I'm distracted from my morose musings by a knock at the door. Having no idea who would be at my door this early on a Tuesday morning, I consider not answering.
"Kelli," Ian's voice come through my door, "open up."
Ian? What the fuck? I sit up, still unsure of what to do. Do I want to see him? No, not particularly. I take a beat, not moving, trying to decide what to do.
"Dammit, Kelli," he yells this time, sounding a little hysterical. "Open up the door!" He begins to pound on my door.
Not wanting my neighbors to worry, I jump up and rush to the door.
"What the fuck, Ian?" I ask. "What do you want?"
He pushes past me and enters my apartment. His presence fills the tiny room and I feel inadequate and small beside him. I notice that he looks like shit. He's in the clothes from last night, they are rumpled and wrinkled, suggesting he tried to sleep in them but was met with only tossing and turning. He hasn't shaved, a quarter inch thick beard already covering his jaw and neck, and his eyes are bloodshot.
He looks at me bleakly and says, "Get dressed. I need you to come with me."
I stare at him dumbfounded. "Um, why on earth would I go somewhere with you?"
He looks at me then, every emotion showing on his face. He is hiding nothing; he is laying himself bare. In his eyes I see pain, sorrow, regret; all vying to overtake him. The tattered pieces of my heart try to move towards him. They want to sooth him, to take away the pain so evident in him.
"Please, Kelli," is all he says.
It is enough. I move past him, grabbing some clothes out of my armoire and changing into yoga pants and a sports tee. I brush past him again as I move into my bathroom and quickly drag a brush through my hair before putting it up into a ponytail. A glance in the mirror proves I look as shitty as he does. I don't give a damn.
By this point he has moved into the doorway, so I grab my purse and follow him outside. We don't say anything as we walk to his truck and get in.
Once we are on the move I ask again, "Ian, where are we going?"
"The VA Hospital on Wilshire," he answers tightly.
"Are you hurt?" I ask quickly, scanning him for signs of damage.
"No," he says. That's all the answer I get.
I am too tired, too empty, to fight, so I rest my head against the window and we drive in silence.
He pulls into the large VA complex off of Wilshire. Driving around to the side of what looks like the main building, he parks and comes around to open my door. Offering his hand to help me out, I ignore it.
I follow a pace behind him, feeling like a small child pouting and dragging her feet as she walks. I have no idea why we are here, and frankly, I don't want to be here. I don't want to be near him; it's too hard. I long to touch him, to look into his eyes, to make a joke so he'll smile. Having to keep my distance is extremely difficult.
We head inside, past an information desk and stop at the elevators. He pushes the up button and then steps back, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking down at the ground.
An old man in a wheelchair pushes in between me and Ian. He's easily in his 70s, if not older, and is missing his left leg below the knee.
"Ian," he says with a nod.
Ian, who had been lost in thought, starts at his name and looks down on the old man.
"Carl," he replies with a nod of his own.
We three stand in silence until the elevator arrives. Carl takes the lead and Ian holds the door open, gesturing for me to enter. He presses "3" and "5" and we all watch the passing of the floors.
On three, Carl rolls out and takes the hallway to the right. The doors close again and I can't help but look at Ian.
"What are we doing here?" I ask one more time, hoping he'll answer me finally.
"I'm taking you to see my shrink," Ian says.
Of all the things that could have come out of his mouth, I'm not sure I could have been any more shocked.
Ian has a shrink? Why does Ian have a shrink? Ian's taking me to see his shrink? Why is Ian taking me to see his shrink?
The elevator stops again, this time on our floor and Ian holds open the doors as I exit. I stop once I've cleared the doors and wait for him. He touches me gently on my left elbow and indicates that we'll be heading that direction. I follow him, looking at the names on the doors, wondering if they are all psychiatrists.
About halfway down there are five chairs lining the hallway. Ian sits in one and motions me to sit beside him. I do, but I am suddenly exceedingly nervous. Why are we here?
