Something Like Normal(2)

I didn’t even want to come to Fort Myers, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I’d rather be with my friends. I want to be with the people who know me best.

I want to go home.

As soon as the thought crystallizes in my mind, I feel bad again. Especially with my mom standing beside me at the baggage carousel, wearing the biggest smile in the history of smiles and rattling on about how happy she is I made it home before Ryan leaves for college. To keep from sniping a smart-ass comment about my level of give-a-shitness, I look around the room at the hugging families and businessmen with laptop bags slung over their shoulders. Beyond a cluster of people waiting for their luggage, I see a dark-haired guy wearing desert camouflage leaning against a support column. It looks like my buddy Charlie Sweeney. We’ve been friends since boot camp and were sent to Afghanistan in the same platoon.

“Charlie?” I take a step toward him and this weird sort of happiness fizzes up inside me like a soda bottle, because if my best friend is here in Florida, it means he’s not—

“Travis?” my mom says. “Who are you talking to?”

—dead.

My stomach churns and my eyes go hot with tears that never seem to come. Charlie can’t possibly be in Fort Myers because he was killed in Afghanistan and I’m standing in the middle of a crowded baggage claim talking out loud—to an empty space. And all that happy just leaks right out, leaving me empty again.

“Are you all right?” Mom touches my sleeve.

I blow out a breath and lie. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I can’t get over how you’ve changed,” Mom says, hugging me again. I’ve always been tall, but I’ve grown two inches in the past year. Also, I used to have hair that hung nearly to my shoulders that Mom was always nagging me to cut. “You look so handsome.”

The black-flapped opening spits my bag onto the conveyor and I’m relieved to walk away from this conversation. I grab the bag with one hand and hoist it onto my shoulder, sending little puffs of dust into the air around me. Afghanistan has followed me home.

“Welcome home, Marine.” An old man approaches me, his sleeve pushed up to display the Marine Corps EGA—eagle, globe, and anchor—tattooed on his upper arm. Showing me he belongs to the brotherhood. “Semper Fi.”

“Always, sir.” I shake his hand.

He pats my elbow and lets me go. “God bless you, kid.”

Mom chatters endlessly on the drive, mostly about school. She’s the secretary at my former high school, so she thinks she knows all the gossip. I don’t care who’s dating who, or which teachers won’t be hired back next year, or that the soccer team had a losing season, but letting her talk means I don’t have to.

The house looks exactly the same as it did when I left, including Mom’s ceramic frog next to the front steps. She keeps a spare key hidden underneath in case we get locked out. All my friends know the key is there, but Paige is the only one who’s ever used it. She would drive over in the middle of the night and sneak up to my room. I wonder if she does that with Ryan now.

My mom leads me through the house to my bedroom, as if I don’t remember the way. She opens the door and—like the rest of the house—it looks like it was frozen in time. Gray paint? Check. Color-coordinated comforter? Check. Concert flyers taped randomly to the walls to disguise the decorator paint job? Check. Curled-up photo of Paige and me at my senior prom stuck in the corner of the mirror? Check. Even the book on the bedside table is the same one I was reading before I left. The whole thing is… creepy.

“I left everything the way it was,” she says as I drop my bag on the floor. “So it would feel familiar. Like home.”

I don’t tell her it doesn’t feel like home at all. I pull the photo from the mirror, crush it in my fist, and lob it at the trash can.

“Why don’t you rest?” Mom suggests. “Take a nap. I’ll come get you when Dad and Rye are home.”

When she’s gone, I dive onto the bed. It’s the one thing I’m very happy about. The mattress is soft and the comforter is clean, luxuries I’ve lived without since I left for boot camp. I stretch out on my back, my boots hanging off the bottom edge of the bed, and close my eyes. I can’t get comfortable. I roll over onto my side and try again. Then my stomach. Pry off my boots with my toes. Finally, I grab my pillow and hit the floor, dragging the comforter with me. I’ve slept on the top bunk of a squeaky metal rack in the squad bay at Parris Island, on a cot at Camp Bastion while we waited to start our mission, and in February the temperature dropped so low one night I had to share a sleeping bag with Charlie. All things considered, the thick carpet is comfortable, and I fall asleep fast.

I’m walking down a road in Marjah. It’s a road we’ve walked often on patrol. I’m on point with Charlie and Moss behind me. It’s cold, clear, and quiet, except for the crunch of our boots and the sound of prayer we hear every morning. The street will come alive soon with people going to the mosque, washing in the canal, or going to work in their fields. Right now, though, the street is empty. The hair on the back of my neck prickles and I know something is going to go down. I stop and try to warn Moss and Charlie, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I try to signal with my hands, but I can’t lift them. I want to run back to stop them, but my legs won’t move no matter how hard I try. I watch, helpless, as Charlie steps on the pressure plate. Boom! He’s enveloped in a cloud of dust. The bomb, hidden in the base of a tree, sprays him with shrapnel. Charlie falls to the dirt road, motionless. My limbs unfreeze and I walk slowly toward his body until I’m standing over him. The world shifts and I’m on my back, pain radiating through my body, as if I’d stepped on the mine, not Charlie. I open my eyes and there’s a face above me. An Afghan boy I’ve seen before who smiles as he fades away.