Page 6 of The Long Haul

Carson

December 19th…

The openness that Aubrey exhibited when Damon and Darcy first brought her in the house yesterday slowly faded.

As if they were visible, I could see the walls going up. That’s how thick they are.

She was still polite, laughing at jokes or the antics of my siblings. Smiling at my parents.

But her answers were guarded.

Aubrey didn’t share much personal information, which might be how she copes.

I’m not in the position to judge how someone deals with their loss.

Who’s to say how I would if I was in her shoes?

I’d probably curl into a ball, praying it was all a nightmare and wanting to wake from it. Aubrey doesn’t have that luxury. It’s real for her and she can’t escape it.

Maybe her coming here, spending time with my family, makes it harder, not easier.

I’d like to speak with her. Get to know her.

I’ve noticed she clams up when anybody asks her about being in the service, so I’ll avoid that. Because I get it. When you live it twenty-four/seven, regardless of how much you feel it’s your calling, sometimes you just want to think about something else.

For her, this could be her chance to do that.

So, I won’t bring it up. I’ve already mentioned that observation to my parents and they agreed. In fact, my dad caught it, too, and had spoken to my mom about it. He promised to pull each of my siblings aside, letting them know the topic is off-limits. Since he’s always been a man of his word, as he taught all of us to be, I know it’s as good as done.

We were brought up to be honest. Sometimes to a fault.

Not to the point it’ll hurt any feelings, of course.

That’s the only exception.

People are to be protected above all else.

That sentiment is what had me wanting to enlist.

The drive to protect.

One I can feel extending, stronger than it ever has to anybody save my family, to Aubrey.

“Who wants to decorate?” Mom asks.

Hands shoot in the air, each of us wanting to participate. Damon is even making, “Ooh ooh. Pick me,” sounds and waving his arm around. It doesn’t matter how old we get. Our reaction is always the same.

Excitement.

I watch as Aubrey sits there, gaze going back and forth between everybody, hands folded in her lap.

“We all will,” Mom says, laughing, “because it’s a family tradition.”

At that, Aubrey stills. Now her furtive glances remind me of someone looking for a way out. “Excuse me,” she mumbles. “I think the travel is catching up with me. Maybe I should lay down for a bit.”

Mom makes a noise, and it’s so reminiscent of how she’d get my attention when I was younger, her way of reprimanding without doing so publicly, that I instinctively shift to see what she wants.

She tips her head in Aubrey’s direction. More specifically where Aubrey was sitting. Seeing that she’s gone, Mom redirects it to indicate where Aubrey went as she’s now moving toward the hall where her room is.

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