Pretend I’m Yours

1 Charlie Two Years Ago It’s in the middle of a drizzly spring afternoon that I lose her. “Bye, John,” I say to the older man putting away the gray folding chairs with a snap. We’re in a dingy church basement, but at least the church lets us meet here for free. “Charlie,” John says. His cheeks are bright pink, his eyes deep blue. His clothes are several sizes too big and blandly beige. He nods his graying head to me, then goes back to intently stacking the chairs. I take a last sip of my coffee, wincing at the sweetness of it. I put way too much sugar in it, but it can’t be helped now. I throw away the dregs in my paper cup, and the paper napkin that I have balled up in one fist, holding the crumbs of a bland store bought cookie. “Watch out,” someone calls out, just in time to stop me from running into a sign that hangs from the ceiling. The ceilings here are so low that there’s only a few inches between them and the top of my head. I guess there aren’t a whole lot of guys built like Vikings walking around here. Still, the warning is appreciated. “Thanks,” I call back, but the person that warned me is halfway out the metal doors that lead to the parking lot. I look around, a little deflated. I’m a big guy, former Army and CIA. I ended up here because of my panic attacks and nightmares. My wife Britta told me it was this or sleep on the couch every night, because there was no way she was going to let me keep waking her up. Between her being nine months pregnant at the time and me not even fitting on the couch… I knew that I needed help. So I made some calls. Three types of group therapy later, and here I am. I sigh, cycling through some of the ideas presented during the session, turning them over in my head. The idea of vulnerability, of allowing yourself to be vulnerable around another person, was talked about a lot. Listening to some people talk, I’m glad that I have Britta by my side. She pulled me back from the brink after I got back from Syria, and she’s the thing that holds me here now. I pull out my phone. I’m thinking nice thoughts about you, I text Britta. No immediate response, but that’s okay. I stuff my phone back into the pocket of my jeans. I should go. There are a few people still talking by the refreshments table, but the rest of my new support group — Combat Vets Talk — have already left. As I head for the metal double doors, my eyes sweep the basement one last time, automatically checking the moldering walls and the cheap blue carpet for… What? I ask myself. Enemy combatants? Threats? I left all of that behind in the sandy cityscape of Aleppo, where I was stationed as a CIA operative. That was a year ago, and yet I am just now starting to recover. Thus the group therapy sessions. Well, I should give credit where credit is due: Britta and our newborn daughter are an integral part of my recovery, too. Watching Britta’s baby bump grow, and then holding Sarah for the first time… it changed something in me, on a molecular level. Now I don’t know what I would do without them. They’re the light of my life, not to be Debbie Boone about it. I push open the door and squint into the sunny daylight. It’s just beginning to rain, but that’s pretty much a constant here in Seattle. Besides, the rain is a nice break from the roasting heat of the church basement. The raindrops hit my arms and face, icy relief. I pull on my navy blue windbreaker and head toward my car. There aren’t many cars left in the church parking lot; it’s a Saturday afternoon, and it’s pretty nice out, despite the drizzle. Most people in Seattle are probably having brunch or hiking or shopping right now. Me, I’m just ready to go to the library, to meet Britta and Sarah. I picture them in my head: Britta with her long dark hair and warm smile. Sarah in her onesie, with her mom’s coloring and my green eyes. In the picture in my head, Britta carries the baby in her little striped front-facing harness while Sarah dozes. Sarah is only three months old, but Britta says it’s never too early to introduce her to the library. We’ve been lightheartedly arguing about what sort of things we should read to Sarah. Britta says it doesn’t matter, but I’m advocating for starting with reading the baby the news in several languages. After all, it’s never too early to encourage critical thinking skills, right? My mind is focused on that when I slide into my car and start the engine. I pull out of the parking lot and go left, my hands turning the wheel, muscle memory taking over. I made the mistake of turning on NPR in the car. I can’t listen to it without getting wrapped up in the stories, having a lot of personal feelings about them, and filing each story away in my mental vault with precision. I get a couple miles from home when I realize that I’ve gone on autopilot. The library is the other way. I glance at the clock in my car. I’m probably going to be late to meet Britta. Turning around, I head northwest, the same way that I would if I were leaving my house. Something on the radio distracts me; I’m irritated with the White House trying to poke their nose into what’s going on with Syria, and doing it badly. I see a car crash up ahead when I turn a corner, twisted hunks of metal surrounded by several police cars with flashing lights. A cop is waving people around it; another is half-heartedly pulling police tape around the scene. I almost turn right, to avoid the traffic building up, but for some reason I don’t. