Page 29 of Nights Without Night
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It’s like something breaks.
I’ve seen the documentaries. Veterans talking about the aftermath. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the anger. It all made sense when they shared their stories. There was a sort of linear narrative to it. How the depression hit them when they got home. It didn’t sneak up. It was there all along.
Some of them talk about how the V.A. helped them. Some of them talk about how the system failed them.
I’m left wondering about the people who can’t get on camera to tell their stories. Who don’t have a linear story. Who, as Isadoro put it, don’t survive.
A void has opened, and I can’t jump it. I can see Isadoro on the other side. He’s alone. So am I. But I can’t reach him.
The harder I try, the wider the chasm seems.
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Those first few days, I think it’s going to blow over. I leave him alone, giving him space. Two days pass. Three. Anxiety is a heavy stone in my stomach, a restless swarm in my lungs. Four.
He disappears. I can’t even hear him at night.
I’ve been knocking on his door almost every day, but on the fourth day, the rap on the door becomes insistent.
“Isa?” I say, voice almost cracking as I try to put force on its tentative frame. I hear the slightest noise inside. I let out a breath, relieved.
“Isa, I’m coming in,” I say through the door and then pause, waiting for a response.
Nothing.
I open the door, thanking God it’s not locked. The smell hits me at once. Unwashed human, sweaty sheets. I step into the fog. The room is completely dark, the curtains drawn. It eats up the light from the hallway as I push the door open a little further. My shadow steps in front of me, as tentative as I am.
“Isa,” I say again. The creature under the sheets shifts. It looks too small to be Isadoro. I walked towards it. “Isa…”
He’s curled on his side, facing the wall the bed is pushed against. The sheets are drawn up high, swallowing him up. His face is turned towards the pillow, buried in it. I wonder how he can breathe.
I squat beside the bed so that I’m eye-level with the curve of his scalp on the white pillow.
“Isa. Isa, come on. Why don’t we go sit on the couch? Air the room out?” I suggest. He doesn’t move a muscle. “Isa.”
“What?” a croak from the sheets says. I startle. My heart starts pounding.
“Why don’t we go to the living room? Leave the room for a while?”
“No,” he says simply.
“Just for-”
“I said no.” His voice isn’t harsh, but it’s cold, somehow, like he’s talking to a stranger. I take a deep breath of the musty air.
“Okay, well, how about I bring you some food?”
“I’ve eaten.”
“Barely anything. I can-”
“I said I’ve eaten.” His body tightens into himself, the shell of his back hardening. I let out a breath.
I stay there for a while. Isadoro and me, and the wall between us. He doesn’t move. I don’t know what to say. Except.
“Okay.” The fragile word dissolves instantly in the dark.
