I apologize for the delay in getting this to you. I had hoped to have it ready a few weeks ago. But, perhaps the timing is better this way as we approach Veterans Day in the US; a tribute to all members of the military past and present. My family has its own history of service with my grandfather in the Navy during WWII serving in the Pacific Theater. My father was in the Army in Viet Nam, both my husband and I were in the Coast Guard, thankfully during peacetime. And then our son served two tours in Afghanistan with the Army. Fragments of this story are from some of his experiences. Mary's emotions are ones that I endured. It is with deep gratitude that I salute all those who have served and sacrificed.
This chapter was based on a request. It is told in first person, from both Jay and his mother Mary.
Thank you for your patience and I do have future chapters nearly ready to go.
Temperamental Element
I closed my eyes as the wind swirled the dirt around in a mini tornado, pushing it up my nose and the corners of my eyes. I was so sick of this fine dirt, it had worn out its welcome just as much as I have. I was supposed to be on my way home, not still here, not still ducking bullets and seeing death on a daily basis.
I stood for a moment, keeping my eyes closed as the sun shown down, warming my face and shoulders. Afghanistan, especially in the mountainous regions, had no actual weather, or maybe it had all the weather: sun, wind, heat, cold, chill, sand, raw nature everywhere you turned, but it all seemed to blend into one. I tried to see the beauty of the jagged rock that thrust from the earth, but I no longer found anything that could be considered alluring or scenic. Or perhaps it was here and I just couldn't see it anymore.
I wanted to take the picture out again, but fought the urge. I didn't want to be "that guy"—you know the one that incessantly talks about their kid or shows you the same pictures over and over. Besides I hadn't even met the subject of the small photo tucked away in the top pocket of my ACU. I'm still not sure if I have totally wrapped my mind around the fact that I was now a father. I knew it could happen, but I didn't expect it to—it was the furthest thing from my mind until it became front and center. I couldn't wait to go home and yet I was terrified of the very same thing. What if the expectations and my capabilities weren't even close or worse, what if there were no expectations at all? What if after everything I've endured, I wasn't capable of much of anything?
"Look at the damn picture," Corporal Max Egan said as he stood next to me. "I saw you writing a letter to him last night." I blush at his words. I thought everyone had been asleep or otherwise occupied, but in reality, I had only gotten one word down before I gave up. "It's cool, I wish that I could write Jared a letter, but I suck at that stuff.
"But I miss him, and I've missed so much. My dad tried to talk me out of enlisting—"there's a war going on son," he'd say. I already knew that, but had no idea I'd spend so much time away. I missed Jared's birth, and his second birthday is in three days. I promised him I'd be there, but then we got extended. I thought somehow I'd have more control, that I could still have a life and a family. But this is no part-time gig. I need to get out, but I have no idea what else I can do." Max chattered on. He had become my best friend during this deployment. We became friends in Ranger school, but being entrapped in the net of deployment had cinched us even closer.
"I'm sorry man," I tell him, knowing that he is also dying to pull out a picture of his young son, probably much more than I am. For me it is curiosity, studying his face to see how much it mirrors my own. But there is no time for that as the activity we are here to witness begins to take shape. We were in the danger zone, not by our location, but because due to some bureaucratic blunder several of us were forced to remain behind as our replacements had yet to arrive. It was a time where you kept your head down and took no unnecessary risks as it would be the time—the time when you were supposed to be home safe—but you were still dodging danger with every step and you might just zig when you were supposed zag.
"So what is happening down there?" Private Mark O'Malley asked as he peered through his binoculars; a keyhole to all that you didn't really want to see but were forced to.
"See those guys," Max pointed, "they're innocent villagers who Al-Qaeda thinks talked to us, so they're going to kill them."
"But did they talk to us?" O'Malley asked, concerned for the villagers.
"Nope," Max replied.
"Aren't we going to help them?"
"Nope," he repeated.
"How come?"
"Because they didn't help us," I said as I looked through my own binoculars as the band of Al-Qaeda rounded up the hapless and innocent villagers and dragged them into a clearing with the knives at the ready. It wouldn't be long before the slaughter began.
"But if they helped us, then we'd help them?" The Private asked.
"We would," I assured.
"But that makes no sense. They are being killed because they are innocent, and we aren't helping them because they are innocent."
"We aren't helping, because they aren't an asset," Egan said as knives glinted in the sun and blood began to seep from gaping wounds in the necks of their victims.
"Aren't we going to kill them then?" Mark asked of the knife wielding maniacs.
"Not yet. We're here as back-up." I said.
"Back-up for what?" he asked.
"Just relax for a moment and time will tell."
We all stood in silent respect for the lives lost in front of us, wondering, like O'Malley, how any of this made sense. After the seven men lay dead and headless we sat for a moment to regain some sense of humanity that had leaked from us just as quickly as the blood below had. But it didn't take long before the second act began, just as the intelligence had predicted.
"Who's that?" O'Malley asked of the next round of men that were on horseback rode in with swords that looked as if they were from a 1930's epic movie. In fact the whole scene looked like it came from some old timey motion picture. But, unfortunately it was all too real despite the absurdity of it all.
"That's ISIS, they don't care for the other guys," Max explained.
"What's happening?" Mark asked, slack jawed at what he was witnessing. He had only been in Afghanistan for a month or so and was still getting used to the cut-throat, pardon the pun, ways of life in this area. These valleys would always be stained with the blood of the weak.
"ISIS is doing our job. They're taking out Al-Qaeda for us."
"Huh?"
"It's like those dolls," Egan explained. "What are those dolls Jay?" He asks me and I wonder why he doesn't use the bigger fish eating the smaller ones, analogy, but I answer anyway.
