Loïc
“She’s in no way perfect. Yet, at the same time, she’s absolutely perfect for me.”
—Loïc Berkeley
The men leisurely file out of the room that we use for our weekly PTSD meetings. The room isn’t very inviting with its stark white walls and interrogation-like bright fluorescent lights, but this is the room that the VA has available.
“See you next week, sir,” one of the newer guys says to me.
“See you next week,” I reply.
My attention goes to Tommy, who hasn’t moved since he arrived here an hour ago. He normally waits until most people have left before he navigates his wheelchair out. But his eyes seem even more vacant than usual today. He barely said two words during our meeting, which in itself isn’t any different than the other meetings he’s attended over the last seven months. Yet, still, something’s off today. It must be in his body language. I can’t quite figure out what it is though.
“Hey, Tommy. I’m starving. Want to go grab some lunch? I was thinking about hitting up that new barbeque place that just opened in town.”
None of that is in fact true. London made me a healthy lunch full of my favorites that I was planning on eating during my hour commute back home. Today is pregnancy test day—a day that I’ve now experienced with London two times. Today will be the third. I’ve grown to hate this day every month.
The negative pregnancy tests don’t really bother me because I know it will happen in time. It’s the devastation that London feels each time that damn negative line pops up on that plastic wand that really sucks. I’m running out of reassuring things to say to her. As each month passes with another negative result, she’s becoming more desperate and disheartened. It physically hurts me to see her in emotional pain like this. London’s always been so strong. It’s one of her many attributes that I love. This will technically be the fourth pregnancy result if we count the one at Sarah and Dixon’s wedding, and with each passing month, I see a little more light leave her eyes.
I know I should go home, yet I find myself asking Tommy to lunch because his eyes are haunted, and I have an unsettling feeling deep within my gut that tells me he shouldn’t be alone.
Tommy, aka Thomas Washington, joined my PTSD group a little over seven months ago, shortly after he arrived home from Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. For some reason, I’ve always addressed him by his first name. If he were anyone else in the military, I’d call him Washington. Maybe it’s because, at the age of nineteen, he looked so young and lost and broken. Tommy just fits him.
He’s staring at me, thinking.
“What do you say, man? Heard it is amazing,” I say.
Finally, he nods and simply says, “Okay.”
I shoot a text to London.
Hey, babe. Going to be a little late. Having lunch with Tommy.
Okay.
Please wait for me to get home before taking the test. I’ll try to be quick.
Okay.
I’m serious. Please wait for me. I love you.
Love you, too.
I’m sure she’s not thrilled, but I know she’ll understand. I’ve expressed my concern over Tommy in the past.
The part of Tommy’s recovery that is so difficult is that he has no one. His dad was a drunk who left when he was young. His mom died of breast cancer when he was eighteen, and he joined the military right after that. He doesn’t have siblings or family that he knows. I imagine he was a quiet kid in school and didn’t have any lasting friendships. Truthfully, he reminds me a lot of myself at that age. The difference is that he doesn’t have a Cooper in his life, and he really needs one. Everyone needs at least one person they can count on.
Even after I lost Cooper, I wasn’t alone. I had Maggie, Sarah, and Dixon, who were all determined not to let me drown in the darkness.
This poor kid just has me. I hope I’m enough.
I do most of the talking over lunch, which is our normal arrangement. I’m sure Cooper is looking down from heaven with his mouth hanging open in surprise. I’ve morphed into this Chatty Cathy. Hell, I barely recognize myself anymore. I’m so different from the closed-off, quiet person I used to be. Sitting on the other side of the table in Tommy’s position, sullen and silent, is where I’d feel more comfortable.
But I don’t have the luxury of silence anymore. My job is to reach as many soldiers as possible. Whether it comes naturally or not, I have to be their Cooper, their cheerleader, their confidant. I have to be their someone in the blackness of the night when their demons are screaming the loudest, and they feel like they can’t fight another day. I need them to remember that they have someone who will hold them up, someone who will fight for them until they can fight for themselves.
I’ve had to use every detective skill I possess to find anything that might interest Tommy. He’s pretty much a closed book. The other day though, when I was outside, he pulled up to the VA in his modified truck that allowed him to drive with just his hands, and I heard country music blaring from his truck. I’m personally not a fan of country music, but I took note of the lyrics I heard, and with a quick internet search, moments later, I figured out that he had been blasting Garth Brooks.
I wipe the barbeque sauce off my hands with a paper towel. “You know, I heard that Garth Brooks is finishing up his world tour. He has a couple of more stops within driving distance from here. Would you be interested in going to a concert with me?” I ask Tommy.
