I gagged once... twice... then a spray of vomit hit the steering wheel in front of me, which I vaguely noticed was twisted from the force of the explosion.
Then I felt the pain.
Twelve months in Afghanistan, safely driving my anti-tank, missile-ladened Humvee.
One unfortunate turn where my front tire rolled right over an IED.
Twenty-four hours in a military field hospital to get me stabilized.
Thirty-six hours at Landsthul Regional Medical Center in Germany to prep me for a medical flight to the States.
Thirteen long months at the new Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda where doctors spent three months trying to save my mangled leg as it oozed with puss and infection. It was held together by the thin spokes of an external fixator that looked like a giant cage, as if they were afraid my leg would just up and run away from me.
That was the worst three months of my life, and I was actually relieved when they cut that rotting thing off me. It was one of the few times I'd felt happy since the explosion.
Not sure I've felt it since.
I take a deep drag off my cigarette as I lean my elbow on the open window ledge of my Suburban. It's only two years old, has low mileage, and is loaded with nice features. It was one of the first things I bought when I got out of rehab with the money the government handed me along with my discharge papers. The only modification I made to it was having a left-foot accelerator pedal added to it, but that wasn't a permanent device. It merely attached to the right pedal with a bar, so when I pushed on the left gas pedal, it also depressed the right pedal, causing the vehicle to speed up. I could take it off easily if someone with a living right leg wanted to drive my car.
Not that I was going to let anyone drive my car.
It was my vehicle, paid for free and clear, so I smoked in it and made no apologies. But when Jillian made delicate coughing noises but stubbornly refused to roll her window down, I'd conceded and lowered mine. Now her face is turned away, looking out as we travel east on I-64, just a few miles from the campground we're staying at outside of Louisville, Kentucky.
Craning my neck side to side, I hear the bones crack and roll my shoulders to loosen the stiffness. I've driven a little over nine hours total today, and I'm a bit sore. I take another drag off my cigarette, which is down to the filter. With a practiced flick, I shoot it out the window and it arcs away from the Suburban with a trail of embers sparkling in its wake. I roll the window up, mentally telling myself not to call Connor Dead Kid by mistake, and repeat the mantra a few times so it sticks. It's not that I'm afraid of hurting his feelings, but because when I nodded my head at Jillian back in the convenience store a few hours ago, I was making a promise.
And while I'm a man of my word, I'm not promising another damn thing to anyone in this group on this descent into hell trip. I'll do my duty and then I'm done.
Out.
Finished.
This grand adventure lame-ass road trip is purely voluntary, unlike the group counseling. That was non-negotiable, or so the court said, and if I refused to attend the therapy, then I could simply go to jail. But the trip is part of group therapy, and Mags bargained with me to go. She promised I wouldn't have to attend the other group sessions if I went, and that she'd proclaim to the court I had completed their requirements. So I'd weighed a week in a car where no one would try to make me talk against six more weeks of forced therapy.
Seemed like a decent trade-off at the time. It still feels like a good deal because there's no way I'll ever get suckered into letting these people into my life. I have enough crappy shit to deal with without taking on other people's burdens.
We've all got sob stories but none can compare to mine, so I don't care about theirs.
When we decided as a group to drive across the country, Mags made it immediately clear that she was not going to be accompanying us. She told us she had other duties she couldn't ignore and that we were all adults--except for Connor, but he was almost there and she got permission from his parents for him to do this--and that we would need to make group decisions. I could see the triumphant gleam in her eyes that she would be forcing us to at least talk to plan the trip.
So, we had a few things we all had to agree on.
For instance, in whose vehicle would we travel?
That was easy and I believe my exact words were, "We'll take my Suburban, and no one drives it but me."
I expected a fight, because in the six weeks we'd all been around each other, that's all we did. Well, that's all Goth Chick and I seemed to do. Our specialty was mocking Jillian and Connor when they'd try to have a serious conversation. But no one seemed to mind my demand because they gave me blase shrugs in response.