"Russian nesting dolls," I told him as I watch yet another slaughter take place, grateful that the large swords were much more suited to beheading than the chintzy little kitchen hatchets that were used in the first round.
"You see, one swallows up another and another." The Corporal explained.
"And what happens when you get to the last doll?"
"Then it's our turn," I say. "Put your ear plugs in right now," I order, not that the damn things are worth a shit.
O'Malley looked at me funny but put his ear plugs in anyway. I looked through my binoculars and knew it was anytime now—then the movement happened—the little noise—the snick of sound, the slight shift in the atmosphere, the running of the combatants—mere steps before they blew to pieces.
"What just happened?" O'Malley asked as the dust settled after the air assault.
"That, was us," Egan said, smiling, "nesting dolls, we are the biggest. Let's go ensure the job is done."
"Done? There's nothing left," O'Malley said as I shook my head and gave a lopsided grin.
If only this was one of the worst things we have seen, but it's not even close. Yesterday we watched a van blow up with several men inside, the only thing we were thankful for was that none of the passengers were kids. They had just passed us and were heading towards our base when it exploded, sending parts and pieces both mechanical and flesh different directions. One body ended up in a nearby tree, while the head ended up rolling around like a forgotten basketball. We weren't sure if the explosion had been meant for us or the base. But, gratefully their timing had been off. The Afghani's weren't known for their accuracy or marksmanship, but they had been improving and when they eventually got the hang of it, I'd rather not be here.
If I took a mental inventory of all that I had seen and ranked them in some kind of order, I would lose myself in a bloody misery that I would never be able to swim out of. But if you asked nearly every soldier what the worst was, they would say the kids. The true innocents. The ones that didn't understand why their world was unraveling one string at a time. I thought back to the little boy whose body that I had carried for miles so that his remains didn't fade away all alone and forgotten on the side of the road. I recall the little girl who had been shot in the neck and I watched her terror slide away along with her life. I had refused to let go of the blood soaked towel that I had been holding against her wound, even after Egan had pulled me away and outside of the hut. I just couldn't seem to make my fingers open.
Then there were the two boy's who had made the mistake of playing with firecrackers that were mistaken for live fire or maybe they were nothing but an excuse to shoot two little boys. If only I had been a few minutes faster, yards closer—then maybe the shots wouldn't have been taken. Or, perhaps, they would have been, and my blood would have been washed away right along with theirs. Death came as easily as turning the page in a magazine and I was tired of flipping through sheet after sheet of tragedy.
The people here held hope that each faction that came in would be better than the previous one, but they only got worse. The Mujahideen, the Taliban, Al-Queda, ISIS and whatever heinous coalition came next. I didn't want to change the universe, but I wanted to change something, change it for someone, but I have failed on all counts. We have done nothing for these people, the culture is too contrasting to ours—too distant for us to understand one damn thing about it. We have merely upset the tenuous balance that it had held before our arrival in 2001.
"You gonna work on your letter?" Max asked me as we sat around at the end of the day, digesting the carnage from earlier.
"Not tonight," I reply as I look through my mail from my mother. She sends her love and kind words and attempts to ensure that I know my father is at least somewhat interested in me and my life.
"Letter from your parents?" O'Malley asks.
"My mom, my dad has never written. Never will."
"Doesn't mean he doesn't think about you," Egan tries. "I mean just cause he didn't want you to enlist doesn't mean he isn't proud or doesn't think about you all the time. Maybe he was just afraid of losing you—have you ever looked at it that way? I mean, you're a father now, what if Liam came to you in twenty years and told you that he wanted to be a Ranger and go to war. What would you think? "
I sat in silence, knowing what Max said made sense, but I had no particular attachment to my son yet—he was no more than an idea in my world thus far. So, I switched tactics and decided to share one of my favorite father stories with them.
"When I was around eleven, my neighbor had season tickets to the Bears. My dad, like most Chicago men was a huge fan—is a huge fan. So, for one game, Bill had a family wedding to go to and was going to sell his tickets for that weekend. I offered to do all kinds of chores in exchange for the tickets and he was a good guy so he agreed. I worked for three weeks inside and outside to earn those tickets. And the Friday night before the game, he presented me with the tickets plus ten dollars to spend at the game. I was so proud, proud of myself and proud that I was going to take my dad to the game."
"But?" Max asked with slight trepidation in his voice.
"I was so excited to give him the tickets. My mom told me how proud she was of me to do this—I think she knew I was trying to make an effort. So she gave me a beer to take to him with the envelope with the tickets balancing on top."
"And?" O'Malley asked.
"He said he was impressed by my efforts. And then took his buddy to the game and left me at home. I wasn't even an afterthought. Any possibility of an relationship ended that night."
"Ouch, man." Max said.
"You know, it wasn't even that he went to the game with his friend—it was that it didn't even occur to him to take me, or maybe it did, but he dismissed it so quickly, it was barely there to begin with.
"I tried—he failed, then we failed," I finished.
"Did he ever take you to baseball game?" Max asked trying to find something positive.
"He always took my brother and me to a White Sox game at least twice a year."
"There you go."
"He always sat next to my brother. And I liked the Cubs."
"Did he ever take you to a Cubs game?"
"Hell no. He hated the Cubs more than he ever loved me. But then I think I loved the Cubs simply because he hated them," I chuckled.
"Hey, is Jay short for something? Jason? James?" O'Malley asked.
"No, I think when they realized they were going to have to teach my brother how to spell William they took an easier route with my name—a metaphor for my life—shortcuts to make things easier when it came to me." I said with a tight smile.
