Learning to Stay (38 page)

Brad bites his lip. “E., don’t do this, okay? I just wanted us to have a nice dinner together. It’s hard enough as it is. You wanted to leave, remember? And I was mad about it at first, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it makes. I need to be here, and if you stayed, I’d always wonder if I was some sort of charity case. That’s not a relationship; it’s a self-help book waiting to be written.”

For the second time today, I try to swallow past the lump in my throat. For the millionth time in the past weeks, I try not to cry.

“Things are different now,” he continues. “We’re different people, you and me. And that’s not good or bad anymore. It just is.”

I think of the hopes I had this morning, of how I was sure I had found a solution. There’s an alternate reality playing out where a different us is breaking bread and spooning pasta, talking about how wonderful it will be to train more dogs like Jones for more veterans like Brad. Where we’re laughing and flirting with the renewed sense that things are going to be okay after all. But I’m not. I’m here, across from a man who can’t seem to get rid of me fast enough. I think of Randy’s words to me this morning, and Brad’s to me now, and combined, they translate into this: It’s too late.

After dinner, Brad asks me to stay with him and I decline. “I need to spend a little time alone,” I tell him, even though it seems that’s all I’ll have, soon enough.

He insists on walking me “home,” and we stand in the driveway facing each other. A warm wind filtered through a whole forest of pine trees plays like a chorus of whispers in the night. Somewhere, deep in that forest, a lonely dog or coyote or wolf howls. And inside Brad’s barn apartment, Jones replies.

Brad pulls me into a hug and his arms feel sure and strong around me. I close my eyes and let myself relax into them. He holds me and I let myself be held, relishing the safe, contented feeling of his arms around me. I don’t know how long we stand like this—a minute? More? But suddenly I feel like I’m falling, and I open my eyes to find that I’m standing alone and Brad is already headed back toward the barn, disappearing into the night like a ghost.

Mert’s house is dark and I have to fumble for the light switch. I’m not sure if Mert is out playing cards with his buddies at the Third Base or asleep in his room, but he isn’t planted in his chair in front of the television as he usually is, so I take his place.

The banal banter of twenty-four-hour news diverts my thoughts. Left to their own devices, those thoughts would dwell on all that went wrong today. As it is, they’re tied up in the wall-to-wall coverage of waiting for a plume of white smoke to crawl up from a chimney atop the Vatican.

I curl my knees to my chest and reach behind me for a worn, multicolored crocheted throw that I imagine Brad’s mom made. I picture her sitting here, working on it, with younger versions of Brad and Ricky chasing each other through the house, unbound by all that’s yet to happen in their lives. I picture a house that feels happy and warm, not mired under the weight of memory and regret as this one is. I would have liked to have been around for that.

As it is, I’d simply like to stay here. I am just all out of ideas as to how to do that.

I could hang out a shingle and build a little practice and make us some money. We could live in the barn apartment and have Mert over for dinner on Sundays. Maybe we’d even become friends with Randy and her husband, or with some of the local attorneys.

But just like the last few years, I’d be the primary breadwinner, only this time without gainful employment for Brad on the horizon. Maybe he’ll eventually receive disability payments from the military. And maybe not. He might eventually be able to find a job, but chances are he’ll never have a career, because his ability to concentrate, to retain information, to do even the most basic math, to fill out simple forms or think analytically—these essential skills have all abandoned him.

And it would be fine at first. It might even work well. But if I look hard, I can see what Brad sees: a future in which on good days I resent having to bear the weight of our world squarely on my shoulders, and on bad days I resent Brad—what he has become. It’s a future in which I inevitably feel like an animal whose pasture is cut by half every year
until I’m hemmed in, trapped. And for Brad, it’s a future where he will wake up day after day believing he is inadequate and should be someone different from who he is, until he crumples under the futility of trying. It’s a future in which being together isn’t enough anymore, because simply being with another person never is. Simply existing in the same space, paying homage to a partnership that no longer exists, is a poor substitute.

This idea of mine wasn’t simply a nice thing that we could do; it was the only thing.

But Randy is right: None of us is a millionaire. None of us has even a few thousand extra dollars lying around. And what I’m proposing costs a lot of money.

I drop my head into one hand. I twirl the hair behind my ear with the fingers of the other hand. Despite being the one who came here to say good-bye, despite seeing Brad’s good sense in accepting my departure, despite knowing that the life I’m holding on to—the husband I’m holding on to—doesn’t exist anymore, I still don’t want to leave.

While I’ve been lost in thought, the picture on the television has shifted from views of St. Peter’s Square to a senator from Minnesota with wiry hair and jumpy eyes. These guys love to talk, I think; it’s just too bad that none are all that big on actually doing anything.

Then the senator mentions Veterans Affairs’ health care programs, and my ears perk. “We need to be doing more to help our men and women in uniform,” he says. “They’ve given their all for us. Now it’s time we give back to them. We need better reintegration programs, more job training. And you’d better believe I’m going to make sure that happens.” A graphic under the politician’s name reads
Sen. Bernie Thorne (R-Georgia)
.

I reach for the remote control to rewind, to ensure I heard what I thought I had, but I can’t, because along with eschewing all other
modern technologies, Mert predictably hasn’t invested in DVR as part of his cable package.

Senator Thorne happens to be the ranking member on the Appropriations Committee. Every nerve in me starts to sizzle. My body hums. Why didn’t I think of this before?

It’s close to midnight, but I walk to the kitchen, pick up the phone, and dial the familiar sequence of numbers, knowing that I’ll likely get an answer on the other end. And on the third ring, I do.

“What took you so long, Counselor?” I ask.

“Sabatto? That you?” Zach’s voice is husky from disuse and, likely, stress and emotional strain. After a string of false starts,
Rowland
is slated for trial next week. I’d be surprised if Zach has left the office all week for more than food or the occasional cup of coffee.

