Chapter 51 Brighton
It’s five in the morning when my phone starts ringing on the table beside my head. The screen light illuminates everything, including Rhea’s sleepy face as she rolls away from me and curls into a ball like a cat on the other side of the bed.
I reach for my phone and bring it to my ear, closing my eyes as I answer. “Hello?” I groan.
“Hey,” José sounds far away and loud all at once. “Sorry, I waited as long as I could to call.”
“What’s going on, Garza?” I sit up in bed. We hadn’t gotten to sleep until three, and I can still feel the exhaustion that lingers in my muscles.
One of our group rules is that if your phone rings, you answer it. When it comes to PTSD, there is no control. There’s no telling when it will show up to destroy your life, and even if I don’t talk about mine in group, I’ll always answer the phone.
“Man, I hate to be the one making this phone call.”
Someone is dead.
“Terell is gone,” he says.
My throat gets tight at the mention of him. Harvey Terell. An old guy who retired way too late, because when he finally did, he had nothing but the military left. His wife was long gone, and his kids hated him. The army was his family.
“How?” I clear my throat, and Rhea stretches awake beside me, her eyes still sleepy as she stares up at me in bed.
“I don’t know, I can’t get any information out of anyone. It’s buttoned up tight,” José sounds exhausted and frankly pretty heartbroken. He was a dad to all of us, man, I get it. This sucks.
“I’ll get dressed. Have you called Sarge? The guys might need a meeting,” I say, just trying to keep myself calm for José.
“Yeah, he said to call you.” He huffs.
“I have Terell’s funeral directives somewhere. I’ll dig them out and bring them down to the church. Keep trying to figure out what happened," I order. It’s going to matter. Unfortunately, in our line of work, open caskets weren’t usually possible.
“You gonna be alright?” He asks me before I hang up the phone.
“Call Leon, and get him to call Robert,” I tell him, “they’ll wanna know.”
“Done,” José confirms. “Sorry for waking you up with this.”
“That’s what the phone is for, man, don’t be sorry. Go call the guys,” I say, and hang up this time before he can say anything else to me.
“Are you okay?” She asks. I hear it, but my chest hurts so much I can’t form the words to tell her I am. That I have to be. I flip the blankets back off my legs and try to get up I need to get dressed, I think. One foot in front of the other.
I don’t get far. My legs feel like Jell-O, and my hands tangle into the sheets as my body gives way to the news.
Get up, you have shit to do. I push off my feet, straightening my shaking legs.
I feel Rhea reach for me, but I move to the dresser while she sits up on her knees and watches me move around in the dark.
“Brighton?” Her voice is like a siren song, Come back to bed, be sad here with me. I rub the tear that escapes me with the back of my hand and yank on the drawer so hard it snaps on its hinges. I pull out the massive lockbox, setting it on the top of the dresser, and pop it open.
My jaw grinds at the sight of my dog tags, the old ones, the ones that were replaced with what I wear now.
Clean and not stained with my mistakes… but I push them aside for the envelope with my name on it.
I take it out with my shaky hands, set it on the dresser, and start to find clean clothes.
You need to get your dress blues pressed.
I stare at the dark closet thinking about the last time I wore them, and a shudder runs through my body.
They reek of death.
Fuck.
I can hear her shuffle on the bed, and when I look back to the mattress, she’s gone. But I can’t be worried about whatever the hell she’s doing. I pull on a clean pair of jeans and dig through my dresser without care for a shirt.
I stuff the envelope in my back pocket without opening it, and my phone starts to vibrate again. Shit.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Major,” Landon says. He sounds just as exhausted as José did.
“You’re a coward for making him break the news to me.” I snap at him.
“We all have our faults, Bright,” he says, moving around in the background.
“He killed himself, didn’t he?” I ask, knowing that Landon is the only one who will be honest with me.
“Found out last week that Laura’s getting remarried,” he says. “The claws of despair are rough, kid.”
“You should have told me; I could have talked to him,” I say, not angry with Landon, but at the situation as a whole.
“Yeah, because you’re so forthcoming in a conversation.” He jokes, and I don’t laugh.
“I could have done something, made him feel not so alone,” I argue.
