Fisher's Light(3)

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to,” he speaks softly, thumping his head against the headboard to stare up at the ceiling.

“That doesn’t make any sense. Of course I want answers. I want to know everything. That’s why I’m here. I’m your wife, Fisher, and I love you more than anything. We’re in this together, every step of the way,” I remind him.

He’s quiet for a while and I see every emotion from sadness to frustration skate across his features before finally settling on anger. I don’t want him to be angry with me for asking him to share his troubles, but I don’t know what else to do. How can I help him shoulder his burdens if he doesn’t share them with me?

“So, what do you want to know?” he finally asks, the sarcasm lacing his voice making the hair on my arms stand up. “Do you want to know what it’s like to find the mutilated body of the little girl you brought food to yesterday lying in the street? What it’s like fighting a war against people who will kill children to drive home a message? Or do you want to know what it’s like to be walking down a deserted street on foot patrol, making sure it’s clear for the convoy, talking to one of your friends about football and then mid-sentence his head explodes and his blood and brains are splattered all over your face?”

He speaks in a monotone voice that is like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Tears flow down my cheeks and I have to hold my hand against my mouth to stop myself from sobbing. I shake my head back and forth, wanting him to stop, but knowing that I asked for it. I wanted to know everything and now he’s giving it to me.

“Maybe you want to know what it’s like to get orders to take out an enemy sniper and right when you pull the trigger, a nine-year-old boy runs in the line of your shot. I’m sure you’d like to know what it’s like to watch his mother hold his lifeless body in her arms while she screams and cries and tries to hold together the hole in his head with her hands. Do you know how hard it is to try and shove someone’s brain back into his head after you’ve blown a hole in it the size of a softball?”

He finally stops talking and I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to block out the visions of what he’s told me from my mind. I can’t breathe, I can’t make my heart stop hurting and I can’t stop crying. He warned me and I didn’t listen. I just wanted to live in his mind for one second, learn more about him so I could be a better wife and give him whatever he needed, but I can’t help him with this and it kills me. I can’t take away these memories because they are burned into his brain and his soul. I’ve always known he lives an entirely different life when he’s away from me, but this is almost too much to handle. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to get him through this. I don’t know if I’m enough to make him forget.

“Oh, Jesus. Fuck, Lucy. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that. What the hell is wrong with me?”

When my sobs break through the hand clamped over my mouth, he suddenly comes back from whatever trance he was in. He moves towards me, sliding his legs around either side of my knees and wrapping his arms around my body. He cradles the back of my head and brings it down to his shoulder, smoothing my hair down my back as he rocks us back and forth.

“I shouldn’t have asked. I’m so sorry I made you tell me. I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through that,” I cry softly into his shoulder as he continues to slowly rock us from side to side.

I’m ashamed of myself for crying. I have nothing to cry about. When he’s gone, doing all of these awful things to protect our country, I’m safe and content in my own little bubble on this island, surrounded by the ocean and family and friends.

“Don’t, Lucy. Don’t ever apologize for something like that. I’m going to be fine, just give me time, okay? Just keep loving me and being here, that’s all I need.”

We fall asleep in each other’s arms and Fisher doesn’t wake up again that night or any night for the next few months. I try to tell myself that everything is fine and he’s getting better each day he’s home, putting distance between himself and the war. For a while, it’s an easy enough lie to believe. For an entire year, I have him all to myself, and we’re so happy and settled that I actually believe he’ll never leave me again.

Then he tells me that he volunteered to go back there for a third time.

“I don’t understand, Fisher. Why? Why would you go back there?” I ask, trying not to let him know that this decision is killing me. I choke back the tears as he paces around the kitchen like a caged tiger. I should have known this was coming. Each time he sees something in the news about the war, he gets so anxious that he can’t sit still.