The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline (81 page)

The ventilator rose and fell, his chest rose and fell, but Sebastian’s eyes remained closed.

I talked to him all day: telling him about the bungalow, and the way the ocean trembled with light in the summer sun, and the way the sky seemed to reach long fingers down to the waves in a storm, spray mingling with rain.

I told him about Alice’s kindness and humor; about Jenna’s fieriness; and the way Nicole was always trying to set me up on dates—but that I didn’t need her to do that anymore. And I told him what Ches had said to me on the telephone.

“He told me to kick your butt right out of this hospital bed, Sebastian. You promised him you’d go surfing in California after this tour; a fact that you completely forgot to mention to me, I might
add. Do you want to have our honeymoon in California, tesoro? Because I don’t care where we have it. Anywhere you like, my love. Sebastian, can you hear me? I love you so much—we have our whole lives ahead of us. I’ll go anywhere, do anything to be with you. Just please wake up, tesoro.”

A medic came past and checked the machine’s readouts, before methodically pushing some more meds into the IV bag that was suspended next to the bed.

“You a friend of his, ma’am?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Perhaps you can help me then? We found a letter on him when he was brought in, but the name isn’t anyone on his emergency contact list. We just held onto it, kinda hoping we could find someone to give it to. Do you know a ‘Carolina Hunter’ ma’am? We figured it was some relative of his, but so far we can’t trace her.”

I gasped slightly, then nodded. “Yes, I know her. I’ll make sure she gets it.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

He reached into a locker next to Sebastian’s bed and pulled out a muddy envelope.

When he handed it to me, I realized it wasn’t covered in dirt, but blood—Sebastian’s blood. The medic shrugged his apology, and walked away to check on his next patient.

My hands shook as I tore open the envelope.

There was a single sheet of lined paper with a ragged edge inside, probably torn from a notebook. One side contained a short message in Sebastian’s careful handwriting.

Caro, my love,

Just writing these words makes me happier than I can remember being for a very long time—ten years, in fact.

I’m not one for words—I leave that to you—my beautiful, talented Caro. But we’ve had the news we were waiting for and soon we’ll be heading out. I hope you never read this letter, but if you do, it means I’ve gone on to the next big adventure.

Knowing that you are in the world and wearing my ring, makes me the happiest man alive, and the last few weeks have been the best and happiest of my whole life.

Be happy, Caro, because that’s what you deserve.

I love you, I have always loved you, and wherever I go after this world, I will always love you. Sempre e per sempre.

Sebastian

I clutched his letter to my chest, trying to find a way to fill the aching void. I couldn’t understand why my heart was still beating.

I gave up trying to be strong. I lay my head next to his hand, and my tears soaked into the crisp, white sheet.

My love was slipping away from me, and there was nothing I could do.

The night passed and I sat staring at Sebastian’s face, memorizing every line and angle: the softness of his cheeks, now covered with a fine, light brown stubble; the full, sensual lips, distorted by the breathing tube that had been placed into his throat; the strong, straight nose; the wide forehead; the beautiful symmetry of his cheekbones. But his lovely eyes, the windows to his sweet soul, were hidden.

I whispered my secrets to him, all my desires and fears, hoping that in some way he knew that I was with him. I ran my fingers along the back of his hand and up his forearm, tracing the faint veins, knowing that they were still pumping blood through his body, and that the fight wasn’t over.

David returned at some point, although whether it was day or night by then, I couldn’t tell.

“Caroline, perhaps you should try and get some sleep. I’ve arranged for you to have a cot-bed in the doctors’ lounge. Well, it’s not much of a lounge, more of a shed really.”

“Thank you, David. That’s very kind of you. Maybe later.”

He looked at me thoughtfully.

“He’s holding on, Caroline. He’s strong, but … they’re trying to decide whether to medivac him to Germany. It just depends on … whether he’s stable enough to make the journey.”

I stared up at him.

“Why are you being so nice to me, David? I always thought you must hate me after … everything that happened.”

He looked surprised, then rubbed a hand tiredly across his cheeks.

“I tried to hate you. I thought I did, for a while, but I couldn’t really. I knew it was my fault.”

I blinked with surprise, amazed by his words.

“Why did you think that? I was the one who … had the affair.”

His eyes closed briefly and when he opened them again, he seemed to have made a decision.

“You were so full of life, Caroline, and I loved you so much. I tried so hard to hold onto you, but the harder I tried to hold on, the more you slipped away from me. I ended up crushing you. I was so terrified you’d see through me … I did everything I could to stifle you. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself. I will regret that to my dying day.”

Then he gestured toward Sebastian. “He brought you back to life.”

I hung my head, humbled by his admission and his apology, remembering all his cruelty and bullying. And remembering, too, his new kindness in my hour of need.

“I’m so sorry, David. For everything that happened between us. For what I did to you. I never meant to hurt you. But … I fell in love.”

“I know,” he said, softly. “I just wish it had been with me.”

He smiled sadly, and walked away.

The days and nights began to blur together. If it hadn’t been for David, bringing me food or insisting that I slept, I don’t know how I would have coped.

I called Ches each day, but there wasn’t much I could tell him. I heard the hope in his voice every time I called, and every time I could only repeat the same words, “There’s no change.”