"Well you can take what your dad did and as a father, not do those things. At least he gave you that much." Max offered.
"Ahh, I suppose that's one way to look at it," I say in a mock toast with my bottle of water.
"You do the best you can for them. Be the best you can, because you owe this tiny human being that much—because they are the one person that deserves it—the one that doesn't deserve your failure. You're responsible for bringing them into this life, the least that you can do, is help them through it."
I managed a weak smile. I heard what he was saying, but it was like cardboard trying to absorb a puddle—it just wasn't working very well.
"Look, don't let your relationship with your father or what has happened in this place harden you and keep you from the good stuff. And trust me my friend, that baby boy will give you what you deserve and some of what you don't. But seriously, let it happen, be a part of it. Don't miss out just to spite your father because Liam will be the one that loses. Actually, you will be the one that will lose out even more."
"Where is all this coming from Professor Egan," I tease, knowing that much of what he is saying is right, which is exactly why I don't want hear it.
"I took psychology in my one semester of college. Don't let your bitterness towards your father ruin all the beautiful possibilities for you and your son. "
"Ah. Well, here's my poetic offering," I begin. "My dad and I saw the world in different colors and merging them just made mud."
"Then make a whole new rainbow for your son." Egan finished.
Two days later we were getting ready to go out on patrol. "Hey, Halstead and Egan, sit this one out. You guys should be out of here in less that a week—no need for you both getting killed now. You've had enough opportunities already." Master Sergeant Banks said.
Max looked right at O'Malley, whose face fell as fear silently crept over it at the news we were to stand down. In the few weeks we had been together, he had become like a little brother to both of us. We both had showed and shared everything we could think of, easing the intense anxiety he had been carrying from the minute he had stepped from the plane. He knew our departure was imminent, but like the kid he was, he believed it wouldn't really happen or that somehow he would be ready when it did.
"I get you Sarge. But, well, we won't get any sleep around here," he said as a helicopter came roaring in, spinning with all its might but only going straight down for its landing. "So, if I can't sleep and there ain't nothing happening around here, time will crawl—and the only crawling I like is a beer crawl, and that ain't going to happen here either."
"Suit yourself then." Banks said, knowing the mission would go that much smoother with both Max and I on board. "Halstead, what about you?"
"Think I'm going to let him have all the fun?" I asked as I prepared my gear, watching O'Malley's face go from forlorn to jubilant. At least I could make somebody smile.
"You two are forever my temperamental elements," Sarge said shaking his head.
"Is that a good thing?" Egan asked.
"I really don't know," Banks said shaking his head. "I don't know."
The dirt began to swirl again as we made our way, via Humvee and walking towards a village that had given us mixed messages in the past and always kept us on edge. The kids flocked for candy as they always did, and I had to admit I loved handing out handfuls of sugar wrapped in colorful paper. They looked at you as if you were some kind of god, bearing the remarkable gift of sustenance even if it was empty calories. But here any calorie wasn't wasted.
I hated seeing their thin bodies and shoeless feet. Winter in Afghanistan wasn't even in the ballpark of the Chicago chill but without proper clothing and a pair of damn shoes, it could be just as brutal. We had brought some blankets several months before, and I caught glimpses of them hanging in windows and over tree branches as I looked around. Our interpreter began the rapid fire, guttural chatter as we watched the kids run off with their sugar-filled treasures. I hadn't seen any of the women, but they were probably off doing laundry or some other chore. It bothered me to see the women carrying most of the workload that this culture seemed to encourage and allow. I had to remind myself that I would be going back home, to women in power suits and despite still not enjoying equal rights, having far more benefits from their efforts than the women around here.
With conversation going full tilt I saw Egan wave for O'Malley to follow him as they headed back towards several huts, which looked as if they were made of slabs of mud and rocks with rickety wooden doors attached. Most likely that's exactly what the construction materials were. But they offered very poor views of what was inside or on the other side as most had few windows.
I never saw what happened, only heard the shots and O'Malley screaming as he dragged Max out from behind one of the shacks. I immediately put my gun up and marched over, finding a panicked Mark O'Malley standing and pointing a shaking gun at a boy not much younger than him.
The Afghani boy was screaming something I couldn't understand and Mark was returning something that was equally unintelligible. O'Malley's finger was on the trigger, but it was bouncing so frantically I doubt he could have pulled the trigger even if he wanted to and since he had made no attempt to do so, I don't believe he was able to take the life standing in front of him.
I looked down at the only person I had ever considered my best friend and saw the life seeping from him as the blood began to pool. I heard a commotion in the background and looked back up to see the shooter was in plain sight, his gun up but appearing to be jammed as he shook it in frustration. He looked up, raised the gun again and in a moment of faith said, "Inshallah," and pulled the trigger again, but nothing happened—at least not until I raised my gun and put a bullet in his head. I hadn't hesitated, I hadn't given it a second thought, I just put him down with less sympathy and emotion that one would for a raccoon that they had hit on the road. When I was a kid, I never thought I had what it took to become a monster—but clearly I did. I had turned into something I didn't even recognize and knew much of my experiences here would stay firmly in my head, as I would be unable to share what I had become. They would stay locked away; all those that I had killed from rooftops, mountaintops, and face to face. All the pain I had caused, all the pain I had seen, all the pain I had become a part of.
Thinking of the kids' last words, I'm not sure what he believed Allah had willed, my death or his, but he wasn't going to kill another American, and I wasn't going to allow him to stop my friend from getting the aid he needed. That is what I had to focus on, believe and hold firmly. I had no choice, because if I realized that I did have one—well I'd be in worse shape than I was now.
