Chapter 13

13

LINCOLN

A ly dropped me off and I was able to coax her into one more passionate kiss before she playfully kicked me out of her car. I couldn't stop grinning. She drove away, her eyes sparkling, all the anxiety over Gina's intrusive questions forgotten.

I was glad she'd hit the brakes. Aly was too special to just climb into bed with. She wanted to go slow, and I respected that. Still, my body felt like a coil that had been wound too tightly.

Going inside, I skipped the stupid TV shows and went to bed. For the first time since the VA hospital, I was able to stretch out and it felt so much more comfortable than the couch. I kept my shoes on. If I was going to trade the couch for the bed, I was at least going to be able to get up at a moment's notice.

Mrs. Washington had put clean sheets on, and the blankets made me feel warm and comforted. I wondered if this was what the rest of the world felt like every night before drifting off. I thought about Aly and our hot make-out session in the car. I would never look at the customer's parking lot the same again.

I slept all the way through to the next day, surprising myself and making me re-evaluate my aversion to the bed. My phone was ringing from the nightstand. I picked it up and pressed the button to answer.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Matthews?"

"Yes."

"This is Ryan from the VA hospital."

I sat up, rubbing my eyes with my free hand, "Yes?"

"We'd like you to come in today so we can discuss your benefits."

It was the call I had been waiting for. One of the counselors at the VA in Georgia had helped me apply for benefits, but they said I would have to wait two to four months before my name came up. In the meantime, I had been establishing myself in Singer's Ridge and was doing a pretty good job of it. Still, with help from the VA, I could eliminate my rent payments, possibly get some money for food, and consider a better education. Whatever they were offering, I was going to take.

"When?" I asked.

"Can you be here at ten?" the counselor responded.

"Yeah," I answered.

I swung my legs out of bed, delighted to discover that I was already dressed and ready to go. I checked Uber but the closest driver was almost a half hour away. I needed to get to the VA administration building in Nashville and I only had an hour to do it. By the time Uber got here, turned around, and went back to the city, I would be at least ten minutes late in the best of circumstances. I needed a ride.

I called Porter at work. "How did last night go?"

"Fine," he said.

"Is Gina upset?"

"Not really."

"Good." I rushed into the real reason I had called. "I have an appointment at the VA today. I'm sorry, but they just called. I didn't know about it until now."

"Okay, no problem. You can take the day off."

"Thanks, but I also need a ride." Suddenly, it didn't feel so bad to ask for help, at least not from Porter. He had a way of quietly reassuring you that he had your back, as if all the time he spent in recovery had taught him a thing or two about responsibility. I knew he hadn't seen combat, but I felt we had shared a similar journey. Maybe he was further along than I was, having a few sober years under his belt. If the service was like addiction, then I was newly clean and struggling to maintain my sobriety.

"I'm sorry, man, but I can't be out of the office today. Otherwise, I absolutely would take you." He understood what I was asking even without a direct request.

"What about Danny?" I asked.

"Henry's off, and that would leave me with no drivers." Porter paused. "What about your dad?"

I sighed, not wanting to consider that possibility. "He's probably busy."

"I'm sure he'd jump at the chance to help."

"Okay, thanks." I hung up.

I wanted to stare at my phone for a long moment, then trudge into the kitchen to make myself some coffee, but I didn't have time. I couldn't ask Aly. She was working as well. Gina was probably already in Nashville at work, and after the debacle of last night, I didn't want to further burden her. It looked like it was my dad or Uber. I called him before I lost my nerve.

"Linc?" Dad's voice sounded hopeful.

"Yeah, it's me."

"This is a nice surprise. How are you?"

"I'm good, but I need a ride to the VA in Nashville," I said, forcing the words out. Asking my dad for a favor still felt wrong, like I was being a burden.

"Sure, I'll be right there," he said.

"My appointment's at ten," I added quickly, so he would know that we had a limited amount of time.

Dad chuckled. "Well, we better get going."

I hung up the phone, feeling marginally better. He hadn't made any excuses or asked any questions, just agreed on the spot to drive me out to the city and back.

What was he going to do while I waited for the counselor? Would he want to come with me? Or could I convince him to grab an early lunch and wait outside? I decided I would cross that bridge when I came to it.

I took a quick shower and changed my clothes. Pulling my pants back on, I felt renewed, as if I had made it over some obstacle and come down the other side triumphantly.

My boots were rank. I went to the fridge and grabbed a box of baking soda. After sprinkling some in, I took another sniff. Better.

After wasting all that time, I wasn't able to sit down with a cup of coffee before my phone buzzed. It was a text from my dad. I'm outside .

I grabbed my wallet and hurried out of the apartment, remembering to lock the door behind me.

Dad was waiting on the curb as I emerged from the backyard. I climbed into the passenger seat with a tight smile. He pulled out through the neighborhood, headed for the highway. The silence was deafening. I felt like I should say something, to thank him for going out of his way. And yet there was still lingering angst from my teenage years when we hadn't gotten along.

"I saw Gina last night," I said.

"Good." He didn't take his eyes off the road. "I'm glad you two could catch up."

"The baby was asleep, so I didn't get to meet him."

"Nice little boy, very happy," Dad commented.

"Do you ever babysit?" I wondered.

Dad cracked a smile. "No. Maybe when he's older."

"Do Porter and Gina ever get out on their own?" I wasn't sure I liked the idea of life coming to a crashing halt after a baby was born. My sister and her boyfriend were both young, and yet it seemed like all they did was work and care for the kid. That wasn't the kind of life I wanted.

"A baby is a big responsibility," Dad answered.

