Part: Two

 

 

 

I picked Henry up and we drove out to the same secluded end of the park.  I wanted an imposed sense of familiarity, I guess.  Or maybe just a spot that provided a quick escape - to the rocks and stream, to the open air, to a break from the need to talk.

I was hoping this time would be easier, but I was wrong.  The silence we had struggled with on our first visit lasted the length of the drive and hung in the car like an impenetrable fog.

I wasn't anxious to face the inevitable, to talk about camp.  How much do I tell him?  Where do I start?  And most importantly, how do I keep my composure while I explain it all? 

This had been a journey I had spent the last six years avoiding.  Only Alice had heard any details.  Only Alice had seen its full effect on me.  Did I really have to go there again?  I could feel her nodding yes, so I steadied myself and took a breath to begin. 

Instead, thankfully, Henry spoke first.

"You know, when you brought me out here before, I didn't know what it was about."  His furrowed brow betrayed a hint of resentment.  "I thought you were gonna tell me you were dying or something, maybe leaving me a bunch of money."

I matched his tone, but added a sly grin.  "Sorry to disappoint you...on both counts."

He continued, undaunted.  

"And once you told me I could yell at you, it just felt so good, it was all I wanted to do.  But you sort of caught me off guard and I couldn't really think of questions." 

"Okay," I said lightly, "so now you've had some time to think."

His eyes met mine.

"But you said you wanted to talk about camp."

A laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it.   

"No," I shook my head slowly, "I don't want to talk about it.  I will have to eventually because there are some things you need to know.  But it can wait."

Oh My God, a reprieve.  Of course it could wait.  We could build the rapport first.   We could set a slower pace and tackle the harder issues further down the path.  I tried my best to contain my relief.

"Your questions are more important," I said casually.  "Go ahead."

He shifted in his seat and finally faced me, staring me down intensely, as if he had practiced this look in the mirror.

"Well, I thought it over and it boils down to only one, really.  But before I ask it, I should tell you I lied to you last time.  I told you I didn't remember any good times with you when I was little."  He lifted his chin slightly.   "I said that to hurt you."

I nodded my concession that it had hit the mark.

"Truth is, I do remember," he said quietly.  "I just don't like to.  Because reminding myself that you did care about me just makes it harder to deal with the fact that you stopped."

I opened my mouth to speak, although I'm not quite sure what I would have said.  But he cut me off with a determined tone. 

"So I guess my only question is this: what the hell did I do to make you stop caring about me?"

I shook my head and searched for a way to explain.

"I never stopped caring about you.  I just lost the ability to show it."  

"Well, pardon me," he sneered, "but to a seven year old, that feels like the same thing."  He sat up aggressively and spat the words at me.  "You admit there was a shift, right?  Something changed and suddenly you didn't want anything to do with me," he hissed.  "You admit that much, don't you?"

There was no denying it.

"Yes," I said quietly.

Henry winced at my admission, his adrenalin building.

"For awhile I thought it had something to do with Michael, like you were mad at me for taking to him so easily.  Like you felt betrayed or something."

"No," I lied.  "Not at all."

He was incensed. 

"Not at all?" he shouted.  "Tell me the fucking truth, will ya?  I was there, you know.  This is my life we're talking about."

"Alright," I retreated, "I'll admit, when I heard you call him dad for the first time, it stung."  I pictured that moment and turned away from it.  "But I wasn't angry at you.  I never have been.  It's never been about Michael."

That was the truth.  Michael took my place in Henry's life, but I was almost relieved at the time.  At least then he could have some kind of a father.   

Henry's anger bubbled just below the surface, but he maintained control. 

"Well, I figured out that it couldn't have had anything to do with that.  Because you rejected me before you even knew about him."  His voice was emotional, yet strong.

"You rejected me from day one when you got back."

"When I got back?" I asked tentatively.

"From being gone that long.  I didn't know then that you'd been a prisoner.  I only knew you were finally home after such a long time."

He's talking about that day, the day it all fell apart.  Did he remember it as clearly as I did?  He couldn't have.  He was just a child then.  I probed, even though I dreaded his answer.

"What do you remember about the day I came home?"

His spoke through gritted teeth.

"You mean when I ran to you and hugged you to welcome you home?   And instead of hugging me back you pulled me off and pushed me to the ground?"

I closed my eyes, but still saw it replayed in my mind.  Replayed again, for the thousandth time.  Damn it.  It had been hard enough for me to live with and would be even harder now that I knew he carried the memory, too.

"I was hoping you didn't..." I stammered.

"Of course I remember," he shouted.  "I was seven, not two."  He took a defiant breath.  "Is that pretty much what you remember?"  

Remember. Replay. Relive. Regret.

"Yes," I whispered.

His eyes held a combination of victory and devastation, as if he had hoped his memory hadn't been accurate and I could somehow change it all with a denial.  But I confirmed it.  We each knew the truth.  There was no way to undo it.  It gripped us both with a common fist but drove us apart.

Henry gathered his courage and muttered,   "So...why?"

I was suddenly overcome with guilt as I pictured his face then, those wide eyes filling with tears, those quivering lips.  I wanted to say something profound, something loving, but instead just clenched my teeth as these feeble words tumbled out.

"Henry, I'm so sorry."  It sounded empty, lame, not at all the heartfelt anguish I wanted to convey.

He didn't take a backwards step.  "Sorry doesn't cut it.  I want to know why."

Ah, the inevitable.  The many avoided paths to the one inescapable truth.

"Okay," I resigned myself to it.  "Then I need to tell you about camp after all, because it will answer your question."

I tried to picture Alice to garner some strength, but I could only focus on Henry.  I was alone in this.  Move forward, one step at a time.  You'll get there.

"Part of the reason I've come back," I began, "is to explain what happened that day and why.  So I knew I'd have to talk about it.  I was just hoping it wouldn't come up until later... until we'd gotten more comfortable with each other."

"Oh you thought this would wait?" 

"I was hoping you'd have time to get the majority of your anger out first.  I don't think you have yet."

"Not by a long shot," he sneered.