His head pops up from whatever he was staring at on his plate, and he wears an expression of surprise. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. London’s not really into country music, and I know you are. So, I thought you might want to go with me.” I drop the paper towel on my plate and lean back in my chair.
Tommy fiddles with his fork. “I’ve always wanted to see him in concert,” he states casually.
“So, you’ve never been?” I ask.
“No, he took a break from touring for like fourteen years until he began his world tour a few years back.”
“Really? He’s been around for that long?” I ask, genuinely interested though at the same time making it clear that I obviously know very little about the country singer.
“Oh, yeah,” Tommy answers with more confidence in his voice than usual. “He was huge before I was born. My mom used to listen to his greatest hits CD on repeat. I grew up listening to Garth.”
“What’s your favorite song?”
Tommy looks down at his plate of discarded rib bones and then looks back up, meeting my stare. “I’d say ‘Unanswered Prayers.’ It reminds me of my mom. That was her favorite song.”
“What’s it about?”
My question actually causes Tommy to release a small chuckle. “Have you ever listened to Garth before?”
“Just a little.” Meaning just the few minutes I listened while looking him up on the internet, but I don’t tell Tommy that. “None of my foster parents really played music when I was growing up. I just ran across one of his songs the other day. That’s why I wanted to check out his concert.”
“Oh, man. He’s the best there is. You’re going to be blown away.” He shakes his head in awe.
“Tell me about your mom’s favorite song.”
Tommy stares off over my shoulder for a moment before answering, “I remember her playing it over and over after my dad left. It’s basically about how, sometimes, your prayers don’t come true because something better is out there. And how, sometimes, you’re sad because you feel like you’re not getting what you need. But, eventually, you’ll realize that you didn’t get whatever it was that you’d prayed for because you were meant for something else, something better. And then you’ll be thankful that your previous prayers didn’t come true.”
He nods as a serene expression covers his face, and I suspect he’s thinking of his mom.
“So, like an everything-happens-for-a-reason theme?” I clarify for myself.
“Yeah, I guess so.” He shrugs.
I make a mental note to go home, purchase, and download all of the songs by Garth Brooks that I can find. I finally have something to talk to Tommy about.
“So, you’ll definitely go to the concert with me?”
“Yes,” Tommy answers. “When is it?”
“I’ll get tickets tonight. I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. Thanks, Berk,” Tommy says.
I wave my hand in the air. “Yeah, it’s nothing. Looking forward to it. What other songs should I know about?” I ask.
The next hour, Tommy gives me an in-depth crash course on everything Garth Brooks. It’s the most I’ve ever heard him speak, and I’m so thankful that I was in that parking lot to hear that song coming from his truck.
The moment I step in the house, I already know—and it’s not good. Something about sadness has the power to transform a space. It’s nothing I can put my finger on exactly. Yet the change is palpable. My body chills as I breathe in, despair filling my lungs.
Before I go looking for London, I open the broom closet. I hid a gift basket in there for her—just in case. I figured it was the safest hiding spot. London doesn’t go searching for cleaning supplies often. I was hoping we’d be celebrating this month, but instead, I’m handing her a basket of things that say, I’m so sorry. I can’t give you a baby, but here’s some chocolate, gummy worms, wine, and a comedy. If we can’t have a baby, at least we can laugh at a classic Adam Sandler movie.
It’s lame, but it’s what I’ve got.
I enter the living room to find London sitting on the couch, wearing one of my T-shirts. Her long hair is balled atop her head in some sort of style resembling a messy bird’s nest. She sits cross-legged on the couch, surrounded by a layer of candy wrappers and tissues. She doesn’t seem to notice me come in, as her stare is focused on the TV.
“Are you watching SpongeBob SquarePants?” I ask, confused.
London’s vacant eyes look down to the couch. She picks up a Dove chocolate wrapper and extends it out toward me.
I walk over and take it, reading it aloud, “Watch more cartoons, huh? What other life lessons are we taking from Dove today?”
She picks up another foil wrapper and hands it to me.
I read it aloud, “Rock a bad hair day.” I bite my lip to stop a chuckle. “Oh, London…” I sigh. “I told you to wait for me.”
She shrugs, her glassy expression focused on the annoying yellow sponge singing from the television.
“Did you finish your article?”
She shakes her head.
“It’s due tomorrow, right? Your editor said Wednesday,” I remind her softly.
“I got an extension,” she says quietly before handing me another wrapper.
“You actually found one that says, Treat a Tuesday like a Friday?” This time, I do let out a chuckle. “Sometimes, your Dove magic eight ball is kind of freaky. So, this is what you want to do on your Friday?” I ask gently.
