Page 5

There are very few places that feel like home. When you’re in the military, you learn to take home with you. Taking root anywhere for too long only makes it harder when it’s time to leave, but this cafe always felt like home.

It’s the first place I come to between deployments—the tiny forgotten coffee shop, where the baristas knew me by name and the booth in the corner was set aside for me and my dad to watch the tourists storm the city. Even in a place like Juneau, the community was small and quiet. It felt like safety. It felt like air, and I could never really breathe until I stepped in there.

Not this time. I didn’t come back as a veteran. I came back a murderer. The faces that welcomed me with smiles recoil and turn the other way when I enter the cafe.

No one is here. The baristas hide in the back, whispering to each other frantically and pointing at me before one is shoved towards the register.

I keep my eyes down, pretending not to notice her shaking hands as she takes my order. It’s empty. Families take their orders to go instead of sitting inside and watching the tourists mill about, and the baristas pass by quickly to avoid conversation.

The bell jingles, another couple entering the shop. She’s my age, clinging to his arm and throwing her head back as she and the barista laugh at a joke he tells. He pushes her hair to the side, whispering something to her with a seductive grin that makes her face turn bright red. She stutters a response I can’t hear, but it only makes him grin more. When she catches my stare, her smile instantly fades. Her boyfriend glares at me from the front of the store and ushers her out the door before their drinks are done.

A flash. A gunshot blasting from my twelve-gauge. It’s the same weapon I grew up on in these mountains, but someone’s head has a much different result than using it on a 200lb deer.

Several tourists gather around a young buck, snapping photos as it crosses the street and dashes down the hill. My lips smack in revulsion, the faint taste of blood filling my mouth. Deer heads are often used as trophies in this town. It’s a rite of passage. Refusing to hunt with my friends slowly turned me into a pariah—then my sabbatical hit, and suddenly, they’d never known me at all.

I flinch when someone brushes past me. My hand snaps to my concealed sidearm before I notice the barista shakily setting down my coffee. My mouth opens to mutter an apology, but she’s already gone, scurrying behind the safety of the counter. I relax my grip on my gun, but the creeping feeling on my neck never leaves—the feeling of people nearby.

The feeling of being watched.

I glance back out the window but find nothing more than the scattered remains of tourists and shop owners reopening after their lunch break.

Control issues, the therapist said. Might as well have called me a nutcase.

I slump into the booth, tipping my head back and blowing out an exasperated breath. I’m trying to collect myself. I’m trying to make friends. I’m trying to remember to eat and brush my hair and take care of myself and ignore the fucking flashes in my head that try to convince me I’m not here. I’m fucking trying, and it’s not working.

I glance between my phone and my journal. I’m supposed to be writing—process my trauma and write out my feelings. Dr. Hawthorne said it’ll make me feel better.

I open my phone instead.

NO MESSAGES

I sigh. Mom never liked that I joined the military. She thought I had a death wish, like my dad, that I’ll end up like him because of my pride. Even my dad tried to get me to stay home with her. He told me not to be like him, that he wasn’t someone I should look up to. That was the last thing he ever said to me—to not be like him. He wanted me to stay home and mill about like the mindless tourists who think they’re safe because the bad guys don’t show their faces.

Everyone thinks terrorism is fought overseas, that it comes in colored skin and huts and foreign languages, but I’ve killed more terrorists sporting white skin and baseball caps in a sweet suburban neighborhood than any overseas.

I refresh my inbox, willing just one message to pop up, that she’ll want to see me at least once.

NO MESSAGES

I growl, shoving the phone in my pocket. I live ten minutes from her, but I haven’t seen her in seven years. Every time I try, no one answers the door. It’s still and silent, avoiding me like everyone else.

I eye the journal across my table and reluctantly open it.

It wasn’t an accident.

My therapist said my feelings conflict with the events, that I’m ‘punishing’ myself by taking accountability, so I should speak objectively. State the facts.

