"Definitely."
Good. I want you to stay awhile. "I could probably use another ice pack, though."
He sat up, and I started to stand, but he stopped me. "Don't. I know where the freezer is. You want me to put that one in while I'm up?"
As much as I hated someone waiting on me, I nodded and handed him the ice pack. He returned with a fresh one, and oh God yes, I needed that. The cold felt great against my still-annoyed muscles.
While I got situated again, we went through the movies available for streaming until we settled on a comic book adaptation we'd both practically memorized.
Clint took his place on the couch again, lying across it with his head in my lap. The movie started playing. And considering how much trouble my back had been giving me all day, I felt pretty damn good.
This is fine, my brain reminded me for the thousandth time tonight, but for how long?
Before I left for work one morning, I logged on to my laptop, turned on Skype, and waited. My stomach was so knotted up, I couldn't even drink any coffee yet. Not like I needed it-despite the lack of sleep last night, I was wide-awake. Funny how that always happened the night before my scheduled Skype chats.
My ex-wife's avatar popped up-a little daisy with Mandy underneath-and the call request came through.
With my heart in my throat, I accepted.
At the camera was my seven-year-old, Crystal, and I smiled.
"Hey, kiddo. How are you?"
"Good." She grinned, revealing a gap where her front teeth used to be. Damn, they were growing up without me.
"How's school?"
She was the chattiest of my three kids, and told me all about her current teacher, the new girl in her class who had a pet iguana named Ringo, and a field trip they were taking next week to an old mine. I would've been thrilled to chaperone that one-the old mines and ghost towns were some of my favorite parts of living in Nevada.
After she'd finished, she glanced at her mom, who was always just off camera when we chatted. She looked at me again. "When are you going to come see us, Dad?"
Her question made my chest hurt. "I'm-"
"We're working on that, sweetie," Mandy said. "Now hurry up so your brothers can talk to him."
I clenched my teeth. They had to get to school and I had to get to work, but it still grated on me when she rushed them.
"But we'll see you soon, right?" my daughter asked.
"I sure hope so." I prayed to God she couldn't see how much this hurt. "I miss you guys."
"We miss you too." She glanced offscreen. "Okay. I have to go. Love you, Dad."
"Love you too, kiddo."
She moved out of the chair, and my twelve-year-old, Danny, took her place.
Not surprisingly, he didn't look nearly as thrilled to see me. "Hey, Dad."
"Hey. Um, how's school going?"
He shrugged. "Fine."
"What about football? How's that going?"
Another shrug. "Fine."
I forced myself not to let any impatience slip into my voice or my posture. These kids had every right to keep their distance from me. I was lucky he was talking to me at all-that had been a hard-won victory.
"You going out for wrestling in January?" I asked.
"Maybe." That seemed like all I was going to get, but then he added, "I don't know if I want to play this year. Everyone's so serious about it now, and it's not really fun anymore."
"Well, if you don't want to, you definitely don't have to."
"Oh."
"I don't want you playing it to the point you hate it. And you can always play again next year if you decide to."
"Oh." He relaxed slightly. "Okay. I'll think about it."
"All right. Whatever you want to do."
"Cool. Thanks, Dad." He even gave me a hint of a smile. It was a start.
After he and I talked for a few more minutes, and I'd chatted with my eight-year-old, Allen, their mother sent them off to get ready for school. Then she took their place in front of the camera.
"So, how are things?" she asked.
"Good. Good."
She squinted, leaning in. "Your eyes look red. You okay?"
"Yeah." I waved a hand. "Just didn't sleep very well last night."
Her eyes narrowed. "Same as last time we talked?"
Why do you think I didn't sleep?
I knew what she was looking for, though, and sighed. "Mandy, I'm serious. It's lack of sleep. I haven't had a drink in ages."
She avoided my gaze. "Are you getting help? For everything else?"
"I can't. What good is a therapist if I can't talk to them about what happened?"
"Then you should've talked to someone at Nellis," she snapped.
"They couldn't discuss it either. I couldn't even go to the damn chaplain." I exhaled sharply. "I've said it a million times-I would gladly talk to someone if-"
"Jesus Christ." Scowling, she rolled her eyes. "I'm not buying it, Clint. I've asked around. The military has got to have someone you can talk to about-"
"We've been through this. I'd show you the nondisclosures I had to sign if those weren't classified too. My hands are tied, but I'm doing the best I can."
There were people with the proper clearance to help counsel traumatized troops who'd been involved in classified and secret incidents, and in theory, I should've been able to talk to one. But I'd been warned time and again to keep my mouth shut. To this day I didn't even know if it was an official thing, or even a legal one, but I couldn't ask for the same reasons I couldn't get help.
"I'm sorry," I said. "If I could . . ." Why did I bother? This conversation wouldn't end any differently than it had the previous five hundred times.
Mandy didn't speak for a moment. Then, "They're having a hard time, you know."
Eyes down, I nodded. "I can't imagine they wouldn't be. Are they . . ." I hesitated, then looked at the screen. "Have they gotten any better?"
She let out a long breath, shoulders sinking as she did. "Sometimes I think they are. Sometimes I don't know."
I forced back the lump that always rose when we got on this subject.
"I remind them constantly that you love them," she said softly. "But it's harder and harder to explain how that works when you're gone."
My stomach dropped. Our eyes locked, and I swore her unspoken thoughts came through as clearly as if she'd typed them on the screen.
Don't say it, Mandy. Please don't say it.
It had come up a few times in the beginning, back before the ink had even dried on the divorce papers, but neither of us had mentioned it in a long time. Still, every time we spoke, every time the subject came up of the kids struggling with the divorce and my absence, I braced for it.
"Maybe it would be better if they didn't see you at all."
She'd said it out of anger the first time. Desperation the second time. An ultimatum the third time. Now that things were more or less civil, neither of us said it, but it was there. Part of me was terrified she'd get exhausted and throw it out there with more force than before. The other part wondered how long I'd last before I played it myself like a desperate Hail Mary because I couldn't keep hurting my kids like this anymore. Of course giving up my rights and bowing out of their lives would hurt them too, but would it be worse than slowly eroding their trust by stringing them along with sporadic weekend visits in between long, long absences?
"I'm getting better," I whispered, wondering if that sounded as useless as it had the previous thousand times. "I haven't had a drink in-"
"The drinking's only part of it, Clint. You know that."
I sighed, raking a hand through my hair. "It's a start. It's behind me. I promise."
"But what about the rest? The . . ." she hesitated, swallowing, "the nightmares and . . ."
Wincing, I looked away again. "It's better, but . . ."
"How much better will this ever get?"
"I wish I knew."
She huffed sharply. "And yet you still want me to send the kids to stay with you."
"I don't know what you want me to tell you. PTSD, it . . ." I shook my head. "There's only so much I can do."
"I know, but . . . this is tough on all of us. You're not the same person anymore."
I couldn't even argue. "I'm still their dad."
"You'll always be their dad. But they need more than a face on a screen."
"So do I."
Mandy flinched. "This isn't for spite. I'm trying to protect them and so are the courts. They need a father who's stable and on an even keel."
I exhaled. "I don't know what else I can do. I haven't had a drink in a year and a half. I'm keeping my career and my life on the rails. I can't make the PTSD magically go away."
"But can you get some help with some of this? Even if you can't disclose it all, there has to be someone-"
"If there was, don't you think I'd be talking to them?" I snapped. Instantly, I regretted my tone, and softened it. "Mandy, this is hell for me too. I don't like living with it. If there was someone I could talk to-I mean really talk to-I'd be in their office in a heartbeat."