How could he understand any of this, much less find a way to forgive me, if he still stood proudly on that mountain of hurt and resentment?  

The journey was two fold - untangle the snarled briars of the past - and find my way back into his heart.  It suddenly seemed doomed and my energy for it began to falter.

"Then we have a problem."  I said tentatively.   "I need to tell you about this, but it's... it's tough for me to discuss.  I've only talked about it in depth once and that was with a woman I met recently." 

I saw her eyes again, her unflinching gaze of encouragement.  Why aren't you here with me to help me through this?  Alice.  Alice.  Repeating her name was like drawing breath. 

"I wasn't able to get through it without..." I paused, "...without becoming emotional.  I could do that with her because women can find strength inside of a man's weakness.  They rename it 'sensitivity' and find a way to almost honor it." 

I remembered her face after I had confessed it all, how she had talked of my courage.  It wouldn't be the same with him.  He wouldn't see courage, only cowardice. 

"But I won't risk breaking down in front of you," I said resolutely.

"Why not?" he snapped.  "I'm just looking for the truth.  So what if you finally show an emotion?  It would be a first, wouldn't it?  Would you implode right on the spot?"

"No, but it has consequences."

"For who?" he shouted.

"For both of us."  

My focus suddenly shifted to a memory of my father's face and I felt it all again.  Fear.  Anger.  Disappointment.  His tears had evoked my anger.  His despair had incited my distain.  Tell him.  Henry will understand bitterness toward a father's behavior.

"Listen carefully," I began.  "When I was eleven, I saw my father cry once.  He had a good reason for doing it and I knew I was wrong to feel about it the way I did.  But I lost some respect for him that day.  And I never got it back.  I don't want you to have that same experience with me."

It had to stay on my terms.  I could make it through, but only on my terms.

"But...," he started to object.

"So you have to agree to one condition or else we can't do this."

"What condition?"

"If I start to get....if I say we have to stop, we stop.  No pushing, no batting me around for sport, no more questions, we just stop.  This is not negotiable.  You have to agree to it or we can't talk about this."

"But it doesn't matter to me if you..."

"Just listen."  The words came without forethought, without filter.  Just from my heart.   "I know I've lost whatever...whatever love or affection you once felt for me.  But I sense that you've always had some measure of respect deep down.  And I won't compromise that."

It was all I had left and it hung in the balance.

He smirked like someone declaring checkmate.

"I thought you said that when you love someone their needs are more important than yours."  

"Yes," I braced myself.

"Then isn't my need to know more important than your need for my respect?"

It stopped me cold.  

He was right.  I had come here for this.  I had come to explain it all so that he would know and understand, so that the hurt I caused would be eased.  It was for his good, not mine.  And if I lost everything, any speck of regard he may have had left, then so be it. 

Was love always about what you lose, what you give up?  Is that always the price of doing what's best for someone else?

He was right and there was no way around it.  The only way to be true to my love for him was to risk whatever future we might have had together.  I had lost Alice the same way; now I would lose Henry.  Bloody fucking poetic.  But unavoidable.

I took a long, slow drink from the water bottle I'd brought and tried not to envision myself breaking down in front of him.  But here we are, so let's begin.

"You're right.  It is."  I took another sip, swallowed hard and let out a deep, cathartic breath.  "So we'll do this without conditions."

Henry settled himself against the car door, facing me.  He'd waited years for an explanation.  Now he could patiently listen and revel in my discomfort.

I was concerned I might be blindsided with some random piece of information, so I probed gently.

"I suppose we should start with what you know about my experience at camp," I said, dreading what might follow.  "What your grandfather told you, or what you've overheard.  Just tell me and I'll clarify it and fill in the blanks."

He was no longer on the offensive.  Having won the first battle, his tone was now conciliatory, perhaps his way of ensuring my full disclosure.

"A couple of years ago, I was asking Grandpa why you and mum got divorced.  He told me you'd been captured and they hadn't had word about you in so long they assumed you were dead.  That's why mum took up with Michael.  But you said you were there for only five months."

Only five months.  Now there's an ironic thought.  There was no way to minimize its effect on me.  There was no way to include the word 'only' in any discussion of camp.

"I was in special forces then," I explained. "I'd been in deep cover, so they hadn't heard from me for quite awhile prior to when we were captured.  I may have been out of contact for more like seven or eight months." 

The General knew so much about my time there.  I hoped he hadn't shared any of it with Henry.  Please, God.   "What else did he tell you?"

"Nothing," he sounded less than convincing.  Or was I imagining that, bracing myself for the looming attack?  "Just that when you came back you were less of...."

"Yeah," I nodded, "we covered that last time."

"And that's why you brought up the idea of divorce.  But that's all he said."

This was too good to be true and I knew it.  The General would never miss an opportunity to undermine me, with Henry, with Penny, with the service....Bastard.

"You can tell me, Henry," I spoke slowly.  "It's alright."

It wasn't of course, but I still wanted the intel up front.

"Really, nothing else."  He sounded candid this time.  Or maybe I was relaxing enough to believe him.  I moved on to the next source of information.

"You said you overheard things from your mum?"

"Yeah," he said tentatively, "I already knew you got burned when you were there." 

I tried not to show my surprise.

"I didn't know where or that you were burned intentionally.  I just thought you were too close to an explosion or something."

"How did you know?"

"Mum and Grandma were watching a report on the telly one night about a car crash where the driver got burnt.  They didn't know I was within earshot.  Mum said something to Gran about how awful your burn marks from camp were.  How it...."  He looked down, evading my eyes.  "...well, that they were bad."

"How it what?"  I asked gently.  "Just say it."

He met my eyes and winced.  "How it made her sick to look at them."

I sighed and nodded slowly.

"Yeah, they were pretty nasty when I first got home."  I saw again that look on her face when she turned on the light.  

"I asked mum about it, but she wouldn't tell me anything.  I told her how I already knew you'd been a prisoner.  But she wouldn't answer any of my questions, not about camp, not about the burn marks."

Good on ya, Penny.  Thanks.

"I asked her not to."  

"I wanted to know because I'd seen a movie about the Holocaust and how they branded numbers on the prisoners to keep track of them.  I was worried that that's what they'd done to you."

