Page 19 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
“I’m on the phone. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I wait for the door to close. It doesn’t.
“I said I’ll be right out, Mom.” I try not to sound as irritated as I feel, but it’s hard.
She sighs. She sighs a lot. Maybe she always has and I just never noticed, but I hate that too. “Okay, Rene, but dinner’s getting cold. Don’t be too long.”
“Hey,” I tell Rick when she’s gone. “I’ve got to go.”
“When do you get back?” he says.
“What?”
“From vacation? I’m not heading back to school until a week from Sunday, so maybe we can do something Saturday night?”
“Oh . . .” In the pause, I feel the worn denim of my jeans rip and realize I’ve twisted my thumb into a hole at the knee. “I don’t think we’re coming home until after that, but I’ll check.”
“Okay. If it’s after, maybe you could come to San Jose and hang out.” His voice drops to that husky, almost-whisper again. “I’ve got to see you, V. I’m going crazy here.”
And now I’m crying. “I’ll try.”
“Try hard.”
“Bye, Rick.” I hit end and stare at my phone. I know I have to end this, but it kills me to think about my life without him in it. He’s all I have that doesn’t suck.
The stupid thing is, I never liked Rick in high school. He was two years ahead of me, and I only really knew him because he was dating Lexie, my older sister Katie’s best friend. We reconnected while I was in Afghanistan because it turned out a guy in my unit, Chris, was a friend of his from when he worked at Applebee’s summer before last. It was one of those “small world” moments that, at the time, seemed so funny—that in the middle of the fucking desert, we’d meet someone else who knew the same Rick Hamilton from Freemont, California. Because of that connection, Chris ended up being my best friend over there. The two of us would Skype Rick every Sunday. But then Rick began Skyping me at other times, and things changed. I started to like him. Then I started to really like him. We spent four months making all kinds of plans. I couldn’t wait to get home to see him.
I just hadn’t planned on doing it via roadside bomb.
My eyes were bandaged for two weeks, and it took me another week before I could make out anything at all. Even still, everything’s pretty blurry.
My therapist told my parents to stop calling and to e-mail me instead. Considering all I really wanted was to curl up and die, she was hoping that would get me to at least try to improve. It sort of worked. Once she zoomed in to the point that each letter was about half an inch tall on the computer screen, I could start to make them out.
The first thing I saw when she talked me into opening my inbox were e-mails from Rick. There were dozens of them. The first one was just to give me shit about
missing our Wednesday Skype, but each one after that sounded a little more worried. When I got to the one that said, “God, V, please. Please tell me you’re okay. I’m dying here,” I decided to e-mail him back to tell him Chris was dead. I felt like he deserved to know. I hadn’t meant to stay in touch after that, but when I got shipped back to Walter Reed a week later, he started calling every day, and I couldn’t make myself hang up. That was a month ago.
He knows I was injured in the same attack that killed Chris, but I haven’t been honest with him about what those injuries are. I can’t really explain why I don’t want him to know, except that he feels like a piece of normal to me. He gives me a life outside surgeries and hospitals—something that’s just mine, untouched by all the death and destruction. We spend hours on the phone talking about everything and nothing. Sometimes we just hang on the line and listen to each other breathe. It doesn’t matter whether we’re talking or not. While we’re on the phone, I’m just Rene Vargas, not Rene the blind monster. There’s nothing I feel like I couldn’t say to him.
Except the thing I’ve kept hidden.
We know some of the same people, and I figured it wouldn’t be long before someone filled him in. Every day I’ve expected to hear the disgust in his voice when he says, “Shit, Vargas. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Or worse, he’ll just stop calling.
But I guess after what happened between him and Lexie, none of our old friends are speaking to him.
I pull myself up and head to the kitchen. For the first week I was home, I got up every night after my parents were asleep and felt my way around, memorizing the terrain. Groping my way around my own house while anyone is watching just feels too pathetic. Even still, there are a few things that trip me up, one being the leg of the table at the end of the hall. I cut the corner too close and kick it, stubbing my toe.
“Fuck!” I growl before I can stop myself.
“Rene?” Mom calls from the kitchen, panic in her voice. A second later, she’s got my arm. “Let me help you.”
“I don’t need help,” I insist, shaking her off.
“Rene!” Dad barks. “Watch your tone!”
“It’s fine,” Mom says, and I want to tell her to shut up. It’s not fine. Nothing is fine.
“No, it’s not,” he says, echoing my thoughts. “I don’t care what she’s been through. Nothing gives her the right to disrespect her mother.”
