The Hard Truth About Sunshine(29)

I don't hesitate, because damn it …  the kid is dying and why shouldn't we take a selfie together to commemorate this trip?

You've come a long way in three days, Christopher, you sappy son of a bitch.

Connor turns his back to me, grabs Barb by the arm, and pulls her to his side. He tugs her until she crouches as he does the same. I turn the camera to selfie-mode and hold it out. Bending a little too, I put my head close to Jillian's. In the camera's frame, Connor's face is just below Jillian's and Barb's is at my chest. Jillian and Connor are both grinning, and Connor's holding his fingers up in a "peace" sign. Barb is scowling while boiling water shoots up behind us.

"For fuck's sake, Barb," I say in exasperation. "Can you at least smile just once?"

Her scowl turns darker.

"Pl-e-e-e-a-s-e," Connor begs without losing his grin or peace sign as he looks at the camera. "I'm d-y-y-y-ing."

Simultaneously, Barb and I both erupt into laughter. I hold down the shutter button to snap multiple pictures while Old Faithful goes off behind us and Barb has a smile on her face.

After I'm done, we turn to continue watching the ecological spectacle, being no less wowed by it as time goes on. When the spout of water finally declines and then disappears, we start walking back to the Suburban. Connor flips through his pictures as we move along with the crowd.

"This is a great one," he says as he stops in place.

Jillian immediately goes to him, looking over his shoulder. I do the same. Barb just keeps walking.

And it is a great picture.

I can't stop staring at Jillian as the late afternoon sun lights her blonde hair up in the photo. Those blue eyes I can only see half of are crystalline …  sparkling with joy …  real life gemstones. Full lips spread into a wide and natural smile. Her temple rests against mine, our heads tilted together.

My eyes slide over to me in the photo. For a moment, I'm taken aback.

I'm smiling as well.

Big.

Bold.

Full teeth.

Light in my eyes.

Happiness in my expression.

I don't even recognize that guy.





Chapter 22





Seven months ago …

One of my brothers, Hank, was due for a visit today, and I dreaded it. It would be his third time to see me since I arrived at Walter Reed, but the first time since I'd moved into Fisher House while I completed my rehabilitation. I was on pace to get completely discharged in about two months, which would put my total hospital and rehab time at thirteen months.         

     



 

The Fisher House was on the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center campus, and it was designed to house military families who had loved ones in the hospital. It also had several rooms that were ADA compliant so those of us who could move from inpatient rehab were able to get a room there as well.

I didn't start to get truly lucid until they took my leg. And with lucidity came knowledge and awareness of my circumstances. I started to understand the meaning of abandonment and hopelessness, and I fantasized about dying. I had fallen into one big cesspool of shit, and my days got darker and darker. I was faced with being a cripple for the rest of my life. My military career was down the drain. I had nightmares about the explosion, reliving every noxious, painful memory of my injuries and recovery. My emotional wounds from Maria breaking up with me caused nightmares of their own …  the type that were deep, desperate, and without hope.

I had not one friend I could talk to. The mandatory psych counseling was a waste on me because I refused to engage with the therapists beyond the bare minimum that could get me a pass out of there. I was stuck in an endless cycle of loneliness, pain, humiliation, and anger, and I was just about through with it all. Not even the prospect of getting discharged and having the ability to move on with my life brought me any sense of joy or excitement.

"Barlow," someone shouted from the first floor of the Fisher House. "Visitor."

With a sigh, I laid my Men's Health magazine on my bedside table and swung my legs over to the floor. I still had to give a slight rocking motion to propel myself off the bed rather than trust the mechanics of my C-leg, but I was improving every day.

Grabbing my cane for stability, I made my way slowly down the stairs. It was one of the first obstacles that therapy made me conquer as they wanted to get me out of the hospital and over to Fisher House so I could start becoming independent again. They called it part of my "pride healing." It was to teach me that I could be a normal person one day.

What a fucking lie. I'd never bought into it.