Well, he still cared about me at that point, anyway.  I smiled at the thought and reassured him.

"No.  I wasn't branded.  I don't have numbers on me."  

"What did they burn you with?"

"Henry," I said slowly, "I'm not going to that level of detail with you.  You don't need those images in your head."  He frowned, so I countered.  "But I'll answer what I can."

"Did they burn you anywhere else?" he asked carefully.

That, he did need to know.  And now it begins.  The full explanation.  Just use logic.  Explain it with emotionless logic.  He's smart enough to follow it.

"Yes.  There are a series of scars that circle around the small of my back."  I paused and spoke gently.  "That's where you come in.  The interrogator burned me there because he thought that would be about the height where you would hug me."

Henry frowned and shrugged silently.

"There are a couple of different reasons for interrogation," I continued.  "Sometimes they want specific military information.  Sometimes they want to break you down so you won't be any trouble as a prisoner.  Sometimes they just want to hurt you for fun, because they can."

I felt Preston, the interrogator, near me again, that sadistic smile, that smirk of power.  I swallowed more water to wash him away.

"They didn't need any information from me; they got all the intel when we were captured.  This bloke just wanted to play."

I saw the room again, the chain suspended from the ceiling, the cuffs dangling, waiting.  For some reason I gripped my wrist and twisted my fist around it.  Jesus, I could still feel the raw skin.  No cuffs.  No chain.  Just memories.   Just stay detached and walk him through it.

"Part of what interrogators do is to find out what means something to you and then use it against you.  They normally start with the wife.  But like I told you, your mother and I hadn't been close for awhile so he wasn't getting the reaction he wanted from that line of questioning.  That's why he started using you."

"He knew about me?"  

His voice startled me.  I was moving between memory and moment.  I could see Henry, but suddenly I could sense Jimmie. 

"They got it out of one of my men that I had a seven year old son named Henry.  They used that to try to break me down."  

Jimmie Stanford: my subordinate, my brother in arms, my friend.  Jimmie: confronted with his threshold of pain.  Jimmie: confessing to me.  Confessing his guilt about what he'd revealed to them.  He'd given them Henry.  He'd given them the path to my undoing. 

I pushed him out of my focus and took the next few steps in the journey.

"The interrogator burned me on my back where he thought you would hug me.  Then he burned my testicles because that was a symbol of fatherhood.  He asked me questions about you...the colour of your eyes in particular...then he'd burn me when I wouldn't answer."

Clever bastard.  Even when I didn't respond, I still pictured those delicate, blue eyes.  He knew I'd see them and connect the burn with the colour.

"When he talked about other things, there was no burning.  It only happened when he asked about you.  Pretty soon I began to dread even the mention of you, because I knew pain would always follow."

Henry winced and I realized I was making it too personal.  Better to make it only a theory.

"Do you know what the unconscious mind is?" 

"Yeah," he said.   "We've studied that."

"Good, then you'll understand.  He trained my unconscious mind with a method called Classical Conditioning.  The premise is this: associating pain with an idea makes the idea itself eventually cause you pain.  He wanted to make my mind believe that any physical contact with you, or even just looking into your eyes, would cause my skin to feel like it was being burned."

I tried to read his face and couldn't.  Was he getting this? 

"The conditioning went on for weeks and the technique was very effective.  I began to feel my skin burn whenever anyone mentioned you, even my own men in the barracks."

I remembered snapping at them, barking my orders, knowing I was out of control, realizing the conditioning had taken hold. 

"I told myself it was something that was only associated with being in camp.  That once we got out there wouldn't be the threat of the pain, so the conditioning would be undone.  But it didn't work that way.  The conscious mind can try to override the training of the unconscious, but it's quite a battle." 

I hesitated a moment.  I knew what came next and I didn't want to tell him.  But it was a necessary piece of the puzzle, so I continued.

"When we were liberated, they sent us to the closest base hospital to patch us up.  They contacted our families and your mum sent me a photo of you to hold me over until I got home."  I took a deep breath, trying not to relive it.   

"But when I tried to hold the picture, it felt like a hot coal in my hands.  It even hurt just to look into your eyes.  So I knew I'd have a more difficult battle than I thought and that it would get even harder when I came home."

I needed some feedback.  Was he frightened by this?  Apathetic toward it?  What?

"You understand?" I asked quietly.

He nodded.  Maybe he needed an easier question.

"Do you remember what I looked like when I got back?"

He nodded again.  "You looked different.  Kind of skinny and sickly."

"Yeah, I lost a lot of weight while I was there.  It changes the shape of the face.  The day I came home, I was physically weak from the weight loss and fatigue.  It was hard to keep my head clear.  It was tough to take on the battle."

He nodded again, never breaking eye contact.  This will be the hard part - to relive it again with him here, looking up at me...all these years later.  We would relive it again, together.

"When you came running toward me, it hurt to look into your eyes, so I closed mine.  And I knew there would be pain when you hugged me, so I braced for it."  I closed my eyes and felt it again.  Incredible that it could still be so vivid. 

"When you wrapped your arms around me, you were right over the burns.  The pain was blinding and I had to hold my breath to keep from crying out."

I opened my eyes and bit my lower lip, trying to keep my voice from faltering.

"You held on so long," I smiled sadly, "that I started to get dizzy and was afraid I'd pass out and scare you.  So I thought if I just ..."   I swallowed hard.  "If I just pulled you off of me for a moment, I could catch my breath.  But I was unsteady."

I searched his eyes.  Try to see it from my angle.  Please.  Try to live it again - through me this time.

"I meant to step you back just a little.  But when I gripped your shoulders to pull you off, my hands seemed to be on fire. I let go of you with a sudden forward jerk and sent you backwards onto the ground.  I didn't know that until I opened my eyes and saw you there."

That look of surprise and rejection.  Those eyes, filling with tears.  Oh God, I felt it all again.  I didn't mean it, Henry.  I didn't mean it.  Now I could finally say it.  I could say it out loud.  I could say it to Henry, instead of over and over to myself.