I turned back around to see the medic running to Max and applying pressure to the wound, screaming words I couldn't comprehend. O'Malley had collapsed to the ground and my boots were sticky with blood. My world began to whirl around like one of those carnival rides, I took several steps backwards and the next thing I knew I was sitting on the ground and my face was wet with tears. I wanted this to be one of my nightmares, I wanted to wake up, I wanted this not to be happening, I wanted to go home, I wanted my friend to live.
"I'm not here, this isn't happening, I'm not here, this isn't happening." I had no idea I had been saying this out loud until someone sat down next to me and looked at me sympathetically and told me shhh, and told me it was going to be okay. But it wasn't going to be, it wasn't ever going to be okay.
Max made it back to base with a heartbeat, but I recognized death, it had become an intimate friend and knew it wasn't far behind. It was much like life, crooked and unfair. Its whispers were all around me and despite my best effort to make them go away, they had settled in were telling me things I didn't want to hear.
I had heard someone once say, death doesn't count if you don't see it, well I've seen plenty and believe it all counts. It will most certainly count for Max's wife and son and it will count for me as well. We were the odd couple, him from the flat fields of Nebraska, a small town boy, and me the kid from the south-side of Chicago. He was philosophical and loud, I was high-strung and quiet. We made a great team and we knew it from the moment we met. I had never had a greater confidant and figured I never would again.
O'Malley had been given a sedative when he couldn't stop shaking and claiming it was all his fault. He had seen the kid and the gun but hadn't fired. And felt he was the only reason we had gone on the patrol in the first place. His burden would be heavy and I wondered if he would be able to carry it for long.
I knew that death required payment—that cost being your life and that was the highest price anyone could pay for anything. There was no cheating, no coupons, and no exchanges. Max would soon know the secret that death held, could it possibly be as terrifying as life?
I knew this experience would bring about a whole new chapter in my life and it was one I didn't want to read. But my book isn't ending like Max's and I have to keep turning its pages whether I like it or not. One cannot just skip ahead—life just doesn't work that way. If we refuse to move forward, it just sits and waits for us to continue on. Unfortunately one simply cannot rewrite history to their liking.
I've seen more death than life and I had to decide which one to cling to—was the life waiting for me worth the battle that I fought every damn day? Could I possible swallow all the sadness that I had collected over the months? And if I could, would I able to keep it down?
I sat, my uniform laden with dirt and blood, squatting against a wall of sandbags when the doctor came out. His face said all I needed to hear. I nodded my head, mashed my lips together, did everything to keep the tears from leaking out. Mourning wasn't allowed in the present as it was always kept for later, except later never came. And then the audacity by those who can never understand, wonder why we all become madmen.
"He was able to regain consciousness and speak for a minute. He wanted us to tell his family that he loved them—and you. And, he asked that you write a letter to Jared. I'm sorry Halstead, he was a great guy." The doctor told me gently and all I wanted to do was run away, to run forever. Fuck this war, this world and everyone in it.
They wanted to move me to Bagram Air base in preparation to go back home. But I refused, I wasn't going to leave before Max did. The Master Sergeant took pity on me and allowed me not only to stay, but to accompany Max's body to the airbase where it would then wait for the volunteer escort who would stay with the body until it was interred.
I kept seeing that boys brains flying from his head, his forehead disappearing, the screams of several women who had appeared from nowhere, O'Malley's crabwalk backwards as if he don't know what to do or where to go other than move somewhere else. Max bleeding, the medic's face, pale and blanched, spewing uncertainties that I wasn't ready to grasp yet. The whole scene spun around and around, picking up snatches of scenes from previous days and nights. The burned, the headless, the tortured, the death and pain that just wouldn't stop. I wanted to put my hands over my ears and close my eyes and just curl up and die. I felt as if it was all dragging me down into a pool of sorrow, Max reaching out to me to take his hand and I want to—oh God do I want to. If I couldn't save him, who the hell was going to save me. I wanted to forget what happened to him, but I didn't want to forget him. But then again, I wanted to forget everything, where I was, who I was, my own damn name.
I had always struggled with nightmares since I was a kid. They had started just after Will had moved out of our room into his solitary space. I usually would wake up breathing heavy, my heart pounding, oblivious as to what I had dreamt about. Mostly, I think they were about being alone and not being able to find anyone to help—help with what I wasn't sure. There was one I did remember where I was walking down an empty street yelling out for my family but I couldn't find anyone, then my dad pulls up in a car, but simply waves at me and keeps on driving. If, and I kept thinking if, I did become a part of Liam's life, are these the nightmares that he would have?
Now nightmares had become frequent visitors and I was constantly fighting to stay awake. If I didn't sleep, I wouldn't dream—if I didn't dream my night wasn't tortured, it would give me a few hours of peace, but leave exhaustion in its place. Was there anything or anyone that could pull me away from the edge that I constantly crept on? I had an idea of who, and even absentmindedly patted my pocket, but sighed and felt any serenity leave me as if it could no longer stand the sight of me.
I could still hear the doctor telling me of Egan's request to write a letter to his son. He had thought that night I was writing a letter to my two month old son, but he didn't know the letter was to Bridget, and the only word I had written down was our son's name before I ran out of conversation. You see, I had no idea what I wanted to say to her either. But I had to try for Max's sake, I had to try take all the jumbled words that were floating in my head and do something beneficial with them. But how could I do that when all the hollow spots that had taken root had pushed out everything positive.
I couldn't breathe, I was drowning in the words that I couldn't write. But I had to, Max couldn't do this so that left me to honor his wishes, someone he trusted could do the job. We were in Bagram now, his body would be flying home without me and this letter had to go with him.
