Donna Faye Irene Teus

“No, it’s a trap!” But I was too late. Frank walked right through the camouflaged mine. In a single breath, I saw my best friend explode into pieces. His head, its helmet turned askew by the blast, flew directly by my feet. I froze where I stood; remnants of burnt flesh scattered everywhere, a few splattered on my face. I wanted to shout Damn you, Frank! I told you not to go that way! I summoned every ounce of courage to look at the dismembered head of the man I had come to love as my own brother. My knees buckled as I reached down, cringing at how Frank’s head was smothered with oozing red-black fluid. Then a bomb dropped on me. BOOM! I jerked up, bathing in sweat. I looked around, disoriented. Where am I? Am I dead? Where’s Frank’s head? “Frank, Frank! Where are you? I’m here, buddy! I have your back! Frank!” “Dad? It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s just a dream.” “Who are you? Where’s Frank? He’s my best friend. I’m supposed to look after him. I promised his mom I’d take care of him!” “Dad, who’s Frank? What are you talking about? You’re just having a bad dream.” “I told him not to go that way. But he won’t listen!” A phantom boulder sat on my chest and I could barely breathe. I tried to get away from the stranger trying to pin me down. Once I freed myself from his grip, I looked around. Where am I? The surroundings looked strange but oddly familiar at the same time. Bewildered pairs of eyes looked at me. Who are these people? Where’s my best friend? An unfamiliar elderly woman rushed to my side. “Honey, are you alright?” Honey? Why on earth will this woman call me honey? Just then, the man I shoved earlier spoke from behind me. “I think he’s having a bad dream, Mom.” “Sweetheart, why don’t you have a seat and we’ll -” “Don’t call me sweetheart! Who are you? I don’t know you! I need to find Frank!” I didn’t understand why the pain painted on her face sliced through my chest but I shook her hand off when she tried to hold me back, then hurried to the door. Why is there a door in the field? Why have all the bombings stopped? This is so confusing! As I reached for the knob, I felt my head spin. Then everything turned dark. ******************** I could hear the muffled voices around me. When I tried to open my eyes, a brick seemed to lounge on my lids. I felt a throbbing pain at the back of my head and tried to touch it. “It’s alright, honey. Henry is getting a cold pack right now. He barely caught you when you fell unconscious. Don’t worry. You just feel sore. Tell me what happened, dear,” she almost whispered, as if sensing that a decibel higher would have pierced my eardrums. “Grace?” I said without opening my eyes, which, at that moment, seemed like a very excruciating effort to do. But I didn’t need to see to know whose melodic voice that was. It belonged to my wife. “Yes, sweetheart. You got us all worried. How are you feeling?” she asked, her fingers feather-like as she lifted a strand of hair from my forehead. “What happened? Why am I here on the couch? Did I doze off while watching TV again?” “No, honey. You were in the library, reading your favorite book, remember? You said you wanted to take your mind off the news.” The news, of course! Every damn channel showed nothing but the 9/11 attack. “Dad, who’s Frank?” Henry asked as he pulled a chair closer to the couch, then handed me a cold pack. “Frank? I haven’t heard you talk about him in a long time, honey.” I sensed the hesitation in Grace’s voice. She knew Frank. We all grew up together. She knew how tight my bond was with him. She even feigned jealousy a few times when Frank and I went out without her. But she also knew I hadn’t spoken his name since I returned from the war. “Grandpa, can we play outside?” That tiny, singsong voice belonged to my little bruiser George, Henry’s 3-year-old son. “Baby, Grandpa’s not feeling well. How about Dad play with you instead, huh?” Grace offered almost instantly. I caught her glancing at me, silently saying we needed the time alone. “But I don’t want to play with Papa. I want Grandpa!” my grandson insisted. “Baby -” Grace started to say. “It’s alright, Grace.” I handed her the cold pack. When I noticed my hand shaking, I pulled it away like it touched a scalding pot. Not wasting time worrying if Grace saw my trembling, I held George’s chubby little hand and headed for the lawn outside. It was a clear sky, some feather-like clouds accentuating its comforting hue. I sat on my wicket chair by the porch, watching George frolic across the lawn. Then I saw my grandson heading toward the tree house. My heartbeat started to race with a bullet train. What if he falls? What if I don’t get to him fast enough to catch him? “George, don’t go there!” I shouted then stormed toward my grandson. I caught him as he was about to put his tiny feet on the first wooden step. I must have jerked him too hard because he started to wail. “What happened?” Henry was all over his son not a moment too soon. “I’m afraid of Grandpa, Papa,” I heard George say, in between sobs. I looked at Henry. My son’s eyes were questioning but words eluded me. I slowly backed away, then headed for the front door. Grace was standing there with unspoken questions in her eyes. “David?” Grace said, her tone waiting for an explanation. I shook my head and shrugged. What could have I said? That my grandson cried because of me? That George was suddenly afraid of me and I didn’t know why? ******************** I stayed in the guestroom that night. Grace said it was silly. Since we got married, I never slept anywhere other than in our bedroom. Even when we had tiffs. But I insisted, telling her I just needed to be alone for a while. I felt estranged from my family. Not their doing but mine. I felt like I could unconsciously hurt them by being near them. I couldn’t allow that. I already failed Frank. I couldn’t fail them, too. I waited until everyone was asleep. I gently made my way to the kitchen and checked the cupboards. I knew Grace put her medicine in one of them. I sifted through the plastic canisters of various medications. I didn’t dare turn the lights on, fearing I’d wake up anyone and that they’d catch me sneaking around in the kitchen at the wee hours of the night. Trying to seek the help of the