Semper Fi

  She looked taken aback at my rant. Maybe I was foaming at the mouth, not that I cared.

  “You could train for several careers,” she insisted. “The organizational and management skills you’ve leaned mean…”

  “Yeah, a thumb-up-butt civilian with no responsibility. What about a fucking crossing guard? Yeah, that would be good, wouldn’t it? Diving to the ground every time a car backfires.”

  I folded my arms even though that was still fucking painful, and stared out the window again.

  She didn’t comment on my rudeness and laid some brochures out on the table between us. I ignored those, too.

  “One other point before you go, Seb,” she said, back in her officer voice. “I’ve been asked to point out that Miss Venzi has been requested not to report on anything she has seen or heard while in this facility. And I will remind you that your work with Military Intelligence remains classified. You will not speak of it … ever. You understand me?”

  I nodded curtly. I didn’t need to be reminded of my duty.

  At the end of the session, an orderly wheeled me outside and left me under a tree. I needed to be alone to think, but Caro found me.

  “Hi.”

  I couldn’t even look at her, let alone reply. I was so fucking angry that she’d talked to the shrink.

  “How’d it go?” she persisted, sitting on the bench beside me and resting her hand on my arm.

  I shrugged it away from her, trying to ignore the flash of hurt that I saw too often in her beautiful brown eyes.

  She lifted her hand away. I thought she’d get up and leave, but she didn’t.

  “I just saw Dr. Banner,” she began carefully. “She said you left these information brochures behind.”

  “Toss them in the trash,” I snapped.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you fucking deaf? I said toss them! I don’t fucking want them.”

  Caro took a deep breath.

  “I’ve read through them, and although you won’t qualify for a medical pension because you haven’t done your 20 years, you’ll still receive between a third and half of your current salary … as a disabled veteran.”

  My temper shattered.

  “I won’t take it,” I shouted.

  “What? Why not?”

  “I just won’t.”

  “Sebastian, you deserve that,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she said my name. “After everything you’ve been through…”

  “I’m not fucking taking it, Caro. I’m 27. I don’t want fucking disability pay!”

  “Okay, tesoro. That’s your choice.”

  I wanted her to fight me. I wanted her tell me I was an asshole. I wanted her to leave and walk away because I wasn’t anything now; I wasn’t the man she should marry. I wasn’t a man.

  “You could take college courses through the GI Bill,” she said softly.

  I growled under my breath and she was silent for nearly a minute.

  “You did well today, Sebastian”, she said, her voice strained. “The physical therapist says you’re making good progress. He says you’ll be able to use crutches more often and for greater distances. Maybe in a few months, with the help of a walking stick…”

  I grunted again, noncommittal.

  She sighed, then took a deep breath.

  “I’ve been thinking I should go back to Long Beach. Just to make sure everything is okay at home. I want to try and start working a bit more…”

  I’d expected this. I’d been waiting for her to say she didn’t want to be with me anymore, but now it had happened, I felt like she’d ripped my still-beating heart out of my chest and stamped it into the mud.

  “You’re leaving me.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  She gasped, and her expression was broken. For the first time, she looked her age: I could see gray hairs at her temples, and the lines around her eyes had deepened over the last two months.

  “No, tesoro!” she choked out. “Why would you say that? No, never!”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me, Caro,” I shouted. “You’ve made it pretty fucking obvious you don’t want to be here. Just fucking go!”

  And I turned away from her.

  I think she was trying to speak, but the words weren’t making it past her lips. I clicked the brakes off of the chair and started to move away, ignoring the firey pain shooting through my left shoulder.

  “Please, Sebastian,” she begged, reaching out to touch my arm. “That’s not what I’m saying: I just wanted to … try and get some … some normalcy. I’d visit on weekends.”

  I shrugged her off.

  “Don’t fucking drag it out, Caro,” I asserted, my voice cold and bitter. “I’m not completely fucking dumb.”

  She stood suddenly and the movement made me look up.