At the bottom of the stairs, Hank waited for me. He was five years older than me and was the one I'd always been closest to. He was a coal miner, as was my oldest brother Jody who was thirty-four. My brothers James and Justin, twenty-eight and twenty-nine years old respectively, also worked in the mines. And then there was my sister Sharon, who was a year younger than me and the baby of the family. Her husband was ten years older than her and had been mining since he'd graduated high school.

I was the only one who had escaped a mining fate, and a huge chunk of my bitterness was owning up to the fact that if I'd just stayed in West Virginia where I belonged, none of this terrible shit would have happened to me.

"Look at you movin' around on that thing," Hank said as he smiled up at me. I grunted an acknowledgment back, then concentrated on the last few steps. When I reached the foyer where Hank was standing, he held his hand out to me to shake. We'd never been a hugging type of family. "Good to see you, brother."

I gave him my right hand, wrapping my two fingers and thumb around his palm. The skin was mostly healed but still shiny, red, and angry looking. It was pretty numb and painless, and I was still learning all kinds of fine-motor skills with it, but I could do a good handshake. I watched Hank carefully, but he neither winced, looked disgusted, or put out by my deformity. He just smiled like he was glad to see me.

This actually hurt me …  seeing the happiness on his face. It hurt because he was the only one who cared, and this was only the third time he'd been to see me. The lack of familial support I'd received had probably been my most crushing blow, even more than Maria's betrayal. I understood that at least-it had been a relationship that was more tenuous than I'd given it credit for, but my family? We were fucking blood.

When I pulled my hand away from Hank, I gave a nod toward the door. "Want to sit outside?"

"Yeah, buddy," he said enthusiastically and turned to open it. "Nice day."

As I walked out onto the front porch, I noted the balmy summer morning, blue skies, and white fluffy clouds overhead. The large oak trees in the front yard dappled the grass with shadows and flowers lined the sidewalk. Nothing nice about any of it.

The Fisher House was a complex of three buildings done in a beige stucco with white columns. It was surrounded by gorgeous landscaping and dotted with tables and benches for people to sit at. I lumbered my way to the closest bench under a shade tree that was unoccupied and sat down more heavily than I'd wanted. The bench shuddered under my weight for a brief moment. Even though Hank was a roughened coal miner, he settled in far more gracefully beside me.         

     



 

But, of course, he had two legs and great balance.

"How's rehab going?" he asked, turning to face me and casually throwing his arm over the back of the bench.

"Good," I told him. "Learning all kinds of neat stuff."

"And your leg?" he inquired.

"Still missing," I said in a singsong, happy voice.

His lips turned down in sorrow as his eyes went soft on me. "I know it's hard."

"Do you?" I threw back at him angrily. "Because this is only the third time you've been to see me even though you're only a three-and-a-half-hour drive away. So tell me, how exactly do you know it's hard for me?"

"Christopher," he pleaded with me. "I'd be here every day if I could. You know that. But I got work obligations, a wife, and three kids with another on the way."

"Four fucking brothers …  a sister …  parents …  nieces and nephews …  friends …  a girlfriend …  and this is only my fourth visit from anybody in eleven fucking months," I gritted out as my insides burned with rage.

He reared back from me. From the malice in my voice. Still, his face was awash with sympathy. "I can't speak for anyone else, buddy …  but I'm sorry I couldn't be here more."

Hank tried, I knew that. He called me a few times a week, texted almost every day, and he even sent me care packages. He was the only one who really tried.

And it meant nothing to me. My bitterness stemmed from the overall failure of everyone in my life to protect me. At my government for sending me to a war when I wasn't equipped to understand the risk, and at my family who abandoned me …  all of it had completely consumed me with darkness. I was one pissed off son of a bitch.

I hated the world and everyone in it.

I lurched up from the bench and looked down at Hank. My flesh and blood.

A stranger.

"Don't come back to see me," I told him.

"Christopher," he said in shock and shot up off the bench. "You don't mean that-"

But I'd already turned away from him.