She nods. “When you’re sad, just be gross, watch cartoons, and be miserable.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yep,” she says dramatically, allowing the P sound to pop. “That’s my new catchphrase.”
She hands me a foil wrapper that says, Coin a new catchphrase.
I can’t help but grin. “Oh, babe…I don’t think that one’s going to catch on. But we can wallow for tonight.” I hand her the basket of goodies.
She looks down to the gift I set in her lap. “You got me a wallowing basket?” she asks with something resembling a smile.
“I did.”
She goes through the contents. “Aw, Loïc…you’ve included all my favorites. Fuzzy socks! I needed new fuzzy socks. Oh…I love 50 First Dates. We’re going to watch it tonight?”
“Yep,” I answer while scanning through the discarded foil wrappers on the couch. I find one that works. “Here.” I hand it to her.
“Sweep them off their feet,” she reads aloud.
I take out one of the lavender bath bombs from her gift basket, put the basket beside her, and lift her from the couch.
She squeals as I take her into my arms. “What are you doing?” she asks, laughter lining her voice.
“I am sweeping you off your feet.” I shoot her a wink. I start walking toward the bedroom. “So, this is what’s going to happen. We’re going to run you a bath. While you relax, I’m going to go pick up the mess in the living room.”
“It’s not a mess. It’s my therapy, my advice column.”
“Well, your therapy is getting chocolate all over the couch, and the used tissues are probably spreading your snot around.”
“Ew…that’s gross,” she says as I set her down in the bathroom.
“It is.” I chuckle.
I start the bath water and help her remove her clothes. “So, as I was saying”—I wipe away a piece of hair that was stuck to her face—“while you take a bath, I’m going to clean up, order Chinese, and put in 50 First Dates. We’re going to spend the evening wallowing on the couch. Then, tomorrow, we’re going to call around and make us an appointment with a fertility specialist—the best one we can find.”
I lightly kiss her lips and take her face in my hands. “We’ve done it all right. We’ve tracked your temperature and taken ovulation tests. You’ve tried modifying your diet, and we’ve had sex in certain positions. After doing it, you’ve held your butt up in the air for an hour to make sure all the swimmers got to where they were supposed to go.” My last statement earns a small smile and chuckle from London. “We’ve done it all, London. It doesn’t always happen right away, but at this point, I think it’s time we ask for some help. Okay?”
London nods. “So, a one-night pity party, and then tomorrow, we search for answers?”
“Yes.” I nod and kiss her on the forehead.
“Okay,” she agrees.
A couple of hours later, I’m spread out on the couch, and my arms are wrapped tightly around London as she leans against me. Our bellies are full with chicken lo mein and crab rangoons. Every few minutes, London raises her arm and dangles a gummy worm in my face, and I catch it with my mouth.
She wears no makeup. There are no fancy products in her hair, just a light scent of lavender from her bath. She’s sporting one of my old T-shirts with nothing on under it but panties. She feels soft and warm in my arms.
A walrus blows kisses to Adam Sandler on the television, and London lets out a content sigh and a small giggle, like she does during this part every time she watches this movie.
God, I love her. There isn’t a woman on this planet better suited for me than London. She’s in no way perfect. Yet, at the same time, she’s absolutely perfect for me.
If our life consisted of nothing but the two of us together for the next sixty years, that would be everything I could wish for and more than I probably deserved. She’s enough. She’s all I need—all I’ll ever need.
I wonder though, is it enough for her? What if we can never have a baby? I haven’t been worried about it up until now, and maybe that’s because my life would be complete with or without a child as long as I had London. Yet, the past several months, I’ve seen a change in her, and it leaves me feeling uneasy. It’s as if she doesn’t just want a baby; she needs one. Mere months of trying, and I feel as if she’s crumbling before me. What’s going to happen if conceiving a child isn’t an option for us?
“London?”
“Yeah?” She turns her head to face me.
“You remember what I told you on our wedding day? That all I’ll ever need in this lifetime is you?”
She swallows hard, and her voice breaks as she says, “Yeah.”
“That’s still true. It will always be true. I just need you. Okay?”
I regret the words almost instantly as London’s eyes widen, lined with anger and fresh tears.
“I’m not saying I’m giving up on a family or anywhere close to that. Just that I know we’ll be okay because we have each other. You know?” I plead for her to understand what I’m trying to say.
She nods. “Yeah.” Her response is rote, not one of agreement.
“I love you,” I say, wishing those three little words really conveyed the enormous feelings that I hold for London.
“I love you, too,” she answers quietly before returning her gaze back toward the movie.
Her response does little to stifle the growing unease within me.
She’s just sad, I remind myself.
Tomorrow will be better.
It will.
It has to be better.