Where Shade and Light Merge

He had fallen asleep under the willow again. Hope peered out the kitchen window. She could see the dark outline of his body as starlight and wind pushed protective fronds around him. Her brother, an Iraq and Afghanistan combat veteran, had once more found temporary alcohol-induced solace. Ray had been back for months and still, he could not sleep in a bed. There was one for him in her spare bedroom, and another set up in a makeshift living quarter in the detached garage. Sometimes in the pre-dawn light, she would find him hanging off a couch, rounded on the bathroom floor, or face down on the skinny, threadbare carpet by the humming refrigerator door. But mostly, he didn’t sleep. Hope recurrently heard him rattling around the house at night, closets and cabinets opened and closed, the television channels surfed, then stilled. Often when she rose, her bladder being pressed upon by her burgeoning baby, she would catch glimpses of him outside, moving with the moon in and out of shadow, trees, or sitting motionless in the crow’s nest of the wooden play structure she and Gabrielle had found discarded in pieces and then had laboriously reconstructed for their children to be.

****

When Ray returned from active duty, his system was still hard-wired, and in overdrive. The permanent vigilance and the wakefulness that had ensured survival remained at the ready. Letting go was impossible even though his rational mind understood he was no longer on the battlefield. Unless his guard was temporarily stripped bare by alcohol, a most alluring seductress, he remained watchful beyond the possibility of sleep.

****

First, he felt the gentle stroking of weeping willow fingers across his face. Then he reluctantly acknowledged the dull heaviness of his head, and the cotton absorbed dryness in his mouth. And finally, when the thin wisp branches could no longer keep an insistent sun from pushing in, ribbons of light dancing across his upturned face, he opened his eyes. Not too far from him, seated in oversized colorful plastic Adirondack chairs around the cold fire pit, were his mother and sister. Steady and true, they kept vigil when he was too numb. Since his return, they had been there, trying their best to uphold. He saw their struggle in the tension that stretched across their shoulders and in the way they exchanged furtive glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. What are we going to do now? How can we help him? Will he ever be the same?

He knew being with him wasn’t easy. He had arrived home and announced while smiling, but with a cold, non-negotiable voice, “No Welcome Home party, I mean it. I just can’t.” In the car, while his mother drove, he saw his sister frantically texting, sending out a network of messages, and canceling a party she had been planning for years. And even when he walked into Hope and Gabrielle’s home, stoically seeing decorations crammed into closets, secrets spilling out, the same Dollar General tablecloths and decorations used to send him off years ago, and a refrigerator full of welcome home food, he couldn’t tap into that part of him that felt bad for his sister or his mother. He acted as though nothing had been planned, as though he’d been away for a long weekend.

Out of the spare bedroom window, he watched emotionlessly as Hope and Gabrielle sprinted out the front door, the sound of their voices echoing as they shooed away those they hadn’t reached and pushing an ancient Mrs. Robertson in a wheelchair back across their lawn toward the waiting nursing home van. At the same time, she looked around, confused and searching for her favorite Sunday school pupil, her skeleton-thin hands shaking in a shrunken lap. This simple task of reintegration, of mingling with people from his past, of connecting with individuals who would pepper him with questions and demands, seemed overwhelming, almost impossible. Assimilation in a world that had moved on without him was daunting enough. Add to that an overarching confusion. When you are in a war, all you want to do is return home. And when you are home, all you can do is think about the soldiers and what they are sacrificing. He could not stop ruminating about what they were going through, feeling guilty being stateside. Allowing himself to do anything normal seemed like a flagrant disregard for their service. Since his arrival, coping had not gotten easier.

From his perspective, observing his sister and mother through almost translucent, moving willow leaflets, where shade and light rippled and merged, the scene looked like an impressionist’s brushed rendition of a reality he no longer felt a part of. They talked quietly, drinking water from jelly jars. He could tell when his sister sensed he was awake; she didn’t break conversational stride, but something subtly shifted in her tone, and she quickly glanced his way to confirm what she already knew.

As he stood and staggered, trying to get his stiff body moving, he tucked himself as deeply as possible in the foliage and, using the tree’s large, knotted trunk as cover, unable to hold it any longer, he urinated, hitting the base of the tree to prevent any sound, ashamed. He'd passed out again.

