Chapter 13 #3
“No. A friend.”
My hard expression negates any idea he might’ve had of my being more forthcoming.
He squeezes his hands around his knees. “I grew up on a farm. Most people in the Southeast work in farming or textile factories, but colored people only work on farms. White people, they own the farms. They do their work, don’t get me wrong, but it’s colored people like me who till the soil.
” He stares down at the floor. “My Pops is proud. He worked hard and finally got enough money to buy a big plot off of his boss. Fully owned by our family. And we worked hard. I seen guys lose their legs. Watched a man get gored by a rogue bull. Folks getting sick from being out under the hot sun. But ain’t nobody complains. ”
“Your family are Order members.” I turn my screen so he can see the photos of them, and he peers up and smiles. “How did they get involved?”
“When I was ten, people showed up at the farm sayin’ they were doing research on farms that ain’t owned by whites.
Ma and Pops was suspicious. I mean, normally when white people show up at your door, it ain’t good news.
Racists will be racist no matter what, but when you add this accent to the mix, people assume we’re slow and stupid too.
These folks didn’t have none of that nonsense.
They treated us with sincere respect, and that put Pops at ease.
He trusted ’em, told me he liked what they had to say. ”
“Then what happened?”
“Pops left for a few weeks, saying it was business. When he came back, Mama left. Then a year later, me and my brothers were put on a train. They didn’t say where we was going, but my Ma said to listen and do whatever they said.
We ended up at the Chicago HQ. We trained there for about six months, then went back to Arkansas to the farm.
We was told to act like nothing happened.
My sisters went next. All of us trained up. ”
The pride in his voice warms his words. In return, I smile. “You must be proud of them.”
“Hell yeah.” Joviality fades as whatever nightmare plagues his sleep creeps into his consciousness.
“Anyway, we was taught to be tough. And I am tough. But what I seen in Detroit…it keeps me up at night. I know my Pops would tell me to man up, but he ain’t seen what I seen.
Nobody shoulda seen it. Kids burning. Dusters shooting soldiers in retreat.
” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I want to block it out.”
“Why?”
Brown eyes with blown-out pupils pop open. “Why? Because it’s a fucking nightmare! You ever seen someone burn to death?”
“No. But like you said, you’re tough. You grew up around gore and violence. Somehow, this is different to you. Why?”
“Damn right it’s fucking different!” He grips the arms of the chair. “All what happened at home, it ain’t my fault. People get reckless on the farm and some of them animals are dumb as hell. McGovern and the Rangers was assholes. Couldn’t do nothing about that.”
“And what could you have done in Detroit that you did not try to do?”
Exasperated with me, he curls his fingers into fists. “I don’t know. Saved somebody, I guess.”
“You have a list of commendations from your superior officer,” I reply. “Seems to me you did everything within your power to help.”
“Them kids still burned. All I did was watch.”
“It’s a tragedy, there’s no doubt about it. Survival can be a curse. You carry the guilt of living. You’re afraid of dying. The simple joy of being alive causes you shame. But that’s okay. Those feelings suck, but they’re okay to have. What is not okay is letting them control you.”
“What else do I do? I close my eyes and I—I see it.”
“See it. You can’t stop memories, Rodriguez.”
“You can call me Nate,” he interrupts. “If that’s okay, ma’am.”
Finally, a breakthrough. “I’ll call you Nate if you call me Lucy instead of ma’am.”
For the first time since arriving, Nate seems genuinely at ease. “Okay.”
His anger temporarily defused, I continue, “Like I said, the memories will come back. Sometimes at night, sometimes during the day. You will see what you saw, hear what you heard. But you can control what you feel. You don’t have to be afraid or guilty when you have those flashbacks.”
“How?”
“I am not an expert, nor am I a soldier. But I get these…attacks. It’s like my heart beats too fast. Like I’m being chased by an enemy I can’t see or hear.
” The panic burbles inside my chest, as if bidden to life by my words.
“Sometimes I do it to myself by thinking about what I’m afraid of, or letting my mind wander into painful memories.
Or it happens randomly. But either way, I can’t do anything when it happens.
I can’t talk or do my job. The fear holds me hostage. ”
Private Rodriguez nods solemnly. “How do you make it stop?”
