Jack twisted his body away from the explosions and dived behind some rubble in the Afghani village in Helmand Province. He could feel the heat from the blasts and ducked lower. The noise rose and fell in undulating waves that confused his ears and made him slap his hands down tight over them. The roaring continued, modulated now, and he looked around to assess his situation. His rifle was beside him and he was alone in his refuge. He wondered if any of his mates had made it to shelter. Sergeant, the unit’s bomb-sniffing dog, had disappeared in a blast shortly before and Jack did not hold out much hope that his handler, Westy, had made it.
The dark made it difficult to see and Jack desperately wanted to look over the edge of the broken wall in front of him and see if anyone else was out there. He waited for what seemed like hours until the shelling abated and tried to push himself up to look over the edge. He could not get his feet under himself. Looking down, he saw one leg was missing from just below the knee and the other was badly twisted. Medics appeared and began to apply tourniquets.
“No!” he screamed.
Thrashing frantically, he fell with a thump onto his apartment floor. His eyes opened wide and he looked around in disbelief in the pre-dawn darkness. He was safe in his bedroom where he had fallen out of bed. Breathing in ragged gasps, Jack lay there and let his heart slow its too rapid beating. Squeezing his eyes shut again and again, he tried to erase the images that had yanked him out of sleep. All of Westy that had ever been found was his bloody helmet.
Panting and out of breath, Jack shifted himself up until he could lean against the side of the bed and looked around the room. His few clothes were neatly hung in the open closet, books arranged on the windowsill, and his wheelchair waiting by the head of the bed. He hefted himself up into the chair and rolled out to the living room, needing to reassure himself that he was truly out of the battlefield.
The living room held his workbench with Elaine’s toaster gleaming from the polish he’d given it after replacing a burned-out wire. Other small appliances awaited his touch and he rolled over to the table, desperate for the peace he found in the work. Pulling a mantle clock towards him, he began to restore its mechanism. As it began to tick again, he wished he could attach his recurring episodes of PTSD to a passing tick of the clock and have them gone forever.
He had tried drugs for depression and anxiety, focus groups with other soldiers, sleep therapy, and exercise that made him tired and was supposed to make it easier to sleep. The truth was nothing worked since Eddie, his fix-it helper, had gone back to school to get mechanic’s training. That touch of another’s presence in his life had lifted him out of his depression until he felt part of the living, healthy world again. Now he just felt alone.
He went on working on the clock and lined up his other projects in a row so he would not be without something to do. Empty time scared him.
The doorbell rang as the room began to brighten with the morning sun and he looked toward the door. He was not sure if he could face being pleasant with someone he knew casually as a neighbor. Eddie never minded if he got cranky and short-tempered. The kid came from such a rough background, Jack’s occasional fits of unruliness were something he joked about. Jack had no idea how to fill the empty hole in his life. He knew he had to try or face his past taking over. It was just so hard to trust that someone would be around for him and not go away. The doorbell rang again and he rolled over to open the door.
Betty stood there smiling until she had a good look at Jack’s wild hair, beard stubble, and wrinkled pajamas. Betty’s smile lowered at the corners and her eyes registered shock.
“Jesus, I’m sorry,” he said, running his hands through his hair in a sad attempt to make himself presentable.
“Come in and wait a second while I wash my face.”
He wheeled away with vigorous thrusts of his arms and disappeared into the bathroom. Staring at himself in the mirror, the image staring back scared even him. His eyes were wild and wide open as if they could not look away from a vision of hell. He yanked off his shirt and washed himself to remove the stink of fear. Shaving quickly and running a comb through his hair, he surveyed the result. As soon as he got a fresh shirt on, it would do. He took a deep breath, shrugged into a clean shirt, and forced a smile as he rolled back to the living room and Betty.
“It was a bad night,” he said with a flip of his hand. “I assume you’re here to retrieve Elaine’s toaster.” He lifted it off the workbench and offered it to Betty. She took it carefully and sat down on a chair.
“Is everything alright?” she asked. Her voice was tentative as she plucked at the toaster cord in her lap.
Jack looked away and busied himself with the clock on the workbench. He wished she’d just take the toaster and leave him to his nightmares.
“It’s nothing new. Tell Elaine I said hello.” He waved Betty toward the door but she didn’t budge.
“I don’t want to intrude. I’m sure you know how to handle your nightmares.”
And here comes the ‘but,’ thought Jack.
“Have you ever considered getting some help?” Betty leaned forward in her chair, the picture of a concerned friend without a clue.
If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that…, thought Jack.
“Look Betty. I know you want to help but you don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not so simple as just being willing to ask for help. I’ve tried every program out there and I don’t want to be drugged all the time. It’s just the way it is. Maybe the nightmares will go away and maybe they won’t. Let me handle it will you?” Jack’s voice rose.
“It’s just that I’ve heard so many good things about the effects a service dog can have. There’s a program at the shelter here in the city. Maybe one of them would help.”
Jack had a sudden vision of Sergeant exploding in mid-air and shook his head to clear it. “I can’t take care of myself. How the hell will I take care of a dog?” He almost shouted.
Betty stood up and stared at him impatiently.
“Caring for another creature is the whole point. If you’re concentrating on getting the dog out regularly, fed, exercised and bathed, you won’t be thinking about yourself so much!”
“Take the damn toaster and leave!” Jack angrily wheeled himself to the door and held it open. He waved Betty out with both arms and slammed the door after her.
Wheeling his chair around, he put his hands over his face and let go a groan of agony. The walls of the apartment absorbed the sound and returned it as a sigh of sympathy. Jack reached out his hand and slowly began to propel himself back to the living room with shoves against the wall. Rolling up to his workbench, he sat for a long time gazing out the window and seeing nothing.
Sometime after dark, he stirred and felt a wave of guilt wash over him. Betty hadn’t deserved the outburst and he had to admit, he could use some help – but from where? All the usual avenues recommended to him hadn’t worked. What was it she had said? A service dog? Well maybe. At least it was worth considering. Anything was better than sitting here alone with the pain, day after day.
Photography Credit: Jason Rice
This is Chapter 3 of a novel-in-progress titled Grandview Arms. It is about the residents of a rundown apartment building searching for dignity and purpose in reduced circumstances.
Ellen Aubry, MA, is the author of “A Suitable Place” and “Hardship Duty” in the anthology Beyond the Window (2017), and “My Soul’s Gone Away”, RumbleFishPress.com’s story of the day on November 18, 2017. She has a story “Loud and Clear” in the anthology, Voices of the Valley: Journeys (2018), a story “The Building: 1901 Providence Avenue” in the June 2020 issue of Stonecrop Magazine, and an essay “Moving On” to be published in 2020 in a new anthology from Ageless Authors.
She is a graduate of the University of Denver’s Professional Creative Writing Masters’ Program with an emphasis in fiction.