I was never one to be in touch with my feelings as I preferred to run away from them or lock them up and pretend that they didn't exist—probably why I had so many nightmares. I thought back to Max when he would speak of his son and would he would speak to him. Of when he would record himself reading stories and when he would just stare at the picture of his family. This was the least I could do for him—the very least.
The paper felt so light in my hands, like it might fly away at any moment. But so many things have done that lately that I couldn't bear to fail at this. I had my inspiration and I owed Egan this. I owed him so much more, but this one thing I could do—I had to do. I started and tore it up and started again; the pen shaky in my hand—the letters wavy in places they shouldn't be.
You held me in the palm of your hand the very first moment of your life. Your first breath, took mine from me. You are what I had been waiting for without ever realizing it. Created from a bond and foundation made of strength and love those qualities are already instilled in you.
There was no longer a time before your existence, there is only room for now and forever, and whether I am there or not, you will always have a part of me with you.
When I close my eyes every night, you are there. When I look at the stars, I see you. When I see the rays of the sun dancing, your energy shines through. You are wonder, you are life, you are my son. And you will forever be. If you don't see me, if you feel I am not there, just look at those places and you will find me. If you only see me in the drops of rain, look for the rainbow.
I may not be here or there, but rest assured that I am everywhere.
I was a crappy writer and certainly no poet. I had no idea if this would bring comfort or heartache or possibly confusion. But Max's body was leaving and this note had to go with it. So I left it unsigned and hoped his wife would simply accept the foreign handwriting and embrace the message.
After Max's body left the country I finally gave into sleep, having had nothing more than catnaps since his death. But not far into slumber I discovered what I had been avoiding. It was all so clear and obvious. I was standing there with a shovel in hand, bodies everywhere, I couldn't really make out who they were, Americans, Afghani's, both; faces of those I saw die, of those I killed or simply the anonymous representations of what had happened all around me. But I was supposed to bury them all—all hundreds that I could see. I could hear my father's voice that it was my choice to do this and I had better get going. I would look around wanting help, but it was always just me—what would wake me up was Max's body, the only one I recognized, stood up and came over and nodded at me. That's when I woke up, sweaty and heart pounding. I thought that was bad enough, but the dream got even worse when I finally returned home.
The pain and grief that I have endured, carved rivers through me, creating canyons of emptiness and dysfunction. But what is left to cling to, to hang onto? I am home, I am free, and I am acting out like an unsupervised teenager, because I have nothing left to lose. A woman whose name I never bothered to ask for, got up sleepily from my bed and made her way to the bathroom and shut the door, leaving me to try and blink my day to life.
My apartment was a small studio, I didn't need anything bigger, it was just me and I needed to conserve funds. I had already secured a place in the next police academy class but it didn't start for several more weeks. I looked around the room as I sat on my mattress on the floor, at the clothes strewn around and the dishes that held remnants from past snacks and meals. Take-out cartons and bags were mixed in and around the bottles of beer and hard liquor that stood and stared at me as if they were passing judgment; and perhaps they were—perhaps they should.
I had gotten back months ago and done absolutely nothing productive other than apply for the police academy and with my history and experience I was a shoo in. I had visited my mom the day I got the acceptance letter and gave her the news. She told me how she was proud of me and the man that I had become. We had a nice afternoon, until my father came home and she told him the news. He shook his head and asked me if I thought that was the best idea.
All I could think of was that I had stayed sober for this—all that effort just to get slapped yet more time. As I left he managed to yell out that I needed to grow up and take care of my responsibilities, meaning Liam. I felt that he always dragged me down and I was tired of it. But my mom was sick and only getting sicker and I needed to be near her, a part of her life. She had asked me more than once about Liam and how much she wanted to spend time with him before—well she could never get the rest of the words out, but we both knew she meant before she died. And she was right, she deserved to have time with him, to relish the role, however briefly, of being a grandma.
"He's your son, you need to show up for him. Get your head straight and do the right thing for once!" My father had yelled snapping me back into a reality I'd rather not deal with.
I swallowed hard and then found the nearest bar. And several weeks later I was still finding them and the women they had to offer. Whats-her-name came out of the bathroom with my ACU shirt draped over her. I had gotten rid of nearly everything else from my deployment but for some reason I had kept that one item of clothing.
"Who's this?" she asked as she pulled out Liam's picture from the top pocket, the only photo I had of him.
"Give me that!" I snapped as I snatched it from her hands.
"Is he your son?" She asked tentatively. "He's cute."
"You need to go," I said as I tossed her clothes at her.
"You sure? We could go another round," she offered.
I looked at my reflection in her eyes and suddenly saw everything I didn't want to be—a constant one-night stand, hung-over, lost in a sea of debris, following the same cycle—going nowhere. My life had become full of shadows and I had kept myself in the dark to stay hidden within them. But did I have the strength to not only find the light, but stay within it. Could I give my mother what she wanted and my son what he deserved? Did I possess the energy needed to move forward and continue that direction. I had no answers to any of these questions.
My life had become something unrecognizable. I looked up constantly, watching for snipers, I know how they worked, I had made my living being one of them. But I was back home in Chicago, not the streets of Kandahar. But I couldn't help it. I eyed everyone suspiciously, riding the bus or the L was torture as I viewed everyone as if they had an explosive vest on under the coat. I looked for IED's in the potholes that dotted the street and roadside bombs at every curb and intersection, everything was suspect. I had been encouraged to seek counseling, but I knew it wasn't for me. I would get through this on my own. Unless of course I didn't. But I had to survive, I managed not die over there, I couldn't die here. I had a plan, I'd get into the Academy, back to work and it would ease my stress. I would learn how to use my skills to serve the city I loved. If I could only show up for something else I was supposed to love.
