If I Lie
Page 56
That hurts. It stings like a bitch, actually. He’s trying to pick a fight with me, and I don’t understand why. I refuse to bite. “You said you loved me. I guess I expected that hadn’t changed since Sunday.”
The anger fades as suddenly as it flared.
“Look,” I say, holding out my hands palms-up, “you don’t want me here, I’m gone. But don’t screw with me. Be a man, Blake.”
He rubs a hand over his face, leaving behind a smudge of grease. “I do love you, Q. I swear it. But how can we be together? Nothing’s really changed, has it? We both have promises to keep.”
My eyes water. Two steps forward, eight steps back into the hole I’ve been trying to crawl out of. He sees my expression and starts toward me, but I wave him off. I don’t want to be touched. I’ll fall apart completely if he touches me.
“No. You’re right. I mean, it’s not like we had a chance anyway, right?” I try to smile, pretending for all I’m worth that I’m not crying, too. “I’ll see you around, okay?”
A phone rings from the counter, and Blake picks it up, snarling a hello. It’s the Breens. I can see it in his tight, guilty expression and the way he gives me his shoulder.
He tells them, “Sure. I’ll close up right now. Is that Mrs. Breen crying?”
A pause while he listens. The color drains from his face. I’ve never seen Blake look so scared. “What did they say?” Another pause and he’s scrambling for the TV remote on the counter. “What channel?” he says as he flicks on the shop’s old beater TV.
He lands on whatever channel Mr. Breen tells him. A reporter stands in front an unknown village in a nondescript desert. She’s shouting to be heard over the background chaos of distant RPGs and gunfire.
“Initial reports say the Marines have located Lance Corporal Carey Breen of the 1/6 Battalion. Breen went missing back in February when his unit was taking heavy fire during a patrol in Marjah. With no hostage demands, many had suspected he was a POW of local Taliban forces. Breen’s condition is unknown at this time, but we do know he’s suffered from multiple gunshot wounds. . . .”
I don’t hear any more. The picture switches to the green-black night-vision camera, and there’s Carey. I grab for support and find Blake. I walk into his arms without another thought. He holds me so tight I can’t breathe, and we stare at the TV, devouring the first sighting we’ve had in months of our best friend.
Several Marines bear Carey on a gurney and another holds an IV in the air. He’s strapped down and most of him is covered, except for his face. He’s lost weight like he hasn’t eaten in ages. His eyes are closed and he’s unmoving.
“He looks dead,” I whisper.
Blake hushes me. “He could be sleeping. We don’t know.”
The shot switches back to the reporter who doesn’t seem to know anything else.
“Nobody. Just a customer,” Blake says into the phone I forgot he was holding, obviously not wanting to explain why I was at the shop. “What are they telling you?”
The Marines would have sent a liaison to their home to preempt the news reports. My father had acted as that liaison before, calling upon a local Marine’s family to let them know their son or daughter wasn’t coming home.
Blake listens for a moment. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he says, and hangs up.
“What did they say?” I ask, desperate.
“Not much.” He sets me aside and tears about the shop, grabbing his jacket, rolling the large doors closed, and shutting off machines and lights as he goes. “They’re flying him to the hospital in Landstuhl. The Breens are hopping a flight to Germany and will meet him there.”
At the front door, he finally notices I’m not behind him. “Q, I’m sorry,” he pleads. “I have to go now. They need me. I swear I’ll call you the second I hear anything.”
The panic in his voice releases my feet from the floor. I follow him out and watch him run for his truck. His tires burn rubber as he peels out of the parking lot without a backward glance. My legs feel like they might give out as I climb into my Jeep.
I see Carey’s face again.
He’s alive.
A thousand prayers are answered.
He’s alive.
My phone rings, and I answer without checking the caller ID. My father says, “Quinn?”
I start crying. “Dad, did you hear? They found Carey. He’s alive!”
“I heard. Baby, listen . . .” Something’s off in his voice. The happiness that should be there isn’t. “You had a message here at the house from the hospital.”
No, no, NO.
“It’s George.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Day one: George is on a ventilator.
Mostly he sleeps. He looks weak and helpless, not like George at all.
I read to him. I talk to him.
And I tell him about Carey. About growing up with Carey and loving Carey and believing I’d still know Carey when I’m eighty. And I confess how worried I am because nobody will tell me how Carey’s doing since he was found, and the news is full of fluff and speculation and short on real reporting.
What I know:
A) Carey is alive.
B) George is dying.
C) Life just isn’t fucking fair.
Negative to balance the positive. Salt with the sugar.