"Henry, I was so sorry.  I still am.  I didn't mean to push you away.  I just needed to catch my breath.  I couldn't explain it to you then.  I didn't want you to know what they'd done to me.   I...I've done a lot of things in my life that I regret, but...but none as deeply, none as vividly as that.  I didn't want to hurt you.  You need to believe me - that was the furthest thing from what I wanted to do.  I wanted to hug you back.  I'm so sorry."

It suddenly felt like the pressure inside of my chest had finally found an escape route and flowed out, leaving behind room to breath again.  I looked out the window, blinked my eyes in the sun, and turned back to face him. 

I wanted him to say he understood, or at least that he was trying to.  But he was silent, looking down now and frowning.  The pressure slowly seeped back in.  My next breath was a little harder to draw. 

He couldn't see it from my perspective.  Of course, he couldn't.  He still saw it all from the ground with his seven year old eyes and his seven year old heart.

"You need to believe me," I pressed.  "That never would have happened if it hadn't been for the conditioning."  

He still looked down.  I talked on, if only to fill that crippling silence. The words poured from my heart with an unleashed force.      

"It took me a long time to undo what he'd done.  A long time before looking at you didn't hurt.  That's why I seemed like I didn't care.  I couldn't be close to you.  It was just...I thought maybe if I put a distance between us it would help me heal...like covering a wound to keep it clean."

Why didn't he say something?  Tell me I'm full of shit and you'll never forgive me.  Just speak.  But he didn't.  So I kept talking.  Confess it all.  That's what he's waiting for. 

"That's when I told you to call me 'sir'.  Before that, you called me dad."  I couldn't catch a full breath.  I needed something from him.   "Do you remember?"

He just nodded.  He needs more confession.  More apology.  Keep going.

"It was selfish of me to do that.  I...I wasn't thinking of you then.  I was just trying to get myself well.  I thought I'd get better and then be close with you again.  But it...it took longer than I anticipated."

He still said nothing.  I needed his voice.  I needed his forgiveness, but knew I'd never have it.  At least I could hope for his reassurance.  

So, I asked again: "Do you understand any of this?"

He nodded, still looking down.

"You're not saying much," I probed.

"It's a lot to process, you know?" he spoke, his head still down.

"Yeah."  Of course it was.  Too much maybe.  My own attempt at catharsis may have overwhelmed him.  He's thirteen for Christ's sake.  What do you expect from him?  Stop the flood of information and let him control the stream.

"Do you have any questions?"

His eyes rose and met mine.  Finally.

"Does it still hurt to look at me?"

I sighed and smiled.  "No, I've been looking at you this whole time and it doesn't hurt."

"Does it hurt to touch me?"

I laid my hand briefly on his shoulder.  That may have been the first I had touched him, other than a handshake, in years. "No.  Feels fine."   

"But it hurt for awhile?"  

"Yeah.  That's why I went to handshakes rather than hugs."

"Did the handshakes hurt, too?"

"Yeah."

"How long did it take you to get over that?"

Years.  A fucking lifetime of years.

"A very long time," I said lightly.  "That's part of why I stayed away from you."

Silence again.  Was he processing or rejecting?  Or was our distance growing again?  The bridge I was attempting to build between us was teetering...no foundation...no trust. 

"You have other questions?"

"Well, yeah, but..." he hesitated.

"Go ahead.  It's alright," I encouraged.

He squinted.  "Can I see your scars?"

My face must have reflected my surprise.

"Not your balls or anything," he said quickly.  "I meant the ones on your back."

I was knocked off stride again.  He thought I was bullshitting.  He thought it was all a ploy.  He wasn't ready to trust me.  The disappointment was apparent in my voice.

"Because you don't believe me?" I stammered.

He shook his head.  "It's not that, it's just...this is all sort of surreal, you know?  I just thought if I saw something physical, it all might make more sense."

What do I do?  I've wanted to protect him from the horrors of it.  And yet, if he doesn't understand, if he can't feel the effect it had on me, then all of this is for nothing.  He's got to understand, that's the whole point.  And hell, he hasn't got any feelings for me anyway, so it won't upset him to see them.

"Alright." I twisted in the seat, my back now toward him.  "Just pull up my shirt."  

I felt him grip the fabric and raise it.  Then I heard his quiet gasp.  Maybe it was too much.  Maybe I shouldn't have shown him.  Alice hadn't flinched, but she was tougher.

"Why does your skin look so torn up?" he asked, swallowing hard.

"They tried to patch me up at the hospital," I said.  "There wasn't a lot of flesh to suture to and they weren't set up to do skin grafts.  Military hospitals aren't interested in making it look pretty, just getting you battle fit."

I wanted to cover them again.  I wanted to rethink the decision to show him.  He's only thirteen.  It might be too much.

"Can I touch them?" he barely whispered. 

Touch them?  Was I being wise?  Was I thinking of his well being or of my own vindication?  Too late to be noble now.

"Okay."

I could feel the sensation of his fingers, but only lightly, then a quick withdrawal.

"Does this hurt?" he asked.

"No."

He paused and dropped my shirt to cover them.  "Do they ever hurt?"

I twisted around to face him.  "Well, only..." should I tell him?

"When you look at me," he concluded strongly.  "...like they intended?"

"No.  That wasn't what I was gonna say," I started.

"Yes it was.  You just don't want to tell me."

"No," I insisted, "what I was going to say was it only hurts when..." I paused and took a long breath, hoping it would clarify how much I should tell him.  But there was no clear direction so I just went forward.  "Sometimes I dream about the interrogations.   When I wake up my skin feels... hotter.  I paused because I didn't want you to know I had nightmares."

"I know you had nightmares," he offered quietly.   "I remember you screaming in the night."

I winced and bit my lip.  Why did he have to remember all of this?

"Yeah.  That's why I moved out."  I nodded.   "I didn't want it to scare you."  I made a feeble attempt at a smile.  "I don't have anyone to scare now."

He frowned and spoke slowly.  "That was six years ago. You still dream about it?"

"Sometimes."  I forced a casual shrug.  

"Damn," he shook his head.  "Isn't there something that would make that stop?"

