The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline (83 page)

“A lot: you’re not the first Marine who’s been injured.”

“Former Marine; former fucking Marine, Caro. I’m nothing now. Maybe you can try and fucking remember that.”

His words cracked my heart.

He’d been my lover, he’d been a Marine, and now he was neither. The past was another country and the future was … well, he couldn’t see that he had a future. We lived from each slow hour to the next.

And he felt guilty—so guilty for having been the one who had survived. No one would tell me exactly what had happened but from what I’d pieced together, and from what David had told me during that first phone call, someone on the inside, an ally, had started shooting and then detonated a bomb. Three other Marines had died and two more were injured, although not as badly as Sebastian. Surviving wasn’t about skill; it was about luck.

During those long, dark days, two things kept me going. The first was his letter, the one he’d written before his last mission. The paper had become soft and fragile with the number of times I’d read it. I looked at it often when I was alone for a few seconds, even though I’d long memorized the words.

The second was a small thing, ridiculous really, but it signified a lot to me, and I think to Sebastian, too.

I’d been sorting through a pile of dirty clothes: one of those joyless, thankless jobs that we all have to do, but never get done because they’re never-ending.

I was making sure buttons were done up, and shirts were turned inside out before I threw them into the washer, tedious but necessary trivia, when I picked up Sebastian’s jeans. As usual, he’d tossed them into the hamper unbuttoned and unzipped. I thought I’d better check the pockets, too … and that’s when I found it.

I felt a hard lump in the hip pocket. I pushed my hand inside and pulled out a small, white pebble. It was the little piece of quartz that I’d found on the beach, that silly sentimental gift that I’d given to Sebastian the day he’d flown out to Afghanistan. And he’d kept it. More than that, he kept it with him even now.

My throat started to ache with tears but I refused to let myself cry, because they would have been hopeful tears. If Sebastian cared enough to keep that little pebble, surely it meant he still cared for me? That he was still capable of caring for me?

A loud crash brought me running to the living room.

Sebastian was thrashing around on the floor, swearing up and down, cursing like it was going out of fashion, and surrounded by books.

“What happened?” I said, breathlessly.

“I fucking fell! What does it look like?” he snarled.

I guessed that he’d lost his balance and tried to hold onto the bookshelf, but pulled the whole thing down instead.

I bent down to help him up.

“Leave me alone! I’m not a complete fucking cripple.”

I bit my lip and watched as he struggled to his feet. His frustration at what he perceived as his helplessness boiled over several times a day. I had to remind myself that he wasn’t mad at me, but sometimes it was hard. It hurt to see him fight so hard: fight his own body as it continued to heal, fight me, fight everyone.

He was sinking deeper into depression each day, and I didn’t know how to help him.

He even refused to talk about getting married or anything that involved planning for our future.

“I’m not going to let you marry a useless, fucking cripple,” he roared, when I’d been foolish enough to press the subject. “If I can’t even walk down the fucking aisle without a fucking stick…”

I’d bit back my angry retort that there wouldn’t be an aisle at City Hall, and left him alone to stew in his own black anger.

My own hopes and dreams drifted further away.

In silence, I bent down and started picking up the books that had tumbled down around him—the ones out of his reach. He watched me sullenly for a moment, then reached out to collect the volumes nearest to him. As he picked up my copy of ‘Lolita’ by its cover, an envelope fell out, fluttering to the ground. I knew at once what it was and leaned over to pick it up; Sebastian was faster.

“What’s this?” he said, his voice puzzled. “It’s got my name on it.”

He looked up at me. “The date on it … that’s the day we first…”

“Yes, I know,” I said, quietly.

The small envelope did indeed have Sebastian’s name scrawled across one corner in my untidy handwriting. The date was ten years ago: the day I’d found him alone in the park, bruised and bloodied after yet another fight with his father. The bastard had hit him several times and then hacked off chunks of Sebastian’s long, surfer hair. I’d taken him to my house, patched him up, and shaved the rest of his hair into an elegant buzz cut, trying to mask the evidence of his father’s assault. It was also the night we’d first made love.

“What’s in it, Caro?” he said, fingering the small, paper package.

It was the only time he’d shown a spark of interest in anything in weeks.

I shrugged. “Open it.”

He propped himself up against the couch then heaved himself up so he was leaning against the cushions. He fumbled, trying to open the sealed envelope, the motor skills of his left hand still limited.

He was probably expecting to find some sort of letter inside, but he was wrong.

A lock of long, blond hair fell out.

I saw the shock of recognition on his face.

“This is mine—my hair. You kept it—all these years?”

“Yes, tesoro. It was all I had of you.”

He closed his eyes, holding the lock in his hand.

“Caro, I don’t understand. Why do you love me?”

“Just because … because the sky is blue and the sea is green.”

And then he started to cry. He fisted his hands over his eyes and sobbed into my arms. And, at last, I could hold him. I wrapped my arms around him and held him tightly, willing the darkness away, trying to heal him with my body, with my touch.

“I love you, Sebastian, please don’t push me away. I love you.”

“Oh God, Caro. I just don’t know what I’m doing any more; I’m so fucked up—I feel like I can’t fucking breathe. Don’t give up on me, Caro. Please don’t give up on me. I need you, baby. I love you so much. I’m so sorry.”

I could forgive anything now that he’d let me touch him.

I held him for an hour, just stroking his hair, as he rested his head in my lap, my fingers running over his rough beard. I realized he’d taken one small step toward me, toward living again—I needed him to take another.

“It’s time to go out now, Sebastian,” I said, softly.

