I'm vaguely aware of Jillian telling Cammie more about our group and how we came to be on this trip together, but I tune it out when Keith says, "Lost my best friend over there."
"Sorry, man," I mumble, because really … what else can I say?
Hey, your best friend is lucky compared to me.
"Yeah, I've been diagnosed with that PTSD shit," Keith continues as he stares out into the darkened backyard, and now I feel awkward. This is some personal shit, and I get enough of that from my cronies sitting at the table behind me. "They say I have survivor's guilt."
Now, I'd been thinking Keith was a pretty cool guy up until now. He gave us a pass for egging his house and invited us in with amazing hospitality. But fuck if I want him to ruin all that goodwill he'd built up by telling me he's got fucking survivor's guilt. He has no goddamn clue how lucky he is.
Still, I manage to keep my voice level when I ask, "How can you feel guilty about being alive and uninjured?"
Keith turns to look at me. "I'm thinking you and I went into the military for different reasons. I was a third-generation Army man. It was ingrained in me from the day I was born that it was my duty to die for my country if I was called to war."
"You're fucking kidding me," is all I can respond with, because no one should have that death wish over them.
"Well, that might be a bit dramatic, but it's still true. I've never wanted anything else than to go into the Army and serve my country. It was an honor when I got deployed. It was an honor to serve with the men and women who sacrificed their lives or their limbs."
"Yeah, well, it wasn't a sacrifice I signed up for," I mutter as I grip my hands into fists, the urge to smoke hitting me with a painful, addictive crush for the first time since I told Jillian I wouldn't.
Keith doesn't try to argue with me, but instead asks, "Why did you join?"
I shrug. "I thought it would be a better life than working in the coal mines like everyone else in my family."
"Regretting that now, aren't you?" he asks.
I want to tell him "fuck yes." If I'd just stayed home and worked in the mines like everyone else, I'd still be alive, and whole, and married to Maria by now. But something holds me back from answering so quickly with that sentiment.
In fact, I can't answer at all, and I don't know why.
"Maybe you're right where you're supposed to be," Keith says softly as he gives a slight nod over his shoulder. "I saw you and your girl together. Wouldn't have met her unless you went to group therapy, and you wouldn't have gone to group therapy if you hadn't got your leg blown off, right?"
Well, yeah … of course. But I'm not sure meeting Jillian is ultimately a good thing. While I'm intrigued and fascinated by her, I can't tell if she's really what I need or want. And she is in no way "my girl."
Because if she is, then I'll have to have a serious attitude adjustment and I'm not sure I'm ready for the type of work that would take. There's something easy in my solitary, angry world, and fuck if it makes me a loser in every way, but I'm a bit afraid to give that up.
I don't want to talk about Jillian with this stranger. We may have just shared a beer together, but I don't know him. Despite the fact he served, he doesn't know me. Not about to spill any fantasies I may or may not have about Jillian, especially because I don't know if it's right to have them.
But I am curious about one thing, and Keith is just the guy to ask, "The army being your life and all … I suppose you like it when people thank you for your service?"
Keith shrugs. "Well, yeah … I mean, it's nice for the recognition, but it's not why I joined."
My head drops, and I look down to the mangled remnant of my right hand. It's my dominant hand still, even though it's half a hand. Lifting my head, I turn to look at him. "I fucking hate it. I hate strangers giving me that look of sympathy, coming up to me wanting to shake hands. They reach their right hand out, showing how brave and unafraid they are of my deformities, as if they're doing me a favor by trying to normalize me. And Christ … when they say how sorry they are for my losses, and that they feel safer at night because of my sacrifice, I want to knock their heads clean off their shoulders. Their words do nothing but rub my nose in this shithole of a life I've fallen into."
Staring at me with raised eyebrows, Keith says, "Dude, that's a lot of anger right there."
"It's why I'm in group therapy," I say dryly, turning to look back out into the dark.