Jesus, maybe he does care.

"There might be."  My voice was suddenly stronger.   "That's another reason I wanted to talk to you about it."

I pictured Alice again and her promise of hope.

"The lady I told you about - the one I discussed camp with - I told her about the dreams, too.  She suggested that I had them because I felt guilty about how I've treated you...that if I could explain it to you so you could understand, it might make us closer and the dreams would go away.  It might alleviate some of my guilt." 

He dropped his chin down and his lips parted, signaling an attack.

"Is that why you're telling me?" he said, indignantly.  "Just to make yourself feel better?"

"No," I insisted calmly.  "I'm telling you because I want you to understand why I treated you that way on that day....and every day since.  I don't honestly think it will have much effect on my dreams.  I'm telling you because you need to know how sorry I am."

A long silence followed.  I thought I had made progress, but suddenly it was slipping backwards.  First, he had questioned the very truth of it by demanding proof.  Now he questioned my intent.  I reminded myself it was a process and that I had to allow it, that I had to keep going. 

I searched for the best path to take next, but instead, he drastically redirected the journey.

"I don't think it's you that should be sorry," he said as if he was coming to the conclusion aloud.  "You didn't want it to happen."  

"No," I said, not sure where he was headed.

"I think the one who should be sorry is the soldier who told them about me."

Jimmie's face, streaked with tears and despair, loomed inside my mind.  He felt so lost, knowing there was no way to undo what he had done, knowing he had given them the key to my destruction.  My son.  He'd given them my son.

"He was very sorry," I heard myself whisper, "but it wasn't his fault, either."

Henry's voice startled me.  "Of course it was," he barked.

"No," I said firmly, "he didn't mean to do any harm.  I understood."

"What do you mean you understood?" he roared.  "Weren't you mad at him?"  

"No," I said quietly, trying to diffuse his anger, "not at all."  

It only incensed him further.

"Why the hell not?  Without him, none of this would have happened."

My voice grew stronger, more insistent.

"I never held him responsible.  I knew what he went through - what they did to him."

I glared at Henry so he would feel the weight of my words.

"You need to try to understand, no matter how much training or experience you've had, sometimes when it gets to a certain level of pain you just want it to stop.  I understood that."

"But he talked!" Henry bellowed.  "Aren't there rules against that?"

"He never gave any military secrets."

"This is worse." He slammed his fist on the dashboard.  "He sold out a fellow soldier."

"Believe me," I said calmly, but firmly, "he was deeply sorry.  Look, he wasn't just a fellow soldier, he was a good mate.  We'd served together for years.  That's why he knew all about you.  And that's why he felt the guilt so intensely."

He shook his head in disbelief.

"That just makes it worse!  He sold out a mate and you think that's okay."  He panted a jagged breath.  "Are you still friends with him?"

I felt Jimmie's eyes close slowly, his jaw drop open.

"He...he didn't make it," I coughed.  "He died."

Henry maintained the same tone.  "In camp?  They killed him?"

Again, my mind replayed that moment, his eyes closing, his jaw...

"No, after...after ..." I cleared my throat.  "He died after we got back."

"Some infection or something?" he probed.

I squeezed the water bottle and the plastic crumpled.  Jimmie's eyes were still looking at me, still holding my gaze.

"No.  He just .....he died."

Henry shouted as if he had won a victory.  

"Good!  I'm glad he did.  I'm not sorry, I'm glad."  

It shook me back to the moment.

"Henry," I barked.  "Don't ever say that."

"But that's the truth," he spat the words.  "I'm glad he's dead and I hope he died a horrible death." 

My body temperature spiked and my anger was suddenly unleashed.

"Shut up," I roared, willing myself not to backhand him.

"After what he did to you and to me.  He deserved it."  

"Shut the fuck up!"  My voice filled the car and nearly shook the windows.  "He did die a horrible death.  He...he killed himself."

Henry's eyes opened wide and his mouth finally shut.

Do you get it now, you little prick?  He died and you've no right to revel in it.  You want truth?  Here it is.

"He couldn't deal with the guilt of what he'd done to me or the memories of what they'd done to him.  He couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat, couldn't sit in a chair, couldn't stop pacing, couldn't function at all."

We can get you help, Jimmie.  We can find a solution.  We'll find a drug to help you sleep, a way to make you forget.

"He came to my apartment one night crying, apologizing again.  I tried to convince him I wasn't angry.  I didn't hold him responsible.  I knew what he had been subjected to.  I understood.  I forgave him." 

It wasn't your fault, Jimmie.  It was Preston's.  He's the bastard in this.  Don't let him win now.  The fucker's dead.  Don't give him the victory.  I won't.  I won't.

"Nothing got through to him.  So I told him I wasn't as badly damaged as he thought.  I told him the conditioning was losing its power already.  That's when he pulled out the picture of you. The one your mother had sent to the hospital."

Henry's eyes were locked on mine.

"I couldn't pick it up to pack it so I purposely left it there.  He had found it and kept it.  That night in my apartment he pulled it out of his pocket and tried to hand it to me.  When I hesitated, he put it on the table and backed away from me."

Jimmie, we can beat it.  It doesn't have to end like this.

"When he was far enough out of my easy reach, he took out his gun and aimed it up under his chin."

Henry swallowed and stared at me.  I tried to focus on him, but could only see Jimmie's eyes, staring at the photo, waiting for me to prove him wrong.

"So I picked up the picture."  I bit my lip, remembering the pain.  

"It felt like it was burning a hole through my hand.  I wanted to let it go, but I just held on, all the while pleading with him.  I reminded him of all we had been through together and how we'd survived it.  I told him we could make it through this if we just stuck together.  I told him I'd get the necessary help to get better and restore my relationship with you.  I just needed him to stay alive."

Henry stared, spellbound.  But my eyes still saw Jimmie.  I could hear my voice echoing in my head, shouting at him, pleading.  Don't do this.  Please, God, don't do this.  I need you to survive.  I need you to help me get through it.  Just give me the fucking gun and let me put this fire out.  Let me put the picture down, please.