What’s wrong with me? Where is the high school graduate who dedicated himself to paramedic school, became licensed, and served his community? Where is the disciplined soldier that was forged in boot camp?

The morning bluebell sky reeled. He felt disconnected and disgusted. Before boot camp, the taste and how alcohol made him feel was enough to keep him from imbibing more than a drink or two at a time. Since his honorable discharge from active duty, something had shifted.

She called to him, a most demanding, insatiable mistress, luring him with seductive promises. I have the power to ease your pain. I alone can help you forget. And try, as he might, a pattern emerged. Ray would sober up and do what they expected of him, study to take his re-licensure exam, and help Hope and Gabrielle with projects around their home. He was even toying with enrolling at Northeastern, maybe studying to become a nurse, a physician’s assistant, or even applying to medical school. He would do well for a week, ten days, or so, then something, a random sight, a smell, a sensation would trigger the deep need in him to escape, and he would start to drink. The purchase would come out of the paper bag; he would tip the bottle back and let the peppermint schnapps blossom in his throat, liquid relief. Even though his intellect knew this was a bad idea, once the need for oblivion started, he would drink and slide into the darkness while everything else around him fell apart.

When he stepped out from under the willow, Hope nonchalantly offered him a tall drink of lemon-infused water. He sat feeling defeated and exhausted. They smiled at him, warm and accepting, trying not to let the worry show, and continued their conversation as if Ray had been sitting with them all along. Ray sighed. He was resigned. Today he would be better. Today, he would start again.

They watched Gabrielle, carrying a pitcher of fresh, iced water, walk across a long stretch of the backyard. His mom glanced at Hope, who gave her a barely perceptible nod. She took a deep breath and started talking. The words sounded rehearsed. “Our church marquee has a new message. Finally, after years of ‘Pray for our Troops,’ this week is about forgiveness. Forgiveness is swallowing when you would rather spit.”

Ray raised an eyebrow at Hope and Gabrielle, who bit back smiles.

Maria, not noticing the exchange, continued in all seriousness. “Anyway, your father has been working on a sermon for a while, and he wonders if you would come to church this Sunday. Ray, I know he’s been hard on you, but he has softened. He wanted me to personally invite you and let you know that you are welcome to attend anytime. The doors are always open.” She leaned back and blew out a small puff of air as if glad to have completed what she was charged to do. Gabrielle gracefully moved around the small circle, refilling their glasses. She set the half-full pitcher down on the fire pit’s red brick rim and slid into the dark blue chair next to Hope.

The weight of his mother’s words settled over him. Seeping in was the pain of rejection, of feeling like he had never been enough, of having let down a father he had loved and looked up to. And not once, while he was away, had his father reached out to him or let him know that he was thinking of him or even cared.

“I am not the prodigal son! I am not begging my father for absolution. There’s no reason for me to repent and ask forgiveness. I was serving my country, and if that’s not honorable enough for him, then so be it.”

Maria and Hope tried not to look confused by the forcefulness of his voice. Ray knew this was a side of him they hadn’t seen before. Was anger a result of what he had been through, or had the emotions been there, beneath the surface, all along? Heck, if he knew. Seeing the impact of his words, like a slap to his mother’s face, Ray took a long drink of water and, with measured temperance, explained. “Dad made his thoughts clear that I have been nothing but a disappointment. Just because I was born? Or because I didn’t follow his prescribed script? That’s one of the great mysteries of my life, something that will never be solved. But what I know for sure is that I don’t need one of his famous sermons pointing out, in front of the whole congregation, the error of my ways and what a terrible person I am.” He stopped short of telling the women in his life that he already felt horrible. The titanic weight of his decisions and all he had experienced were like piercing pieces of shrapnel sticking out of his internal organs, causing internal hemorrhaging and jagged soul destruction. How do you find your way out of that?

“Hey, Buddy.” The voice behind him caused a visceral reaction.

“Miggy.” Ray stood and allowed himself to be pulled into a bear hug. Slung across Miguel’s face was a broad grin. Running shoes were around his shoulders. Though from looking at his friend, Ray surmised that he hadn’t hit the track since their high school days.

“What’s up, Miggy?” Ray plopped back into the bright red deck chair and wiped his brow. He could smell the alcohol evaporating from his pores.

