Unbroken (11 page)

P
hysical therapy is grueling
. We’ve reintroduced weights. This has been the longest I’ve gone without regular weightlifting since high school. Over the course of my convalescence, I’ve lost almost fifty pounds worth of muscle mass. It’s disheartening how little I can bench-press at the moment, and I know that I’m overdoing it. I can’t help myself.

“Don’t be discouraged,” Sam, my physical therapist, tells me as I stretch my aching muscles afterwards. “You’ve come a long way in two months.”

I just grunt, too tired and frustrated to argue.

“I’m being serious,” Sam says. “At this rate, you should have absolutely no problem contesting your medical discharge.”

I nod. His words are meant as an encouragement, but they just make the pit at the bottom of my stomach expand. The anxiety that has become a constant presence inside me swims even closer to the surface.

“I think I’m done for today,” I reply, standing and walking away before he can notice that something is wrong.

I’m still feeling massive amounts of anxiety over the thought of contesting my discharge and remaining in the Marines. But I feel the idea of leaving the military is completely wrong for me. It may have been my father’s plan for me originally, but I loved being in the military just the same. I am a Marine. I loved serving my country. I
love
serving my country, I correct myself. Not past tense. It doesn’t have to be past tense. Nothing is decided yet. This is what I remind myself as I leave the medical center.

I stop by the grocery story on the way home—not that Milly’s apartment is really home. Except that it is now. It feels more like home than anywhere I’ve been in a long time. She refuses to let me pay rent of bills, so I make sure to always buy the groceries. I also do all the cooking. That way, I feel like I’m contributing, at least a little.

The house is empty when I get back. Milly is working until midnight, so she won’t be home until close to one in the morning. I have the house to myself all evening. The thought just makes me feel more anxious. I hate all the free time I have at the moment. I’m used to having every minute of my life scheduled out.

I’m rummaging around in the kitchen, trying to decide what to make for dinner, when there’s a knock at the door. I pause for a minute, because it’s unusual. We never have unexpected guests. I really have no idea who it could be. A neighbor, maybe? Or Susie?

To my surprise, it’s neither. When I open the door, my father is standing in the hallway. He’s grim faced and holding a stack of what looks like mail. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the confrontation. He appears in my dreams often, calling me a failure or an embarrassment. But this is the first time I’ve actually seen him in flesh. He hasn’t called or texted either.

“You going to invite me in?” he grumbles. I nod and step away from the door. I hear him follow me inside and shut the door behind himself. I don’t turn around, however, until I’m in the middle of the living room.

I don’t speak. I honestly don’t know what to say. Instead, I just place my hands on my hips and stare at my father. He stares back for a long minute before reaching out to hand me the mail.

“This is yours,” he says, though it’s pretty obvious. “There’s something in there from the Marines.”

I take the mail with a nod, but remain silent.

“Fine, son. Don’t speak,” he says, slightly irritated. “But listen here, this is important. I know that you’re on a little rebellious streak at the moment. There is a letter regarding your medical discharge.”

I look down at my hand, noticing for the first time that a few of the envelopes are open. I’m angry about this, but I shouldn’t be surprised.

“You’re opening my mail now?” I ask flatly.

“You weren’t around to do it,” he says. “This is important. You have to contest this discharge now. If you wait, it will be too late. I checked with your doctors down at the hospital, and they seem to think you’ll be in good enough shape to contest it.”

“You talked to my doctors?” Now I really am angry. “How’d you even do that? Aren’t medical histories private?”

“Don’t get yourself riled up, Cameron.” He seems exasperated, as if he sees no problem with looking into my private medical files. “I have friends at the Medical Center. I’m trying to
help.
You sure don’t have your shit together enough to get this done on your own.”

I squeeze my fists so tightly that they throb in pain. Not trusting myself to speak, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I even try counting to ten. It doesn’t help—I still feel like I want to punch my father in the face.

“I’m twenty-eight years old,” I say eventually. I try to keep my voice as even as possible. “I can take care of this myself.”

“Obviously, you can’t,” he says. “Now we’re getting off topic. We need to get these forms filled out by your doctors and notarized by tomorrow at the latest. They need to be returned by the end of the week.”

I take a deep breath. Now, as we stand here talking about it, I make up my mind, once and for all. I am going to contest the discharge. I know I want to remain in the Marines, there is no doubt in my mind. I just know that if I say it now, my father will take credit for this decision and think that I’m again doing what he wants, like I always have.

“If you don’t contest, you’ll have to reenlist,” he says. “It could take years to work your way up to where you already were. You know that.”

“It’s my choice to make, to contest the discharge or not,” I say. “ I
have
been thinking about doing something different with my life. But regardless of the path I choose, it’s my choice, not yours. This is
my
life.”

I can see my father’s face growing red. He moves forward until he’s right in my face.