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone loves to see a traffic accident. We all secretly like to see the car that flipped upside down, to try to figure out how it happened. Wipe our figurative brows and sigh with relief that it wasn’t us, as we drive away. Anyway, I’m listening to NPR, and drumming on the steering wheel as I wait for the cop to wave me through. I crane my head to look at the accident as I wait, judging the distance between the two cars. There’s no question of anyone ever driving either vehicle again. Hell, if people didn’t die in such a savage wreck, they should thank their lucky f*****g stars. Car A is a shiny new black Dodge Charger, and it’s smashed up pretty bad. Car B is laying on its side, undercarriage facing me, and it has clearly rolled a couple of times. It looks like Car A t-boned Car B, and Car B rolled to a stop, frozen on its side like that. I try to make out what kind of vehicle it is, but all I can figure is that Car B is a dark SUV. A tingle of foreboding runs down my spine. Britta drives a dark SUV, a black Nissan Pathfinder. Easy, I tell myself. She’s at the library, probably wondering where you are. I edge up, progressing slowly through the line. Finally it’s my turn to be waved through, and I carefully move forward. I can’t help but stare at Car A and Car B, and at the numerous police walking around, making notes and taking pictures. I’m almost past the wreck entirely, about to speed up, when something catches my eye. One of the police officers is cataloging some personal effects that probably came from Car B, and she’s putting a blanket in a large evidence bag. The blanket is heart-stoppingly familiar to me. Made for a baby, it depicts a scene with two bears fishing in a river. The thing is, I’ve only seen that blanket design in one place: on a handmade blanket, made for Sarah by Britta’s mother. I stomp on the brakes while my brain starts to overheat, working overtime. Maybe Britta’s mother bought the blanket, and there are multiples out there is the world. Or maybe— The car behind me honks, jolting me. I move forward again, pulling over as soon as I’m clear of the accident. My heart is pounding, all the blood rushing through my head, making it hard to think. I turn around, looking back at the accident. The blanket is no longer visible. I try to make out what model the SUV is, but from this angle, it’s impossible. I start to shake as I unbuckle my seatbelt and pull my phone out of my pocket. Britta beams at me as she holds Sarah; that’s the picture on my screen as I dial her number with clumsy fingers. It rings four times. I glance in my rearview mirror on the fifth ring, and see the woman who is bagging things pick up one of the bags. My heart goes into freefall when I see that she’s holding a cell phone. No. No, it can’t be. I get out of the car, conscious of the fact that the edges of my vision are swimming around, growing unclear. That’s the first sign of a panic attack, but just now that’s the last thing on my mind. “Sir?” a young woman steps in front of me as I start to charge over. “The accident,” I say, not even looking at the officer. I’m too focused on looking at the things still on the ground, trying to see if I recognize anything. “Where are the people who were hurt?” She reaches out to stop me when I try to move closer. “Sir, you need—” I grab her wrist, my gaze locking with hers, desperate. My heart begins to beat faster, so fast that I think I might faint. My breath comes in short gasps, my vision is hazy, my hands tingle. I am totally out of control. “It might be my wife,” I manage. I let go of her wrist, clawing at my open collar. “My daughter. I just need to know—” I push past her, ignoring the fact that she’s saying, “Sir? Sir!” I walk determinedly toward Car B, until I see a faded silk rose on the ground, surrounded by a million tiny pieces of glass… and blood. A whole body’s worth of blood. I clutch at my heart, my legs locking up. I look to my right, and there’s an older male police officer by Car B. He’s talking into his phone, making observations. He doesn’t even see me, he’s too busy examining the damage to the SUV. “It’s a shame,” he says, shaking his head. “Drunk driver comes along, kills a woman, nearly kills her baby, and yet he walks away unscathed. A damn shame.” No. It can’t be true. The first officer catches up with me, grabbing my elbow, shouting for some help. I fall to my knees, feeling my knees looking at the silk rose again. No. Not Britta. It isn’t possible. There must be some mistake. “Are you okay?” the officer who has my elbow asks. I look at her, and the blackness threatens to overtake my consciousness. Both of my hands scrabble for purchase over my chest. I try to speak, but I don’t have the breath to do much more than whisper. “My heart,” I say. Everything goes black.