Page 22 of Proof Of Life

“Was he in the blast with you?”

“He was there. Right beside me.” A flash of heat moves through my body, remembering the blast. “I think he saved my life.”

Riggs eyes Brandt once more before returning his gaze to me, and he swallows, like he’s remembering something significant. “I don’t doubt it. That’s what brothers do.”

The grueling hours of strenuous work I put in at rehab paid off, and with Riggs’s recommendation, the doctor signed off on my discharge papers, and I was sent home. I was still expected to report to rehab four days a week, and in addition to that, I had to start occupational therapy, as well as see an actual therapist, to shrink my head.

“That doesn’t mean you’re only working out four days a week,” Riggs insisted. “You have a full range of exercises I expect you to do at home every day, several times a day. And I’ll know if you don’t. I’ll be able to see your piss-poor performance in my gym.”

I had a feeling he would know, and he’d work me twice as hard.

When we left for the desert, Brandt had a shitty one bedroom apartment on base, and he gave it up gladly, hoping he would return with a promotion and a raise and be able to get something nicer. Now that we’re being med-boarded, or discharged painstakingly slowly, he’s moving in with me until we’re finished with Fort Bragg. It makes sense really, considering my injuries. I need his help around the clock, not to mention I also have a nice-enough two bedroom townhome.

And now that I’m back after being gone for nearly a year, I can’t say it feels like home anymore. Like I lived here in a different life. To be fair, the man that used to live here was a different man than the one that came back home.

A silver-framed picture of me and Brandt sits on the entry table in the hallway, taken years ago when we were first transferred to this base. It’s the only thing I feel any attachment to in this house. The knickknacks and pictures that used to define me or bring me comfort just feel insignificant now. None of it holds any sentimental value or connection to who I’ve become.

Maybe it’s because I don’t know who I am anymore. I'm a stranger in my own skin.

“Let’s get you upstairs, so you can settle in and rest,” Brandt suggests, coming up behind me. He kicks the front door shut with his boot and drops his ruck.

Staring up at the flight of stairs seems daunting, nearly impossible. It used to be something I took for granted. Now, it would be my greatest challenge.

“Where’s all your stuff? You can’t just have one bag.”

“Don’t you remember?”

The TBI makes it difficult to remember a lot of things. So much knowledge, so many memories, lost and forgotten.

“I stored a few boxes in your garage before we were deployed. I'll grab them later. There’s not much in there, just some pictures and medals, civvies, and a bunch of junk.” With his hands on the handles of my chair, Brandt sighs deeply. “How should we do this?”

“Fuck it, just leave me here. I’ll live on the couch.”

“Cut your shit. I came by earlier and put fresh sheets on your bed. Now we’ve just got to figure out how to get you up there in it. We can try using your crutches, and just sort of hop up each step. Or you can climb on my back.”

I give him the look, the are-you-fucking-kidding-me West Wardell special. “Just fucking shoot me and be done with it.”

Brandt smacks me on the back and laughs, and then he crouches in front of me, presenting me with his back. “Come on, hop up.”

My stomach turns. I hate you. I hate myself, hate what I’ve become. Nothing more than a parasite. A fucking leech.

If there’s an ounce of pride left inside me, it dies a quick death as I wrap my arms around his neck and let him haul me up from my chair. Our ascent up the stairs is slow going, and Brandt struggles under my weight, grunting as his breathing becomes heavier. He pauses at the top of the stairs to catch his breath with his hands on his knees before shuffling into my bedroom, where he dumps me unceremoniously on the mattress. Huffing and puffing and laughing, he collapses next to me in a breathless heap.

“Welcome home, Professor.”

I remain quiet until he nudges me. “I don’t even know where home is anymore.”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Do you feel this?” His big solid body bounces on the mattress. “A real bed. Not a cot, or a sleeping bag, or even that paper-thin wafer the hospital calls a mattress. A real fucking bed. How long have we dreamed of a good night's sleep on a soft mattress?”

With a shrug of my shoulders, I brush off his excitement. “Doesn’t feel like home.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I've lived in so many countries—so many places I’ve laid my head—and said ‘I’m home’, but I never really felt it.”

He folds his arms under his head. “You know what? Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling. Doesn’t matter if I’m standing on American soil, or my boots are covered in a sandbox in the middle of hell halfway across the world. As long as you’re by my side, I’m home.” His words bring up all these feelings that I’m trying to keep buried so I can make it through the day without falling apart, and I can feel tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Brandt rolls into my side and grins at me. “You are my compass. A strong and steady presence at my back holding a rifle.” The hand that squeezed mine for weeks in the hospital finds mine and squeezes again. “You’re my home. Always. No matter where we are, I’m home with you.”

This time, I squeeze back and the tears fall unbidden. “Same.”

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