"You should be thanked," Keith says, and I whip my head back to frown at him.
"What?"
"You should be thanked," Keith repeats. "It was a sacrifice."
"Bullshit," I growl at him, and then lean in a little closer. "Losing my leg and my hand didn't do one damn thing to help a single individual American."
Reaching out, Keith puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. It's a fatherly move, although he can't be more than ten years older than me at the most. "That's because it's not about you. It's about the collective whole. Your unit as a team. Your group effort in the war. Our military's effort to stabilize the region. You were just a single casualty, but it was a risk you were aware of and took when you joined up. When the risk got you, it became a sacrifice whether you want it or not."
"I don't want it," I reply lamely.
"Fuck, who would?" he returns as he pulls his hand from my shoulder. "Not going to ask if you want my advice because you'll say no, so I'm just going to give it. I suggest you get your head out of your ass and look at the good you've got around you. Otherwise, you are in for a long and miserable existence."
He's right. I didn't want his advice, but I had no choice but to listen.
And the pitiful thing is, I know he's right. I've told myself over and over again to just get over my issues. Be strong. Man up. Figure a way past this. I've known for months that if I don't get my shit together, then the rest of my life will indeed be miserable.
And that's why I think about killing myself sometimes. Because I don't want to live in misery for the rest of my days. I don't have enough willpower to survive it despite the fact Jillian seems to think I'm brimming with it.
Chapter 12
Four weeks ago …
"I'd like to propose an idea to the group," Jillian said as she sat up straighter in her chair, looking only at Mags. She did that because she already knew that Barb and I didn't care, and that whatever it was, Connor would already be on board.
"What's that?" Mags asked with interest.
"Last week, we talked a lot about Connor dying and how he started to prioritize what was important to him," she said carefully, turning to give a reassuring smile to Connor. He looked back at her with glowing affection. Those two had become very close, very fast. "And there are things he obviously wants to do before we lose him, so I thought maybe we could provide some of that for him."
Interesting that she'd said "before we" lose him. As if this was a group of friends or family, and that his death would be a blow to us. Personally, I didn't care if, when, or where the kid died. It had nothing to do with me.
Still, I watched Jillian carefully. The first two weeks, I'd kept my stare firmly planted on the industrial gray carpet of our meeting room, but during the last two sessions, I found myself unable to tear my gaze from her. While it was nice to just listen to her voice, when paired with her face and those eyes, well … it was just nicer to get the entire package.
"What did you have in mind?" Mags asked, one thin leg crossed over the other, revealing white socks with Sylvester and Tweety on them.
Jillian hesitated, and I knew in that moment that she was going to ask for something impossible. She took in a deep breath, let it out, and forged ahead. "Connor has never seen the West Coast. He wants to see the Pacific Ocean before he dies, and I know that's a huge and monumental trip, but maybe we could go as a group and do some other things along the way."
She never even paused for a breath. It was as if her speech was rehearsed.
"Mags, you're always saying that we need to interact more, and well … that's just not been happening very well here."
At that point, she shot a look-and by that I meant turned her head slowly-toward Barb and me before she looked back to Mags. "I thought maybe a trip like that would … I don't know … bring us closer. It's a crazy idea, for sure, but I think we'd get a lot more out of that than just sitting in this room and talking about the same things over and over again."
When she finished, she let out a sigh of relief, as if it had taken all her courage to throw that out there.
"I'm not sure that's really doable," Mags said in a kind but firm tone. "Connor is a minor-"
"His parents already said he could do it," Jillian butted in.
Mags did nothing more than give a small smile and an understanding nod. I'd listened enough in group these last several weeks to know that Connor's parents pretty much indulged his every wish. Not in a spoil-the-kid kind of way, but so they could make his remaining life as wonderful as possible. I was slightly surprised they'd let him go on a trip that would take several days, as it would be that many days they wouldn't have to spend with him, but again … I'd gotten the impression he could do whatever he wanted.