“It’s me,” I say, and I feel suddenly shy. I hadn’t thought through how this request I was about to make would sound out loud.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned. Where are you calling from? Actually, don’t answer that. I’d be half tempted to take off and join you on the first plane out.”

“Things going that well?” I ask.

I can almost hear Zach shaking his head on the other end. “You might be the smartest one of all of us, Sabatto. I feel like Goose from
Top Gun
, when truck-driving school starts looking like a good career option.”

“Hang in there, Counselor,” I say, my voice warming at our familiar, comfortable banter.

“So,” he says, that one word infused with proposition and temptation, “what can I do for you?”

“Not what you’re thinking—or hoping,” I tease.

“A little credit, Sabatto. Give me a little credit.”

“I do have a favor,” I say. I wind the phone cord around my finger, then let it uncoil.

“So this isn’t a social call?” Zach asks. “I’m hurt.”

“Sorry. Next time—I promise.”

“Okay, shoot. Whatchya got?”

I inhale and then exhale. I repeat that breathing once again for good measure. Then I launch in to what I need to ask. “Your family knows Senator Thorne, right?”

“Bernie? Yeah. He and my dad used to golf together way back when. Why?”

“I need to talk to him.”

“Sure. I can make that happen,” Zach says. “You’re not in some kind of federal trouble, though, are you?”

“I’m not in trouble. I just have a question for him. Turns out he’s pretty passionate about veterans’ issues.”

“Everything okay?” he asks. “Things are good?”

I’m not sure,
is the only honest answer I can give Zach, but it’s late and I can hear the exhaustion in his voice, and that answer would only beget a long conversation about my life choices. So although Zach can’t see me, I smile because I want him to believe me when I tell him everything is fine. I had a roommate in college who, when she did phone interviews, would put on a suit and pearls and pumps. She said her prospective employers would be able to hear in her voice that she wasn’t loafing around in sweats and a rumpled T-shirt. “Things are good,” I say.

“Good. Good,” he says, and the line goes silent on his end. I hear Zach breathe in through his nose, as if about to say something. Then there’s an audible exhale. “Listen, kiddo,” he says finally, “I should jet. Miles to go before I sleep, and all that jazz.”

“Bradenton hasn’t outlawed sleep yet?”

“Not yet,” Zach says. “But I’m sure she’s working on it, so I should pack it in while I still can. I’ll text you Bernie’s cell, and I’ll loop back and let him know you’ll be calling, okay?”

“Thanks, Zach. I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than that, but we can work the details out later.” I imagine Zach winking at me on the other end, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Night, Sabatto. Sweet dreams.”

“Bye,” I say, the word escaping my mouth like fog. Zach, the firm, everything that used to make up my life, I now feel tethered to by only the thinnest of threads. And I wonder how long before it snaps.

Two minutes later my phone dings with the sound of an incoming message. When I retrieve it, there’s one word,
Bernie
, followed by a series of ten numbers, and then:
Miss you.–Z.

I ask Brad if I can borrow Jones and take her into the woods with me. I need to move, to feel my muscles working and to hear the crunch of pine needles and leaves underfoot. I need to climb and breathe heavy and fill myself with the sharp, fragrant scent of this place. I need an outlet for the energy pulsing through me. I need not to think.

I watch Jones trot along in front of me, her bowling ball of a body transforming into something lithe and indigenous to the woods. She works in front of me in arcs, sniffing the ground and chasing scents. I marvel at how she can look so unlike her wolfish ancestors and yet know just what to do out here, bounding after squirrels, birds, or the slightest rustle of leaves. I marvel at her trust, her loyalty—not only to Brad, but also to me. She doesn’t know why we were tromping down trails. She doesn’t know where I’m taking her. For all she knows, it could be back to the horrific place she came from. Yet she’s hunting and playing and wagging that little whip tail of hers. As happy as she makes me, I can only imagine the effect she has on Brad.

We hike to the top of Hogsback. I walk to the summit ridge that faces Lake Superior and dangle my legs over. Jones comes up behind me, stopping a few feet short and eyeing my perch.

“There’s no drop-off,” I say, patting the ground next to me. “Come see, girl.”

She inches closer, peering around me, and sees that I am right. There are rolls of ledges below, not the steep plummet into nothingness that it looks like from where she had been standing.

Jones settles in beside me, leaning her body against my leg and laying her head on top of it. I soak in the view, losing myself in it. My college roommate—the serious phone interviewer—was also a devout Catholic. She would try to get me to go to Mass at the cathedral every Sunday, but I’d go hiking instead. “Nature is my church,” I’d tell her, and in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, this was almost an acceptable reason for not attending Mass. All anyone needed was to experience the view Jones and I have atop Hogsback, still shrouded in mist, to understand.

After a while, Jones lifts her head and looks at me with questioning eyes.

“We’re waiting,” I tell her. “Not long now, little girl.”

She lowers her head and sighs.

The dark of early morning hastens its retreat. I keep my eyes trained straight ahead, and the trees and lake sharpen into focus almost by the second, as if marching toward us out of a fog. Before long, there is a whole rich landscape spread out before us, lit by a soft glow.

The UP doesn’t get the kind of brilliant, dramatic sunrises common to seacoast beaches, where you can watch the sun’s giant orange globe peek over the horizon and climb until it hangs in the sky like an ornament on fire. The sun here is less showy, more stoic. It has more sky to climb into, colder air to warm. And that makes it all the more special to watch.

“Okay, Jones,” I say to her once the sun secures its customary spot and I can feel the sharp, early-morning air burning off in favor of temperatures befitting a brilliant spring day. “Time to go, girl. I’m ready.”