“We’re all alone, kid. That’s life,” he sounds different, like his years of therapy are chipping away. He’s sad, too, you asshole. Harvey was his friend. “He didn’t want to talk, Bright. He wanted to die, honor that.” It comes off Landon’s mouth as an order, and my body tightens subconsciously.
“I’m sick of honoring rules made to kill us,” I grumble, and the line goes quiet for a minute. “I have his funeral stuff, I’ll bring it by the church in an hour. I have to stop at the dry cleaner.”
“You know better than to let your blues get dusty, Major,” he scolds with a light tone.
“We’re lucky I didn’t burn them after the last time,” I say, my jaw tightening.
November
A few weeks after medical discharge
Six coffins. There should be seven.
My bones cried out to join them, six feet under.
Soon.
I’ve been shaking hands for the last two hours, completely checked out from my surroundings with the eerie feeling of being watched. You are being watched. The crutch under my arm burns my skin, and the collar of my dress clothes eats into my throat, desperate to strangle me. Let it.
I didn’t deserve to be standing here with these people.
Their families.
Grant, Noah, John, Wyatt, Penn, and Bennet shouldn’t be dead.
I shouldn’t be alive.
I can’t breathe.
The lack of oxygen makes my eyes water, but I keep shaking hands, cold touch after cold touch, telling me that I’m lucky, I’m alive, I should buy a lottery ticket.
I bought a gun instead.
An older man stands in front of me, his eyes cold and tight. “Mr. Henry.” Wyatt’s father. “I’m sorry for your loss.” I choke out.
“Go home to your daughter, Major.” There’s a venom in his voice, a resentment that I deserve to shoulder. There should be seven. The sentence echoes in the back of my head. “Hold her tight.” Daisy.
A child cries nearby, and I turn my head to see Noah Wales' wife… widow, trying to calm down their toddler. He looks so much like Noah, it makes me sick to my stomach. I need out of here. I can’t do this.
I move on hobbled steps, my ankle screaming at me to slow down, but the walls are closing in on me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
I push out of the church doors, and the air hits me like a ton of bricks, but it does nothing.
The vomit rises faster than I can stop it, and the nearby bushes that line the steps fall victim to what little food is in my stomach.
Pure acid rolls up my throat over and over until I’m dry heaving and nothing but spit is spilling from my lips.
I use the planter to steady myself as I inhale slowly, trying to get air into my lungs that doesn’t feel like ice.
“Here.” I turn my crutch on the voice, ready to hit him, and he steps back, the cloth in his hand still extended out.
“Careful with that,” he says, and I lower the steel back beneath my armpit.
He stares at me with the most intense green eyes I’ve ever seen on a person, and he’s on guard, unsure of what I might do. “It’s just a napkin, kid.”
“Thanks,” I grunt, taking it from him and wiping the spit from under my lip. “Sorry about your bushes.”
“I’m sure they’ve seen their fair share of puke,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. He’s dressed in casual jeans and a t-shirt, his graying hair pushed back off his face. He’s out of place.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I say to him.
“Sergeant Landon Gaboury,” he nods. “And you’re Major Brighton Black,” he says before I can introduce myself. “I’m part of the military’s effort to help soldiers acclimate after traumatic events.”
“They sent a shrink to the funeral?” I bark out a hollow laugh.
“I’m not a therapist, I’m a veteran.” He shakes his head at me and digs in his pocket before holding out a business card. “I offer group sessions in this very church for guys like you, guys like me.” He adds.
“Yeah? You ever watch your best friends be gunned down like fish in a barrel by a bunch of kids?” I snapped at him. He flinches. One by one. Your hands are covered in their blood. You should have saved them. “I didn’t think so.”
He watches me for a few more seconds, studying my anger, and I hate it. I feel like an animal in a cage, and there’s nothing I can do about it. What are you going to do? Fight some old man with one good ankle? Tough guy.
“Take the card, kid,” he says, not breaking eye contact. I put my fingers around it, but he doesn’t let go right away. “My number is on there. Before you kill yourself tonight, call me. I’ll tell you a story.”
Fuck you.
He lets go of the card, and I look down to inspect it.
“I don’t need a bedtime story,” I say, looking back up, but the church door slams closed, and I realize I’m alone again.