"I tried to talk him down from it... but it was like he couldn't even hear me.  He just kept staring at my hand and the photo.  When I tried to put it down, he slipped the safety off."

Why couldn't I fight the battle?  Why couldn't I understand that nothing was really burning me?

"I held it as long as I could, but the pain was too intense.  The moment I dropped it, he pulled the trigger."

Jimmie's eyes were locked on mine even after the shot, even after the blood.  Then his jaw dropped open, his eyes closed slowly, and he sank limply to the floor like a discarded rag doll.  I took a breath, trying to convince myself I was dreaming.  But I couldn't.  It was real.  When I could deny it no longer, I let out a roar of anger and loss.  No.  Please God, no.  Jimmie.  Gone.

"He was a good soldier," I choked.   "He was a good friend."  I tried to clear my throat but it was too dry.  The water bottle was empty and the car was suddenly too confining. 

"I...I need some air."  I opened the door. 

"You don't have to..." I could hear Henry behind me as I stumbled out.

"Yes I do."  My voice sounded distant, lost in the open air.

I walked briskly to the rock I had sat on last time, cursing to myself before finally sitting on its edge.  God Damn Jimmie for leaving like that.  God Damn Preston for destroying us both.  Destroying us all. 

I kept seeing Jimmie's eyes, still open, staring at me, then closing slowly, his jaw....just forget it.  He's gone.  Hell, he never came back.  He died at camp.  The body that flew back in the helicopter wasn't free...it wasn't really Jimmie.  He never came home.  That night in my apartment, his body was only recognizing that his soul was missing.  He wanted it all to end.  And he got his wish. 

For the rest of us, it still went on.  

I saw again his wife Kate's face as she opened her front door for me.  I heard her voice asking if he was okay and I paused, wanting to delay telling her, wanting her to have one more moment when she believed he would get better and return to her in full.  Then I felt my eyes blur and shook my head slowly, no.

My mind was full of Jimmie and Kate and Preston.  I dragged my hands over my face, hoping to feel something visceral enough to bring me out of the memory.  I sucked in a long, renewing lung full of air and let it out slowly, dissipating the emotion and returning to a state of control.  It was when I stretched my neck from side to side that I suddenly noticed Henry sitting on a rock a few feet away. 

"You okay?" he asked gently.

I felt the hot rush of embarrassment cloak my body as I rubbed the sweat from my face.  I hadn't wanted him to see me out of control.  But this was part of the cost.  I had promised to discuss this with no conditions, so it was inevitable.  I hoped he didn't view the sweat on my face as anything other than that.  He would think it was tears.  Damn it.  God Damn it.  Now I had lost it all - my composure, his respect.  I had become my father - a disappointment to his son.

"Yeah," I said in a tone of resignation. 

He stood, walked toward me gingerly and handed me his bottle of water.  Was it an act of kindness or pity?  I drank deeply and tried not to decide.

"Thanks."

"I'm sorry for what I said about him," he whispered.

"I know," I offered between gulps.

"Do you want to stop now?" he asked.

Yes, of course I did.  My heart beat so loudly I could barely hear his question.  Yes, I wanted it to stop.  I wanted this conversation never to have taken place, these events never to have taken place.  Yes, of course I wanted to stop.

But that would have been the easy way out.  Maybe if I kept going I could salvage something of his regard.  It was the only hope left.  And yet, staying on this subject would unravel me again, so we needed to change course.

"We can keep going.  But I think we've covered everything we need to about him, okay?"

"Can I ask you something unrelated?"  

I was too off stride to read his tone.  I cleared my throat and hoped he wasn't poised for attack.  "Sure."

He spoke in clipped words, as if baiting me.

"If I ever cried in front of you, would you lose respect for me, like you did your dad?"

"No."  I answered.

"Why not?  What's the difference?"

"You're a son.  Fathers owe their sons strength."   Why was he asking this?   "Even if you don't think of me as your father, I still do, so I owe you no less than my strength."

He shook his head and spoke in the mildly sarcastic tone that had permeated much of our first visit.  

"So showing emotions like that for any reason is always a weakness, it's just that sons are allowed to show weakness and fathers aren't?"

I didn't have the energy to take up the dance.   If he was setting me up for another attack, maybe I could subvert it by blocking his skepticism with honesty.

"Henry, it's important to me what you think of me," I said firmly.  "You've already established that you don't have feelings for me either way and I understand that.  But it means that all I have left to build on with you is what you think.  Strength and respect are tied together for me."

Whether that was foolhardy or effective was unclear, but suddenly I felt unable to bear an attack.

He was positively snarling.  "So it's important what I think of you, is it?"

Oh God, my defenses were down and he knew it.  I felt him swoop in for the kill.  The only way to save face was to invite it and at least look as if I had enough strength for the battle.

"Yeah, it is."

He shook his head again and sighed loudly, as if to signal that this kill would be all too easy.

"I'll tell you what I think," he growled.  "I think you're dead wrong."  

I felt his words slam into my chest.  This is what you get - you want to love someone and this is what it renders: unending vulnerability and pain.  Where's the upside?  What's worth this?

I couldn't speak.  If I had, it would have been a self-protective counter-attack.  Somehow I sensed that would do more damage than good.  I had registered the set up jab.  So I waited for the punishing blow.

But his tone shifted and became almost pensive.

"Maybe crying for a stupid reason is a weakness," he started, slowly.  "But choking up because a mate killed himself in front of you while you tried to stop him - hell, that's just being human.  I'd think less of you if it didn't affect you like that."

What was this?  Was he being sincere, or setting up another attack?  While I was trying to assess him, he continued.

"You know I wouldn't mind if you showed a few more human qualities.  For most of my life, I've thought of you as just this big, tin soldier I'm supposed to salute." He looked at me directly and smiled.  "A few human traits might help."

He meant it.  His smile and tone confirmed it.  My sudden short laugh released a chest full of tension.

"I'll keep that in mind."  

He joined me in my laugh and we both relaxed, the battle diffused, the treaty signed.

"Besides," he continued with his conciliatory tone in tact, "you said you wanted me to make my own judgment about you.  If you only show me the parts you want me to see, isn't that just your judgment of you?"