glimmer of light from the lamp post outside, I held one bottle after another to check the labels. As I turned, I accidentally knocked over one of the hanging pans atop the stove. It made a sharp clanking sound as it bounced from the countertop to the floor. I stopped, my heart pounding. I immediately looked at the kitchen swing door, expecting Grace or Henry to rush through it. What would I tell them? That I suddenly felt hungry and was just rummaging for some leftovers? They wouldn’t believe it, especially with several medicine bottles on my hands. The grandfather clock in the living room sounded like a ticking bomb. Why did it have to sound so irritating? I didn’t know how long I waited without moving an inch. But no one came bursting through the door. I decided to bring all the medicine bottles my shaking hands could carry, stuffing some inside my trouser pockets. Then I sneaked back to the guestroom. I didn’t want a well-lit room to draw the attention of my already resting family so I switched the lampshade on. But an old man’s vision and a soft light proved to be the worst combination as I shifted through the prescription bottles. I started drowning in a sea of frustration and guilt that after finding what I was looking for, I didn’t bother to check the dosage. I popped a handful down my throat and laid down, hoping not to relive that day at the battlefield. ******************** My voice drowned amidst the incessant gunfire and the daunting explosions as bombs peppered every inch of the ground. “You’re holding it too tight,” I shouted at Frank who was a few paces behind me, his rifle glued to his chest. “What? I can’t hear you,” Frank shouted back. He lifted his right arm to wipe off a trickle of blood running down his temple, helmet askew. But the trickle gradually transformed into an oozing red stream until I could barely see his face. I saw him reaching out to me, his arms also bathing in blood. “Help me, David. Help me ….” I heard him say, his voice sounding like he was miles away. I tried to reach back but he drifted farther away. Then, I froze. Everything stood still as I watched a bomb crash through the roof of the abandoned house we took shelter in, directly over his head. BOOM! ******************** The room seemed too bright. Did I forget to turn the main light off? Then I remembered. It must be the lampshade, my not-so-helpful ally when I tried to muffle the war cries inside my mind. “Thank God, David, you’re awake! Henry, please call the doctor,” Grace said, worry and relief battling in her tone. “Doctor? Why will I need a doctor?” I tried to sit until I noticed a transparent tube connecting my left hand to an IV drip at the side of my bed. I’m in a hospital?!? “What am I doing here, Grace?” My tone failed to hide its indignation. What was Grace thinking? She knows I hate hospitals! “David, please, keep still. You’ll just hurt yourself even more,” Grace pleaded. “I’m asking you one more time, Grace. What … am I … doing … here?” I never used that tone on Grace before. But my mind was too groggy to think or care. A gamut of emotions wrestled inside me – fear, confusion, anger, frustration. Before she could stop me, I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the darn needle out. After grabbing my clothes neatly folded atop the bedside table, I marched toward the elevator. Grace ran after me but I hurriedly pressed the lift’s close button. Still donning a skewed hospital gown, I couldn’t care less at the strange looks thrown my way as I strode the hospital corridor. What, you haven’t seen an old man’s butt before? I immediately hailed a waiting cab outside and gave directions to our home. As I started changing into my clothes in the backseat, the driver looked at me through his rearview mirror as if he picked up a madman. My eyes scowled at him but it dawned on me that I may not have money to pay for the ride. My hand dug into one of my trouser’s pockets. I felt relieved when my fingers touched the familiar weathered skin of my wallet, my head finding comfort on the cab’s worn-out headrest. It was a short drive but I gave the driver a generous tip to compensate for my silent, irate behavior. I took a quick shower, eager to wash off the hospital smell that seemed to inevitably stick to the skin. The shower stripped a layer of my mental discomfort but it didn’t last. When I got to the living room, Grace and Henry were there – Henry’s arms crossed over his chest, brows deeply creased; Grace’s eyes were heartbreakingly swollen, remnants of tears trailing from them. “What was that stunt you just pulled off, Dad? You got us worried sick! Did you know that we even got detained? We had to sign some waiver because you walked out like an old man out of his wits!” Henry yelled. “Watch your words, young man! Don’t forget that I am still your father!” I yelled back. Shouting had never been a part of my household. How could a stupid nightmarish news turn everything around? “Then act like one! I’ll go get George from the neighbor,” Henry said before storming out. The door banging against its frame echoed like a centennial church bell to my disoriented mind. But instead of being comforted, I was transported once again to the battlefield - the chaos, the wailings, the deaths. “Talk to me, David, please. How can we help you if you won’t tell us what’s going on with you?” Grace asked, tears welling her eyes once again. My heart broke like a fragile glass. This must be how it felt like when Frank stepped on that mine and was blown into smithereens, his insides scattering all over the battlefield, as if the countless lifeless and dismembered bodies proliferating every second wasn’t enough. “There is nothing to talk about, Grace. I’ll be in the guestroom if you need me,” I said, in a tone that lacked life. Or conviction. I fought so hard not to turn around, fearing I might mirror the confusion that laced her eyes. Or the fear that I was starting to break my family apart. I would never hurt Grace but my actions and words did. I shouldn’t have snapped at Henry or frightened our little George. I was inflicting all this pain on the people I love, all because I kept reliving the death of my best friend that happened fifty years ago. When I closed the guestroom door behind me, I knew what I had to do.