Sometimes I’m not sure if George can even hear me. I wonder if it would be okay to tell him Carey’s secret, but I don’t. George would understand that I’m leaving that confession to Carey, now that he’s been found.
The anger fades as suddenly as it flared.
“Look,” I say, holding out my hands palms-up, “you don’t want me here, I’m gone. But don’t screw with me. Be a man, Blake.”
He rubs a hand over his face, leaving behind a smudge of grease. “I do love you, Q. I swear it. But how can we be together? Nothing’s really changed, has it? We both have promises to keep.”
My eyes water. Two steps forward, eight steps back into the hole I’ve been trying to crawl out of. He sees my expression and starts toward me, but I wave him off. I don’t want to be touched. I’ll fall apart completely if he touches me.
“No. You’re right. I mean, it’s not like we had a chance anyway, right?” I try to smile, pretending for all I’m worth that I’m not crying, too. “I’ll see you around, okay?”
A phone rings from the counter, and Blake picks it up, snarling a hello. It’s the Breens. I can see it in his tight, guilty expression and the way he gives me his shoulder.
He tells them, “Sure. I’ll close up right now. Is that Mrs. Breen crying?”
A pause while he listens. The color drains from his face. I’ve never seen Blake look so scared. “What did they say?” Another pause and he’s scrambling for the TV remote on the counter. “What channel?” he says as he flicks on the shop’s old beater TV.
He lands on whatever channel Mr. Breen tells him. A reporter stands in front an unknown village in a nondescript desert. She’s shouting to be heard over the background chaos of distant RPGs and gunfire.
“Initial reports say the Marines have located Lance Corporal Carey Breen of the 1/6 Battalion. Breen went missing back in February when his unit was taking heavy fire during a patrol in Marjah. With no hostage demands, many had suspected he was a POW of local Taliban forces. Breen’s condition is unknown at this time, but we do know he’s suffered from multiple gunshot wounds. . . .”
I don’t hear any more. The picture switches to the green-black night-vision camera, and there’s Carey. I grab for support and find Blake. I walk into his arms without another thought. He holds me so tight I can’t breathe, and we stare at the TV, devouring the first sighting we’ve had in months of our best friend.
Several Marines bear Carey on a gurney and another holds an IV in the air. He’s strapped down and most of him is covered, except for his face. He’s lost weight like he hasn’t eaten in ages. His eyes are closed and he’s unmoving.
“He looks dead,” I whisper.
Blake hushes me. “He could be sleeping. We don’t know.”
The shot switches back to the reporter who doesn’t seem to know anything else.
“Nobody. Just a customer,” Blake says into the phone I forgot he was holding, obviously not wanting to explain why I was at the shop. “What are they telling you?”
The Marines would have sent a liaison to their home to preempt the news reports. My father had acted as that liaison before, calling upon a local Marine’s family to let them know their son or daughter wasn’t coming home.
Blake listens for a moment. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he says, and hangs up.
“What did they say?” I ask, desperate.
“Not much.” He sets me aside and tears about the shop, grabbing his jacket, rolling the large doors closed, and shutting off machines and lights as he goes. “They’re flying him to the hospital in Landstuhl. The Breens are hopping a flight to Germany and will meet him there.”
At the front door, he finally notices I’m not behind him. “Q, I’m sorry,” he pleads. “I have to go now. They need me. I swear I’ll call you the second I hear anything.”
The panic in his voice releases my feet from the floor. I follow him out and watch him run for his truck. His tires burn rubber as he peels out of the parking lot without a backward glance. My legs feel like they might give out as I climb into my Jeep.
I see Carey’s face again.
He’s alive.
A thousand prayers are answered.
He’s alive.
My phone rings, and I answer without checking the caller ID. My father says, “Quinn?”
I start crying. “Dad, did you hear? They found Carey. He’s alive!”
“I heard. Baby, listen . . .” Something’s off in his voice. The happiness that should be there isn’t. “You had a message here at the house from the hospital.”
No, no, NO.
“It’s George.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Day one: George is on a ventilator.
Mostly he sleeps. He looks weak and helpless, not like George at all.
I read to him. I talk to him.
And I tell him about Carey. About growing up with Carey and loving Carey and believing I’d still know Carey when I’m eighty. And I confess how worried I am because nobody will tell me how Carey’s doing since he was found, and the news is full of fluff and speculation and short on real reporting.
What I know:
A) Carey is alive.
B) George is dying.
C) Life just isn’t fucking fair.
Negative to balance the positive. Salt with the sugar.
Sometimes I’m not sure if George can even hear me. I wonder if it would be okay to tell him Carey’s secret, but I don’t. George would understand that I’m leaving that confession to Carey, now that he’s been found.