  “Damn you, Sebastian!” she screamed. “I’m not leaving you! You’ll never get rid of me, so you can just stop trying. Right now.”

  I wanted to believe her, but I couldn’t.

  “Whatever,” I said.

  Seven days later, the Physical Evaluation Board Liaison Officer told me that the PEB would, ‘authorize my disability separation, with disability benefits, as I had been found unfit and my condition was incompatible with continued military service’.

  I was no longer in the Corps.

  The flight from DC to JFK was short—60 minutes, tops.

  There was a moment at Dulles airport when I seriously thought about getting on the first flight to California. Part of me wanted to, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t land myself on Ches, but I didn’t want to be with Caro either. Not like this. Not when everything between us was so unequal.

  I had nothing to offer her and she had no future with me. And I couldn’t help thinking she was only with me now out of loyalty; I was dreading the day when I saw hatred in her eyes. I’d seen every other emotion: frustration, annoyance, anger, fear, love as well, I think. But I also saw pity. That was the worst.

  She’d arranged a taxi to drive us from the airport to her place on Long Beach. But she’d also requested a wheelchair to take me through the airport. No way. No fucking way was I going to be wheeled around anymore. I didn’t care how much agony I was in; I was fucking walking out of there.

  She argued. I argued back.

  “I’m not fucking using it, Caro, so just drop it,” I snarled.

  She dropped it, and then watched me move through the terminal building on two crutches at a slow crawl. My left shoulder was burning with the effort and sweat was running down my back by the time we got to the taxi.

  The driver talked the whole way, but I ignored him. I figured Caro was polite enough for both of us, so I just stared out the window, so lost in my thoughts that I was surprised when I saw the ocean in the distance, deep blue in the late evening sun. I felt a flicker of something that might have been hope, but it was soon extinguished by the darkness that filled me.

  When we arrived at Caro’s bungalow, the driver collected our bags from the trunk and tossed them onto the porch. The thought of putting weight on those crutches again made me nauseous, but I grit my teeth and struggled out of the car. I’d been a fucking Marine. Yeah, so? Now I was nothing.

  The driver was staring at me.

  “Dude, what happened to your leg?”

  “Bomb.”

  “Say what?”

  “Bomb: got blown up.”

  “Cool!”

  I didn’t even bother to reply to the asshole. I started to get some money out of my wallet, but Caro was quicker and had paid the driver before I’d even gotten my hand in my pocket. I was too pathetic even to pay for a fucking taxi.

  I forced my body to carry on, and made my way into Caro’s living room. I was so exhausted, I couldn’t take much in. It was small, but it looked homey. Her home. This was just a pit stop for me. I was still in transit, and the sooner I got used to that idea, the better.

  “Do you want to lie down, tesoro?” Caro asked quietly.

&nbsp
; I opened my eyes, and she looked at me with so much compassion. I hated it.

  “I’ll stay here for a while.”

  But the words spun around my brain. I wouldn’t be staying here for long. If I could just get back enough physically, I’d go to San Diego—get some night security job and drink myself to death. Put everyone out of their misery.

  “Okay,” she said hesitantly. “Well, I’ll put your bags in the spare room for now. We can go through them later.”

  I didn’t answer.

  She was gone less than a minute before she was in my face again.

  “Are you hungry? Would you like some pasta?”

  I wasn’t hungry. The meds made my gut ache, so I shook my head. “No.”

  She didn’t move, so I glanced up at her. She looked like she wanted to say something, but then she sighed.

  “Maybe later,” she said.

  “This wasn’t what I’d planned,” I said bitterly, staring at her walls lined with stunning black and white photographs that I guessed she’d taken for her work.

  “It’s not what either of us had in mind,” she replied carefully, “but we’ll deal, won’t we?”

  “I thought I’d be carrying you over the fucking threshold,” I scowled, my mouth twisting with disgust.

  “That doesn’t matter, Sebastian. We…”

  And then I lost it.