“I focus on what I can do. I focus on my breathing. I try and root myself in the present by looking around and naming objects in the room.” I smile sheepishly. “I know it sounds silly, but distraction helps.”
The weary soldier is rightfully skeptical. “And that works?”
“Not always,” I admit. “On occasion I’m still scared. I cry. But it has gotten a little better.”
Nate reclines and relaxes his grip on the armrests. “You think I can do that?”
“With practice. And, not for nothing, but it could be worthwhile to talk to someone. Doesn’t have to be a shrink. I’m sure plenty of your fellow soldiers could offer useful advice. A few of them get together once a week in the library for a chat. It’s pretty casual.”
“I could maybe do that. I’ll think about it,” he says, pushing himself up from his seat.
“Good. If it doesn’t help and you still can’t sleep, come back and I will set you up with another doc at the hospital, okay?” I tap away at his file, marking a note of our conversation. “If I am not around, which I should be since I don’t do anything else, ask for Leader De La Rosa directly.”
“Thanks, Lucy.” He stands at rest in front of his chair, looking at me expectantly.
I’m not sure what else he could want because he’s exhausted my talents at this point. Well, most of them. “Oh, right. You are dismissed.”
He smirks. “You know, for a leader’s daughter, you ain’t half bad.”
“That right?” I clasp my hands on top of my desk. “You know a lot of leader’s daughters?”
“No, ma’am,” he replies, chuckling. “See you around.”
Within the same week, I’m doing my usual midday routine of resting my head and staring at my black screen.
I know Taylor isn’t dead because Theia has spoken to her, and in turn spoken to Delilah, who trickles the information to me.
But we don’t have access to her communicative watch, only Theia does.
All I have is this screen and the hope that at some point, she’ll turn on the camera and speak.
“Private Piccolo?” A short, female soldier peeks her head in from the hallway.
I rub my cheeks in an effort to wake up. “Yeah? I mean, yes? You may come in.”
“Um, I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. Rodriguez said maybe you could help me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Help you how?”
“I get those attacks you talked about with him. The ones where you think you’re going to die, but obviously you’re not going to die?” She looks like she’s about to have one, face flush and hands wrung.
“Right, okay. Well, I can set you up with an appointment with a doctor, or one of the psychiatrists?” I offer absently.
“Actually, I’d rather talk to you, ma’am. You get them, too, right? I—” She sighs heavily. “I want to talk to someone who gets it.”
“Oh.” With only black void on my screen, I turn to her and nod. “Sure. Have a seat…”
With a grateful smile she skitters to the seat and sits down. “Private Carlson,” she says. “Kate, actually. Thanks. I know you’re pretty busy.”
“I’m good at looking pretty busy.”
She laughs, and it’s contagious enough that I laugh too. First time in a long time. “That’s a skill too.”
“Hence why I’m so indispensable here.” I stretch back with exaggerated flair. “All right, Kate. Let’s chat.”
Weeks are gobbled up into months.
Winter blooms with a frosty gasp. It coats the windows and brown grass in icy dew.
Once I’m given a thermal uniform, I use my mornings to jog as the sun lazily rises.
Crisp air fills my lungs, tangling knots in my hair but untangling the knots in my brain.
Being at Delilah’s right hand keeps me privy to the macro side of war: victories and defeats, cost, supply levels, casualties. Numbers, data, cold and easy.
We are winning. Soldiers coming off duty, however, keep me humble.
While victories and defeats are the consequences of bravery and death, the cost is contextualized by soldiers in desperate need of assistance, supply levels fluctuate due to destroyed equipment and heisted goods, casualties become deeply personal tales of loss.
I miss my father on Christmas. Somewhere in my aimless daydreams I remember one of these days must be Taylor’s birthday.
She turned twenty years old out there in the middle of a war, on a grimy street stalked by enemies.
No party, no cake, no balloons. It brings me a small joy to imagine how adorable and hilarious she would look with a conical birthday hat strapped to her head, blowing out birthday candles.
I vow to make that happen if we survive, and it gets me through some of the tougher days.
It’s 0200 in late January when the sound of rain wakes me out of a dead sleep. My portable receiver comes to life with a burst of light. Cam feeds are attached mid-sternum, intrinsically following the movements of its wearer with a full 180-degree view.
Taylor’s chest cam is aimed straight down at the asphalt, skidding. “Ow.”