“It sounds like you’ve had a lot to deal with, maybe more than others. Do you find solace in your friends?”
I shake my head. “I have two very close friends. One is from high school, she and her husband moved down here once the twins where stationed here. The other is a military wife. Any other friends I had bailed. I’m sure they didn’t bail because of me, but because of the military. You move on, ya know? They don’t want to associate…” I stop and think about that word. “Associate isn’t the correct word; it’s fear. They see what I went through and fear rips through their bodies, and they do what their bodies tell them: fight or flight. They all chose flight because they’re all afraid they’ll go through the same thing one day.”
“What else do you experience from your friends and family?”
Easy question. “Pity. I got so sick and tired of the hugs and the pats on the shoulder. The looks—those were never-ending. I didn’t need to see the pity in their eyes as they went from looking at me to looking at my belly. Everyone is sorry, but what exactly are they sorry for? Are they sorry that they voted for the people who sent our military to war? Are they sorry that their children aren’t out defending our country? What are they sorry for?” My voice rises with my last question. I want to know. What goes through someone’s mind when they tell you they’re sorry that your loved one has died?
“I always want to ask why. Why are you sorry? Did you do something that I’m not aware of? Did you pull the trigger or supply the enemy with equipment to do harm? No, I didn’t think so. Thing is, all the pity looks are back and each one brings me to my knees because guess what? They’re all sorry again, and this time it’s not going to matter what decision I make. Someone will be hurt. For that, they can be sorry.”
“Ryley, I’m going to ask you again why are you here today?”
For the first time since I walked in the door, I look at the therapist. Her hair is cut short, framing her face. It’s brown, but muted. There’s no vibrancy to her color. It’s dull and outdated, much like her couch. Her white, long-sleeved shirt is buttoned high, as if it wants to choke the life out of her. Her cat-like glasses perch on the edge of her nose, and she reclines in her chair with her pad of paper resting on her lap, her pen poised to write down my words at a moment’s notice.
“I’m here because six years ago I lost the love of my life, but now he’s back from the dead, and in a few weeks I’m set to marry my best friend. His brother.”