His mouth is barely open with a tube going down his throat. If Rodriguez could see himself right now, he’d be pissed. Mad that his mother has to see this. Mad at himself that he couldn’t die right.
The one thing he’s always cherished, before his daughter came along, is his mother. Talked about her. Told stories about his upbringing, proud of the hard-working woman she was.
Robby’s face is so swollen; it doesn’t resemble Robby at all.
We had to see this coming, I tell myself.
Toward the end, Robby lived recklessly. I’m not sure if he wanted to die, but I know living, for him, was much harder than most.
One of the machines he’s hooked up to beeps.
One beep.
Two beeps.
Pause.
One beep.
Two beeps.
Stop.
I don’t say anything, not sure he can hear me or what my words might sound like in his head. But I think about our deployments.
We were moved from one area in Fallujah to another. It was our second deployment together. Off in the distance, we heard gunshots, which wasn’t out of the norm. That was when Robby was starting to fade to black. He leaned back, and out of his fatigues, he pulled out a flask.
“What are you doing?” The M27 rifle—Lila, he called it—rested on his shoulder.
He took a long swig, watching me while seconds passed by. “Gettin’ right.” He screwed the lid back on.
We never drank and handled our weapons. I’d seen him drink hard outside the uniform, without the gun, in civilian clothes and wallet full of money. I’d even seen him get to the point of falling down but never this. This drew the line in the sand. It separated the heavy drinkers and the alcoholics. It separated the controlled drinkers and the uncontrollable drinkers. I wasn’t sure Robby had a choice anymore—whether to drink or not to drink.
The shit we saw over there, we will never forget. Ever. Ingrained, imprinted on our minds like a tattoo amid the color of regret. Robby’s best attempt at freedom was to drink it away. I must admit, from my own experience, the alcohol works for a while, and then it doesn’t. The chaos gets louder. The desperation grows, and then you’re stuck.
Another loud beep from one of the numerous machines sounds, and I’m brought back to the dark hospital room, alone with someone who resembles my friend Robby.
War. This—Robby—is what war looks like right now. Like a disease, it spreads, eating away at our unconscious mind in hopes that it will take us down to ashes.
I feel a hand on my back. The machine beeps again.
“The machine is beeping,” I say to the hand on my back—or the human attached to the hand. It’s hard for me to come back, to be coherent in the present moment.
The hand slides from my back and uses its fingers to coax my hand up, which is balled at my waist.
“It’s okay,” the voice says.
Slowly, my fist opens, and the hand gently slides in. The skin is soft in my palm.
The scent that surrounds me is familiar. It’s a scent I associate with good feelings.
The beeping stops.
Thank God, the beeping stops.
The warm hand patiently sits in my palm.
“Ethan,” the voice whispers, “we can go if you want. Maria went down the hall to check in with the doctor.”
It’s Bryce. She’s here, and I associate the smell and her soft skin. It helps draw me back from the edge of nowhere.
My heart begins to pound—and not because of what she does to me, but because I’m not sure where I am or if this is all real.
“Bryce?” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
I don’t respond. Maybe the question was to verify her identity since I haven’t been able to take my eyes off Robby—or what represents Robby, which is a hollow shell of someone I used to know.
“Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you need some fresh air?”
“Yeah.”
Bryce gently pulls at my arm, alarming my feet to move.
The white overhead lighting of the hospital hurts my eyes as we enter the hallway, as if the sun had risen too quickly.
Bryce keeps pace with my feet that move, though I’m not wiling them to; they’re doing it on their own. I’m amazed at how well the human body works.
It walks.
Moves.
Breathes.
Pushes.
Stops.
Holds.
She takes me to the elevator and pushes the number one button. Soft instrumental music plays while we make our descent.
Her hand stays in mine.
I look down at her as she watches the light move to the number one position in the row of numbers. My heart beats against my chest as my breathing becomes shallower; it’s harder to breathe.
My hand tightens around Bryce’s hand. “Is that too tight?” I ask.
“No,” she says, her eyes finally coming away from the lights.
The elevator doors open. She takes the lead, and I follow her out of the hospital to the fresh, cool air.