Fourteen soldiers set out into the Syrian desert to transport a terrorist apprehended earlier that day. We drove into a minefield that took out all our trucks and the HVT escaped.

I pause, hand hovering above the paper. I want to tear it out. I want to burn this entire goddamn book. Whoever says therapy isn’t torture clearly hasn’t experienced it. I’d rather have each of my fingernails removed than this shit.

I sigh.

I pursued the HVT into the desert when he was shot by two men wearing identical tactical gear to ours. One of them spotted me and…

The feeling is back. Being watched. Observed.

I look up from my journal but the cafe is as empty as when I came in; nothing except a small family sitting at the table furthest from me.

Can they see my journal? Are there cameras in here?

I snap the journal shut. Writing classified secrets in public probably isn’t a smart idea anyway.

Just as I finish zipping up my bag, I see a familiar figure staring at me across the street and I freeze.

Dad.

My blood turns icy and my breath catches in my throat.

That’s impossible.

I stand abruptly, crashing into a barista carrying a tray of croissants.

The tray clatters and the barista shrieks.

There’s gunfire—bullets raining down on me. I have no cover. People are screaming. Gunfire. Screaming. Fight. Shoot them!

When my mind clears, my gun is drawn and pointed straight at the barista. She’s frozen in fear, hands up and eyes wide. The child by the corner table is crying hysterically, muffled as the mother buries his face in her chest.

My finger tightens over the trigger.

Children are screaming. Crying. Save them. Shoot them. Blood is on my hands. No, it’s gone.

A hand brushes my shoulder and I jerk back, pointing it at him.

The manager whips back, hands held high.

“It’s okay, calm down. You don’t want to do this.” He swallows hard, eyes drifting between me and the gun. “We can talk about this and figure everything out. Just put down the gun.”

I blink. The war is gone. I’m not in Syria. I’m home.

“Oh my god…” People are crying. The barista is begging for her life and another barista is barely visible behind the counter, speaking softly on the phone while pointing at me.

I instantly lower my gun and tuck it into its holster. I back away, this time raising my shaking hands in defense.

“I’m so sorry, I–” The manager moves again, and my blood spikes. I bolt out the door, staring onto the street where the image of my dad had been. He was dressed in his field uniforms, clean and pressed like the day I’d last seen him before he deployed.

Sirens blare in the distance as I duck down the alleyway. My footprints fade as the melted slush slowly turns to wet pavement. Stupid move, pulling a gun on civvies in the damn cafe. My prison wish might come true after all.

Soon, the sirens are drowned out by the wind and I lose them altogether, just as I lose myself the further I walk. Nothing but the scent of wet garbage and dirt while I’m surrounded by bricked buildings blocking the sun. I’m lost but alone. At least when I’m alone, I can’t hurt anyone. At least when I’m alone, I feel safe.

A car horn blares down the alley and I take off into a sprint when I spot the blood on my hands. No, not safe. Never safe. The only way to be safe is to keep moving.

The smell of decay is as overwhelming as the blood and even as the visions fade, the smells don’t. It’s putrid, a walking corpse that follows me everywhere. Like my dad.

I’m not stupid. I know it wasn’t him, but that smell sticks to me like a piece of him telling me to run and keep running. So I run until the pavement turns to dirt and the woods surround me. A cemetery sits at the top of a small hill, overlooking the crystal lake nearby.

I look back to the alley and then to the cemetery. My hands aren’t trembling anymore. There’s something in that cemetery and my dad is trying to lead me there.

I walk through the headstones, careful to step behind them and not on the soft earth of the graves. It’s overgrown, crowded by graves of tourists no one can remember, thinking that burying their loved ones by a natural wonder makes it more special.

This cemetery used to be reserved for the families of the people who lived here. The lakes of Glacier Bay, surrounded by waterfalls and wildflowers and the forests I took so much pride hunting in and watching the northern lights when the skies cleared. It was ours and it was a peaceful place for our families to rest. Now it’s polluted, crowded by cruises and destination weddings and people who had no claim to our families’ place of rest. The few kempt headstones are a mass of gray running down the hill like weeds—endless rows of forgotten families sitting in a strange place they’ve never been to—overlooking the melting glaciers and thinning trees. It became like any other place of death: sad and forgotten.

