Worth Saving(32)

“Oh my god! And you were making fun of me?” I bellow as I laugh out loud. Between the two of us, the sheer volume of our laughter is definitely piercing the silence in the room, and I can see people starting to shift their eyes towards us in annoyance.

“Oh, don’t be a hater, now, Layla. It took years for me to be able to paint this well.”

“Oh yeah? I can’t even tell what any of it is! What’s this right here?” I ask, pointing to something that kind of resembles an upside down Q.

“That’s an apple! A beautiful apple, at that.”

I can’t hold in my laughter at all. The sensation of a genuine smile on my face feels surreal to me, and this blissful feeling inside my stomach is so foreign that I’d believe it if someone told me an alien had taken over my body and was making me act this way.

“And how about these? What are these little purple scribbles down here?” I ask as I point, trying to keep from laughing again.

“How can you not tell that those are delicious grapes? Those grapes look so real that when I painted them, I seriously tried to grab one from the canvas to eat it. I hurt my finger.”

Another uncontrollable laugh jumps from my body, this time grabbing the attention of Danielle. She makes her way over to the two of us and already has a smile on her face as she approaches Austin’s painting.

“Umm, well, I give you an A for effort,” she says with a smile of her own. She looks at my painting too, and says I did a decent job, and that I might do even better on the next object.

“At least she told me mine is decent, you just got an A for effort. That’s like a participation medal,” I jab at Austin, still grinning.

“Oh, whatever. She said you did a decent job. That’s what all teachers say to their worst students to make them feel like they’re actually keeping up with the rest of the class.”

“Oh, f*ck you,” I reply, my stomach hurting from laughing so much. “Okay, we’ll see on this next one. Watch this.”

Danielle removes the plate of fruit from the table and brings over a detailed model of the Statue of Liberty. Everyone immediately gets to work.

“So, anyway, Mr. Artist,” I say as I try to focus on the outline of the statue. “I’ve spilled my business, now it’s your turn. I noticed earlier that you said you did like your job, then you changed it to you do like it. Kind of made it sound like something happened that made you change your mind about it. Am I right?”

The playful expression on Austin’s face slowly melts away like a popsicle sliding off its stick. He doesn’t look at me, and he takes a minute to gather himself as he slides his brush on the blank canvas in a way that couldn’t possibly create anything close to that statue. He blinks rapidly and looks down at the floor like a memory of something is attacking him and he’s struggling to stay calm about it. I hear him let out a loud breath of air, then he clears his throat.

“Alright, since you opened up to me, and I know that was probably very difficult for you,” he says, never taking his eyes off the canvas. “I told you I was a helicopter pilot, but there’s really more to it than that. I fly a HH-60 Pave Hawk—it’s a rescue helicopter. That’s what I do in the Air Force. I’m a rescue pilot, and on every deployment I’ve been on, my job has been to perform drop-offs and extractions for special operations teams in the AOR, which stands for area of responsibility. I’ve worked with every branch of the military doing my job, and it’s always been very rewarding, and it gives me a rush like you wouldn’t believe.

“Well, things didn’t go so well on my last deployment. On my last extraction of the tour, my copilot was shot and killed. I watched him die right there in my helicopter. I’ve been going to therapy, trying to deal with the fact that his death was a tragedy, and accept the idea that it wasn’t my fault. But, no matter how hard I try, I can’t escape this feeling of guilt that sits in my stomach every time I think about it. I barely knew the guy, but his death weighs on my mind and heart like I’d known him my whole life. I have trouble sleeping sometimes, because I think about it and it replays in my mind over and over again like a CD skipping. Which is why I tend to be up late at night, driving around trying to get my mind off it. Military doctors tell me I have PTSD. I’m dealing with it, but it’s tough. So, I did like my job. I loved it before I saw a man die.”

Austin never looks at me, but I’m not even sure he realizes his brush isn’t even moving anymore. He’s staring off into nothingness, eyes frozen and unblinking, and I can see a pain in them I hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t there until he started talking about his last deployment. He’s perfected hiding his pain, and I’ve never known anybody who could hide their pain better than I could hide mine.

“Wow. I’m so sorry to hear that, Austin,” I manage to say.

“Yeah. Me too.” He finally looks back up at the canvas and starts to move the brush around again. “Doctor tells me I need to talk about it more, but there’s some shit you don’t want to talk about. You know?”

“I definitely do. I think I understand that better than you might think. Well, if you ever need someone to talk to about it, I’m here for you, Austin. Okay?”

He finally takes his eyes off the work in front of him and glances at me. I watch his face and notice the pain slip back into its hiding place, now hidden from the rest of the world. His smile slowly pushes its way forward and he’s back to being himself again. Back to being happy—but how much of it is real?