Page 18 of Severed Heart
For years, I always thought I had it better than Tobias and Dom—until this one. When Dom was still of single-digit age, their aunt Delphine was a horrible bitch, and at times, still can be. Especially when she’s drunk—which is most nights. For years, she used to torture Dom with mind games, but even when we were younger, he usually came out on top. I used to feel sorry for him because she picked on him the most. Back then, she was exceedingly miserable and tried to make everyone around her feel the same.
That’s my dadnow.
He was angrier after he got back from this last deployment and harder to get a laugh or smile from, and at times, to get him to simply function. It’s been nearly impossible to keep his attention, even in short spurts. Worse than that, my parents started to fight all the time, and Mom spent most of their arguments defending herself. I stepped in a time or two, but I might as well have been a fly on the wall and was treated as such, swatted away with Dad’s backhand one of those times. He didn’t strike me hard, but the blow itself ruined me for weeks. He never apologized, and that hurt worse than anything.
After a few minutes, Mom’s cries settle, and the landline rings. I don’t have to see them where they are in their bedroom to know they’re both staring at the phone. Standing with one foot in the hallway where I can quickly retreat into my room if their door opens, I strain to hear them answer.
“Hello? Hi Sean. No, I’m sorry, sweetheart, Tyler can’t come to the phone right now. He’s seeing his daddy off. Uh-huh. Okay, I’ll have him call you tomorrow.”
That’s not happening. As soon as Dad leaves, I’m taking the nails out of the window he hammered shut when he caught me sneaking out. By midnight, I’ll be around the fire with Sean and Dom. It’s what we always do when one of us has shit going on, and these days, one of usalwayshas shit going on. Not only that, but Tobias is also due for a visit from France any day, and I don’t miss a minute of his visits if I can help it.
When she hangs up, Mom’s cries start up again, and I know it’s due to disappointment that Dad’s orders to report haven’t changed. It’s like, somehow, she still believes Dad’s deployments are optional. Something he can get out of. Like calling in sick, and he says as much as her low cries somehow start to fill the entirety of our house.
“You married a Marine, Regina,” Dad reminds her. “I don’t see how this is still surprising to you.”
“I just got you back,” she says, her voice clogged. Though technically, he’s been home for a while, her remark is due to his behavior. “And I know who I married,” she snaps, “and he just barely came back to me. Did you have to re-enlist?”
“Stop it, God dammit, stop it. You’re seriously going to guilt me right now? I’m a career fucking Marine, and we’re at war. Weren’t you there? Did you not see the fucking planes?”
I shiver at his comment the way I always do when he refers to that day—that morning. No matter how hard I try to blur the vision, I can see the footage so vividly. A sunny day, a clear morning, the first plane enveloped by the tower, its course steady, eerily steady, as if it was natural for the plane to fly straight into the New York skyscraper.
Our whole family had gathered at the farm that day. Without so much as a phone call to meet up, it was a given. Car by car, every relative in and around Triple Falls filed in, embracing one another with fear-riddled and devastated expressions. A majority of them were active or ex-military, including my Uncle Grayson, who chose not to re-enlist in lieu of taking over the farm full-time.
Barrett and I kept the fire stoked as our mothers cried for hours and hours, and our fathers talked and drank. Dad had called a few in his old company and only got amped and angrier with each beer. Even with the lingering high of the annual Apple Festival—in which Jennings & Sons had sponsored one of the larger tents—none of us talked about it or dared change the subject.
Later that night, Dad and Uncle Grayson had wandered out into the orchard for hours, not coming back until sunrise. It was a long night, and no one could be comforted. I was the last one waiting by the fire when they got back. The look in Dad’s eyes was one I’ll never forget as he passed right by me and went into the house. Uncle Grayson had stopped and gripped my shoulder, only telling me to get some shut-eye.
The last few weeks, things have only gotten worse, what with Dad receiving his report date—which came faster than expected—to the fights they’ve been having. I’ve done everything I can to stay out as late as possible to avoid home—something I never used to do. And I got away with it until Mom’s paranoia got me busted sneaking in.
Even as a trained psychologist equipped to handle situations such as these, she’s been acting irrationally and gets up in arms about everything. Curiously watching me and Dad as we eat breakfast and do other everyday shit. One night, I caught her watching me sleep from the door of my bedroom before the phone rang, and once again, she had to pick Dad up from the bar because he was too drunk to drive.
Last night was Dad’s last supper. He’d asked for steak and a sweet potato. We ate in silence, and when Dad finished his plate, Mom swiped it from the table not a second later, turning quickly so he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes.
“Carter, I just want—” Mom starts to say, and I flinch when the sound of shattering glass reaches me. Hauling ass toward their bedroom across the hall, I pause just outside of it when Mom sounds up.
“Break anything you want. It’ll be a mess I can clean, but what mess will you be in when you get home? Do you think they care about that? About your family, about you? Your father—”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Dad snaps. “That man has gone through hell and back to defend his country, and you should respect that.”
“I do,” she defends, “you know I do, buttheydon’t.”
Theymeaning the United States Marine Corps. Though I’m with Dad most of the time when it comes to patriotic duty, I’m starting to think Mom’s way when it comes to limiting theamountof service.
Though it seems they are never late with a paycheck or to offer up a benefit, I’ve been researching more on the long-term effects because of the way Dad is acting. What I’ve learned is that a lot of soldiers don’t bounce back after too much exposure to war. The more I dug in, the more the statistics and bodies piled up because of soldiers who take their own lives after not being able to acclimate once they get home.
I’ve also been sneaking Mom’s psychology books into my bedroom. The more I learn, the more I’m starting to realize that Dad has oversimplified his job. My thinking had always been simple as well—you enlist, train, go to war if called to fight, follow orders to the letter, and come home. Once home, you get out your tools and spruce up the house, barbecue, catch up with friends, work on your truck, and wait for the call to go back.
It’s a kid’s perception, and Dad has made sure recently that I have very little of those kinds of thoughts left in me.
He’s always made it seem so uncomplicated, but thanks to my research—and as my parents scream at each other—I’m not so sure any of it is simple.
“You don’t respect shit,” Dad snaps. “You say you do, but you don’t because you didn’t grow up with a militant father and in a house filled with respect for the uniform. You grew up getting what you wanted on a whim.”
“So now I’m spoiled because I want my husband home and safe?”
“I’m done with this. If you can’t get behind me, don’t bother seeing me off.”
“Carter, don’t—”