He closed his eyes and swallowed.

“I don’t know if I can do that, Caro.”

“You don’t have to do this by yourself, Sebastian. We go together. Come on, tesoro. Together.”

I could tell he was nervous, so we took it slowly. I gave him my Yankees baseball cap, which he pulled down over his eyes, and he wore his old biker jacket, which hung loosely from his shoulders, emphasizing how thin he’d become.

I took his hand, and, with Sebastian leaning heavily on his walking stick, we made our way slowly along West Beech Street. Sebastian kept looking over his shoulder, checking the windows of buildings along the road, and I knew he was unconsciously looking for snipers. I didn’t hurry him, we went at his pace, but the feeling that flowed through me from being with him outdoors at last, was almost overwhelming.

“There’s a café over there, Sebastian. Why don’t we go have a coffee?”

“I don’t know, Caro … sitting outside? I wouldn’t feel … safe.”

“Sebastian, you know rationally that there’s nothing to worry about. Let’s just try it for a couple of minutes: if you really can’t handle it, we’ll leave.”

He twitched unhappily, but didn’t argue.

The waiter came toward us and Sebastian flinched away from him.

“I’ll have an espresso. Sebastian?”

His eyes were wide with fear, constantly flicking nervously about him.

“And a Bud Light,” I answered for him.

The waiter wandered away; he was used to a bit of crazy among his customers.

I couldn’t say that Sebastian truly relaxed, but he sipped his beer and began to look a fraction less anxious.

He seemed happier once we were moving again. I could tell he was tired, but I wanted him to see the ocean up close, and not just from the windows of our small home.

The boardwalk was busy, full of people strolling in the sunshine. A teenager on a skateboard swept past and my poor, wounded man trembled with terror at the sudden noise.

“It’s okay, tesoro. You’ll be okay.”

“Fuck, Caro,” he said, his face white with fear.

We carried on walking, Sebastian clinging onto my hand and trying to control his rapid breathing.

It hurt badly to see him so scared when he’d always been so strong, but I knew the only way to help him was to force him to face his fears. We’d face them together.

When we reached the end of the Boardwalk, we found an empty bench and sat looking at the ocean. He breathed in deeply, and I saw that it calmed him. The waves tumbled across the sand and the repeated, rhythmical motion soothed us both. A couple of kids were playing on body boards, shouting out happily. Sebastian leaned forward to watch them, his face alight with interest. The ocean had always been his place of refuge, somewhere his parents couldn’t touch him, and the beach had always had a special significance for us. I became determined that we’d walk here every day, because I believed it would help Sebastian to get stronger. And it would bring us together.

“The ocean always reminds me of you, tesoro. It’s the same color as your eyes today.”

He looked at me in surprise, then lifted my hand to his lips, kissing it gently.

“Caro.”

He breathed my name softly, like a prayer.

As we sat in the sunshine, a light breeze ruffling my hair, I felt life flowing back into his body. He closed his eyes, relaxing in the summer warmth, his face held up toward the light like a young plant that had been kept in the dark.

“Thank you for this, Caro,” he whispered.

I leaned against him and he wrapped his good arm around my shoulder, pulling me in.

“Ready to go home, tesoro?”

He nodded, and we stood up to walk back to our home.

I led us back by a different route to the bungalow, and we strolled past a café that I’d not seen before. It must have opened while we were living as hermits. Three men with black hair, olive skin and dark eyes, seemed to be arguing loudly. I wanted to take the long way around in case they reminded him of Afghanistan, but something about them intrigued Sebastian. He looked up, and I could tell he was listening to what they were saying. I realized they must be speaking a language he recognized, which could mean they were Afghans.

I was really worried, wondering what to do for the best. I glanced around, seeing if there were any taxis nearby. And then I was astonished to see a small smile lift Sebastian’s lips.

My heart soared. I hadn’t seen him smile like that since he’d come home.

As we walked past, Sebastian threw in a comment. The men stared at him in amazement. One called out something else and Sebastian replied. Suddenly all the men started shouting at once. They came toward him, and I was worried it might be too much, but soon they were deep in conversation and I could tell they were asking him questions. Then Sebastian grinned at them. It was like seeing the sun after a month of rain, and I dared to feel hope.

They talked a little longer and then Sebastian introduced me. The men greeted me respectfully but with little interest, and eventually, after several more minutes where I didn’t understand a single word, but stood happily as Sebastian stroked my hand, watching him chat away, he said goodbye and we carried on walking.

“What on earth were you talking about for so long?”

“Baseball,” he said.

I stared at him doubtfully.

“You’re kidding me?”

He smiled again, “Universal language, Caro.”

And just like that, the world began to turn again.

The first change was that Sebastian started doing the exercises that the therapist had given him: exercises to help build up dexterity in the fingers of his left hand, and leg stretches to help the damaged muscles of his right thigh, and he even used the exercise bike that I’d ordered for him—although he’d shouted at me the day it had been delivered. He also began doing sit-ups and push-ups with a vengeance.

The second change came a week after meeting the Afghan men. It was evening, and I was standing in the kitchen, cooking pasta arrabiata for our supper, when Sebastian poked his head around the door, a quizzical expression on his face.

I stared at him for a moment before I realized what was different.

“You’ve shaved!”

“Well, you didn’t like the beard, did you?”

“That’s putting it mildly, Sebastian.”

He looked so beautiful, my heart gave another, small, hopeful lurch.

The third, and most startling change, was that he slipped his hands around my waist and nuzzled my neck. I was so shocked, I froze. His smile fell away and he let go of me.