  “Yes, it does fucking matter, Caro!” I shouted, making her jump. “It really fucking matters! Christ, can’t you understand something as fucking simple as that?”

  She blanched and apologized hurriedly.

  “I’m sorry, Sebastian, I just…”

  “Just what, Caro?”

  “Nothing,” she muttered, walking into the kitchen.

  I felt guilty for shouting at her. As if I needed more fucking guilt in my life. And that thought made me angry. But hell! Didn’t she understand? Didn’t she get how fucking humiliating it was to have to be grateful to her for every fucking little thing? I hated how weak I was. I hated how worried Caro looked. I hated everything about my fucking life.

  I need a drink.

  I don’t know where that thought came from, but it was coming through loud and clear.

  I could hear Caro in the kitchen and then she returned with a plate of sandwiches that she placed down next to me.

  And I really hated that no one listened to what I wanted anymore. I’d already told her I wasn’t hungry. I wanted to throw that fucking plate at the wall. I didn’t, but I wanted to.

  Instead, I concentrated on controlling my breathing.

  I guess Caro couldn’t stand the silence, because eventually she turned on the TV, quickly flicking off news reports of Afghanistan, so we ended up watching something about meerkats in Africa. Fuck’s sake.

  “Do you have any beer?” I asked.

  Caro jumped in her chair.

  “Oh, no, sorry,” she stuttered. “I could open some wine?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that’ll do.”

  It was better than nothing.

  She came back with a bottle of red wine. I have no idea what type it was. I just wanted to get drunk as quickly as possible, I wanted to get numb as quickly as possible. And because I hadn’t had a drink in over four months, it didn’t take long.

  I was planning on finishing the entire bottle, but Caro took it into the kitchen after I’d drunk about half of it. That pissed me off.

  “Caro, what are you doing with the fucking wine?”

  She gave me a hard look.

  “You haven’t eaten anything and you have to take your painkillers, Sebastian. So no, the wine stays in the kitchen.”

  The ticking time bomb of insanity exploded.

  “Jesus fucking Christ! What is wrong with you? I’m stuck in this fucking chair and all I want is a fucking drink! Who the fuck do you think you are, telling me what I can and can’t drink? Who the fuck are you to tell me how to live my life? Who gave you the right? No one! Fucking no one!”

  Even as the fury raged, a part of me knew I was being a complete bastard; I just couldn’t stop myself.

  She didn’t even try to fight back, and that made me angrier. When I was too exhausted to shout anymore, I stopped.

  Her face was in shadow, so I couldn’t tell what she was thinking anymore. I could probably guess: nothing good.

  “Should I show you where the bedroom is?” she asked quietly.

  “It’s a fucking bungalow, Caro,” I yelled again, “how fucking difficult do you think it’s going to be? I’m not a fucking moron, even if I am a cripple.”

  “Sebastian…”

  But I didn’t wait to listen. I pulled myself off the couch, clenching my teeth as pain lanced through me.

  I stumbled against the wall, feeling the effects of the wine, then crashed into the spare room. After I fought my way out of that, I found the master bedroom. I sat down heavily, having to catch my breath from the extreme fucking effort of walking 20 feet. How pathetic was that? I pulled off my t-shirt, dropping it on the floor beside the bed, then eased off my sneakers and jeans. It took forever to get my socks off. For fuck’s sake. I lay on my good side, facing away from Caro’s side of the bed.

  A few minutes later, she joined me and I tensed up. I didn’t know what she’d want, what she’d expect. Whatever it was, I couldn’t give it to her.

  She slipped into the bed, careful not to jostle me, then spooned her body behind mine, resting her arm across my waist and stroking my skin. A bolt of terror shuttled through me.

  I shifted slightly.

  “Don’t,” I said, my voice cold and harsh.

  She pulled her hand back quickly and I heard the breath hitch in her throat, but she didn’t speak.