"You're trying to be clever now?" I chuckled.

"No.  Just trying to get to know you, like you wanted."  

Progress.  Staring me in the face.  Measureable progress.  Just when I thought it all futile, hope rears its shining head.  Alice, can you feel my smile?  He wants to get to know me.  So I'll help him along.

"Well I guess then you need to know that talking about myself and showing certain kinds of emotions can be very difficult for me."  I felt Alice giggle.  "But I'm working on it."

Henry sat on the ground and leaned back against a tree.  

"This lady you talked to about camp and your dreams, was she some kind of therapist or something?"

"No," I grinned.  "She was someone I spent a lot of time with on my last job."

I could feel the sun of Tecala on my face.

"She liked to listen to me talk about myself.  It helped distract her from her worries.  So I talked more than usual.  And I learned a lot from her, too.  Like what was really important.  Ways that I might make my life better.  Things like that.  She helped me figure some things out."

He smirked, affectionately.  "Like about love and stuff?"

I narrowed my eyes and smirked back.  He got it.

"Because you love her?

My silence confirmed it.

"So is she your girlfriend now?" he probed, playfully.

"No."  I tried to maintain a smile, but the truth of it caught in my throat.  

"Why not, didn't she like you back?"

I wanted to drop it, so I tried to discard it lightly.

"She has a life that can't include me."

"Why not?"  

I dragged in a deep breath, but somehow felt comfortable enough to confess to him.

"She's ... she's the wife of the last hostage I negotiated release for."

"Whoa!" his eyes widened.  "You fell in love with another man's wife?"

"You can't always decide who you're going to have feelings for," I said, almost to myself.   "You only get to decide whether and how you act on those feelings."

For a brief, glorious moment I could feel her skin against mine as she twisted in my arms to face me.

His voice brought me back to the moment.

"Did you get her husband back?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes."

He tucked in his chin slightly.  "Even knowing that getting him back meant you couldn't be with her anymore?" 

She was hugging Peter at the landing site.  I was fading from her thoughts.

"Yes."

"Kinda stupid of you, wasn't it?"  His mouth screwed into a pucker, then released into a full belly laugh.

For some unearthly reason, I found it funny and we laughed together.  We laughed at the irony, at the loss, at the futility of it all.  But we laughed, together, my son and I. 

Then he said quietly what we had both learned.

"Her needs were more important than yours."

There it was.  He understood.  I loved and lost, but learned.  

She would always be deep inside me and suddenly it felt wrong to discuss her, like that would tarnish it somehow.

"You know, I'd rather talk about anything other than this," I sighed.

He laughed again.

"Is there a short list somewhere of what you feel comfortable talking about?"

I smirked in return, playfully.  "Do you have any more questions about camp?"

"Whoa, you really do want to change the subject," he chuckled, slowly picking up on my shift of mood.

"Yeah."

He paused, his eyes conveying confusion.  "I do have another question. It's a memory I have that never made sense before, but it might now.  It's kind of off the wall, but did something at camp...did it involve cigar smoke?"

The tension registered in my shoulders and my body heat rose quickly.  I sucked in a short breath and tried not to stutter.

"What would make you ask that?"  I knew the General must have told him more than he admitted at the start.  How much did he really know?  Why had he hidden it from me throughout this process?  My head spun with an echoing paranoia.

"It was the last time you came with us to Gran and Grandpa's for dinner," he began.  "You'd only been back a few weeks, I guess.  After the meal, Grandpa lit up a cigar right at the table, which was unusual since normally he only smoked in his study.  I expected Gran to snipe at him, but instead everyone got quiet and looked over at you."  He tilted his head, awaiting my reaction.  "So I did, too."

I stared at the bubbling water of the stream, trying to avoid that dining room, that tension, that evening.

"Your face went sort of white," he continued, "and when you reached for your water glass, your hand was shaking.  Then you asked to be excused."  He paused and probed.  "Do you remember this?"

Still watching the stream, I nodded.  I had forgotten those bouts with the shakes. Common after camp, they told me.  Yes, common, and impossible to hide.

"After you left the table, mum said something to Grandpa like, 'how could you do that, knowing what he's been through?'  She was talking about camp, wasn't she?"

He's guessing.  He doesn't know.  The old coot didn't tell him after all.  Maybe I could slide around this one.  

"Yeah, there was someone at camp who smoked cigars." I said lightly.  "For awhile after I got back, the smell of cigar smoke bothered me.  It reminded me of... it made me feel a little nauseous.  That's why I excused myself."

He pondered it slowly.  "I can't picture a POW with a cigar.  Was it one of the jailors who smoked it?"

"Captors," I corrected.  "Yes."

His eyes narrowed in thought.  "The one that hurt you?"  I gave no response.  "The one that burned..."  His eyes widened again.  "God, is that what he used?  He burned you with his cigar?"

Damn it.  "Henry," I countered, "I told you I won't give you that level of detail.  I don't want those images to be in your....."

"It is!" he said.   "That's why your hand was shaking.  You were afraid of the cigar."

"Henry," I tried to slow his momentum.  He continued, undaunted.

"That's why those little circles are on your back... I thought it was a cattle prod or something, but they're bubbled in the middle.  A prod wouldn't do that, but cigar ashes would."

"Henry, please."  But I knew it was too late.  He had it.

"Come on," he pleaded for confirmation.  "I figured it out.  Just tell me the truth."

I eased my head back and sighed.  The truth.  I guess you had to be my age to know the truth was not always a gift.  

"Yeah," I said, swallowing hard. "The burns were from his cigar."

He stopped to consider it; his eyes focused nowhere, as if he was replaying the memory for clarity.

"After mum said that, Grandpa just put it out like he didn't really want it and sort of laughed."  He looked up at me, confusion edging his jaw.  "Why would he do that?  Why would he laugh?"

I gritted my teeth.  "I guess he thought it was funny."

"Well, I don't!" he said, vehemently. 

I smiled to myself.  "I don't either."

His tone bordered on righteous indignation.  