I stop at a brighter headstone. It’s newer, cleaned and fresh flowers sit at its base. A bronze plaque rests above the words, showing the face of a man wearing a uniform garnished with a large star medal on his chest.

Capt. Jonathan Kinsley

March 18, 1979 - December 17, 2018

Beloved father and husband

He was the last before the cemetery refused any more burials. It was a favor to my mother and me, but my dad earned the right to be buried here. He was more involved in the community than anyone else, long before he served in the military.

I blink back tears from the bittersweet memories—memories of working in soup kitchens, building homes and hosting training programs for new hunters. Despite his work for the security company that swallowed up the town, he made time for me and the community. I begged him so many times for stories of his ‘missions’ in Acacia Security, but he never budged. Only once when I was old enough, he finally agreed to let me join him when he worked with the community.

That’s who my dad was; the kind of person he told me not to be.

I place my hand atop the headstone.

“Hey dad…” I pull flowers from my backpack and set them on top of the last bouquet. Lotus flowers. The few times I was allowed in their room, I always saw them; drawings, pictures, even a tattoo on the back of his neck. He never spoke about them, but they’re one of my favorite memories of him. He is all I see when I see lotus flowers, and when Bane allowed me into his unit, I saw the same inscription on their old uniforms.

I sit down, placing my back to the cool stone. It’s enough to chill my skin, despite the blazing sun. The melted snow wets the bottoms of my jeans and I pull my knees up, leaning into the grave as if it could hug me the way he used to.

“I spoke to Sara today,” I say aloud. “Seems like everyone in your old unit is doing fine.” I stare at the plaque, following the engraved lines of his face, the creases on his forehead from years of service, narrowly covered by his hat. “Colonel Bane spoke about you. He told me the story about your medal, how you led the strike on a terrorist cell. He talks constantly about how brave you are, how I should be more like you.”

I glance at my hands. My fingers are starting to redden, the tips cracking in the dry air. Everyone always commented on how similar we looked, both tan, lean and blonde. The stubbornness was from him too, my mom always said, and I followed him like a shadow ever since I could walk. The day he was brought home, my mother wouldn’t let me see him until the wake. He was pale and even in his sleep, he looked disturbed, permanently contorted in pain. It didn’t look like my dad. Bane never said how he died, only that terrorists had gotten to him before he did.

I sniffle, adjusting myself on the stone. “The appeal came back. They still don’t think I’m ready.” I scoff. “All because of a stupid fucking mistake!” I sigh, forcing down the anger. “Maybe Sara’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t go back. I don’t deserve it.”

My phone buzzes, illuminating a message from mom.

Mom: Can’t make it today. Sorry.

My face falls, but I text back anyway.

Me: At least come see dad

Three bubbles blink next to her name before they stop and a read receipt takes its place. Anger bubbles in my chest alongside that hollow ache. At least she texted me. It’s more than I’ve gotten in years. She may claim to hate dad but not all of the flowers on his grave were from me.

I stand, brushing off my pants and giving his grave one last look.

“I’ll figure something out, contact the board or something. I’ll make this right, dad. I promise.”

The walk back to the town is warm. The sun is starting to dry the land and people emerge without coats, but it doesn’t stop the chill creeping up my spine when I feel watched again.

I back against a building, scanning the area, the hills in the distance and the parked cars nearby but nothing, and it only puts me further on edge. I crouch slowly, slinging the strap of my backpack along my shoulder. My gun is still on my hip. It’s not a flashback. Not this time.

Then the feeling moves behind me. My fingertips graze the holster. Everything seems to silence until it’s only my breathing I can hear.

I turn on my heel, pulling the barrel against the man, but his hand catches my wrist and a shot fires only inches from his head.

I freeze.

“Bane?”