I'm about to probe Ian further, when a tall, thin man with white hair and goatee steps through a door he had just opened in front of us.
"Ian," he says, holding out his hand to shake Ian's. "I got your message. This is Kelli?" he turns and looks at me.
"Yeah," Ian says.
"Hello Kelli. I'm Dr. Wyatt. Ian's psychologist. Please, come in," he says, motioning behind him and taking a step sideways to make room for me to enter.
I walk silently into the small office and pause in between two chairs facing a love seat. It isn't clear where I should sit.
"Please, sit wherever you like," Dr. Wyatt says. When I don't move he continues, "Ian usually sits on the loveseat and I take the chair by the window."
With that information I move to the other chair and sit. There is no way I'm going to sit next to Ian on that loveseat; it would be impossible to avoid touching him.
Once everyone is seated, Dr. Wyatt turns to me. "Kelli," he asks, "do you know why you are here?"
"Nope," I state plainly with a shake of my head.
Dr. Wyatt looks over at Ian and raises an eyebrow.
"I've brought you here," Ian starts out slowly, speaking very quietly, "to tell you why I cannot date you."
Once again I'm caught off guard. I look in between Dr. Wyatt and Ian, my eyes wide and confusion stamped all over my face.
Suddenly my mind begins whirling. There's a reason he won't date me; it isn't just that he doesn't want me. My heart makes a quick leap into my throat and for a moment I have hope. Maybe we'll be able to work this out. If he's seeing a shrink, he knows he has issues, maybe we can work on them together, maybe there can be an "us"!
Ever observant, he sees this blaze of hope alight in my eyes and shakes his head sadly. Instantly I know the hope was foolish, and I tamp it down and sit back in my chair, folding my hands in my lap in front of me.
Ian starts his story slowly, clearly anguished by what he is about to share, yet determined to explain. He looks me in the eyes as he begins, his gaze saying, ‘Get ready. Here, now, I'm going to prove to you that "we" cannot be.'
"We were on a routine sweep. I don't remember where it was or if we had been there before. After a while, they're all the same. Fighting broke out up ahead. There was gunfire and shouting. I was about to run down the street when I heard a commotion in the house to my right so I kicked in the door to see what was going on. A man and woman were arguing, the man in a long striped tunic and the woman in a black abaya. The man was loading an old shotgun and the woman was begging, pleading with him to … do something. What, I don't know. I never picked up the language.
They both froze when the door hit the floor, and without a thought, I shot him. He had a weapon. He was a threat."
He pauses, clearly lost in the moment. His brow furrows as if he is trying to remember exactly what happened next.
"The woman began screaming. She was hysterical, really. I moved toward her to shut her up. I pushed her back and she hit the table. The gunfire and shouting outside seemed to be getting closer and I thought about leaving her to see what was happening outside.
Then a shell exploded … and everything stopped.
I shook my head, but nothing made sense. I looked down and saw the woman. She was pinned to the table beneath my hand. Somehow … I can't remember how … I flipped her over so she was bent over with her stomach pressed into the table. I was holding her down and I was … " he stops and swallows. "I was fucking her. I was raping her."
My hands fly to my mouth as I stare at him with my jaw agape. Did he just say that? Did he just tell me he raped a woman? I search his face, his eyes, hoping to see something that will indicate I've heard incorrectly. I see nothing there but resigned shame.
He continues, "I looked down and saw … I stopped. I froze. I had no fucking idea what was happening.
Then, from out of nowhere, a scream filled my ears. It was a horrible, high, piercing wail. It was the only thing I could hear, the only thing that penetrated my numbness. I looked around, trying to find the source and saw him. There, huddled in the corner, a mess of curly black hair on top of small brown limbs all curled in on themselves. He was trying to disappear into the corner but his eyes were glued to his mom, and he was screaming bloody murder. I knew he wanted to be quiet, he really did want to disappear, but he couldn't seem to stop screaming."