The chaplain visited us daily, and told me not to give up hope. Sometimes he prayed with me; sometimes he brought me a sandwich. Both were equally welcome.

I’d been there four or five days, the colorless hours merging together, when David told me that Sebastian was stable enough to be moved. Some news, at last.

“We’re going to bring him out of the coma, then he’ll be sent to the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. From there, on to Bethesda in Maryland or Walter Reed in DC. I’m not sure which.”

“Will I be able to go with him?”

He sighed. “Normally, I’d say that was highly unlikely. But, off the record, Caroline, if you can use your Press connections, then maybe.”

“Thank you,” I said, quietly, touching his hand.

He smiled briefly.

That was all the encouragement I needed. I was on the phone to my editor within 20 minutes and I refused to take ‘no’ for an answer. I promised as many articles as he wanted, exclusive interviews and photographs of life in a military medical center. In the end, he agreed to help. I don’t know how many strings he pulled in Washington, but he promised me he’d get me on the same flight as Sebastian.

When I returned to Sebastian’s room, I couldn’t work out what was different—and then I realized it was too quiet. The ventilator had stopped working. I panicked, looking around wildly for help, but then … I saw that Sebastian’s eyes were open, and he was looking at me.

He spoke, and his voice was so soft and hoarse that I could barely hear him.

“I
knew
you wouldn’t give up on us,” he said.

We were flown out that evening, and arrived at the medical center in Germany at dawn. The critical cases were taken off first—those with brain injuries and missing limbs. We waited on the chilly tarmac for 15 minutes before the rest of us were loaded onto a fleet of blue buses.

We were met by the
Head of the Critical Care Team, and the army chaplain.

“You’re here at the US army hospital. We’re going to take good care of you. We’re praying for you. You’re here at the US army hospital. We’re going to take good care of you. We’re praying for you.”

Over and over again, the tired-looking chaplain repeated the words, as stretcher after stretcher passed him by, the syllables blurring and becoming meaningless.

Sebastian held my hand tightly but didn’t speak.

We were there for just two nights while Sebastian was ‘processed’.

The harried but sympathetic staff gave me a small, cell-like room in the women’s quarters. Day and night the injured arrived: there wasn’t time to learn the names of the soldiers with so many identical injuries who streamed through the hospital, some from Iraq, most from Afghanistan. They were treated and moved on. Treated and moved on. An endless flow of mutilated flesh and tortured minds.

Sebastian had the option to go back to San Diego or to an East Coast facility. We decided it would be easier if we were near home—my home—our home, and we flew out to Walter Reed in Maryland on a Thursday at the start of May.

The journey from Germany was long
and painful for Sebastian; he didn’t complain once, even though I could tell he was in agony, his body covered in an unhealthy sheen of sweat. But he didn’t speak to me either, and that scared me.

There were many who were far worse off. One young man I spoke quietly with during those dreary hours was named Lance. He’d lost both legs and one arm. He told me that he was ‘glad’ it had happened to him, because he wouldn’t have wanted it to happen to any of his buddies in his platoon.

He was 22.

Our arrival back on US soil was without fanfare. I traveled with Sebastian the whole time and saw him settled into a unit, before I found myself accommodation nearby in a cheap motel. There were other wives and family members staying there and we became close, sharing our hopes and dreams—or rather, forging new dreams that were far more limited in their scope than formerly.

Liz’s memorial service came and went. I sent a letter to her editor, asking him to read it out for me, and I asked him to recite the poem ‘High Flight’ by Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee. I knew it had always been a favorite of Liz’s.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds—and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I’ve topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew –
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

I said a prayer for her, too, alone in my motel room.

For nine weeks, I waited and watched with anxious eyes as Sebastian slowly began to heal.

He was given intensive physiotherapy to help him use his left arm, but, more particularly, to walk again. He became breathless and tired quickly, but, in the face of so many with worse injuries, he hid his true feelings. I think I was the only one who could see the simmering anger beneath the surface.

To other soldiers and to the staff, he seemed cheerful and worked hard at whatever exercises he was given. But to me, he was closed and distant. He’d always been so honest and open with me; I felt lost and alone—more truly lonely in his company than when I was by myself.

It soon became obvious that the extent of his injuries would render him unfit for duty. One of the prerequisites of being a Marine was the ability to run without a limp. The doctors thought it extremely unlikely that Sebastian would ever be able to walk without using a stick, let alone run. A medical discharge was the most likely scenario.

The military was generous to those wounded in combat, and although Sebastian wouldn’t qualify for a medical pension, not having served his 20 years, he was told he could still expect to receive between a third and half of his current salary. He would be a disabled veteran.

Those words sent him into a fury. He ranted at me for nearly half an hour.

“I won’t take it,” he growled.

“What? Why not?”

“I just won’t,” he said, with finality.

“Sebastian, you deserve that—after everything you’ve been through…”

“I’m not fucking taking it, Caro. I’m 27. I don’t fucking want disability pay!”

“Okay, tesoro. That’s your choice.”

I think the fact that I wouldn’t fight with him just made it worse. He had vast reserves of pent-up anger, and I was the nearest target—and probably the only one he felt he could take it out on.