Here With Me (2 page)

“Ryley, I like to ask my patients to say their names so that their identities aren’t forgotten when we start discussing why you’re here.”

It makes sense, I think. I opt to sit on the couch, but only on the edge. I don’t want to be comfortable or complacent.

“Ryley Clarke,” I answer, letting my name flow easily from my lips.

“Tell me, Ryley, what brings you in today?”

Of course she wastes no time punching me in the gut. If it weren’t figuratively, I’d flinch and let her know that it’s not okay to hit, but instead I straighten my back and ponder the question that seems to have brought me to this point in my life. A point where I’m required, no begged, to enter therapy to help figure out the rest of my life. Maybe not even the rest, but the next step. Either step I take leads me down a path of love, pain and irreparable hurt.

Most importantly, I don’t want to be here. I don’t think talking to a third party with a psyche degree is the answer. Sadly, I’m the only one who feels that way. I’ve been told therapy will help, but I’m not so sure it will. You can’t fix something that has been destroyed for years. We aren’t a family of teddy bears with missing eyes or ears that can be sewn back on making us look somewhat new. We’re a damaged bunch, destined for nothing but heartache.

I pick at the threadbare couch that I chose to sit on. It looked more comfortable than the chair in front of her. It’s royal blue, or at least it used to be. I think at one time it was probably soft, plush and very comfortable, and people didn’t have a problem lying back, closing their eyes and letting all their worries flow from their mouths. You would think that with the many people that come through the door, a new couch could be purchased. I may be wrong in my assumption. I likely am. This couch holds secrets that no one ever wants out, and it’s about to know mine too. Maybe that’s why she keeps it this way.

“Why am I here today?” the words are a whisper on my lips. I can barely hear them myself and know she can’t hear me. Clearing my throat, I keep my eyes downcast and away from her face. The last thing I want is for her to see the pain in my eyes. That’s for me and me alone when I stare in the mirror, asking myself how and why.

“I’m here so you can fix… this.” The words are bitter and angry. I spread my arms out wide, and my knuckles scrape the side of the worn out armrest. I pull my right hand to me, examining my fingers for any signs of damage. A sliver maybe, something to cause pain, anything to make me feel. I have nothing.

I lean forward, determined not to cry. I don’t know why I’m here. I healed. I moved on.
We
moved on. Life was good, not better, but manageable. We were happy. We laughed and loved and we missed him terribly, but we woke up each day determined to make a new happy memory. But then life — no, I take that back — the military made that all change.

If I were a conspiracy theorist, I’d say this was all planned, but honestly, what do they care about my life? Nothing, that’s for damn sure. They don’t care that they’ve ruined the last six years of my life because of some clerical error.
“Sorry,”
is all they could be bothered to say.

They’re sorry.

I realize now that I’ve spoken, the floodgates are open, and I can’t get my words out fast enough. She, the one who sits behind a desk taking notes, doesn’t have a clue as to what I’ve been through, but I’m about to tell her.

“I don’t know why I’m here. I’m not sure a session or a million sessions can fix my life right now. People have told me that time heals all wounds, but they’re full of shit. I think when that saying was coined, they meant a scratch or a bump, not a hole in the middle of your chest that you’d have to put back together piece by piece. A hole so big that when you breathe in, it burns and makes you ache all over. One that makes you beg for someone to show you mercy, even if no one will because they all feel the same way as you. And was I ever really healed, or did I wake-up one morning and decide that I needed to move on?”

“It does take time to heal, Ryley, and everyone has to do it at their own pace.”

I laugh out loud and adjust the way I’m sitting. I wish I hadn’t worn a dress today, but Lois insisted, and I’m at a point in my life where I just do as she says, so I put on a yellow sundress and pulled my hair into a blue ribbon. That’s as good as it gets for me right now. But sitting here, I want to be in sweats. I want my white socks covering my bare toes, and I want to be buried under an oversized sweatshirt. I want to hide.

“Time is my enemy. Time is the one thing I don’t have and can’t afford to lose. Time…” I shake my head and look toward the window. I bite my lip and close my eyes. My mind is blank. I refuse to see their images. I don’t want to look, or remember. “I need to find a way to stop time or reverse it.” I nod. “Reversing time would be ideal. If I could do that, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. My life… it’d be on the path that I created, that I worked hard for, but it’s not. I’m standing in the center of the Interstate with traffic coming at me from both directions waiting… desperately waiting for someone or something to change everything that has happened in the last six years. So no, time doesn’t heal anything. It just prolongs the hurt and pain.

“It sounds like you’ve had a lot to deal with, maybe more than others. Do you find solace in your friends?”

I shake my head. “I have two very close friends. One is from high school, she and her husband moved down here once the twins where stationed here. The other is a military wife. Any other friends I had bailed. I’m sure they didn’t bail because of me, but because of the military. You move on, ya know? They don’t want to associate…” I stop and think about that word. “Associate isn’t the correct word; it’s fear. They see what I went through and fear rips through their bodies, and they do what their bodies tell them: fight or flight. They all chose flight because they’re all afraid they’ll go through the same thing one day.”

“What else do you experience from your friends and family?”

Easy question. “Pity. I got so sick and tired of the hugs and the pats on the shoulder. The looks — those were never-ending. I didn’t need to see the pity in their eyes as they went from looking at me to looking at my belly. Everyone is sorry, but what exactly are they sorry for? Are they sorry that they voted for the people who sent our military to war? Are they sorry that their children aren’t out defending our country? What are they sorry for?” My voice rises with my last question. I want to know. What goes through someone’s mind when they tell you they’re sorry that your loved one has died?

