Kyle's Return (33 page)

EACH STEP I TAKE IS PAINFUL. Not in the sense
that I’ve been physically injured—unless you can count my heart
being torn out and ripped to shreds, twice, as being physically
hurt—but in the sense that my body aches with any type of movement.
I’m sore all over from too much crying and a lack of eating.
Withering away to nothing, as my best friend, Lois has been saying
for the past two weeks.

The fact that it’s been two weeks since my life has
been turned upside down flipped inside out and run through the
ringer stops me mid-step. Lois smashes into my back, no doubt
looking at her phone, texting someone she shouldn’t be and meddling
in my affairs. Even though I love her, I want her to stop. I want
to wake up from this nightmare and have my life go back to the way
it was six years ago.

Lois places her hand on my back, urging me silently
to take the next step, and the next one and the next one after
that. She’s been my rock for as long as I can remember, and
surprisingly there was a time when I didn’t need her as much, but
that’s all changed.

At the top of the staircase sits a table with a small
bouquet of freshly picked flowers, a nice touch to the drab
location. When Lois pulled in front of the building, I recoiled in
my seat. The brick building, old and worn with age, shows no sign
of being welcoming. The sidewalk is cracked and weeds grow in
between the slabs. The only saving grace is the park across the
street, and while it’s empty, it looks inviting, if not a place to
escape.

Lois opens the door before I can raise my hand to
knock. She’s impatient with me and I understand why. I know deep
down she’s afraid I’m going to turn and run. Believe me the thought
has crossed my mind a time or two. I know it’s not the answer, but
it makes the most sense. If I can’t be found, I can’t be hurt, and
I’ve had far too much hurt in my life to last me until my last
breath. With her hand on my back, she gives me a gentle nudge to
step into the office. The woman behind the glass wall looks up
briefly and gives us a half smile. She probably feels the same way
I do about the building. It’s lacking in life, much like I am right
now.

After giving her my name, I sit down next to Lois.
Her face is now stuffed in a magazine, and she’s ignoring me. This
is her idea of tough love. I’ve been down this path with her before
so I know what to expect. You’d think by now I’d be a pro and can
deal with whatever is thrown my way, but I’m not. It seems that
every few years my idea of happiness turns into a weak excuse for
life.

My name is called, and I’m directed through an open
door. The room I step into is lackluster and cold. I cross my arms
to ward off an impending shiver and chastise Lois for making me
wear a dress today. My cardigan is resting in the backseat of her
car when it should be on my shoulders.

“Good morning. What’s your name?”

It’s in the chart on your desk
, I want to yell
out, but refrain. Lois would likely hear me and scold me like a
child. I’d take it though because she’d be right. The lady behind
the desk doesn’t ask me to sit down or guide me to the chair or
couch in her office. She doesn’t even look at me. This meeting is
feeling a bit too impersonal for my taste, and as I reach for the
door, I hear her clear her throat.

“Ryley, I like to ask my patients to say their names
so that their identities aren’t forgotten when we start discussing
why you’re here.”

It makes sense, I think. I opt to sit on the couch,
but only on the edge. I don’t want to be comfortable or
complacent.

“Ryley Clarke,” I answer, letting my name flow easily
from my lips.

“Tell me, Ryley, what brings you in today?”

Of course she wastes no time punching me in the gut.
If it weren’t figuratively, I’d flinch and let her know that it’s
not okay to hit, but instead I straighten my back and ponder the
question that seems to have brought me to this point in my life. A
point where I’m required, no begged, to enter therapy to help
figure out the rest of my life. Maybe not even the rest, but the
next step. Either step I take leads me down a path of love, pain
and irreparable hurt.

Most importantly, I don’t want to be here. I don’t
think talking to a third party with a psyche degree is the answer.
Sadly, I’m the only one who feels that way. I’ve been told therapy
will help, but I’m not so sure it will. You can’t fix something
that has been destroyed for years. We aren’t a family of teddy
bears with missing eyes or ears that can be sewn back on making us
look somewhat new. We’re a damaged bunch, destined for nothing but
heartache.

I pick at the threadbare couch that I chose to sit
on. It looked more comfortable than the chair in front of her. It’s
royal blue, or at least it used to be. I think at one time it was
probably soft, plush and very comfortable, and people didn’t have a
problem lying back, closing their eyes and letting all their
worries flow from their mouths. You would think that with the many
people that come through the door, a new couch could be purchased.
I may be wrong in my assumption. I likely am. This couch holds
secrets that no one ever wants out, and it’s about to know mine
too. Maybe that’s why she keeps it this way.

“Why am I here today?” the words are a whisper on my
lips. I can barely hear them myself and know she can’t hear me.
Clearing my throat, I keep my eyes downcast and away from her face.
The last thing I want is for her to see the pain in my eyes. That’s
for me and me alone when I stare in the mirror, asking myself how
and why.

“I’m here so you can fix… this.” The words are bitter
and angry. I spread my arms out wide, and my knuckles scrape the
side of the worn out armrest. I pull my right hand to me, examining
my fingers for any signs of damage. A sliver maybe, something to
cause pain, anything to make me feel. I have nothing.