So I added on, "I'll also plan the route and decide where we stay."
Yes, I'm a control freak, so sue me.
Connor raised his hand tentatively as we all sat in the therapy group circle, indicating a need to perhaps argue with me about that suggestion. "Um... Christopher, do you think we could maybe stay at campgrounds along the way?"
"Why?" I'd asked, bewildered.
Connor's parents had no qualms about giving him permission to go on this trip, despite him being a few months shy of eighteen. Their kid was dying, so they were going to indulge his every whim. They were also loaded with money and figured he could stay in five-star hotels if he wanted.
"Because I've never been camping before," he said with a sheepish grin. "Our family vacations were a little more refined. It's a bucket-list thing."
I'd snorted, but immediately given in to the kid's wishes. This whole trip was because Connor was dying. It was at the top of his bucket list to travel the country and see the West Coast. Turns out, I love camping and the outdoors. It's one of the things I miss the most about West Virginia.
"Looks like we're camping along the way," I said to the group, looking at each one in turn and daring them to argue.
Goth Chick had said, "I'm not pissing and shitting in the woods."
"Relax," I'd told her with as much condescension as I could muster. "Campgrounds have bathrooms and showers."
It was decided we'd camp a few times along the way, and other nights we'd stay in a hotel.
The sun is hanging very low as we pull into the Bluegrass Campground. I stop at the main office, just inside the entrance gates, and try not to limp too badly as I walk inside to secure a spot. While I've never tried to diminish the obviousness of my disability, it still makes me feel less than a full man when I can't walk with the smoothest of gaits. But the long hours of driving have made me stiff and sore, and I just can't fucking help myself as my first few steps are more like lurches until I get my bearings and work the kinks out.
I pay an extra ten bucks for a place that sits on a creek that cuts an "S" shape through the middle of the campground. As soon as I get back behind the driver's wheel, I tell the others what their share of the cost is, including the groceries I had bought just before we arrived here. In another five minutes, I'm backing the Suburban up into the spot so that my tailgate faces the bubbling water that flows over rocks and a rotted tree trunk caught near the bank.
This is our first night, capping off the first day of our trip. We've been on the road for nine hours and by my estimate, if we bust our ass, we can make it to our ultimate destination in three more days. Let Connor have his peep at the Pacific Ocean and then hightail it back east so I can be done with these freaks.
I pull bags out of the back of the SUV. To my surprise, everyone had packed light as I'd suggested. When we picked Connor up at his house early this morning, his father had helped lug out a massive tent bag that looked brand spanking new. Connor told me with a red face, "Um... I didn't own a tent so my dad bought one. It's pretty big, but Jillian will share it with me as she doesn't have a tent either."
I had shrugged because I didn't give a fuck who slept where. Didn't even care that Goth Chick told me she was sleeping in the backseat of my Suburban, and equally did
n't care that she brought her own pillow when I picked her up at her apartment.
Now, they all line up to accept their stuff. I throw Connor's large tent to the ground beside me and tell him gruffly while pointing to a spot, "I'll help you set that up in a minute if you take it over there."
I then hand him his duffle, a high-speed Under Armour bag that presumably holds his clothes and medicines, and a rolled-up sleeping bag that smells as new as his tent. Goth Chick accepts a large backpack from me that has stickers all over it that say things like "Acid--the ultimate high" and "Bite me, bitch". I also pull out a knotted pillowcase that she had thrown in there this morning that looks to be stuffed with clothes. She grumbles something at me, not a thank you for sure. I actually think she said "moron," but whatever.
And finally, Jillian's standing there, looking at me with those pretty blue eyes that are now the color of dark denim since the sun is setting and her back is to it. I turn away from her quickly because half the time, I'm afraid I won't be able to break eye contact with her, and pull out her rolled sleeping bag. Unlike the others, hers appears well used. I wouldn't have taken her for someone who likes camping, but I put that immediately out of my mind. I don't care what her background is.