"I mean, ragging on somebody because you don't like him is one thing.  But when he's already sick, to go out of your way to make him feel sicker....That's just wrong."

Hold this moment in time, please.  When my son veered ever so slightly away from his allegiance to the General and turned his heart to me.  He searched my eyes briefly, not quite ready to give up his old loyalties.

"Maybe he didn't know," he frowned.

Silence was all that was required.

"How do you know?" he became more animated, almost accusatory.  "Did you tell him?"

"No."

"Did mum tell him?"

"I don't know if they ever discussed it."

He felt he was gaining ground.  "Then how do you know he knew?"

As much as I wanted to break that alliance completely, now may not have been the time.  But he insisted.

"Just tell me the truth, will ya?  I can't make my own judgment without information."

Maybe he was ready to fly solo after all.

"There was a review board," I said firmly, "who decided when my men and I could be reassigned to active duty.  Your grandfather was one of the officers on that board.  He read my file, and that information would have been in it."

"He snuck a peek at your file?"

"No," I spoke calmly, "he was required to read it, as part of the review.  The doctor's report would have contained information on any injuries we received and how they were sustained."

Henry listened intently, then leaned back against the tree, processing.  I waited as the words I said made their way through the filter of his allegiance to his grandfather, his history of mistrusting me, and his own ability to discern logic.  Whatever he said next would indicate his informed decision.  He was growing up right in front of me.  He invited it, but I was forcing it.

Finally he spoke, tentatively reaching for more information, but apparently trusting its source.

"Is that how he knew about the other thing...that you couldn't make more kids?"

"Yes," I said quietly.  "That would have been in there, too."

As he continued sifting through the questions and evidence in his head, I thought of the General at my review hearing, so pleased with that piece of information, so anxious to repeat it at whim.  And I thought of Preston and his ever present cigar, playfully puffing it, burning me into submission, ending my chances for....

"Can I ask?" Henry's voice startled me.   "Did you...did you want more children?"

Was it Henry who spoke or Preston?  Did I heard it aloud or was it echoed in memory?  He had said it every time, every fucking time.  'Did you want more children, Lieutenant?'  I saw again his smirk, his look of empathy and gleeful hopelessness.  I heard his feigned sympathetic tone.

I could feel my face covered in sweat, my throat raw from the growls of pain.  It can't be true, I told myself.  Just propaganda, another way to derail my strength.  Bullshit, all of it.  'Did you want more children, Lieutenant?'  Over and over, that sickly tone, that knowing smile of condescension.  'I'm sorry you've forced me to do this to you....Did you want more children, ..'

I shook my head to free myself from him and opened my eyes to see Henry's somewhat alarmed stare.

"I'm sorry," he was stammering.  "I didn't mean to...I'm sorry."

God, how much of that was in my head and how much did I say aloud?  I needed damage control.

"No, it's not you."  My voice was strong with anger, but at least it was strong.  "I just...its just...when he was burning me there, the interrogator told me he was permanently damaging me in that way.  I thought it was bullshit, of course.  Some other way to try to scare me, break me down." 

But it wasn't bullshit.  It was true.  And he had known.  He had done this to countless others, and he knew.

"Anyway, during each session, he'd put on this fake sincerity and ask 'Did you want more children, Lieutenant?'  The way you said it...it just reminded me."

I pushed myself up off the rock and stood on solid ground.  Maybe that would plant my feet firmly in the moment and tear me out of the past.

"I shouldn't have asked you," Henry whispered.

"No, it's okay."   Standing up helped.  I felt steadier already.  "Actually, the answer to the question is yes.  I would have liked to... You were really a great little kid.  You were cute and affectionate and smart.  All the things you want your kid to be when you're showing him off." 

I saw again that cockeyed salute, that precious smile.

"You were easy...easy to love.  I would have liked a few more like you." 

His smile now, an echo of that child's smile, was in response to what I was saying, here and now.  We were together and he was smiling, at me.

"It may surprise you but I always wanted to be a father.  I wanted to prove I could be a better one than the one I had."  I felt a twinge of disappointment in myself, and a need to diffuse it with self-deprecation.   I hoped he would object. 

"I didn't do too well on that, did I?"   I was fishing, but I needed to know where he stood, and that smile gave me the confidence to ask.

"It's too soon to tell."  His smile stayed in tact.  "Hell, at least you're trying."  He paused, a pensive look dismantling his grin.  "Or are you done?  Is this it?"

"What do you mean?" I frowned.

"Well, you said part of why you wanted to talk was to explain to me about the day you pushed...the day you came back."

"Yeah."

"Well, now that you have, I mean, you've done it.  Does that mean you're done - you know - that there's nothing left you want to say?"

He wants to talk some more....he wants more.

"You mean, am I gonna call again?" I teased.

He nodded sheepishly then stuck his chin out.  I smiled wickedly.

"I think we have a lot more to talk about.  For instance, you could do some talking."

He bristled.  Like father, like son.  We laughed again.

"What kind of stuff would I talk about?"

"Oh, you know, the important things: about your school, how you like playing on the team, about your mates, about your ambitions."  I paused, and snarled playfully, "Or if you have your eye on any special girl...."

He bristled again.

I offered my hand to help him up and he grasped it.  Trust.  We walked toward the car, knowing we had covered the ground we needed to cover and had come out the other side, still in tact.  More in tact.

The drive was pleasantly silent and when I pulled up to the house he didn't jump out like last time.  He sat for a moment, then turned and spoke.

"You coming in to say hello to mum?"

"No, I'll just head home."  I was glad he was still sitting there.  I needed to ask.  I needed to know.

"I, um..."  Just say it.  "I told you more than I intended to."  Jimmie's face flashed for a moment, but I pushed him away.  "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."  He looked at his feet momentarily then swayed his glance toward me.  "Thanks for telling me."

"Does it help any, now that you understand why things happened the way they did?"  

His smile gave me the sense of closure I needed.

"Well, if nothing else, it sure as hell takes the fun out of being pissed off at you."

That was enough.  We would build more foundation for the bridge next visit.  Eventually, he may...

"But yeah," his tone was suddenly serious.  "You can stop having those dreams now."

 

 

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