“You, my friend, are going to help me get back into shape.” He tapped his rounded, beer-built belly, sending ripples underneath his triple X Tee. “The misses and I are trying to get pregnant. She blames my slow swimmers on my slow body, and she keeps telling me that she doesn’t want to, but if she must, she will start shopping around for a newer, more finely tuned model, one that can get her pregnant and won’t drop dead while raising her children.”

Miguel plopped his large body into the yellow chair, which quietly protested, sinking a good two inches into the sand surrounding the fire pit. He pulled a pair of socks out of his gym shorts, slipped off his sandals, and started tying up his tennis shoes.

“Right now?” Ray was incredulous. His body protested. The night of binge drinking was still working through his system. Yet, another part of him responded. Running was something akin to breathing, something he had done religiously since adolescence. Yet, since his return, he had not gone once.

“No time like the present.” Miguel stood and started going through some stretching exercises Coach Lightfoot would have them do before practice. “Look, I am so out of shape. I’m going to need lots of help. Today I don’t work. But maybe, on days I do, we can go for a jog before my shift starts. You’ll have to go easy on me. It’ll take this body some time to adjust.”

Ray quietly observed his friend, who could no longer bend over and touch the ground, his midsection stopping him halfway.

Miguel looked up. “Come on, man, stop gawking at the train wreck. I need your support.”

With Ray jogging easily by his side, Miguel lumbered down the long, rut-strewn drive. In the infinite sky, an eagle turned a great circle above them. And so, they began a tentatively renewed friendship. For Ray, the commitment was to help Miggy get back in shape. For Miguel, the far-flung attempt went deeper; prompted by a desperate visit from Hope and Maria to remind Ray of what grounded him.

“We need your help, Miguel.” Hope had tears in her eyes, and Maria thrust a newspaper into his hands. The article revealed the results of a recent study. On average, twenty veterans commit suicide daily. “We don’t want him to be a statistic.” Ray’s mother had gripped his arm tightly, pleading, “Por favor.”

And here Miguel was doing something he told himself he would never do again, exercise regularly. Each step Miguel took, each fraction of a mile, was a labor of love for his friend, an effort to keep him from going further down a rabbit hole, one from which there was no return.

****

A new arrangement emerged. Before dawn, Ray would lace up and run the two miles to Miguel’s house. From there, they would jog together. And when they were done, after Miggy went through his front gate, sweating profusely, breathing heavily, and waving goodbye, Ray would run some more. As he moved across the terrain of his life, running over the roads and paths of his youth, Ray felt lighter. When he pushed his body to the edge, self-doubt, memory, fear, and guilt struggled to find purchase.

One morning, as Ray increased his pace, he saw before him two diametrically opposed identities. The first was a hardened warrior who had been forged at boot camp and had taken over when he was flown into Camp Rustamiyah by Chinook. That was the one who had been in the forefront, the one who had returned impenetrable and numb to his hometown. And somewhere buried deeply, there existed, or at least Ray hoped he was still there, an ordinary denizen of the world, an everyday friend, brother, worker, son, a more centered translation of himself.

Ray was sprinting now, taking a route he usually avoided, one that had more foot and vehicle traffic through the streets of Tahlequah. What was he now—a soldier, a civilian? And where did he fit in? Strong and fleet of foot, he raced across the grocery store’s parking lot, less than a mile to go.

****

She would recognize that stride anywhere. Their lives had been loosely entangled for four of her formative years, a total of eight combined cross-country and track-and-field seasons. She had grown up around those memories carrying them within her. And at this moment, seeing him run across the parking lot in the morning light, she felt her pulse quicken as if to match his. Everything in her wanted to call out to him, as she would have done when she was a child, or better yet, to race toward him, to catch up, then match him, stride for stride. How wonderful it would be to run by his side again and hear the laughter of Blink and Squirt. But that image was part of her childhood. The little girl was long gone. Life was simple and uncomplicated then. Ray represented the innocent sweetness of a schoolgirl crush.

While watching his figure recede into the unfolding morning, Leo wistfully hugged the memory and the grocery bag close to her chest. A determined Oklahoma wind rushed by, catching her hair. She felt a charge in the air as the current passed through her.