His words settled like rocks and boulders in
my chest.
How long-lasting?
I wanted to ask.
Ten
years? Twenty? Sixty?
I stared off into space, into nothing, while
the lecture veered off on a different tangent. At least I assumed
it had, for I could no longer focus.
My concentration was scattered, and my
overwrought mind was teeming with implications.
Will Liam never be able to restore himself?
Restore his heart?
Will he never be healed, even if he does
seek help?
Is the old Liam lost to me forever?
At the end of class, Professor Marquez
startled me when he stopped by my desk. “Miss Sorenson,” he said
sharply, “come see me in my office in half an hour.”
A large framed picture caught my eye the
second I stepped into Professor Marquez’s office. It was hard to
miss, practically taking up an entire wall. I stopped to give it
the attention it demanded. The historic picture depicted six
soldiers raising an American flag atop Mount Suriabachi during the
Battle of Iwo Jima in World War II.
Below the picture, a caption read:
Our flag does not fly
because the wind moves it
…
It flies from the last breath of each soldier who
died protecting it.
“
I think a man with
a
helmet
defending his country should
make
more money
than a man with a
helmet
defending a
football, don’t you think?” A deep voice spoke from behind
me.
As I spun around,
Professor Marquez said, “Have a seat.” He spoke
without bothering to glance up from his computer.
I adjusted the bag on my
shoulder, edged farther into his office, and sat down. My eyes
rested on the
stacks of folders arranged
with scary precision atop his desk.
Leather creaked as the professor sat back in
his chair, fingers steepled at the tips. “Your last three papers
don’t reflect the quality of your work. I’ve seen what you can do.”
He reached for a manila folder and tossed it across his desk. “And
you can do much better than this.”
I worried my lower lip between my teeth
before flipping it open.
My heart sank. A red C minus stared back at
me.
“
But—” I looked up into
the professor’s impassive face. “I put a lot of effort into
this.”
His brows furrowed at my reaction. “Good work
deserves a good grade. But good effort?” He shrugged. “That’s not
always rewarded with a good grade.”
“
I’m sorry.” I wrung my
hands in my lap. “I’ve just had a really hard month.”
The professor frowned, almost imperceptibly.
“You, like so many other students, seem to have this ‘entitlement
mentality.’ You think that the world should work around you. Well,
let me tell you, Miss Sorenson. It doesn’t. The world sets
expectations and if you want to succeed, you need to meet those
expectations. The corporate world is largely unforgiving of people
who don’t meet expectations simply because they’ve had a hard
month, especially given today’s job market.”
“
I know,” I said in a
rush. “I realize that. And I’m trying. I really am.”
He pursed his lips and tapped a finger
against them, studying me.
Exhaling slowly, I resisted the impulse to
look away. And I wanted to explain, to offload my thoughts, but I
couldn’t exactly sound off to the professor.
“
Let me hazard a guess,”
he began. “This change in you is somehow connected to this friend
of yours who
may
or
may
not
be suffering from PTSD.”
Mutely, I nodded once.
“
And who is helping you
with
your
war,
Miss Sorenson?”
I blinked, startled by his question.
Narrow-set eyes peered at me through thick
glasses. “Who is helping you with your war?” he repeated.
“
I—” I stammered out. “I
don’t know what you mean.”
He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“I was a Vietnam vet. Staff Sergeant E-6. When I came home, I
brought the war home with me.” He paused. “It took a serious toll
on my wife. She absorbed all my pain and trauma until she herself
became mentally and physically exhausted. Instead of tending to her
own life, she poured all her energy into mine.”
I swallowed hard, and he continued. “My wife
slipped into a role, becoming my caretaker. Most days, she tiptoed
around my mood swings and made sure nothing aggravated me. On top
of that, she handled all the household chores, took care of our
kids, managed our finances.” He pinched his eyes briefly. “Finally,
it all came to a tipping point. The strain became too much. All
that stress and dealing with my PTSD became so overwhelming that
she finally succumbed to stress’ cousin.”
“
Depression?” I
asked.
“
Yes,” he confirmed.
“Depression.”
“
But…” I countered.
“I’m
not
depressed.”
“
I’m not saying you are,
Miss Sorenson. I’m merely sharing my own personal experiences with
PTSD. Take from it what you will.”
Moments passed before I spoke. “How did you
and your wife work through it?”
“
Lot of counseling. In
time, she learned to set boundaries with me. And when she set
boundaries, she set limits. She learned when to say
no
and when to
say
yes
to me,
and when she did, she did so out of choice, not guilt or
obligation.”
“
I see.” I inhaled
sharply. “And you and Mrs. Marquez… you two are in a good place
now?”
He smiled. A genuine smile, and deep lines
pleated in the corners of his eyes. “We are.”
I thought about this for a second. “So you’ve
fully recovered from PTSD?”
“
I’m not recovered, Miss
Sorenson, but I’m recovering. Life is tentative and I’ve come to
accept that recovery is a lifelong process. The pain and the guilt…
it’s always there and my PTSD symptoms still flare up from time to
time. There is no silver bullet or panacea to transform my ghosts
into ancestors. To take on killing, be it one or one hundred, is to
take on a psychic and spiritual burden.”
I nodded with
understanding and he went on, “Even when the killing is totally
justified and in self-defense, it takes a heavy toll. Unless one is
a sociopath or a psychopath, there is no way around that. People
talk about giving one’s life as the ultimate sacrifice, and
it
is
. But taking
a life is also a sacrifice. A terrible burden that we ask those who
serve in the military to bear.” He grew quiet for a moment, his
expression pensive. “Even though it’s been over forty years, I
still carry the burdens of combat. I still see the faces of the men
I killed in Vietnam. The nightmares, the anguish, the guilt… it all
lingers even decades later.” A deep sadness hung from his words,
making them heavy.
