Learning to Stay (39 page)

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Two hours later, I am standing in Mert’s living room, bags packed. Brad takes my luggage out to the car, where he wedges it into the backseat. I wait near the open passenger-side door, and when Brad straightens, we look at each other across the roof of the car. “Ready?” he asks. I toss him the keys and climb in beside him.

At the airport, Brad steers to the curb outside the departure gates. “You sure about this?” he asks.

I nod.

He leans over to kiss me and as he does, places a hand softly against my left cheek. I feel something else, wet and warm against the other side of my face. I open one eye and see Jones and her flat pink tongue. Brad and I laugh, our lips still touching, and she licks us both with one slurpy swipe. She’s good for us, this dog.

I lean into the backseat and take Jones’s head between my hands. She struggles forward, still trying to work my face with her tongue, and I hold her in place. I wonder if she’s really this fond of me or if my makeup tastes good to her. I secretly hope it’s the former.

“You take care of him, okay little girl?” I say, pressing my forehead to hers. She stops struggling and quiets, as though trying to read my thoughts. I kiss her between the eyes. Her fur smells faintly sweet, like cupcakes. I pat her where my lips had just been. “You keep him safe.”

There’s so much I want to say to him, but there isn’t time. I have a plane to catch. I have a future to fly into.

Then, afraid that if I don’t leave right then I won’t ever, I scramble from the car.

I stand at the curb as Brad steers away from it and I blow him a kiss. I see his hand reach out as if to catch it, and the last I see of him is that same hand held fast over his heart.

My heels click a staccato beat toward the ticket counter and my
stomach turns in on itself. I want to call Brad and tell him to turn around, that I don’t want to do this. I want to tell him to come and get me and we’ll figure something else out. But the ticket agent is already asking for my identification.

“Do you have bags to check?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“All right then,” she says, handing me a small paper folder with my ticket. “Gate A-Four. You’ll be boarding in ten minutes. You’re all checked through to Washington, D.C. Enjoy your flight, ma’am.”

Senator Thorne looks older in person, and his office is smaller than I expected, but maybe that’s because it’s chock-full of dead animals. They’re hanging from every available wall space (antelope, deer, moose, large-mouth bass), sitting on shelves (fox, loon, and a two-headed squirrel), and hanging out in the corners (black bear on its hind legs and opposite, as if getting ready for a boxing match; a coyote in full howl). Dotting one wall is a series of small wooden plaques on which I can only assume are mounted the testicles of various animals. I don’t go close enough to verify this, but only two things lead me to believe this man is not a lunatic: He’s a friend of Zach’s family and he has held his office for close to thirty years.

“So,” he says, then stops to stifle a yawn. “So you’re Zach’s girl, huh?”

“No, Senator,” I say. “Zach is a friend and colleague of mine.” Even though neither one seems exactly right, it’s easier than explaining.

“And it says here—” He flips through some papers on his desk. “It says here—” He does more flipping. “Well, it seems as though I can’t find where it says why you’re here, Ms.—?”

“Sabatto,” I offer. “Elise Sabatto. I’d like to talk to you about your support of veterans. Specifically—”

Senator Thorne slaps a hand down on the desk in front of him. “Yes!” he says. “Of course. Now I remember. Well, you know, I’m a very big supporter of our boys.”

“Our troops, you mean?” I phrase it as a question in hopes that he’ll recognize on his own the error in what he just said.

Senator Thorne knits his brows together. “Yes, troops, of course. That’s not what I said? In any case, you’ve come to the right place, young lady. If you know me, you know that I’d do damn near anything for our boys. If they’re in harm’s way, then we’d better be using everything in our financial arsenal back here to keep them safe. That’s why I’ve personally gotten more than a billion dollars in earmarks passed over the years to upgrade military facilities. I signed onto the post-9/11 GI bill, I sponsored an amendment encouraging companies to employ our veterans as part of the Tax Reconciliation Act last year, and I’ve supported an increase in TRICARE fees for retirees and reservists.”

He leans back in his chair, his fingers laced together and resting on top of his desk. He looks very pleased with himself. I’ve just been on the receiving end of his “Working for Veterans” list of talking points, but he is right—this does seem to be the right place. Or, rather, he seems to be the right person to talk to.

“That’s an impressive list, Senator,” I say. “And I think—I hope—you’ll be interested in what I want to talk to you about today. You see, I’m married to a—”

“Deborah! Deb-or-ah!” The senator, who a moment ago seemed poised to listen to my pitch and take notes, interrupts me as if I haven’t started talking. His assistant pokes her head inside the door and he waves a green pen at her. “I need a new one. This is all out of ink.”

Deborah’s body catches up to her head, and the whole of her enters the room and takes the pen from the senator. “Thanks, dear,” he says to her. To me he says, “I can only write in green ink. Don’t know what it is, but I just get these mental blocks when it’s any other color. It’s gotta be green.” He shakes his head, this peccadillo seemingly a heavy burden to bear, and he tips his chin at me to continue. Silently, I repeat,
Zach’s family friend
,
thirty years
.

“Well, as you probably know, Senator, our troops face significant challenges when they return from theater. They—”

There’s a knock at the door and Deborah reappears with a handful of green pens. Senator Thorne turns from me and says, “Thanks, doll. Listen, can you also get me Mike Deaver’s cell? We talked about trying to fit a round in this week.” He turns back to me. “Now, where were we?”

I smile at the senator and launch back in: “I was about to say that when our troops return from theater, as you know, they often have a hard time adjusting to life stateside—and so do their families. From depression to PTSD to the new signature of this war, Traumatic Brain Injuries, or TBIs, these returning soldiers are…” I trail off. Senator Thorne is doodling on a legal pad in front of him. Nesting stars, to be exact, each one slightly smaller than the one that surrounds it. His lines are straight and even and precise. And I gather that he hasn’t listened to one word I’ve said.