I suck in a big gulp of air, and my hands fall to my knees. I’m suddenly aware of the world around me.
Cars drive on the road out front.
I feel the drops of rain begin to beat against my face as I stand.
It’s chilly, I think to myself as I suck in another mouthful of fresh air.
“Ethan?” Bryce asks.
What happened in there? I want to ask, but I don’t want to scare Bryce. I like her a lot. I don’t want anything to change between us, and yet I want everything to change.
I want to be the man who lifts her over the threshold of a new home.
I want to be the father of her children.
I want to be the man she’s been looking for.
I want to be all that.
But something tells me I can’t. She can’t have a fractured man. She doesn’t deserve a fractured man. She deserves someone who wakes up in the morning and doesn’t have to deal with a closet full of demons. She deserves a man who is as good on the outside as he is on the inside. Solid. Well built.
“Yeah?” I say.
“Drink some water.” She hands me a water bottle.
Bryce turns to me. Stares straight into me. Gently reaches up and holds my face in her hands. “Where’d you go?”
To a place I can’t control. It’s where I went after we made love for the first time in Los Angeles, I want to say but don’t. A place where time and space don’t exist.
I should answer her. She deserves an explanation, but I can’t give it to her because I’m not really sure what happens either.
Snap the fuck out of it, Ethan. Answer the fucking question.
“Robby took me back,” I lie. Back to the days where we measured another day served by the sunset and another day of living by the sunrise.
Bryce’s eyes burn into mine. Fierce. With hope though and conviction. Her hands stay on my cheeks. Where most people would probably ask if I’m okay, she doesn’t, and I like that. The truth is, I’m not sure I’m okay. I’m not sure if I’ll be all right.
The only thing that is promised in life after birth is death.
She deserves more of a man, Ethan. You know that.
Undamaged goods. You could be that person, Ethan. You could be. With more work with James. You really could be.
She deserves more than you can give, Ethan. So much more. Let her go.
Something inside me tells me I can’t.
“And what else?” she asks.
I try to pause this moment. She’s touching me, not sexually. Touching me in a way that helps her heart and mind. Through the tips of her fingers. I feel this. She doesn’t know this, but I do.
“Ethan, what else?” she asks again.
I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want to visit the dark places Robby and I spent too much time in. I don’t want to tell her any of this. Because, if I do, will I look at her differently? Will I look at Bryce and attach the feelings of what we brought home from war to her? I can’t have that. If anything remains of us, we have to be friends. I can’t risk that. Or worse, will she look at me and think I’m an animal?
I pull my cheeks away from her hands that cradles them like a mother would her child. “I can’t go there with you, Bryce. I won’t.”
Her eyes still on me, she moves with my every flinch, my every blink, my every breath. “Then, come with me.” She takes me by the hand and pulls me to the truck. “Give me your keys.”
I hand them over, and then we climb into my truck. “Do you know how to drive a stick?” I ask.
Bryce looks at me through the corner of her eyes. “Ethan, you underestimate a city girl. First, I drive a mean stick. Second, I milked cows on my grandparents’ farm for many summers.”
I listen to the low hum of the tires against the road and try to process what she’s just said.
“Ethan, what can I do to help you feel better?”
I turn my stare to her. What I want and what I need are two different things usually, but right now—they’re exactly the same. “You,” I whisper.
Bryce doesn’t smile at this. In fact, I’m unsure she’s even breathing.
She says, “You’re going to do what you need to with my body. If this is what you need to forget the current situation your friend is in, you will use my body to forget. Just for the night. Understand?”
What about tomorrow? I want to ask.
Bryce makes her way back to our motel.
Turns.
Bites her lip.
Smiles. Even if it lasts for only three seconds, I’ll take it.
Turns again.
“Thanks for driving,” I say because I think she knows this is important to me.
“You’re welcome.” Bryce pulls into the spot in front of our room. Turns off the truck. Pulls the key out of the ignition.
Nothing makes a sound after that.
A slow trickle of rain starts on the windshield.
“Come inside, Ethan,” Bryce says.