Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
DUSTIN
T he abrupt bouncing as we land jars me awake, bringing me out of my haunting memories. It’s bright and sunny, and I’m more than ready to get off this cramped plane. But what I’m not ready for is what lies on the other side of the door—the one I follow all these passengers through. Passengers who’ll most likely be greeted by loved ones whom they are happy to see. I shouldn’t harbor these resentments that I do, but I haven’t figured out how to shake them. So instead of unpacking and dealing with them, I’ve kept them stowed away like carry-on baggage.
It’s not that I don’t love my parents, because I do. They gave me a great childhood, but I can’t get past the idea that my own mother played a role in the demise of Echo and me. The idea of being dependent all over again and temporarily having to reply on them is the part I’m less than thrilled about. The idea of starting over from scratch and no longer having the only career I’ve ever known is something I haven’t even begun to process. I don’t even know how. Where would I even start? Where do you go when you give your entire life to a career you were willing to die for, and when you survive a blow that was intended to kill you, you’re no longer needed. The idea that I’ve been reduced to damaged goods is a bitter pill to swallow.
I wait for the plane to empty before stepping out of my window seat and reaching for my carry on. If I’m going to struggle, then I’m going to do it on my own—with no bystanders. I awkwardly pull my cell phone out of my pocket and turn it back on. The stewardess announced we arrived thirty minutes early, so I’m not sure my parents have made it here yet.
As I slowly and dreadfully trudge my way to baggage claim, the airport bustles with people rushing to make their flights. I’m more than thankful for this sling my arm is hiding in, here in this crowded place. No one can see that I’m missing the rest of my arm from mid forearm down. The last thing I’m up for are sympathetic glances and invisible pats on the back from civilians.
My phone chimes and I move to the closest wall, making sure to get out of the way from all the moving people.
Mom: We’ll be there around 2:30. There was an accident that backed up traffic.
Me: I’ll be in baggage claim.
I finally make my way over to where even more madness resides, waiting for the luggage conveyer belt to start up. The tug of war over suitcases will be commencing soon as the alarm goes off, alerting the passengers. I stay back, not wanting to get in the middle of it all. I’m not in a rush by any means. My bag can circle until the place clears out for all I care.
Being in uniform with a sling, holding my arm in place, doesn’t hide the fact that I’m a wounded soldier. I’m proud that I’ve served my country. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my injury. I just curse the meaning behind it and what it now stands for. It doesn’t represent the war of US soldiers against foreign men. No, to me, it represents the war between my heart and mind. The hardest battle I’ve found myself into date.
After the crowd has thinned, I decide to get closer. A few moments later, I spot my dust-colored bag. The same bag I’ve lived out of for the last thirteen years. It’s been a faithful duffle bag, never allowing me to carry more than I need or could handle. But now, as I attempt to seize it, I’m wondering how well I’ll be able to handle both bags.
I drop my gym-sized bag down, getting my arm ready to reach out for my large duffle. I quickly grab the strap and give it a strong tug, making sure to get it the first time. I fling it across my shoulder, resting it on my back as I bend down to grab my other one. Trying to balance it all is a bitch, and my phone falls out of my pocket with me bent over, clanking on the ground.
“Dammit,” I breathe out, barely audible to the people around me. I’m not trying to make even more of a scene. My phone is scattered around me. It’s an older flip phone and the back has come off, allowing the battery to fall out as well. Just my luck.
An older gentleman next to me picks up the two pieces that rest at his feet while I gather the actual phone part and my bag and quickly stand back up before I topple over.
“Here you go, son,” he says politely, handing me the battery and back piece to my phone.
I try to reach for them, to take them from his offering hand, but my one good hand can’t hold them all, and out of instinct I turn my arm that’s in the sling, forgetting there isn’t a hand there. He notices, and a pained expression quickly crosses his face, but it’s gone before I can let it bother me.
“I know you’re more than capable,” he says, but I hear a bit of uncertainty in his voice. “But would you like me to put it back together for you real quick?”
I debate the idea momentarily, but my pride kicks in. “I got it. But thanks.” I nod, and he nods back in understanding. I maneuver my hand, lift up the flap of my coat pocket, and drop the part I have in before holding out my hand for the parts he’s still holding. He hands them over and I drop them in with the rest, giving him a curt smile before turning to walk away. I need to find somewhere to sit before this frustration I’m feeling becomes evident. I’m no longer in a war zone. I’m in an airport, and I have to keep my emotions in check. Once I sit, I can readjust my bag situation and fix my phone as I wait.
I make my way to the most secluded spot I can find and throw my bag down before falling into a chair. I push myself as far back as possible, letting my head drop back. I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes tightly shut, pushing away the liquid I’m unfamiliar with.
I will not cry.
This is nothing to cry about. I need to get myself in check. I’m just having a bad start. That’s all. I rub my hand over my face and sit up with determination. Leaning to the side, I pull my phone out of my pocket, piece by piece. I can do this. No big deal. It’s only a hand. Sure, it’s an adjustment, but it could be far worse.
I carefully sit each piece on my leg. I grip my phone and, using my thumb, I pry it open. I place it open side down on my thigh and carefully reach over, grabbing the battery. Before placing it in, I inspect it, making sure I put it in correctly. I angle the battery into one side slowly, drop it down, and use the tip of my thumb to push it all the way in.
Like a glove!
Sweet! One piece down. One more to go. I got this. I lower the back evenly over the battery. Holding it in place with my thumb, I grab my phone, careful not to drop it. All I have to do now is slide the back into place. I feel the excitement of being able to accomplish something so simple. Something I took for granted before.
Almost got it back together. So close.
“Oh, Dustin!” The screech from my mother causes my focus to break and I drop my phone…again. FML!