After throwing out the woman, whose name I never did bother to learn, I walked and walked. I took in the tightly packed neighborhoods and throngs of people; all with things to do and places to go. I wanted to get lost in the cosmopolitan atmosphere; everything that Afghanistan hadn't been. I looked up and saw a sign for a bar and shook my head as suddenly I was walking through the door, despite having no recollection of deciding to do so.
Being the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the week, it was quiet, actually more like forlorn and desolate and I wondered if that made me the same. I knew that bad things had settled within me and I hadn't been able to rid myself of them. I knew I came home holding tightly to the scars of war, rolling and relishing in their clots of density, a road map of all that I had done and seen. I had killed a defenseless boy, no more than seventeen, a jammed gun—he had killed my best friend and for that he had to die. At least that's what I had convinced myself, but that belief was slipping away. Egan wouldn't have wanted that, he would have voted for compassion and a second chance. But a second chance to do what—kill more Americans when given the chance? I'll never know what the future would have brought for him since I had taken that option away; something he reminds me of when he comes to me in my nightmares.
"How long have you been back?" The bartender asked me.
I had sat down on a stool in the middle of the bar. Six stools on either side of me, meaning there were thirteen. Odd choice as most places avoided the number at all costs. I wasn't sure how he knew I had served, much less deployed until I realized I had on my ACU shirt.
"Your choice of wardrobe and the outline of everything that happened is etched all over your face. I get it, I did two tours. I can read who you are,what you are, because I had the same map wrapped around me." He hands me a beer as he tells me it's on the house and slides a bowl of pretzels my way, the little ones that look like they are loopy bows and knots, that Will and I had liked so much when we were kids.
"I know what it feels like when nothing fits right anymore. You are home, but its not like it was when you left. The people aren't the same, the roll and pitch of the city isn't right, the feel of everything is too rough or too smooth. I felt like every flower had thorns, that despite the sun, the skies were always dark and laughter had no meaning." He said poetically.
As if on cue the three men at a booth in the far corner belly laughed as if they had heard nothing more amusing in their entire lives. I was instantly jealous and then angry. They had no right to be happy enough to laugh and truly mean it. I wondered if I would ever be capable of the action again and I hated them for practicing it so freely and with such ease. Laughter no longer had a place in my world.
It would seem like some much no longer had a place in my world. Smiles, the soft touch of a loved one, the thought of a bright future, positive memories—all were merely mysteries now and seeing others taking it all for granted caused anger to bubble up, and rage to race through my veins. It made me hate people who didn't deserve it, I hated them simply because they could live their lives with an ease I no longer had.
"You've got to find your light," the bartender said as he wiped down a clean bar. "You're in the dark you need to let some light in."
"I am the dark." I tell him as I take a swig of my beer.
"Even more reason to let some light inside. Do you have kids? For me it was my kids that helped me."
I could practically feel Liam's picture burn through the pocket that held it as I replied. "No. I don't have kids."
"Nieces? Nephews? Well if not, you'll find something, someone who will be worth fighting the blackness that's pulling you down. Light destroys the dark and buddy, you look like you have a whole lot of darkness. You have to actively try and find your way out. If you keep still the devil will find his resting place and you definitely don't want that."
"No I certainly don't," I smiled as I flexed my hand, which was still sore from a fight I had been involved in a few days before. It took place in a bar much like this one. I faked a smile as I felt the devil beginning to settle in and get comfortable.
I could feel the book sliding from my lap but the sound it made when it hit the floor still jarred me from my semi-slumber. I had waited years and years for days like these; to the rest and relaxation of no schedules or promises. Of days that were left to written word and the joys that come with it. But, I could only manage a few pages at a time before exhaustion pulled me away.
I had always hoped my son's would be readers. I took them to story-time when they were young. Read to them all the time, but in the end they didn't share my love of literature. They read when they had to and no more. So I shifted my dreams to share the classics with my grandchildren. Trips full of adventure, journey's into the past, stories wound around a tale of morality; of amazing series that would bring great anticipation once one segment was finished, willing the author to hurry the words of the next one. But I wasn't getting that wish either. I was dying and the pace seemed to be picking up.
I rocked myself back and forth until I catapulted myself out of my chair. It took me a minute but I did manage to make my way down to the floor and pick the book up and set it on the end table. I looked at the framed picture that sat there, it had been taken just days before Will graduated. He looked into the distance and the freedom it would offer, while Jay looked pensive and uncertain; imagining life without his brother.
I know parents weren't supposed to have favorites, but we all do—at least somewhat. One child is more like you or needs you more, or for some reason just pulls at you with a strength that you can't combat. I loved both of my sons fiercely, but I had always felt Jay needed me more. There was just something introspective, and a tiny bit fractured that created a sensitivity to him that I felt he needed me more than his brother. But he also held this tension that was on a constant hum and I think those qualities tied together threw his father for a loop.
They never seemed comfortable with each other but managed—at least to a degree, but now they only traded their bitterness of one another. It was hard for me to watch especially as it deepened the older Jay got. Will seemed to know how deal with his father; what to do and what not to do. But Jay either couldn't understand the triggers or perhaps he knew them all too well.
When Jay told us he had joined the Army, Pat shook his head and scoffed. He told Jay that he didn't have it in him—that the military and any deployment would eat him alive. And Jay's response to that was to join the Rangers. I had to admit that I agreed with my husband—that sensitive nature just wouldn't do in a war. The boy that studied ant hills instead of wiping them out, probably wasn't up to killing anyone. But since he's come back, I feel as if he has left much of himself behind and I don't recognize what is left of him.