"Thank you," she says sweetly as I hand it to her. I ignore her and turn back to the vehicle to pull her bag out, which is also duffle shaped, and is bright pink with black canvas trim.
"Christopher," she says from behind me, and her tone is soft and secretive. Almost embarrassed sounding.
"What?" I say gruffly as I wheel around on her.
"Um... I sort of left my wallet at my house," she says, her eyes dropping to the ground where her foot kicks at the grass. And yeah... her feet are pretty too. She's wearing flip-flops that have clear crystals on the straps and her toenails are painted pale pink. "And um... I don't have any money on me."
"You're fucking kidding, right?" I ask in unamused amazement, because that's a colossally stupid thing to do.
She gives me a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry. I'm normally an organized person. I had it laying there on my bed along with all my other stuff I'd set out to pack, and I don't know... I must have just overlooked it or something. I'll pay you back for gas and the campground fees as soon as we get back if that's okay."
"Why didn't you say something when you first realized you'd forgotten it? We could have turned back."
Her eyes cut away from me. "I didn't realize until it was too late."
"Wait a minute," I say, my eyes narrowing on her as my brain replays the various stops we made on our trek from North Carolina to Kentucky. "Have you eaten anything today?"
Because now I remember she didn't order anything for breakfast when we stopped at McDonald's a few hours into our trip. And she didn't buy anything at that gas station where she lit into me for calling Connor Dead Kid, although everyone else got a sandwich and some chips. I didn't pay any attention then, but I remember that now.
"Have you?" I ask again. "Eaten?"
She shakes her head and hastily says, "I'm good. I packed some protein bars to snack on."
"And what?" I sneer at her. "You plan to ration them out over the entire trip?"
Her face flames red as she snaps at me, "No."
I cock an eyebrow at her.
"Okay, fine... I haven't exactly decided what to do, but I don't need a lot. I'll figure it out."
"Jesus fucking Christ, you're a mess," I tell her as I turn back and grab her pink duffle. I push it on her and she grabs it, looking at me with those half-mast eyes. I don't hold the annoyance from my voice. "I'll pay your expenses and feed you. Keep track of what you owe me and you can pay me when we get back."
She nods at me hesitantly, but I push past her before she can utter a word of thanks. I honestly cannot handle accept gratitude from her right now.
Chapter 5
Not a kid but just a few short months of legally being an adult, Connor suffers from alveolar rhabdomyosarcoma. He had to repeat it three times in group before anyone could understand what he was saying. It apparently started as a tumor in his hand. He'd been through surgery, chemo, and radiation, but it came back with a nasty vengeance and spread to other parts of his body.
He summed it up nicely on that first day we all met in group, "They just can't kill it. The doctors are optimistic that I have about six months."
Hence the nickname of Dead Kid.
I have to mentally keep repeating the name Connor in my head the entire time I set up our campsite, afraid I'll inadvertently call him Dead Kid and earn another lecture from Jillian that will be rooted in pity rather than just generalized disgust. I set up his tent, which is roughly the size of the Taj Mahal, all while he watches with doomed keen eyes. I suspect tomorrow night he'll want to try to put it up himself.
After building a fire, I set up the propane cooktop so I can fix an easy meal of hot dogs with roasted potatoes and onions while I sip on a beer. Goth Chick slunk off into the woods, presumably to smoke a joint, while the others hang out by the campfire. Connor has a smile on his face a mile wide, barely able to contain his joy over sleeping in the great outdoors, eating food cooked over an open campfire on a propane stove, and hanging out with rejects friends around a toasty fire as the sky turns a brilliant shade of orange-pink when the sun starts to dip below the western horizon.
We eat in silence, mainly because we're starving--particularly Goth Chick when she comes back. She eats half a bag of potato chips that I'm sure are a product of the munchies, and then Jillian insists on washing the dishes in a portable tub I had brought along that stores the eating utensils and doubles as a wash bin.
