Page 2 of Love Her

“Twig, you left me there to die.”

“Big Cat you know I would never leave you behind. But, bro, you’ve got to keep up. These kids don’t mess around.”

His laughter fills the air and I join him. TJ, or Big Cat as he was known in our unit, and I served together for three years before he was injured and took a medical discharge. We’ve managed to keep up with each other through social media, and when we started playing against each other on our favorite video game, we fell right in step with the brotherhood we once had. Most people wouldn’t think we’d be interested in a game like this after what we’ve seen. What we’ve done. All that TJ lost. But it’s comforting. Something we understand and, truthfully, nothing will ever compare to the real life version of this game.

“Okay that’s it for me. I have to head to group,” TJ says.

“How’s that going?”

“Same as it’s been. I bitch and complain about going. The other members eyeball me, and I scowl. They speak and half of them listen. Then I stand and they all pay attention. It’s why I go. If my story can help one of these kids, it’s worth it.”

TJ isn’t much of a talker outside of his core group of friends. Never one to hit the bar scene with us on leave or even join in a poker game on base. No, he spent most of his time with his nose in a book, learning and planning his future as a soldier. Then, one IED changed all that.

“You’re a good guy, TJ. They’re lucky to have you.”

“Nah, man. I’m just a guy who lost his legs and then his way. What about you? Have you considered finding a group near you?”

“I better let you go,” I reply, avoiding his question.

“Connor, we’ve talked about this. You need a safe place to talk about everything you saw. Everything we did. Your injuries. That IED was no joke, man. Your injuries healed but you’re struggling. The isolation isn’t healthy. It’ll eat you up, man. Don’t let it win.”

What he says makes sense and somewhere deep inside me, I know he’s right. Regardless, I know therapy isn’t for me. “I’ll think about it.”

Seemingly appeased with that response, TJ signs off and I’m left alone to play a bunch of strangers or by myself. My phone buzzes on the table. I didn’t respond this morning and I’ve paid the price all day. No wonder my battery never lasts.

Another buzz, this time it doesn’t stop after a notification. Tossing the controller on the couch, I lift up and grab my phone, sliding my finger across the screen to answer.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Connor Hall. Where have you been?” Her question is high-pitched, which leads to a string of coughs. She doesn’t sound well, the rattling of her lungs more prominent than they were just six months ago. I hate this for her. For my sister and me. We both know one day that rattle will land her back in the hospital and the possibility of her never coming home is far greater than any of us like to acknowledge.

“I’ve been working, Mama. How are things? How’s Meg?”

“Your sister works too hard. As do you. So much you can’t even call your mother.”

Rising from the couch, I make my way to the kitchen and put the call on speaker before placing it on the counter. While Mom catches me up on the gossip of my old neighborhood and my sister’s recent promotion, I go about fixing my lunch.

The pride in her voice as she talks about my sister makes me happy. I’m glad she has Meg nearby to help her. I wish I could do more for both of them other than in the form of money. But my mom and sister both know I can’t go back there. Not to the place that will easily pull me into a life I left behind. I may have exchanged one kind of war for another, but the battle I faced in the desert gave me a brotherhood and family I never had before. No, the war on the streets of Cleveland was far more lethal.

“Tell me about what’s going on there, honey. How is small-town life?”

Placing the top slice of bread on my sandwich, I grab the bag of chips I opened yesterday from the counter and head back to the couch as I reply, “Small.”

“Connor.” Her tone is a warning, that maternal one that always had me apologizing before I did anything wrong as a kid.

“What? It is. There’s no traffic or much crime to speak of and the people are friendly. It took some getting used to at first. Instead of flipping you off at a stop sign, you can sit there for a solid five minutes waving each other forward.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with that kind of life. Maybe I’ll visit soon. It would be nice to see you other than on my computer screen.”

There it is. The maternal guilt that I haven’t been home in over three years. She forgets that I offered to take her on a real vacation, something with white sandy beaches and umbrellas in her drinks.

“We’ll see. As soon as I save a little more money, I’ll get a bigger place and y’all can come visit.”

Giggling, I realize I just let some of the southern I’ve adapted to slip out.

“I bet the ladies are all over you with that accent.”

Groaning, I pop a chip in my mouth and let her ramble on a few more minutes before bidding her goodbye. I try to let go of the guilt I often feel after speaking with her and get in the right mindset of a night behind the bar. Flirting and pouring beers is what the customers expect, not a guy with a case of mom guilt.

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