Secret Lucidity(64)
“Please, just talk to me,” I plead on desperate breath.
He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees and dropping his head. Without thought, I reach out and lay my hand on his back. His muscles coil in reaction to my touch, and I grow needier to soothe him.
“Why won’t you talk to me?”
He lifts his hands to cradle his head, and I push a little more, saying, “Just tell me what it is.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
“Will you try . . . for me?”
His head shakes slowly in his hands, and his refusal to open up needles on my nerves.
“Why not?” I question, and when he continues to give me the cold shoulder, I take my hand from his back. “Why won’t you talk to me when I’ve given you so much? You have all my secrets, David. You’ve seen the worst parts of me, and I’ve handed them over to you whenever you’ve asked. It wasn’t easy, but I did it anyway.”
I tug his wrist, pulling it away from his head, and when he turns to look at me, I see what he’s trying to hide. His eyes are rimmed with unshed tears, and it hurts to see him like this—a man who is undeniably strong, suffering so badly.
“Whatever it is, you can talk to me about it.”
“I’ve never been able to talk to anyone about it,” he admits.
“I’m not just anyone, David. You know that, right? But if I’m going to give you the broken pieces of me, then I’m going to want yours too.”
Eventually, he leans into me with his head against my chest the way a child would. He bands his arms around my waist as I hold him. His back tremors in faint shudders against my hands, and I can tell he’s doing everything he can to fight off the emotions that are threatening him. It’s a terribly painful sight, and I feel helpless to console him, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.
I keep my hold on him, and when his breathing evens out, his voice cracks hoarsely when he says, “His name was Corbin.” He pulls away from me and leans back into the couch cushions, running his hands down his scruffy jaw, before adding, “Corbin Dane.”
Sitting on my knees with my feet tucked under me, I look down on him as he stares into nothingness.
“Was that his grave you went to earlier?”
He nods, and I see him shutting down again, so I do what I can to keep him talking when I say, “Tell me about him.”
It takes him a moment until he’s able to respond, and when he does, he does it without looking at me. “He was one of my best friends growing up. He was loud and obnoxious, but he was one hell of a friend. After we graduated high school, we both went to OU, and when shit fell apart with my ex, it was his idea to get the fuck out of Oklahoma and enlist in the Army. He was more of a brother to me than my own.” He stops, getting choked up before leaning forward again, bracing his head back down into his hands. With trembling shoulders, he releases the most painful sound when he reveals, “I couldn’t save him.”
He’s hunched over, and I hold him as best as I can. With the side of my face pressed against his back, I pray for the power to absorb all the agony he’s battling with.
“What happened?” I ask, regretting the invasive question when he doesn’t respond. My whispered, “I’m sorry,” sounds pathetic, and I move to pull away to give him some space.
His hand grabs on to my arm that’s slung around the front of him, squeezing me hard in his grip, and in return, I tighten my hold on him as well. He doesn’t attempt to speak, and I don’t say anything to encourage him. I simply do my best to keep my own tears from falling.
You hear about soldiers that come back from war so scarred by their experiences that they’re physically unable to talk about them. It’s one thing to hear about the men who struggle in silence, but here I am, seeing it, feeling the memories inside his tremoring bones under my touch. Whatever it is that’s in his head, I wish to God that I could erase it so it never has to torment him again. It’s a powerless feeling to know that all I can do in the moment to comfort him is nothing. It’s a pain I’m unable to touch because it’s so far out of my reach of comprehension. So, I sit here, never taking my hands off him, and wait. I’ll wait forever until he’s ready to talk.
It doesn’t take him forever though. It takes a long while, but eventually he lifts his head and tells me, “It was going to be his last tour. He was married and just found out his wife was pregnant before we deployed. Told me that was it for him. That as soon as his term was up, he was going to leave military life behind for his family.” He takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, sitting up a little more. “I knew that kid my whole life and never once saw him cry until the day news came that Jennifer had given birth to their daughter. He was so fucking happy, jumping around like a damn lunatic,” he says with a sorrowful chuckle.
“You knew his wife well?”
“Yeah. Like I said, he was my best friend—my family.” His face drops again. “We only had a month left until we could go home. He was counting down the days . . . we all were.”
“How long had you been deployed?”
“Thirteen months.”
I hesitate to ask, but I can’t stop myself when it comes out. “What happened to him?”
He rocks back and forth a couple times before standing and walking into the kitchen. I turn and watch as he opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of beer. I want to tell him to stop, but I don’t. He tilts his head back and chugs nearly the whole bottle before dropping it down to the counter with a hard clink.