After a pause, I said, “But you seem so
normal now… so well adjusted. Can you tell me what helped you?”
“
Time,” he said. “And a
good therapist. He wasn’t just some doctor who watched the clock.
He was a vet who’d fought in Germany. He understood what I was
going through, and he actually cared. And I wouldn’t be where I am
today if it weren’t for my wife’s love, her resilience. She didn’t
try to talk me out of my feelings or insinuate that I should just
move on and get over it. She always listened to me without defining
or judging me.”
I stared at my lap. A hard knot formed in my
stomach. I was nothing like the professor’s wife. I’d asked Liam to
move on, to snap out of it.
“
Relationships can be
complicated,” Professor Marquez went on. “But think of it as a verb
instead of a noun. A fluid process that changes with time. My
wife’s patience and her generous heart helped me grow and regrow.
But it wasn’t easy, and it’s still isn’t easy.” He sighed. “I
wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d left me then, and I wouldn’t
blame her if she chose to leave me today.”
I fell silent as I absorbed his words,
picking at my nails. They were a wreck, much like how I was feeling
inside.
Seconds passed before I glanced up and nodded
to show him I understood.
He slipped his glasses back on and then
turned to face his monitor.
That was my cue to leave.
I stood and grabbed my bag, bumping against
his desk as I moved toward the door.
Dimly, I registered a printer humming and
purring in the background.
The professor rose from his chair, crossed
the room, and retrieved the printout.
I smiled my thanks when he handed it to
me.
“
Read this when you have a
chance,” he said. “Listen to your friend. Sometimes the best thing
you can do is just listen.”
With a brief nod, I folded the paper in two
and stuffed it into my bag.
At the doorway, I paused mid-step and spun
around. “Why?” I asked the professor. “Why are you being so nice to
me?”
His answering sigh was a slow, tired rasp.
“I’m doing it for your friend. Soldiers and warriors like him,
they’ve sacrificed so much for our country. Don’t you think they
deserve our full support in their battle for love?”
I stared at him for a long moment, nodded
again, then turned to leave.
Outside in the parking lot, I reached into my
bag and withdrew the printout.
It was a poem simply titled “Listen. An
Appeal by an Unknown Author.”
When I ask you to listen to me
and you start to give me advice,
you have not done what I asked.
When I ask you to listen to me
and you begin to tell me why I shouldn’t
feel that way,
you are trampling on my feelings.
When I ask you to listen to me
and you feel you have to do something to
solve my problem,
you have failed me, strange as that may
seem.
Listen! All I ask is that you listen.
Not talk or do—just hear me.
I can do for myself. I’m not helpless.
Maybe discouraged and faltering, but not
helpless.
When you do something for me that I can, and
need to do for myself,
you contribute to my fear and weakness.
But when you accept as a simple fact
that I am feeling what I feel no matter how
irrational it might be,
then I can get on with understanding what is
behind this feeling.
Perhaps that is why prayer works for so many
people.
God is silent and He doesn’t give advice or
try to fix things.
He just listens and lets you work it out for
yourself.
So, please listen and just hear me.
And if you want to talk, wait a minute for
your turn.
Then I’ll listen to
you
.
Chapter Twenty-One
Liam
Vivian’s words had raked across an open
wound, drawing fresh blood. That sometimes being with me was even
worse than being with her abusive ex, Brody.
Her honesty couldn’t have cut me more deeply
had she skewered me with a knife.
It hurt. There was no denying that.
Viv was tough and she had found it within
herself to leave Brody.
Would she leave me, too?
Pain sliced through my gut.
No.
I clutched the silver medallion around my neck.
No, she wouldn’t
.
She’d been pretty adamant
that she wasn’t going anywhere.
Even after
all the fucked-up shit I’d put her through, she still loved me
enough to stay.
It was humbling. And I felt like I didn’t
deserve her.
Dropping my face in my hands, I uttered a low
curse.
It was frustrating as
hell, knowing how I used to be and not be able to
be
that person again.
Some days I felt like I was drowning in a pool of
darkness.
The loss of so many friends, and especially
the loss of Shelby, was like a gaping hole with sharp, serrated
teeth.
And I couldn’t stop blaming myself. I blamed
myself for Merrick’s injury. I blamed myself for taking the lives
of that innocent Iraqi family.
All the justifications in the world,
legitimate or not, couldn’t sever me from the guilt and the
regret.
I still heard the gunshots, the explosions. I
wanted to stuff my fingers in my ears and pretend I didn’t hear
them, but I still did. All the time.
I was afraid I was losing my fuckin’
mind.
Now I was afraid I was losing Vivian. And
more than anything, I feared I was hurting her.
I’d hated Brody for
hurting her.
Hated
that he was the one who doused the sparkle in her eyes and
erased the smile from her face.
I’d despised and resented everything Brody
had done to her.
And here I was doing the same.
That was the moment I knew… I knew I had to
make some changes. Major changes.
But first, I needed to do one thing. Grabbing
a backpack out of the closet, I stalked toward my dresser and
opened the top drawer.
For a frozen moment, I simply stared at the
drawer full of decorations: a Silver Star, two Bronze Stars, a
Purple Heart, five Army Commendation medals, six Army Achievement
medals, Joint SVC Commendation medal, an Iraqi Campaign medal, a
Global War on Terror Expeditionary medal, and an Armed Forces
Expeditionary medal.