She’s referencing my treatment. Constance was the first to diagnose my PTSD, and she referred me to a physician for meds, which I’m trying to stop taking.
“I’m… better.” Not whole.
The woman nods. “I’ll pray for you.” Compassion is in her eyes. “Remember, it’s not a sign of weakness to ask for help. It’s a sign of strength.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m going through the TSA pre-check line. My entire body is tight, every muscle wound to the max. Seeing Danny’s grave is something I’ve needed to do for a long time, but it doesn’t lessen the dread I feel at returning home.
The trauma counselor said it was normal not to go straight home after what happened to me, but as time passed, it felt more and more like pressure I couldn’t escape.
I have to go back and face it.
I have to face her.
I’ll never be able to accept it wasn’t my fault. I’ll never have peace with what happened. It was my job to clear the road the day before we pulled out, and on top of that, I was driving the truck. I was one of the few surviving passengers.
“It’s not your fault,” they say over and over.
I’m not sure she’s going to see it that way.
The silver step-side rumbles as I pull into the garage and kill the engine. The moon is out, and the town is quiet. I open the door, and the first thing that hits me is the smell—gasoline, oil, old rags, grease… The memories are close behind. God, I remember this place so well—the shame, the pressure, always being an outsider.
This garage was the only safe place.
This garage and her arms.
People call me a hero. I have my degree and my military training, my pension, and I own this shop. Mack said I could sell it if I wanted. He left me a small inheritance, but money’s not on my mind.
I know what it means to have some kind of connection, some kind of name in this town. I might be returning in the dark of night, but I’m a different person all the way around from when I left.
Going to the garage door, I pull it down and close it. I take the closed sign out of the window. I called a few days ago and had the utilities turned on. After everything that’s happened, maybe focusing on something simple, internal combustion,
would be therapeutic.
With a heavy sigh, I drop the plastic sign on the ground. Tomorrow, I’ll sort out what happens next.
Inside the house, nothing has changed. The old linoleum table is against the wall under the window. The tiny kitchen is behind a half bar attached to the wall. It’s a small place, a straight shot to the back bedroom. A bathroom is off to the side.
It smells dusty, but the lingering scent of Dawn dishwashing soap remains. It’s the only thing that would take off the grease staining our fingernails.
Looking at my hands, I realize the telltale black smudges have been absent for eight years. I left for college thinking I’d never come back to this line of work. Now I don’t want to do anything else.
Fixing cars feels like the perfect escape.
I’ll put out a help wanted sign tomorrow.
I walk to the back of the house, dropping my bag on Uncle Mack’s old bed. As a kid, I slept on a cot in the living room. It’s not there anymore, much like all of Mack’s clothes and pictures. All the mementos are gone.
He knew when he left he wouldn’t be coming back here. He left the place clean for me. The bed is neatly made.
I pull the blanket off and the sheets. Even if he left it clean, it’s been years. Everything is covered in dust. I’ll wash these and see about getting a housekeeper in here to clean up.
Slowly, I take out my clothes. I put the jeans in the empty dresser, followed by socks, shirts, boxer briefs. I carry my few toiletries and my toothbrush to the bathroom across the hall. I don’t have a lot of baggage.
At least not visible baggage.
I plug the phone I bought a few days ago into the wall. They were able to give me my old number back, but everything from before had been lost. I’ll have to start all over. All I have left from before is the piece of paper and the photograph I had in my pocket. It’s tucked safely in the family Bible my uncle gave me before he died.
I take it from the pack and walk to the living room to put it on the coffee table. My fingers trace the worn leather, and I open it, allowing the sight of her smile to shred my insides again.