“I always want to ask why. Why are you sorry? Did you do something that I’m not aware of? Did you pull the trigger or supply the enemy with equipment to do harm? No, I didn’t think so. Thing is, all the pity looks are back and each one brings me to my knees because guess what? They’re all sorry again, and this time it’s not going to matter what decision I make. Someone will be hurt. For that, they can be sorry.”

“Ryley, I’m going to ask you again why are you here today?”

For the first time since I walked in the door, I look at the therapist. Her hair is cut short, framing her face. It’s brown, but muted. There’s no vibrancy to her color. It’s dull and outdated, much like her couch. Her white, long-sleeved shirt is buttoned high, as if it wants to choke the life out of her. Her cat-like glasses perch on the edge of her nose, and she reclines in her chair with her pad of paper resting on her lap, her pen poised to write down my words at a moment’s notice.

“I’m here because six years ago I lost the love of my life, but now he’s back from the dead, and in a few weeks I’m set to marry my best friend. His brother.”

I’M IN A PLACE
I never thought I’d be: a civilian therapist’s office, sitting in civilian clothing. Give me a uniform and I’m comfortable, but the lack of dress blues staring at me from behind the desk has my nerves on edge. There will be questions that she’s going to ask that I’ll refuse to answer because I took an oath, and I’ll stand by that oath until I’m six feet under. I know she’s just doing her job, but I protect mine. She’ll want answers that I don’t have. If I had them, I wouldn’t be sitting here.

My back is stiff against the wooden chair. Most of the padding that existed when this office opened is missing, leaving the back of the chair uncomfortable. It could be from the constant grinding one does while being scrutinized, or from the slouching that our bodies do when we naturally become despondent or bored. There’s a pre-determined dent, which indicates where my back should fit in nicely, only mine doesn’t. It’s pressed as tight as it can be, looking for the smallest bit of comfort. Surprisingly, I’m given none. I’ve been living with pain for the past five or six years – I’ve lost count – and don’t see the pain subsiding in the foreseeable future. 

“Welcome, why don’t you start my telling me your name?”

 “Chief Petty Officer Archer.”

“Is that your first name, Archer?” she asks. “I like to be personal and go on a first-name basis with my patients.”

“No, my first name is Evan.”

 “How are you today, Evan?”

My fingers itch from sitting still. I don’t want to be here, but the alternative is less appealing. Part of me is running back to base and to the security it provides from the outside world, but the other part of me, the part I’m listening to, is hoping that when I’m done here everything I thought I had will be mine again. If not, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Everything I knew I had, everything that I thought was waiting for me, isn’t. That’s a hard pill to swallow knowing you’re coming home to a family, but they don’t want you there. 

“Today, I’m okay.” I clear my throat and cross my leg over my knee. It’s ninety degrees outside and common sense would say to wear shorts, but I couldn’t bring myself to think I’d be that relaxed here today. My black slacks are creased and lint free. My black socks are the same shade as my pants, and my shoes are polished enough to see my reflection. I pull at my pant leg and place my hand on my ankle to hold my leg in place. I have to put my hands somewhere. I have to keep them occupied because visions of strangling someone cloud my mind if I don’t keep them busy.

The therapist picks up her glasses and places them on her face. I watch as her hand slides them up the bridge of her nose until they’re resting where she needs them, only for them to slowly start to slide back down. She doesn’t stop what she’s doing to push them back into place. She continues to write as her hand flies across her yellow notepad in a hurried fashion.

“Do you know why you’re here, Evan?”

My hand leaves my ankle as the hem of my slacks becomes the most fascinating piece of clothing I own. I pull, push and straighten the cuff repeatedly. Of course I know why I’m here, but I don’t think she can fix my issues and if she can, I have doubts that the fix will work.

“Yes.”

“Are you here of your own accord.”

No, I’m not
, I want to say but don’t. My sock needs adjusting, so that’s what I do now. Again with the pull, push and straightening. Again, I avoid eye contact.

“Yes, I am,” I lie. As much as I don’t want to be here and would prefer to do this on base with people I trust… trusted I’m here because this is what Lois says needs to happen. She says Ryley needs this, and I know she was here earlier today. Other than that, I have no idea what happened. I haven’t seen her for a week, again per Lois’ instructions and not since I showed up on our… her front porch with my bag sitting at my feet and my hat cuffed under my arm.

“How would you like to start?”

I shrug, not knowing how these types of meetings are supposed to go. I was just told to show up, to be here on time and to try. So far I’ve accomplished two of the three, but I’m not sure how I’m going to try when I have no idea how everything became so messed up to begin with.

“Would you like to talk about Ryley?”

I shrug again. I want to talk 
to
 Ryley, period, but she won’t return my phone calls. “She’s my favorite subject,” I say before I know the words are coming out of my mouth.

The therapist takes off her glasses and sets them down on her desk before folding her hands. I glance at her briefly and see that she’s smiling gently at me. I hope that’s a good sign, that it means everything with Ryley went smoothly. I hate that she was here earlier, and I couldn’t be. I wanted us to do this together but was advised against it. My life is all about advisement these days. Everyone and their grandmother has advice for me. Everyone knows what’s best, but none of them know shit.

Six years ago, I left home on a mission. I was told it’d be easy, in and out. There was nothing easy about what we were doing and why it took so long. Communication breakdowns, wrong Intel. It didn’t matter because once we were airborne we were targets, and nothing was going to save us. 

She clears her throat getting me to look at her again. I know she’s waiting for me to elaborate, but I can’t. Talking about Ryley hurts me physically. I’ve missed her so much over the years that when I imagined our homecoming, it was something out of those ridiculous fairytale romances she was always telling me about. My mind pictured her dropping whatever was in her hands, as they would cover her mouth in shock. Her eyes would fill with unshed tears and she’d run to me, leaping into my arms. I’d spin her around a few times before setting her back on the ground where I’d cup her face in my hands and kiss her until we could no longer breathe.