My palms were sweating when Remy and I joined the circle and took seats in metal folding chairs.Please, please, please let this be over quickly, and don’t make me talk.
Eleven of us sat around the circle, five women and six men, including the Army chaplain leading the grief group. He smiled pleasantly. “Most of us know each other, but I like to start with everyone introducing themselves.”
Cue internal groaning.
When it got to Remy she said, “I’m Remy Haines, twenty-one, from just north of Las Vegas. I was in my final year of college, majoring in biology when the war started. My dad was a pastor. My mom was in real estate. I wanted to be a middle-school teacher.”
Everyone nodded appreciatively and then chuckled when the chaplain said, “Ah, brave girl.”
And then it was my turn. “Um, hi, I’m Amber Tate. From the same town as Remy—we’re best friends from high school. I’m a paramedic. And, um, I’m not really here to share, to be honest. I’m here to support Remy.”
The chaplain watched me with deep eyes that seemed to prod at my emotions and say,“I know you’re hurting.”I swallowed and looked away, gripping the sides of the chair I sat in. This hour was going to suck.
As people began telling their stories, most of them crying or getting teary-eyed, I had to build the familiar shield around my heart that I used to build for my job. It didn’t always work. Some stories were able to climb that barrier or somehow slip through cracks, and it made me physically ill. I tried not to listen now to the pain in people’s voices, thick with emotion. I tried not to process their words . . .
“My wife was visiting her hometown in Washington. We never got in touch, and I don’t know if she’s still alive . . .”
“I watched my four-year-old son and six-year-old daughter die from something in the water. Their tiny bodies were bloated with sores—I tried everything to keep them comfortable, but they cried and cried . . .”
“My husband ran outside during a curfew when he saw DRI dragging our neighbor out of his home. I watched through the window as they shot him four times. My husband, and then the neighbor. I screamed into a pillow. I screamed until I didn’t have a voice anymore . . .”
Remy freely cried with the others as the stories were told. I continued to grip the sides of the chair, leaning slightly forward, my head down so I didn’t have to see the anguished faces. I struggled to breathe evenly, my jaw clenching so hard my head pounded.
When it got to Remy and her story poured out, I let myself go completely numb, because her story wasn’t just her own. Her story intertwined with mine. And I didn’t want to relive it. I had to keep it in the past, far away from me, where it couldn’t slice me open. I let her words become a distantwhompingin my head. By the end of her testimony, I was rocking forward and backward, chantingNo, no, no, no, noin my mind.
I startled when a gentle voice said, “Amber?” The chaplain. I kept my head down and shook it. “This is a safe place to speak, Amber.” I shook it harder. He left me alone, but Remy’s soft hand pried mine off the seat and we linked our fingers together. I couldn’t look at her, but I held tight.
When he dismissed us, I shot out of that chair like a bullet and didn’t stop until I was far enough away that nobody would bother chasing me to try and small talk. I paced by a loveseat in the lobby until Remy was done saying good-bye to the others, and then I moved straight to the door, speed-walking. I was a quarter of the way down the hall when Remy grasped my hand from behind and pulled me to a stop.
I turned and our arms went straight around one another. We hugged and I breathed in the clean smell of her hair.
“I’m sorry, Remy. I just can’t—”
“I know,” she said. “It’s okay.”
When we both calmed down enough, we let go and continued the rest of the way to our room.
I was deep asleep when I heard a shout from the next room, followed by running feet and swift knocks at our door. I was already shoving my legs out of the bed, sprinting to rip the door open. Rylen stood there, shirtless and breathless.
“Tater,” is all he said, and we both ran, Remy close behind.
Tater was on the floor of their room, breathing hard through groans, his hands gripping the curls at the top of his head. Panic attack? I fell to his side, suddenly aware with all the eyes on me that I was only wearing a T-shirt and panties. I shoved that thought aside and focused on my brother.
“Careful,” Josh murmured. “He clocked the shit out of me.”
Keeping a small distance, I called Tater’s name and put a gentle hand on his forearm. He jumped and swung out his arm, but I leaned back, ready for it. His eyes were slits, like he was still half sleeping.
“Tater, it’s me. It’s Amber.” And then throwing all caution to the wind, I wrapped him in my arms, holding him despite his thrashing and repeating, “Shh, Tater,esta bien. You’re okay. I’m here,guero.”
“Amb?” It came out as a sob and he clutched his arms around me. “You were dead. H-he shot you.”
“It was just a dream,” I murmured. “I’m safe. I’m right here.”
He was breathing hard and I felt his heart racing in his chest. I pulled back and looked at his eyes. “Take a deep breath,” I told him. He closed his eyes and obeyed. His entire demeanor changed, calming, and he opened his eyes again. When he focused on me, I gave him a small smile of encouragement, but on the inside, I was wrecked. He gave me a weary nod.
“Just a dream,” he whispered.
It had been more than a dream. It was PTSD. I was certain now. All the pieces fell together.