Months of no sleep, coupled with non-stop concern, skirting the news and having a panic attack with every knock at the door takes it's toll on those left at home. Poor Billy Rafferty came by to sell popcorn for the boy scouts and was met with a weepy, shaking woman who had just heard that several American soldiers had been killed in the same Provence Jay was serving in. That knock on the door was a parents worst nightmare. Even now, I found myself getting worked up, until I remember that he is home.
Pat would never admit to it, but I know it affected him the same way. I even caught him once with a tear leaking out of his eye as they read the names of the recent dead, grateful our son wasn't among them. But of course he would never admit to it, to me or to Jay.
I thought of the phone call where Jay blurted out that he had been told he was going to be a father and Pat erupting and demanding to know why Jay hadn't been more careful. And then there was the ever-constant question of "are you sure its yours." But, I could also detect some shift in my husband, disappointment and anger, but with a hint of excitement at the prospect of becoming a grandparent, or maybe that was on my behalf as I was certain I would die before having that opportunity. Will was busy in medical school and Jay, well he was halfway around the world now. Neither showing any signs of slowing down and becoming a family man except for a moment of irresponsibility over a year ago that gifted me a grandson.
In a private conversation Jay had shared the address and phone number of the woman he had been with before his deployment. Her name was Bridget and she didn't live that far from out neighborhood. It took me a couple of months but I finally worked up the courage to visit her. I wasn't sure what I expected, but I was pleasantly surprised by the woman with bright blue eyes and gentleness about her that would give her great tools as a mother. But as I spoke with her, I noticed something within those eyes that told me she had more hidden than she cared to share.
After that first meeting we met for tea or coffee at a nearby shop every couple of weeks. I looked for hints of any ulterior motive but failed to find one—after all I had tracked her down, she had never come after us. I had offered her some money, not much, but a little that I could spare, but she had refused.
She had decided to wait until the birth to find out the sex of the baby, saying there were so few wonderful surprises in life. I must say that I had to agree. I hadn't found out with Will, technology was still a bit iffy then, by the time Jay came along it was a bit better, but the results were still fuzzy and they made no promises.
She had told me of her time with Jay, leaving out all the intimate details of course, but sharing their connection and she did stop short of expressing love, but there was no doubt something meaningful had been experienced. But she was also clear that if he chose not to be involved, she wouldn't demand it. But I could tell she was hopeful that he would. I hoped he would too. I wasn't sure what would be left of my son when he did come home, I wanted to trust that it would be enough.
But when I first saw him, I knew pieces were missing—gone forever. The little boy guarding the ant hill had disappeared, replaced by someone I did not yet know, and wasn't sure I ever would. His eyes were steady, unblinking beacons of memories I would never come to know. The once gnawing emptiness I had when he was gone had turned into a tangle of knots that took root and I'm not sure which one was worse. It seems that in the end everything ends up pinching you, leaving nothing but bruises behind. Would being a father be for the best or would it demand things of him, that he could no longer give. Since Liam, who unbeknownst to Pat or Jay, I had met several times, was nearly eight months old and still hadn't met his father, my concerns ran deep.
I had encouraged, then urged, and Pat had pushed and demanded, but Jay just wasn't ready. The burdens that he had carried back from the war were just too heavy for him to see anything or anyone beyond them. But he would start at the police academy soon and wouldn't be able to visit his son with any regularity and I was afraid if he didn't connect now, it may never happen. I needed it to happen, I needed to know that my son was going to do the right thing, I needed to know that he could see the good in life through the soul of his son. Unlike my husband I had no doubts that Liam was a Halstead, he looked just like Jay as a newborn—natures way of proving paternity I suppose. He even had a few mannerisms that Jay had, like putting his little fists over his head when he went to sleep, just as Jay had when he was a baby. And he had an easy grin whenever someone spoke to him, just as his father had as a child, but had lost somewhere along the way. I knew that if he would just see the baby, part of what had been lost would resurface, a few more pieces would return, maybe even enough to become the person he had once been. But I wasn't sure how much longer I could wait—the cancer was winning.
I was terrified what might happen once I was gone. Jay needed something from me that I didn't seem to be able to give. I was tired, so tired—all the time. But I did worry what would happen when I was gone. I was the only one Jay confided in, even when he wasn't talking much. I was the one he would come to when he was ready—and what would happen when I was gone. All he and Pat did was argue and Will was busy with Medical School and the boys had drifted apart as adults. Jay needed someone who could pull him through this trial and the one after that and the one after that. I wasn't sure if he and Bridget would ever get back together, but somehow I didn't think they would—so that left one person who could save my son from himself and he drooled and only had four teeth. Obviously this baby was meant to be—meant to be so much for a man who needed every bit of it.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember was the floor creaking, waking me and Jay standing there apologizing for rousing me.
I had left the bar and began walking, then was suddenly on the L, and now I stood in my parents living room. I guess it doesn't matter how old you are, sometimes you just wanted your mom. I knew she had been failing and I still had done nothing to help her. I mean, I came to the house and sat with her—or rather, I dumped some of my baggage on her, but it never seemed to be enough to make a difference as the weight was as burdensome as ever and her health was only worsening. I needed to meet my son, so that she could meet my son. I owed her that, I owed her as much time with her grandson as she could get and time was shortening much too quickly and here I sat—still not doing anything. She looked so frail, slipping away, one piece at a time—and I knew exactly how that felt.
"Hey Mom, can I get you anything?" I asked her draping the blanket from the couch over her lap before I sat down next to her.