“Senator?” I say. “I think that—”

I’m interrupted by yet another knock at the door, and without looking up, Senator Thorne waves the person in. This time it’s not Deborah, but a boy who looks approximately twelve years old and as if he dressed for work in his father’s closet. His suit bags at the shoulders and in the arms, and the pants are too long.

“Sir, I just wanted to drop off the one-pager you requested for your Appropriations subcommittee meeting tomorrow,” he says. The
senator takes the paper from him, smiles, and thanks him. As the boy leaves, easing the door closed behind him, I expect Senator Thorne to set the one-pager aside and return to our conversation. Instead, he continues reading. Then, he starts to take a green pen to it.

It has taken me far too long to realize what is happening. Senator Thorne has no real interest in me or in the project I’m here to pitch to him. The only reason I got an appointment with the senator himself was because I was able to drop Zach’s last name and his scheduler or a staffer recognized it and deemed me important enough.

I stare at Senator Thorne and his green pen, scribbling furiously on a document that has nothing to do with me or this meeting, and I seethe. I have spent money we don’t have to fly all the way out here. I have prepared a sheet of facts, figures, and statistics and a compelling pitch. I have staked everything on this meeting going well. And given Zach’s connections and the senator’s repeated insistence, at least in the media spotlight, that he’d do “anything and everything for our boys,” I had no reason to think that it wouldn’t.

It appears I thought wrong.

And now what? I told Brad about this meeting the night before I flew out, as we lay awake next to each other, Jones between us. Without saying a word, he picked up my hand and brought it to his lips. Then he pressed my hand against his cheek and held it there. That was when I knew that we would be all right and that things between us could be patched and made whole again.

But all of that hinges on this meeting—on Senator Thorne’s buy-in. And now I realize that this meeting is a formality, but not in the way I expected.

I pick up my briefcase and pull a packet of papers from it—my own one-pager on our program along with a memo summarizing current research on the therapeutic benefits of psychiatric service dogs—and float it onto the senator’s desk. I took the time to type it
up; I figure I might as well leave the document here with him. Then I close the briefcase and fasten the clasp on it before standing and folding my coat over my arm.

“I’d thank you for your time, Senator, but I don’t know if that’s appropriate in this case.”

Senator Thorne looks up at me, surprised, as though I’ve awoken him from a nap.

He nods and smiles. “Sure thing, Elaine. You let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you, now, okay? And tell your guy Zach I said hello.”

I stare at him. I’m so amazed by his brazenness, his complete disregard for the time and effort I’ve taken to be here, that I actually have to tell myself to close my mouth. But it opens right back up again.

“You say you’ve done so much for our veterans, Senator,” I say, “but you won’t even take one whole minute to listen to something real and effective that’s actually able to help some of them. Not if it won’t get you on television or credit with your constituents, right?”

Senator Thorne’s writing slows, and then stops.

“I’m sure you know that PTSD is currently the fourth-highest service-related injury and that thirty-three percent of all combat-related injuries and sixty percent of the patients with blast-related injuries seen at Walter Reed Army Medical Center have sustained a TBI. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything new when I say that more than half a million veterans suffer from PTSD or traumatic brain injuries—sometimes both—and that there’s no cure for either one.”

Senator Thorne sets his pen down and laces his fingers once again. He’s listening.

“I’m guessing you’re very well aware of how hard it is to even get diagnosed with TBI or PTSD, and as a result, how hard it is to get treatment. Or, once you finally are, how long it takes to get an appointment scheduled.

“Do you know that every day, four or five veterans commit suicide? That there are a thousand suicide attempts a month—and those are only the ones we know about, who are under VA care? How about the fact that more than a hundred and fifty thousand veterans are living on the streets? And that a lot of that can be traced back to the diagnosis and treatment issues?”

I’m incapable of stopping myself. In full lawyer mode, I fire off fact after fact and, because the senator hasn’t tried to talk yet, I keep firing. It occurs to me that I’m filibustering the senator in his own office. I smile inwardly.

“Senator, it’s great that you’ve thrown some money at bases and put your name on a few veteran-related bills—it really is. I’m not discounting those efforts, but behind every one of those numbers I just quoted is a soldier or family suffering out there with real problems that need solving. And no one’s doing a damn thing about it. Mostly because no one knows what
to
do about it.”

I take a breath and Senator Thorne takes advantage. “And you do?” he asks.

“I believe I do, sir.”

He leans back in his chair and groans, lacing his hands behind his head. He buzzes Deborah. “What’s my two o’clock?” he asks her.

“Ramey, at the State Department, sir,” Deborah says.

“Great. See if he’ll push it back until three.” Thorne presses a button and cuts Deborah off. Then he stands up and pockets his cell phone.

“Care to take a walk?” he asks.

We stroll down the National Mall. It’s hot and muggy, and I don’t need a suit jacket, much less an overcoat. Both are draped over my shoulder bag, leaving my bone white arms to stick out of the sleeveless shirt I have on. These arms haven’t been touched by sun in
months, and with D.C. far ahead of Michigan in seasons, their translucence looks misplaced here among the green grass and blooming flowers.

My flats kick up small clouds of dust on the dirt path, and I’m thankful that I thought to stow a pair of walking shoes in my bag. A hike like this in heels might have crippled me.

The path stretches out in front of us, straight and seemingly endless, but Senator Thorne, still fully dressed in his business best, chats amicably about his memories of Zach and how much things have changed here since 9/11. When it seems that he’s run out of small talk, he says, “So how did you get involved in all this, anyway?”