“You
will
contest this discharge,” he commands, pointing an authoritative finger in my face as he speaks. “I’ve worked too long and too hard to get you where you are to watch you throw it all away for a piece of ass. I will not allow you to be any more of a disappointment to me than you already are. I expect those papers, signed and notarized, on my desk tomorrow.”

With that, he turns and marches out of the apartment. I flinch as the door slams, echoing through the empty house.

“
You’ve
worked too long and too hard?” I ask the empty room. I feel both angry and small at the same time.

I don’t know how long I stand in the middle of the living room. It feels like hours. My legs and arms seem like they’re made of lead. I cannot move them. I can’t move anything. There is something akin to a boulder sitting on my chest, making it impossible to breathe. Soon, I am panting and choking, fighting for breath.

The blood speeds up in my veins, pumping adrenaline through my body. But I still can’t move. The adrenaline has nowhere to go, no way to disperse. It just burns through me, making it impossible to breathe.

I’ve seen other people have panic attacks plenty of times. It’s not uncommon for new recruits, fresh out of basic training, to suffer from such episodes. A lot of people freak out when they first see a war zone. Still, I’ve never had one. It takes me a while to realize that’s what this is. I’m having a panic attack. Once I accept it, however, it becomes easier to handle. Slowly, my breathing comes back to normal.

When I recover, I’m no longer standing. I’m curled in on myself on the floor. I have no idea how long I’ve been here. And I don’t move. I just relax a little, spreading out across the floor, and stare at the ceiling.

Now that I’ve made up my mind, I realize this causes even more confusion. The truth is, I don’t know if I deserve a second chance—not when so many of my men will never get one.

I
t’s been a long day
. I love twelve-hour shifts because it means I get three whole days off. Buy it also means that I have very little free time on the days that I do work. This was never a problem before Cameron moved in. Now, I find myself wishing I were home more and more, so that I could eat dinner with him, watch TV, go to the movies.

Luckily, it was slow in the ICU tonight, and Linda let me go a little early, so it’s barely midnight by the time I make it back to my apartment. Not early by a long shot, but earlier than I thought I’d be home.

I’m starving and can’t help but wonder what Cameron is making for dinner. The man has been spoiling me with his culinary experiments. I’d texted him on my break, then again when I’d gotten off early, but there was still no word. I try not to worry—sometimes he forgets to charge his phone.

I do start to worry when I step into the apartment and realize all the lights are off.

“Cameron?” I call, but there’s no answer. Maybe he went to sleep early, I tell myself. I move further into the house and switch the living room light on, then jump back, startled.

Cameron is sitting in the middle of the living room floor, his knees tucked up under his chin and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. His skin is white and ashy and his eyes seem far away. He barely registers my presence.

At the moment, he almost looks like a child. Or, he would look like a child if his large arms weren’t covered with tattoos. He somehow seems so small and helpless.

“Cameron?” I say, moving towards him. “Were you asleep?”

He shakes his head, blinking his eyes until they’re more in focus. He looks at me and attempts to smile. It comes off as a weird grimace instead.

“What’s going on?” I ask, coming to sit in front of him. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, still a little dazed. “I just needed to think, I guess.”

“On the floor? In the dark?” I’m worried now. I move around so that I can wrap my arms around him. He leans in and rests his head on my shoulder.

“I wasn’t sitting on the floor before, and it wasn’t dark.”

His explanation makes no sense, and I’m suddenly more worried. It’s been dark for over four hours. Who knows how long he’s been sitting here.

“Before what?” I ask, tackling one question at a time.

“Before my dad stopped by.”

I scowl. I can only imagine how well that went—especially if it ended with Cameron on the floor in the dark, hours later.

“What did he want?” I ask.

“I have paperwork to fill out to contest my medical discharge. It’s due this week, I guess. He opened my mail.”

“Your dad is an asshole,” I say, not for the first time. This earns a small laugh from Cameron. It’s better than nothing. “So, are you still thinking about returning, then?”

“Yes, Milly,” he says finally. He looks so sad, staring at the wall. His admission almost breaks my heart, but I want to pull him completely into my arms and hold him until everything else goes away. He seems so shaken.

“Why do you want to go back?” I ask. “Do you miss it?”

“Yeah, maybe. Some. But it wouldn’t be the same. I’m not the same. After what happened… the thought of going back, of risking more lives, seems horrifying.”

“What… what happened?” I ask hesitantly.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says.

“You never want to talk about it,” I reply, frustrated. I don’t want to be angry with him, but I’m at the end of my rope. He’s not well. He’s just spent hours in the dark in the living room floor. He needs help.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t,” he insists.

“Well, I don’t know what to do, Cameron. You’re not getting any better. Not emotionally. Your insomnia seems worse. You just spent hours on the floor and you’re acting so strange right now that I don’t even know what to do with you. You’re not okay.”

“I know that!” His voice is growing frustrated as well.

“You need to do something. You need to talk about this. You need to get some help.”

“I told you that I was broken at the beginning. You said you didn’t care.”

