Happy That It's Not True (25 page)

              “How do you prefer they fight?” he said.

              “Whatever works for them—where ya from?”

              “Kandahar.”

              “I like Kandahar.”

              The soldier was almost about to smile, when the two heard moaning from an ANA soldier with a bullet wound.  Not again, Octavio thought—forcing his mind not to feel, but instead to become subdued with rational thoughts.  I’m well trained—I know what to do—I can handle the stress—main thing is to focus and get everyone out of here alive.  Block out emotions.  That’s the key. 

              Octavio leaned back to see who had been shot.  A young man lay on the dirt, covering his head with his arms.  For a brief moment, Octavio saw the wound—a red dot with a thin stream that ran down his leg.  His mind and body reacted with the instantaneous decision to run toward the wounded soldier.  As he was sprinting the distances between trucks, he heard the whistle of a rocket-propelled grenade.  The sight of Underwood being decapitated dismantled something within Octavio.  An edifice of confidence and self-assurance vanished, leaving Octavio an orphan of faith.  His sprint reduced to sauntering.

              Octavio’s realization of the need to run full sprint again was met with a shockwave from an explosion that threw his body hard against the ground, leaving him briefly unconscious.  His mind gradually rebooted.  This new awakening seemed to be in a different world.  His ears were ringing, and the landscape no longer seemed brown, but completely colorless.  He stood and noticed another soldier who had been even closer to the blast, disoriented and stumbling with small amounts of blood coming out of his nose and ears.

              And then he felt it.  The angry snap of metal that had been heaved from the mountain.  For a moment, Octavio wondered if he, also, had been decapitated.  A bullet had found its way into his neck, mocking his body armor.  His deafness had replaced the sounds of war with the thrashing of his heart.  The pain and taste of blood in his throat made Afghanistan, for the first time, seem like the most remote place in the world.  He even had the impression that he wasn’t in that part of the world at all, but somewhere far from man where only God patrolled the land and sky. 

              He fell to the ground.  Lying on his back, no longer involved in the fury of war, he reached into a pocket in his combat fatigues and felt the soft fabric of the baseball jersey rolled into a scroll.  Thoughts of his children would fill his final moments on earth.  He took the jersey that he would never wear, and felt himself wanting to cover his wound with it, but decided it would dishonor the sacred gift.  He inhaled once more and exhaled what remained into the wind that took the shroud and blew it away to be swallowed up by the desert.

            
 
As the evening grew dark there was a break in the clouds.  One star appeared and then vanished.  The most recent band of showers had produced enormous waves.  Another rafter had been lost, unable to hold on to the dragon slithering across the expanse.  The men stared at each other noticing their cuts and bruises, frightened by mutual hopelessness. 

              One of the men blurted out, almost in annoyance. 

              Go on with the story, but don’t mention anything about war, politics or prisons, or that sort of thing.

              The storyteller, with swollen eyes and trembling lips gave the man a hateful look. 

              We’re past all that.  Prepare yourselves, for what I have to say next is completely without violence or opinions or cleverness of any kind, and yet it is the darkest of all truths.

Chapter Twenty Seven

            
 
That morning, Adriana woke to tears on her pillow.  Her new roommate in the rehab clinic had been going through withdrawals all night but was suddenly still, staring at Adriana like she had seen the face of God.  Before she noticed the head-shaped ring of moisture she was overcome with a sorrow she had only felt one time before—the day she and Tavi decided to separate.  She forced herself out of bed, and the moment she left the room the tears began to stream down her face.  Her chest heaved, a hot balloon seeming to inflate and deflate within her, tears gushing from her eyes.  She forced down her medicine but refused to eat, and in group sessions, where she normally was very open and engaged the newer people, today she was silent, trying desperately to hold back her sobs.  In the middle of the afternoon session she excused herself and went back to her room.  Sitting on the edge of her bed, it was the first time all day that she had no tears left to cry.  There was only a sadness that weighed her down like she was buried under a mountain of corpses.
      A counselor entered her room, her hands passively cupped over her waist.
    "Adriana, I have some bad news."
    "I need to call my daughter."
    "It's about your ex-husband."
    "I know, I felt him leave me this morning."

…

              Diego heard the wailing coming from one of the guest rooms, jumped out of bed and frantically dressed himself.  He could see the outline of the door glowing with the presence of precious life within his home.  He ran out of the room toward the source of the crying, and found Cara laying on her side against the wall in her room, her cell phone close by—laying on the carpet as if it had been dropped.  Her entire being convulsed with sorrow, her mascara smeared and muddied in tears, her nose running.

              Diego dove to his knees and Cara met his gaze with her mouth open, waiting to hear her own words, which seemed inaccessible.  Her eyes were desperate and anxious—eyes of a person betrayed by life—heartbroken and left for dead—a type of discarnate death.  Diego had seen that expression before, but couldn’t remember where—perhaps in the faces of those baffled by their lovers—forsaken by uncaring skies empty of heavenly realms.

              He could almost have preferred that she remain in hysteria so that he could try to calm her.  Her staring, hollow eyes revealed a new territory—a quality beyond pain—a purging and purification. Hadn’t she been through enough?  Had she not evaded bitterness thus far in life?

              Diego held Cara’s hands and fearfully asked her to unveil the answers.  “What happened, mi sobriñita?”

              Cara hesitated before speaking and then sobbed her answer, “Dad—is dead,” her voice cracked like a branch in a storm.  She said the word dead as one would whisper a word forced by an interrogator.  Hearing herself acknowledge her father’s death brought on a new wave of weeping. 

