Fisher's Light(45)

I trail off, pulling my gaze away from the ocean to look at my mother. Even though we’ve never been all that close because of my father, she’s still always been an easy person to talk to or go to for advice. Add to that the fact that she always adored Lucy, I knew she would be the only person I could count on to help me figure this thing out.

She reaches over and grabs my hand, tugging me up from the couch.

“Come on, I want to show you something,” she tells me as she leads me through the house, up the main staircase and down the hall to my old bedroom.

When she pushes open the door and pulls me inside, I pause and try to force my heart to stop racing as I look around the room. Years ago, she’d converted this room into an office for herself so she could work on the many volunteer projects she organizes. Her computer desk still sits in the corner next to the window, but the paintings and other artwork that used to hang on the wall have been replaced with shadowboxes and other framed items. A part of me wants to run out of this room so I don’t have to see all of the memorabilia she’s hung on the walls, but I know I can’t do that. The whole point of sticking with therapy for a year was to finally exorcise all of these f*cking demons. What kind of a coward would I be if I couldn’t stare them down right now?

Walking slowly around the room, I look at my Purple Heart, displayed inside a shadow box along with the official letter that came with it. My shoulder injury was the catalyst to my coming home from that last tour and what I did to Lucy in our kitchen. I didn’t want to leave my men behind and I certainly didn’t want to leave them for something I didn’t consider a “real” injury. Men were losing life and limb and I was forced to go home for a few pieces of metal in my shoulder that damaged a nerve. I was pissed that I received a medal for doing my f*cking job, so pissed that I refused to attend the ceremony and shoved it into a box without looking at it as soon as it came in the mail.

Next to the Purple Heart is a framed article from our local newspaper’s write-up after my first deployment on their “local boy” who went overseas. My uniform hangs from the back of the closet door and my camouflaged backpack, stained with blood from my shoulder injury, rests on the floor against the wall.

I clench and unclench my fists to keep them from shaking as I squat down and run my hand over the pack, remembering the weight of it on my back through so many years and so many deployments. All of the items in this room were shoved into a tote in the back of my closet at the house Lucy and I shared because I couldn’t stand to look at them, knowing they would bring me nothing but bad memories and horrible flashbacks. Bobby told me he’d given the tote to my mother when he cleaned up the mess I’d made of my house, but I never expected her to pull them out and turn this room into a shrine, showcasing everything I’d been through. Tears fill my eyes when I think about all the men who lost their lives, men that I lived with, men that I fought with and men that became my brothers. So many lives lost and I’ve never understood why I got to come home, year after year. I could never comprehend why I was one of the lucky ones that wasn’t shipped home in a flag-draped coffin.

Glancing above me, I see a framed picture of Lucy and I on our wedding day and I’m immediately reminded why I’m so f*cking lucky.

“I’m so proud of everything you’ve done, Fisher and I’m so sorry for what you went through,” my mother tells me as I stand back up and turn to face her. “I hope you don’t mind that I pulled all of this stuff out, but I just don’t think it should be hidden away. YOU should be proud of what you did, as well.”

For the first time, looking at all of these things doesn’t fill me with dread. I don’t hear screams and explosions in my head and I don’t feel the need to suck down a bottle of whiskey to make the memories go away. I served my country and did the best that I could do. I sacrificed years away from the woman I loved and it’s time that I stand tall for the things I’ve done and be proud of what I accomplished.

My mother walks over to the closet where my uniform hangs, opens the door and pulls out a box, handing it over to me.

“Maybe what you need to do is stop worrying about what the future will bring and concentrate on the past. The only way you’ll get to the end is by starting at the beginning. Maybe Lucy just needs a reminder of how it all started.”

I take the box from her, sliding the lid off of the top. I can’t believe I forgot about this box. I’d stuffed it at the bottom of my tote when I returned from my last deployment, determined to ignore the proof that my wife loved me enough to fight my demons so that I could find the strength to leave her. Flipping through letters, photos and sketches of most of my wood working projects, I find a journal I’d kept in high school and for a few years after. Much like the ones in the therapy journal I was forced to keep at the VA, these journal entries read more like short stories, a testament to my lifetime love of creative writing. Glancing through some of the pages, I look up and smile at my mom.