Yellowstone…”
I could hear the note of desperation in my voice, not to mention that we had never
once gone camping. Even when my dad was around, the closest I’d ever gotten to the
great outdoors was spending a day by the creek with our old portable Weber grill.
“Baby, cut me some slack, okay?”
This thing was building in me, so big, so much. I couldn’t do it anymore—be her cheerleader
and therapist and parent and daughter all in one. And screw her for making me.
“Why?” I said, the words spilling out. “So you can get drunk off your ass and drive
into an eighteen-wheeler like Dad did?”
It was like knocking over a glass and watching it fall to the floor, knowing you won’t
be able to catch it before it shatters. She stared at me, her mouth open in a perfect O . The words had felt poisonous sliding off my tongue, but it felt a little good too,
that burst of pissed-off adrenaline. Her eyes dimmed, and I saw her actually leave
for a minute and go somewhere else while her body stood there rigid, shocked. That
wasn’t what I’d wanted. Not that. Not ever.
“Mom,” I whispered.
God, how could I be so stupid? I’d pushed her too far. Guilt prickled my skin and
whispered that it was my fault if she drank too much tonight.
There was a hard knock on the cheap metal door.
“Mom.”
She blinked, then moved past me to let Billy Easton in.
JOSH
I line my pills up in formation, like they’re about to be inspected. It’s time for
roll call, motherfuckers: Zoloft for depression (Here!), Abilify for depression (Here!),
Klonopin for anxiety (Here!), Oleptro and Lunesta for sleep (Here! Here!), Neurontin
for phantom limb pain (Here!), ibuprofen for TBI headaches (Here!). If I stare at
the pills long enough, they start floating like tiny stars in the sky. Creek View
fades away and now I’m on post, sitting near a canal, eyes peeled. The stars cover
the sky, thousands of them. Never seen stars like that before. Made me wish I knew
the constellations. When you wish upon a star, I joke-sing. I can’t sing for shit, and we all know it. You laugh and say, Dude, stars are for pussies. I wish on the moon. Gomez shakes his head. You can’t wish on the moon. You raise your eyebrows. Why not? Gomez shrugs. Ask fuckin’ Disney why not. They wrote the song. I laugh and say, You can’t wish on anything. You look over at me: If you could wish on the moon for something, what would it be? I think about everything that’s gone down since we deployed—Sharpe dying, Panelli
losing his arms, that IED blowing up in Harrison’s face so now he looks like Freddy
Krueger. The Afghanis that got wiped out by that drone strike the week before and
the ones I see on the side of the road sometimes, Taliban roadkill. Before we shipped
out, I thought it was so cool that I was going to war. Felt like a bad motherfucker.
Then I saw our first guy go down and it wasn’t so cool anymore. I’d wish them back, man, I say. You nod as you pack some more chew. I’d wish all of them back. Now I look at the pills lined up on my desk and my empty room and my metal leg. The
moon’s not big enough to wish on. Nothing is.
chapter nine
I looked at the clipboard in my hand, making sure that I’d written down everything
we needed to order: prepackaged soaps, mini bottles of shampoo, more industrial towels,
thin plastic cups. Satisfied, I closed the storage closet door and walked over to
the window beside the lobby couch. The sickly sweet scent of cat pee hovered in the
air above the cushions, a present from a guest’s feline companion. My stomach turned
a little—the combination of urine and stifling heat was too much.
Josh’s truck still wasn’t in the driveway, but I told myself that wasn’t what I’d
been looking for. I’d wanted to see … No, I couldn’t pretend. I wanted to see Josh.
It didn’t make any sense, but I kept finding myself thinking about him, hoping
I could hear the note of desperation in my voice, not to mention that we had never
once gone camping. Even when my dad was around, the closest I’d ever gotten to the
great outdoors was spending a day by the creek with our old portable Weber grill.
“Baby, cut me some slack, okay?”
This thing was building in me, so big, so much. I couldn’t do it anymore—be her cheerleader
and therapist and parent and daughter all in one. And screw her for making me.
“Why?” I said, the words spilling out. “So you can get drunk off your ass and drive
into an eighteen-wheeler like Dad did?”
It was like knocking over a glass and watching it fall to the floor, knowing you won’t
be able to catch it before it shatters. She stared at me, her mouth open in a perfect O . The words had felt poisonous sliding off my tongue, but it felt a little good too,
that burst of pissed-off adrenaline. Her eyes dimmed, and I saw her actually leave
for a minute and go somewhere else while her body stood there rigid, shocked. That
wasn’t what I’d wanted. Not that. Not ever.
“Mom,” I whispered.
God, how could I be so stupid? I’d pushed her too far. Guilt prickled my skin and
whispered that it was my fault if she drank too much tonight.
There was a hard knock on the cheap metal door.
“Mom.”
She blinked, then moved past me to let Billy Easton in.
JOSH
I line my pills up in formation, like they’re about to be inspected. It’s time for
roll call, motherfuckers: Zoloft for depression (Here!), Abilify for depression (Here!),
Klonopin for anxiety (Here!), Oleptro and Lunesta for sleep (Here! Here!), Neurontin
for phantom limb pain (Here!), ibuprofen for TBI headaches (Here!). If I stare at
the pills long enough, they start floating like tiny stars in the sky. Creek View
fades away and now I’m on post, sitting near a canal, eyes peeled. The stars cover
the sky, thousands of them. Never seen stars like that before. Made me wish I knew
the constellations. When you wish upon a star, I joke-sing. I can’t sing for shit, and we all know it. You laugh and say, Dude, stars are for pussies. I wish on the moon. Gomez shakes his head. You can’t wish on the moon. You raise your eyebrows. Why not? Gomez shrugs. Ask fuckin’ Disney why not. They wrote the song. I laugh and say, You can’t wish on anything. You look over at me: If you could wish on the moon for something, what would it be? I think about everything that’s gone down since we deployed—Sharpe dying, Panelli
losing his arms, that IED blowing up in Harrison’s face so now he looks like Freddy
Krueger. The Afghanis that got wiped out by that drone strike the week before and
the ones I see on the side of the road sometimes, Taliban roadkill. Before we shipped
out, I thought it was so cool that I was going to war. Felt like a bad motherfucker.
Then I saw our first guy go down and it wasn’t so cool anymore. I’d wish them back, man, I say. You nod as you pack some more chew. I’d wish all of them back. Now I look at the pills lined up on my desk and my empty room and my metal leg. The
moon’s not big enough to wish on. Nothing is.
chapter nine
I looked at the clipboard in my hand, making sure that I’d written down everything
we needed to order: prepackaged soaps, mini bottles of shampoo, more industrial towels,
thin plastic cups. Satisfied, I closed the storage closet door and walked over to
the window beside the lobby couch. The sickly sweet scent of cat pee hovered in the
air above the cushions, a present from a guest’s feline companion. My stomach turned
a little—the combination of urine and stifling heat was too much.
Josh’s truck still wasn’t in the driveway, but I told myself that wasn’t what I’d
been looking for. I’d wanted to see … No, I couldn’t pretend. I wanted to see Josh.
It didn’t make any sense, but I kept finding myself thinking about him, hoping
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