              Diego shuddered at having caused Cara to carve at her own wounds.  Diego sat next to Cara, holding her close—his sleeve soaking in the tears. 

              “Your Mom called you—and told you?”

              Cara nodded.

              “She didn’t want to talk to me?” Diego asked—trying not to sound like his question mattered.

              “I-I-I told her I’d call her back.”

              “Where’s Alex?”

              “Down in the gym.”

              Diego at that moment wondered how he could handle the grief of two young people under his care.  He wished for a little more time alone with Cara—to stabilize her enough to deal with Alex.  No more questions—don’t even try to say anything comforting, he thought.  Just like funeral services—it’s better to hold someone than to have something to say. 

              Cara clung to Diego’s arm—her eyes, looking intoxicated and heavy, stared into some place that allowed her mind to taste the hurt.  She’s dealing with it—don’t repress it—it’ll be a good sign if she doesn’t shut it all inside.

              Diego noticed that she was adorned for the evening in a gray crinkled chiffon dress wearing her hair in an up-do.  He wanted to ask her if she had gone out—had a nice time.  What an absurd question to ask.  Just as the bracelets and bangles he had never seen before, Cara was much like a strange woman, yet reminded him a little of his sister.  I will hold her as long as it takes—until Alex comes—then we’ll tell him. 

              He felt his sleeve on the edge of his shoulder getting wet enough to wring, and was glad that he couldn’t see Cara’s face anymore.  He felt his own eyes welling up.  He had known so many with sadness and he wondered which was better, to be lonely or sad, but then he realized this wasn’t sadness at all.  Sadness lasts for a while, but a javelin thrown through the heart is a type of immediate death.

...

              A large blue inflatable alligator floated in water so still that Alex could see a perfect reflection of the building at night.  The pool, lit from below, was surrounded by plastic tables with closed umbrellas and an assortment of beach chairs and folding loungers.  Alex had dragged one of the loungers to the edge of the pool so that he could stare down past the chlorinated crystal into a place where he could allow himself to think or forget.

              “What’s wrong with you?” 

              The words sounded more like an insult than a question.  Alex looked up to see a girl about his age.  Her hair was dark chestnut with pink streaks, her lips and eyebrows pierced.  She was slightly heavy and wore a black tank with a plaid shirt tied around her waist.  Her jeans had holes at the knees and she carried a black skateboard.

              Alex matched her tone with an even harsher response.  “Not having a good day—why—why do you wanna know?”

              “Guess you’re in a bad mood.”

              “Yeah—I’m in a very bad mood.”

              “You live here?  I’ve never seen you around here before.”

              “Just here for the summer—staying with my uncle.”

              “Mind if I pull up a chair?”

              “Sure—go right ahead.”

              The beach chair made a screeching sound; the skateboard popped an echo. 

              “So what’s your problem—I’ll psychoanalyze you.”

              Alex scoffed.  “You don’t look like you could psychoanalyze anyone.”

              “Dude—why do have to be so hostile?”

              “Why are you treating me like your patient?”

              “Maybe I want to be a shrink someday—maybe this is what I was born to do.”

              “Just cuz I’m upset doesn’t mean I’m crazy.”

              “Everyone’s crazy.”

              “Look—my father died—all right!”

              “Oh, man—so sorry.  Oh God I’m such an idiot—what happened?”

              “He died in the war—in Afghanistan.”

              “I’m so sorry.”

              “And don’t ask me how that makes me feel.”

              “No-no—I won’t ask shrink questions.”

              “Just found out about it—my sister’s hysterical.  She’s in her room listening to Fix You by Coldplay over and over and over—and I just wanted to be alone—but you can stay.”

              “Life really does suck.”

              “It sucks right now.”

              “I think life just plain sucks.”

              “And you want to be a shrink?  How’re you gonna help anyone with an attitude like that?”  Alex looked at her carefully for the first time.  She’s kind of pretty. 

              Unable to answer the question, she looked at the plastic alligator as if she wanted to float away on it.

              Alex leaned back in his chair, content to stare as he spoke.  “What’s your name?”

              “Joyce.”

              “I’m Alex.  Thanks for talking to me.”

              “I can’t believe I stayed to talk to you.  You were nasty to me, but I guess you have a good reason.  Like I said—life sucks.”

              “What you need is an attitude readjustment.  Maybe when my attitude is better I’ll help you with yours.”

              “How can you say life doesn’t suck after what happened to your father?”

              “I’m tempted to say life sucks—but I won’t.”

              Joyce cupped her face with her hands.  “You know—I figured out the cause of all the world’s problems.  Everything that’s wrong with the world.”

              “Oh yeah—what?”

              “Newt Gingrich.”

              “Newt Gingrich?”

              “People like him.  That’s what’s wrong with the world.  He’s the guy that led the congressional investigation of Clinton and Lewinsky.  The whole time, he was cheating on his own wife.  Most people are like him.  Everyone pretends to be good, but the truth is—everyone’s a hypocrite.”

              “Everyone except you?”

              Joyce looked at the alligator again.  “I’m not so bad.”

              “Neither am I.  You say that everyone is a hypocrite—everyone in the world is a hypocrite.  Everyone makes mistakes, but few people ever apologize.”

              “No one ever admits they’re wrong.”

              “Actually—there’s always a one percent chance that you can get someone to admit they’re wrong about everything, but it’s risky.”