The sky is dark as ink now and because of cloud cover, the stars can't be seen. It's getting late, but no one seems interested in crawling into their sleeping bags and going to sleep. Connor is enjoying campfire talk too much, and Jillian and he just prattle on, mainly about literature as they both share a love of Herman Melville. I smoke a cigarette and listen to them talk. Goth Chick also listens, but not as intently. She's laying on her back on top of our site's picnic table, staring at the night sky. When I think I can't handle another minute of the discussion of Moby Dick, and I realize Jillian looks even more beautiful in the firelight, I grab my duffle and head to the low-slung cinderblock building that houses men and women's showers and bathrooms, one on each side.
After taking a piss and brushing my teeth, I grab a quick shower. It's precarious given the lack of handicap stability railing. I take my prosthesis and liner off, lay them against the wall as far from the spray as I can so they won't get wet, and manage to get cleaned up with one hand balancing on the wall and the other working soap all over me.
By the time I get back to the campsite, the fire has dropped low and I can hear Connor talking in a somber voice. I get ready to chastise them for not adding wood when he leans over in his chair, grabs a few logs from the small cord I'd purchased at the main office when we checked in, and places it in the center where it causes the fire to flare upward.
I throw my duffle in the back of the Suburban, grab another beer from the small cooler there, and head back to my folding canvas chair that sits to the right of Connor and across the fire from Jillian.
When I take my seat, I hear Connor say with a humorless laugh, "...and so we started going to church on Sundays. My parents would sit there... eyes all scrunched so tight... hands clasped, and just praying their asses off for a miracle."
He gives a slight cough. In a roughened voice, he murmurs, "Praying that I won't die."
I want to roll my eyes and tell the kid that praying never works. I want him to pass along to his parents that they're on a fool's errand and their time is better served spending what precious Sunday mornings they have left by doing something fun and meaningful with their son. I want to take him by the shoulders, look him directly in the eyes, and tell him I know from personal experience that there is no God. That there's nothing up above us but clouds, and sky, and atmosphere. That past that, there's only empty spac
e--not an omniscient deity that loves all of us poor, worthless humans down here on earth.
We are all alone and that's the truth. I know this because I can't begin to remember all the times I called out to God to ease my suffering, but the pain only got worse. Or I beseeched him to just let me die, and yet my body just wouldn't quit working. Months and months of agony. Torturous pain while they tried to heal my shattered leg. Brutal, vicious, unrelenting misery while infection raged through my leg and puss seeped out of the open wounds, and they would cut chunks of skin and flesh away, hoping to stay ahead of the rot, but they never could. Pain so terrible it made me crazy. I would rant and sometimes piss myself until, finally, I was begging the doctors to cut my leg off.
Yeah... that request was honored.
God may not have listened to me, but the doctors did.
"Many people turn to prayer when they are at their lowest. Some people find great solace in it," Jillian tells Connor, validating his parents' futile efforts. Goth Chick ignores us and stares at the sky. Dead Kid Connor bobs his head in understanding.
I, however, snort with derision. It's loud and obnoxious and there's no doubt by anyone in our pathetic group that I find the concept ludicrous.
"Tell your parents there is no God," I tell Connor as I look him directly in the eye. "He can't save you."
I keep my eyes pinned on him, refusing to give him an ounce of empathy because I don't have any.
I'm all dried up.
"Shut up," the soft voice of Jillian says, floating sweetly across the crackling fire. I don't want to look at her because I think I might go fucking ballistic if she shoots that poor, misunderstood Christopher truth Barlow shit at me.
But I'm almost knocked backward when she shows me a side to Jillian Martel I've never seen before. Rather than try to sling happy, optimistic shit my way, she lets me have it good.
"Who in the hell are you to judge Connor or his family?" she yells at me with narrowed eyes. I wonder how much of a chore on her paralyzed muscles it is for her to glower at me like that. "What gives you the right?"
I vaguely notice Goth Chick sit straight up from her supine position on the picnic table and look at Jillian with surprise.