I lean forward, determined not to cry. I don’t know
why I’m here. I healed. I moved on.
We
moved on. Life was
good, not better, but manageable. We were happy. We laughed and
loved and we missed him terribly, but we woke up each day
determined to make a new happy memory. But then life—no, I take
that back—the military made that all change.

If I were a conspiracy theorist, I’d say this was all
planned, but honestly, what do they care about my life? Nothing,
that’s for damn sure. They don’t care that they’ve ruined the last
six years of my life because of some clerical error.
“Sorry,”
is all they could be bothered to say.

They’re sorry.

I realize now that I’ve spoken, the floodgates are
open, and I can’t get my words out fast enough. She, the one who
sits behind a desk taking notes, doesn’t have a clue as to what
I’ve been through, but I’m about to tell her.

“I don’t know why I’m here. I’m not sure a session or
a million sessions can fix my life right now. People have told me
that time heals all wounds, but they’re full of shit. I think when
that saying was coined, they meant a scratch or a bump, not a hole
in the middle of your chest that you’d have to put back together
piece by piece. A hole so big that when you breathe in, it burns
and makes you ache all over. One that makes you beg for someone to
show you mercy, even if no one will because they all feel the same
way as you. And was I ever really healed, or did I wake-up one
morning and decide that I needed to move on?”

“It does take time to heal, Ryley, and everyone has
to do it at their own pace.”

I laugh out loud and adjust the way I’m sitting. I
wish I hadn’t worn a dress today, but Lois insisted, and I’m at a
point in my life where I just do as she says, so I put on a yellow
sundress and pulled my hair into a blue ribbon. That’s as good as
it gets for me right now. But sitting here, I want to be in sweats.
I want my white socks covering my bare toes, and I want to be
buried under an oversized sweatshirt. I want to hide.

“Time is my enemy. Time is the one thing I don’t have
and can’t afford to lose. Time…” I shake my head and look toward
the window. I bite my lip and close my eyes. My mind is blank. I
refuse to see their images. I don’t want to look, or remember. “I
need to find a way to stop time or reverse it.” I nod. “Reversing
time would be ideal. If I could do that, I wouldn’t be sitting here
right now. My life… it’d be on the path that I created, that I
worked hard for, but it’s not. I’m standing in the center of the
Interstate with traffic coming at me from both directions waiting…
desperately waiting for someone or something to change everything
that has happened in the last six years. So no, time doesn’t heal
anything. It just prolongs the hurt and pain.

“It sounds like you’ve had a lot to deal with, maybe
more than others. Do you find solace in your friends?”

I shake my head. “I have two very close friends. One
is from high school, she and her husband moved down here once the
twins where stationed here. The other is a military wife. Any other
friends I had bailed. I’m sure they didn’t bail because of me, but
because of the military. You move on, ya know? They don’t want to
associate…” I stop and think about that word. “Associate isn’t the
correct word; it’s fear. They see what I went through and fear rips
through their bodies, and they do what their bodies tell them:
fight or flight. They all chose flight because they’re all afraid
they’ll go through the same thing one day.”

“What else do you experience from your friends and
family?”

Easy question. “Pity. I got so sick and tired of the
hugs and the pats on the shoulder. The looks—those were
never-ending. I didn’t need to see the pity in their eyes as they
went from looking at me to looking at my belly. Everyone is sorry,
but what exactly are they sorry for? Are they sorry that they voted
for the people who sent our military to war? Are they sorry that
their children aren’t out defending our country? What are they
sorry for?” My voice rises with my last question. I want to know.
What goes through someone’s mind when they tell you they’re sorry
that your loved one has died?

“I always want to ask why. Why are you sorry? Did you
do something that I’m not aware of? Did you pull the trigger or
supply the enemy with equipment to do harm? No, I didn’t think so.
Thing is, all the pity looks are back and each one brings me to my
knees because guess what? They’re all sorry again, and this time
it’s not going to matter what decision I make. Someone will be
hurt. For that, they can be sorry.”

“Ryley, I’m going to ask you again why are you here
today?”

For the first time since I walked in the door, I look
at the therapist. Her hair is cut short, framing her face. It’s
brown, but muted. There’s no vibrancy to her color. It’s dull and
outdated, much like her couch. Her white, long-sleeved shirt is
buttoned high, as if it wants to choke the life out of her. Her
cat-like glasses perch on the edge of her nose, and she reclines in
her chair with her pad of paper resting on her lap, her pen poised
to write down my words at a moment’s notice.

“I’m here because six years ago I lost the love of my
life, but now he’s back from the dead, and in a few weeks I’m set
to marry my best friend. His brother.”

Available Now

***

Please enjoy a sneak peek at
Resist Me –

a standalone book one in
the McCoy Raven Brothers
series

by author A.O. Peart.

T
he shrill of the fire
alarm and flashing lights jolted me up from my bed at Firehouse 8.
Swearing, Jack got up too, followed by the other members of our
team. We were pulling night rotation shift. The proximity of our
firehouse to downtown Portland practically guaranteed us to be
dispatched to a fire at least once a week. But tonight was
different, and I felt it in my gut. This wasn’t someone’s fireplace
choking a little with smoke. This was a big job.