to go to work.

During those first days, I went to work with Savannah to do Physical therapy after signing up for a program at the hospital for a veteran's recovery program. She worked in the "Our Lady of Hope Hospital" and was a full-on doctor at this point. So she worked with patients in her section while I got regular drug treatment to fuse my bones back together.

I'll have more to say about this later, but she helped me adapt to civilian life within those first weeks, and I enjoyed going to work with her. I particularly liked the car rides for some odd reason. Every motor vehicle I'd been in for the past nine years had been on its way to some warzone, or something, and for some reason, I always liked car rides as the sun was coming up. I don't think that's weird. Anyway, I stared out the windows of the car just watching the tall buildings of DC go by on our way to the hospital each morning, thankful for Savannah's pretty normal schedule for a doctor. Staring out the windows, I always found Pennsylvania Avenue amazing, and this time it seemed nothing like I remembered. DC was just "Home" before I left, but after returning, I saw the city in a new light. Every day we would travel down Penn. Ave. on her way to work, and the sights never ceased to amaze me. We'd sometimes have to sit in traffic for what seemed like hours, and when we weren't talking I would daydream. There were times that the avenue reminded me of the one in Montréal where the Nationalists made one last stand, and I'd envision the buildings as tall hollow and battered ruins housing kill squads and lynch mobs.

I had to snap out of those trances when that happened since they persisted long after my return. The transition from Montreal to LM-5 was so drastic that the memories remained while the scenery was beyond comparison. However, the urban setting of DC reminded me of those days in the toxic city. Even though the life bustling about DC and war-free streets were beyond comparison in its own way, knowing there were thousands of people around me every direction within a mile radius was something that used to further my psychosis. In the early days of being back, I sometimes had to tell myself over and over again that nobody was trying to kill me anymore. Knowing the thoughts still tormented me, one of the first things I did at the hospital was consult behavioral health. It wasn't hard to get my old antipsychotics prescription after filling our medical forms that indicated my service history. Even at LM-5, I didn't feel like I needed them too often, but I liked the comfort of having something to fall back on if necessary, especially since the drastic flood of innocence brought new problems.

I felt my prescription was used to making me emotionally numb to horrific circumstances and memories, but it seemed the drugs weren't entirely sure how to numb me against memories of horror accompanied by wonderful and love-filled circumstances. Though the drugs seemed to keep me from breaking down and getting completely trapped in my brain, I've said earlier how thoughts remained. I wish I realized it sooner or during the time, but I've said before how all it really took to calm the storm was to see Savannah give me a smile.

Whenever I saw the streets of DC turning into those of Montreal, I'd look every direction, terrified of being back there, only for my eyes to land on her in the driver's seat, taking her eyes off the road whenever she could just to look at me. Seeing her eyes gleam and mouth twist into a smile brought reality back, and the world returned to the peaceful one I was living in. Savannah was my new drug.

On days off from the hospital's physical therapy, I usually spent them filling out the last of my discharge papers. Since I was rushed out of the service and essentially thrown on a plane home, I had a bunch of government letters sent to my address. I finally got my discharge certificate a couple of weeks after getting home, but I didn't need a paper to give me a sense of freedom. I had mom and Savannah and tried to spend that liberty reconnecting with the love of my life in every way possible.

Savannah and I enjoyed going on evening walks around the neighborhood when we got back from the hospital. I would roll along of course, but I still liked to call it a "walk." We went on the same route that I took her on that first date so many years ago. She led the way and we stopped by her family home many times. I'll have more to say about her family and when I got to see them again, but during our walks, I fell in love again. I never even thought of the corrupted fantasies I'd had about her during my crazy days. Instead, I rolled along by her side and relived those memories of our young love as if the 9 years of war never happened. Though the sights and sounds of our old walk were replacing the memories of torment, DC went through a few changes over the years. The world was different to me, and living day to day almost seemed like there wasn't even a war going on.

After all that time away, I was different. I learned in the first months after the outbreak of war and ash of Montreal how misery can become normal, but things didn't even seem that way in DC. Maybe I was still comparing what levels of misery existed, given my experience, but when I looked at the streets of DC in 2076, it really was hard to tell that there was a decade-long war still going on in Alaska. Propaganda posters still lined the fences, and the turnout in the airport terminal indicated that everyone was still very much aware of the war, but the wonderful city I returned to moved along as if those were two separate worlds.

Seeing the two worlds in both lenses and a fading memory filter, I'd continue to think back to when I was just an innocent kid with all I could really want in the world, minus a father. At this time, I wasn't quite sure who I was anymore. I looked in the mirror and saw myself, but I felt like I was staring at a completely different person when I thought of the teenage boy who used to look in the same mirror. My face and body had the scars of war all over them, making me appear as the embodiment of everything awful to happen in that known but distant world of perpetual war. When I saw myself, I saw that hollow shell of a psycho I used to be, and the memories flickered in my mind time and again… Then I'd see her standing right behind me, but this time, she wasn't just a hallucinated vision of something deemed unattainable. I'd see and feel her arms wrap around me as I continued to stare at my war-ravaged self, and feel her words whispered into my neck, "I love you."

She'd watch me day after day as if I was her own personal superhero. She looked at me with eyes glimmering and trembling lips whenever we'd see each other. It was like every time she saw me she was on the verge of exploding into tears of joy or love. I wanted to do the same, but although the drugs prevented me from doing that, I was never unable to feel her love. Night would always come and I'd feel her warm body nestled against me. Some nights, the meds wouldn't work, and I'd silently let myself go, feeling the tears stream down my face and praying she wouldn't awake to see the pain coming out of me. Even though those tears were from such overwhelming joy, I never wanted her to see how that joy stemmed from so much agony. Brushing her hair or giving her a light squeeze as she sleepily adjusted was too nostalgic and emotional for me in contrast with my mental corruption. I remembered those nights before leaving all those years ago and thanked whoever was listening for bringing me back home to her. She looked at me like a superhero, but I looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered. She drove me forward, day by day, both physically and mentally. Any time I was scared of the future or my past, she spoke the words that made everything better, no matter what those words were. I couldn't be thankful enough that I had finally found my heart again. I hadn't needed or wanted a heart for so long that having it again was too much to bear. Even though the war in my mind would continue, any thought that consumed my brain could be defeated with my heart who slept soundly in my arms.