"You can meet your son. Jay, it's time. He's beautiful and reminds me so much of you that if you had ever had any doubts you would lose them. And Bridget seems like a lovely girl."
"Wait—how do you know this? Any of it? That Liam reminds you of me, that Bridget is lovely? How do you know?" I asked, my eyes wide and wild.
"Because Jay, I've met them. Several times. And it's time for you to move forward. I don't know if you're ready or not, but you need to be. You've been stuck in this mindless routine and it's getting you nowhere. Son, I love you, I love you so much, but I can't fix your life for you—that has to come from you and I think your meeting your son would be a great first step. He's sitting up , babbling and crawling. He even has that twinkle in his eye that you used to have," she said, suddenly coming up short as she realized I hadn't had that sparkle in a very long time. But as I stood and pondered she continued as if she had read my mind. "Maybe he will keep that spark—the one that you lost, maybe you'll even get yours back, if you would just consider being his father, being in his life. He needs you Jay, but you need him even more."
I wanted to argue but I had no ammunition—nothing worthwhile. My fears were perhaps unfounded, but felt so real and I struggled with them as much as I did with anything that had happened overseas. I had felt as if I was being dragged down, dragged under and I didn't want to take my son with me. Starting on the police department was going to make me—or break me and I didn't want to take a chance of bringing anyone on my downward trip if that were to happen. I wanted to believe I was being altruistic, but really, I couldn't take the blame for anyone else's demise. I was scared, too scared to move forward for any reason. Why meet my son, bond and then float away in my personal agony. Better not to have loved than loved and lost. Though I'm pretty sure the saying is the other way around. But it didn't matter—it was whatever I wanted it to be—needed it to be. It was easier to be a victim that a failure.
My mother called out my name but I ignored her as my stomach clenched and then swayed as my emotions piled up. She was showing me a picture that had been taken recently of Liam in her lap, but I pushed it away, hitting her arm causing her to cry out. I wanted to apologize, I wanted to do what she wanted me to, but I couldn't, I was just stuck. I hadn't been sleeping, the dreams had been relentless and they pulled me into their madness and I couldn't stop them.
"Tell me about them," my mom said as she pulled my face around to look at her.
"What?" I asked bewildered.
"Your dreams," she said. "You just said you had so many dreams. Tell me about them."
I hadn't realized I had been speaking out loud—I hadn't meant to—hadn't meant to share any of it. But, maybe I did—maybe I had to. So I began to tell her. I told her of bodies everywhere and the graves I had to dig. Then the graves began to fill with water and I fell into one, or all of them being the way dreams can work that way, and the water was up to my neck and suddenly I was holding Liam and the water kept getting higher and I kept holding him higher—up over my head, but still the water wouldn't stop—we were going to die and his death was going to be my fault.
I had my head down as I had told her all this, but lifted it up and looked at her. "I saw so many people die. I took so many lives, I heard screams and terror and with each death the water in my dreams became deeper and more turbulent. Mom, no one has a right to become a parent who has so sinned that their children must suffer. And I've sinned—so many times." I said and then broke down and sobbed uncertain where my words had even come from
.
My mother held me and let me cry it out. She soothed me as best she could, explaining war was just that and I did my job as a soldier and now it was time to do my job as a father. She didn't rub it in as my father would have that I had made my bed and now had to lie in it for the rest of my life. She listened, she was gentle, she was understanding, she was being exactly what I needed. What, perhaps I could be for my son, if I would only step up and do it. But I was so afraid, afraid of an infant. What if we didn't bond? What if he looked at me and just cried and refused to accept me? Or, what if we did bond, but I was still a mess? Everyone kept saying kids will help, but what if he didn't? What if instead of my son helping to bring me up, I only dragged him down? What if we both drown? What if we developed a great relationship and somehow I lost him? I seemed to lose everyone I had ever been close to: Will, Max, my mom. I kept turning my fears over and over in my mind when I heard my mother's voice pushing through my torment.
"You saw death, you caused death, but there is still life and a young life that is going to look to you for so much—it will be much easier to explain to him your failings than to explain to him why you were never there at all. Don't let your father be right in what he thinks of you. You stand up to him and stand up for your son. You show him exactly who you are and how good of a father you can become."
She knew me too well. She knew if she challenged me I would be more apt to respond. She knew I would never forgive myself if I didn't.
Life or death, the most basic or elemental of decisions as I think back to what Master Sergeant Banks had called Max and me—temperamental elements, I still wrestled with its exact meaning and I'm not sure I will ever fully understand. I think about what the bartender said about all the bad stuff settling in, the devils resting place and how I was the only one who could evict it.
As I stood in front of Bridget and Liam's apartment I realized that I did know a few things. I know life is hard and war is harder, but sometimes surviving is the hardest. I look behind me and to the corner at the busy traffic as it races by as I wonder why I survived and if I deserved to. I look down at my hands, though I have no idea why. Then I think of my dying mother and how she deserves to outlive her son. I think of Liam and how he deserves a father and I realize I am the one that can fulfill these demands. I think of Max Egan, the best friend I ever had and feel unworthy that I am still here and he is nothing. I think of his son and my son; two boys without fathers, I can't do anything about one, but I can for the other. And I will do this; I will do this for Max, I will do this for myself and I will do this for my son.
Soundtrack:
Orca—Wintersleep
Anne Brune—I'm not here—this isn't happening
Ashbury— Madman
Mick Flannery What you give
Shirheen—So human of you
Subterranean Street Society—Only your sins know
Matthew Mayfield—Wolf in Your Darkest Room
Whiskey Shivers—Graves