“You’re not broken,” I say, my voice getting louder. “You just need help. You have to
do
something about this.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” he shouts, getting to his feet. “I’ve already made up my mind.”

“Wow,” I say, blinking back tears.

“I’m sorry,” he replies in a small voice.

“We can’t go on like this,” I say, trying not to sob. “
I
can’t go on like this.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” His face is expressionless, his voice flat.

“No. At least, I don’t want to break up. But you have to get help. You have to talk to me about this. If you don’t, we’re not going to get through this.”

Cameron just nods. He stands beside me in the living room for a few minutes as I sob on the floor. Eventually, he turns and leaves the room. He comes back a few minutes later with his running shoes on.

“I’m going for a run,” he tells me.

“Right now? It’s after midnight. It’s dangerous. And we’re in the middle of something.”

“I’m a soldier,” he says, unable to look me in the eye. “I can take care of myself. Plus, I think we’re done for now.”

I listen to the sound of his shoes on the hardwood floor as he walks away. Then the door opens and closes. Then I curl into a little ball and sob uncontrollably. Eventually, I pull myself together enough to strip out of my scrubs and crawl into my bed. I’m too tired to cry, or even think, at this point, so I slip into a restless sleep.

“
M
illy
. Milly. Wake up!”

My head is foggy and my eyes feel crusted over, like I’m hung over. But I’m not, I realize. The night comes crashing back to me as I blink awake. Cameron had walked out, and I’d cried myself to sleep.

Except Cameron is here now, sitting on the bed next to me, waiting for me to wake up. Groggily, I sit up and rub my eyes. It’s still dark outside. The light is on in the hallways, illuminating the bedroom enough to see Cameron’s pale green eyes, but it’s definitely still dark outside.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“A little after two,” Cameron replies. “Sorry to wake you up.”

“Why did you?” I ask.

“I want to talk,” he says. “You said I needed to talk, and I’m ready to talk.”

I blink again. I’m really confused. This isn’t at all what I’d been expecting him to say.

“You want to talk? Now? At two-thirty in the morning?”

Cameron looks down sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders.

“I’m ready to talk now,” he says quietly. “I’m scared that if I put it off, I won’t be ready tomorrow.”

“Oh,” I say. Understanding dawns, and something warm shimmers down my spine. I pull myself up to lean against the headboard. “So talk.”

But Cameron doesn’t talk. He follows my lead and sits against the headboard, his eyes facing forward as his wrings his hands. But he doesn’t speak for a while.

“I told you that in Iraq, I was trained to locate and disarm IEDs, right?” he asks finally. I nod, and he continues. “I did a lot more than that. My squad, we were sent in to different high-risk areas. I went into the Marines right out of US Naval Academy. As an officer, it was easy to move up. I had my own squad. We still answered to our Major, but when we were out on missions, I was in charge.”

He looks at me for a split second, probably to make sure I’m following, so I nod and offer a reassuring smile.

“We were in a jeep, heading to this tiny village on the outskirts of Baghdad. There were some resistance fighters there we’d been tasked with interrogating. The area we were heading through was clean of enemies, but supposedly covered with mines.

“We weren’t on the road, because the roads were too dangerous. But we had a jeep that could make it through the terrain pretty well. I was walking in front, looking for mines, but there hadn’t been any so far, so I started to relax. My men were goofing off a little. They were calling out to me as I walked in front of the jeep. I was yelling back at them—not paying much attention. I had a hand-held mine detector and there was a jammer in the car, so I was pretty confident.”

“A jammer?” I ask.

“CREW Vehicle Receiver Jammer,” he says, but I shake my head like that doesn’t make sense. “It’s used to jam the frequency of radio-controlled explosives.” I nod, finally understanding, and he continues.

“This is where it gets a little hazy,” he says, sucking in a deep breath.

I move closer and try to put a hand on his back, but he shrinks away. I return to my side of the bed and listen.

“I remember we were joking and yelling one minute, and the next, there was a giant explosion. I turned back towards the jeep, but something hit me, hard. I went flying and slammed into the ground. I just remember screaming, and fire, and not being able to move for a long time. Eventually, I was able to radio for help. But I couldn’t get up. I could barely move at all.

“I didn’t know what actually happened until I woke up here, in D.C. My father had brought the file, so I could read everything. I had missed a land mine somehow. I wasn’t paying attention. The mine wasn’t activated by radio, so the jammer would have been of no help. And somehow, my hand detector didn’t pick it up. It was my job to find the mines. It was my job, and I failed.

“I could hear the men screaming—the ones who survived the initial explosion. There were a few, screaming in pain and calling for help. And I couldn’t help them. I was the only one who was still with it enough to radio for help. Six men are dead, and it’s all my fault.”

Cameron stops now. There are tears running down his face and I want to move forward and wrap my arms around him, to assure him that it wasn’t his fault. But he’s been adamant that I not touch him at the beginning of the story and I don’t want to upset him further. Instead, I simply sit back and let him catch his breath.