  I don’t know how long we both lay there, awake, not talking. It was a long fucking time. And then I heard her crying. She didn’t think that I was awake, but I was.

  I wanted to reach out to her, comfort her, but I couldn’t do it. The sooner I was out of her life, the better for her.

  The next day, I could tell that she was more hopeful. I don’t know why— same shit different day. I wasn’t better. I was worse. And the day after that, a lot worse. I couldn’t admit it to myself, but I was sinking fast.

  During the days that followed, I had no interest in anything: I wouldn’t shower or change my clothes unless she nagged until my head pounded. I refused to shave. In the Marines you had to shave every day. I was a civilian, so what was the point.

  Even when my beard started itching like fuck, I refused to shave it off. And with paranoia becoming a worsening problem, I felt as if I could hide behind it. My buzz cut had grown out as well. No one would guess I was a Marine. A former Marine. Fuck.

  I was supposed to be continuing with my therapy sessions at a vets hospital, but I refused to have anything to do with it. If the Marines didn’t want me, fuck ‘em.

  “What the fuck do they know about it, Caro?” I shouted when she mentioned it again.

  “A lot: you’re not the first Marine who’s been injured,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm.

  “Former Marine. Former fucking Marine, Caro. I’m nothing now. Maybe you can try and fucking remember that.”

  She shut up then.

  But the next day, she tried a different angle.

  “Sebastian, have you thought any more about when we’ll get married? Or where? Because I don’t mind if we go to San Diego and…”

  No, no, NO!

  “I’m not going to let you marry a useless, fucking cripple,” I roared. “If I can’t even walk down the fucking aisle without a fucking stick…”

  She didn’t ask me again.

  I knew I was struggling, but I didn’t want to give in. Instead, the PTSD began to swallow me up: mood swings, raised anxiety levels, flashbacks that were so fucking terrifying I’d end up cowering on the floor, not even believing I was back in the US. So I drank. I worked my way through Caro’s small collection of wine, ignoring her when she tried to stop me.

  My usu
al responses were shouting and yelling, or just zoning out completely. I was hanging by a thread, and sometimes I thought it might be easier to let it break. I was close.

  It was the stupidest fucking thing that kept me clinging on: that tiny heart-shaped pebble that Caro had given me back in Geneva. I kept it with me all the time, rubbing my fingers over the smooth surface, letting the motion soothe me and remind me that the ocean was timeless and endless, making my fuckedupness meaningless.

  One day, late in the summer, Caro suggested that her friends come over to ‘cheer’ me up. Was she fucking insane? Oh wait, no … that was me.

  “Yeah, they want to come see the fucking war cripple,” I snapped, “make them feel good, like fucking charity. What’s the matter with you, Caro? Do I look like I’m ready to see anyone?”

  “Sebastian,” she said calmly, “they’re my friends. They want to meet you, and they want to see me. You don’t have to put on a performance for them.”

  That was a fucking lie. If they saw the real me, they’d wonder what the fuck Caro was doing putting up with my pathetic ass.

  “Sure, let them come, but I’m staying in the fucking bedroom.”

  They didn’t come.

  She started going for long walks by herself. That’s what she said she was doing, but I wondered. I’d spend the hours she was away staring out the window, desperate for her to come back, but as soon as she did, I couldn’t help snapping at her again. I think I was making her hate me; that was okay, because I loathed the piece of shit I’d become.

  The nightmares were getting worse, and I didn’t think that was possible. I woke up screaming every night, and once I lashed out, nearly hitting her. I stopped at the last second, appalled by the fear in her eyes. I wanted to gouge my own eyes out, so I never had to see her looking at me like that again.

  I hated it. I hated not feeling safe anywhere. I didn’t leave the house, but I didn’t feel safe inside either. I started checking that the windows and doors were locked two or three times a night before we went to bed, and I had a panic attack every time someone came to the house, even the fucking mailman. Once, he tried to deliver a parcel for Caro, and I hid in the kitchen, armed with a set of steak knives.