“Why is that? You seem like a bright young man, I’m sure you could have gone to college. You played a sport, yes?”
I nod. “Football.”
“Did you ever think about pursuing it after high school?” she asks.
Sure, I had. I don’t know why, but it never appealed to me on a collegiate or professional level. The reason I loved playing football was because I got to do so with my best friends. With the coaches who had been with us since pee-wee days. I got to fuck around in the locker room, wear a varsity jacket, and walk out to a song I picked under those Friday night lights. There is a completely different atmosphere around high school football as opposed to the higher levels of the sport. I was passionate about the team game, not besting other athletes. So, I never really considered trying to go pro.
“No. I didn’t.”
“But you liked the sport when you played in high school?”
“What are you trying to get at?” I practically sneer because I don’t need anyone to try to prod me in any direction.
Dr. Liu levels me with a gaze. “You don’t want to address what happened when you were imprisoned. And you’re telling me that you’re not happy at home, that you can’t move past what happened. The next best thing we can do is try to manually help you move on. I want you to think about what you liked before going into the military. It could be the simplest of things. Football in high school. A certain book. A slice of pizza you craved at the local Italian restaurant. Where are the things you found joy? Pick one and pursue it as a hobby or a job. Did you like working with your sports team? Go volunteer as a coach. You need to occupy your mind and your hands, because the last thing you should be doing is sitting inside, stewing. If you’re not ready to talk, then involve yourself in the community so at least you can begin to go back to a civilian life.”
“That sounds stupid as fuck.” Deflection is a great way to not do what’s being asked of you.
A stern brow gets thrown my way. “Do the homework. Or next session, I’m going to ask you to open up about the day you were captured.”
Is it me, or is Dr. Liu busting my chops? She seems half-serious, and thinking about the day my tank exploded and I was carted off by screaming terrorists makes me want to black out and go catatonic.
So, instead, I’ll think about the pizza I was passionate about and figure out a way to fulfill her ask. Because there is no way in hell I’m ever discussing that day in the desert.
I’m sitting out on the patio in my backyard, hours later, when my dad walks out.
“Oh, Ev, I didn’t, uh, didn’t see you there.” He’s jumpy, as he has been since the second I returned home.
“Yeah,” I answer, though he didn’t ask a question and my response hasn’t furthered the conversation.
I’ve been sitting here thinking about what I could possibly do to satisfy Dr. Liu’s request. I could get a menial job, sling pizzas or drive a fucking Uber. That is, if my parents ever give me driving privileges back. Not that I’ve even asked, but they’ve kept me bubble wrapped and I can pin blame on anyone these days without having to point a finger at myself.
There is also the possibility of college, since my military benefits would pay for it. But am I really going to sit in a classroom again? I hated learning through high school, why would I want to do it now?
“You had therapy today?” He nods, in a way that indicates he’s trying to start conversation with me but doesn’t know how.
Dad was my little league coach, the one who taught me how to throw a spiral. We went on camping trips; he taught me how to drive, bought me my first box of condoms which no, I haven’t used but he probably thinks I have. My point is, he and I were as close as a father and son could be, especially since I was his only child. And now he has no idea how to treat me.
That’s fair, I guess because I have no idea how to treat me. Or my parents, for that matter.
“Yes. You saw Mom drive me there.” My voice conveys the duh unmistakably.
Dad nods again, and I really wish he’d stop doing that. “Are you hungry? We could go get sandwiches from The Delicious Delight.”
The place used to be my favorite; we’d split a turkey sub and an Italian sub, with extra sour and cream and onion chips on the side.
“Not hungry.” I don’t even look at him.
I don’t know why I’m being such an asshole. Maybe it’s Dr. Liu in my head, taunting me for not knowing that next direction my life will go in.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Everett.” His voice is reed thin and desperate.
“Don’t worry, Dad, no one does,” I assure him in a cynical way.
Hanging his head, a defeated man, my father doesn’t lash out with an angry barb. I wonder, idly, if he and Mom have done coping therapy of their own. Maybe even before I got home.
When he begins to walk off, dejected, a twinge of guilt flicks me in the heart.
“Dad?”
He halts his progress, turning to look at me. There is so much hope in his eyes, and I want to tell him that he’s not the type of man I’ve turned into. He hasn’t seen the things I have; he hasn’t felt real pain. The loss of his child, when he thought I was dead, is nothing in comparison to the raw, unfiltered agony I’ve felt to the core of my bones.
But I can’t say that. The brand of honesty I brought back from war with me would slay people, completely gut them until they can’t even breathe.
“Yes?” Dad waits patiently.
“I think I’m going to ask Coach Rott if I can help out with the football team at the high school.”
It’s an olive branch, one I’m extending because some tiny shred of my dilapidated heart feels fucking awful for all I’ve put my parents through.
His face lights up, every wrinkle I’ve caused on his face creasing. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”
12
Kennedy
The entire football stadium is abuzz with activity immediately after the last bell of the day.
My cheerleaders are busy on one side of the turf, stretching and pulling on their sneakers, adjusting hair into ponytails, sneakily flirting with the other athletes jogging around the track.
The football team comes out of the locker room in their pads just as the track team starts their laps, and the field hockey girls are over on the far end practicing shooting drills into a goal. It’s high school personified, you can practically smell the teen spirit.
I join my friends, working my way from bicep stretches across my chest to dropping down into all three splits, my muscles fighting me each way. I haven’t been as diligent this season with keeping up my stretches or strength conditioning. As one of the three flyers on the team, it’s imperative that my body be strong and capable. But with college looming around the corner, and the admissions process sapping my energy, it’s hard to focus on anything else.
“Oh my God, what is he doing here?”
At the shocked words of my best tumbler, Maya, half the team turns their heads. I’m slow on the uptake, focusing on getting our routine music cued up on my phone and connected to the Bluetooth speaker I brought.