I knew that, so I kept my mouth shut. People should get a break now and then, even from big responsibilities. That was all I meant. There was another long pause in the conversation before Dad brought up the worst subject in the world—Aly.

"I understand you've been talking to our young receptionist, Allison."

I rolled my eyes. How the hell was I going to get out of this discussion? "Gina and Porter already gave us the talk."

"Which is?"

"I've got nothing but respect for Aly," I answered. "You don't have to worry."

"I just think you're in a situation to take advantage—"

"I'm not going to take advantage," I said, cutting him off. "And I'm not in any kind of situation. I'm low man on the totem pole all around. The only thing I've got to offer her is friendship." And sex, but I wasn't going to bring that up with my dad.

"Okay," he muttered. "I won't ask again."

"How did you feel when Porter and Gina got together?" I asked.

"I've known Porter for years, even before he and Gina were involved. He worked for me at the lumberyard, so I knew what kind of guy he was."

"But you don't know what kind of guy I am?" I asked.

"I didn't say that."

"But that's what you meant."

"No it's not." He pulled off the highway, straight into downtown Nashville.

I let it go. I had about five minutes to get to the office, so I didn't have time to force the issue.

"Thanks for driving," I said when he pulled up to the curb. "I'll meet you back here in two hours?"

"Text me when you're ready to be picked up," he said. And just like that, I was on the street, free as I had been in Afghanistan.

I walked up the steps to the office building, pushing my way inside. The sunlight dimmed considerably, replaced by electric bulbs. There was a receptionist, but they were too busy talking to another veteran, so I breezed past, determined to find my own way. A chart on the wall near the elevator told me which wing I was looking for. I wound through corridors, past door after door, until I came to the counselor's suite.

Inside, there was another receptionist, this one focused on her computer screen. I stepped up to the desk. "I have an appointment at ten."

"Name?"

"Lincoln Matthews."

"Wait here, Mr. Matthews." She punched a button on the phone and went back to her work.

I looked back at the waiting area and its thick leather couches. Magazines were strewn over coffee tables and end tables, as if the clientele wouldn't have cell phones to occupy themselves. There was a tiny space for children in one corner with a bunch of puzzles and books and one of those wooden toys with plastic tracks that only doctors seemed to collect.

I had just picked a seat when my name was called. Standing up, I greeted the counselor with a handshake. He was an older man dressed in civilian clothes. I wondered if he was a veteran and where and when he had served. He didn't look old enough to have seen combat in Vietnam. Maybe he had seen action in the first Gulf War. He took me back toward his office, down a narrow corridor of mahogany-colored doors.

"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Matthews," the counselor said, leading me to a chair beside his desk. "I'm Samuel Claymont. I work with combat veterans who've suffered injuries."

I sat down. "That's me."

"How have you been sleeping?"

The question took me off guard. I had been ready to talk about benefits, not about my mental health. "Not great."

"Have you seen a counselor?"

"I'm seeing you," I answered.

He looked up, unamused. "We have a real problem with suicide, especially among our returning combat veterans."

"Shit," I said before I could stop myself. "I'm not thinking about killing myself."

"It's not uncommon."

"Okay." I wasn't sure where this was going or what he wanted from me.

"You don't have to be embarrassed if you're having trouble reintegrating."

"Look." I leaned forward, anxious to put this particular conversation to bed. "I'm not one hundred percent functional. I sleep in my boots. But I'm not thinking of killing myself, and I'm here for my benefits, not a psych evaluation."

The counselor made a note of that and moved on. "We have determined that you are eligible for these benefits." He handed me a printout.

I scanned the sheet and saw that my package included health insurance, financial assistance with purchasing a home, and free tuition to any participating college or university. It wasn't everything I had hoped for. I wanted some actual cash that I could put in my pocket or into my bank account to save up for an eventual escape from Singer's Ridge.

"I am also pleased to tell you that you've been awarded a distinguished service medal." He pulled out a pleather case from his desk drawer and handed it over.

It was about the size of a cell phone, its sides clipped together by metal clasps. I pulled it open to find a dollar-sized coin with an eagle flapping its wings attached to a red, white, and blue ribbon. It was the government's way of saying "thank you for taking a bullet for us." It didn't seem like much, and yet, within military circles, it meant something. I considered pulling it out and pinning it to my breast to show the world and my father that I was a true soldier. That notion died a quick death, and I snapped the box shut. No one would care. They didn't care that I was injured, and they wouldn't care that I had been honored for it. The Army didn't care enough to set me up with a pension. I had only been in the service for eight years, not the twenty required for cash benefits, never mind that my tour of duty had been cut short.

I took my medal and my printout of benefits that I might never use and walked back outside. I texted my dad from the front steps, sitting down to wait. Opening the box again, I revisited that day. I was lucky to be alive, and that was worth more than distinguished honor. I was well aware that they awarded a lot of these medals posthumously. I considered myself grateful to hold it in my hand.

Another soldier passed me on his way in. "What'd you get?"

I looked up at him, squinting in the sunlight. "Distinguished service medal."

"Congrats."

"Thanks."

"Where'd you serve?" He sat down as if we were old friends.

"Afghanistan. Kandahar."

"Iraq." He offered me a hand and I shook it.

We talked for a moment until my dad pulled up and I had to go. It was funny. It seemed like I'd be eager to talk to people who knew where I was coming from. This soldier had seen similar things, witnessed similar horrors, and yet I didn't feel comfortable around him. There was a posturing involved in military relationships, at least for me. No matter how much shit I saw, no matter how many people I rescued or enemies I killed, I felt like I didn't belong. Other people were putting their lives on the line, but me? I was just along for the ride.

I felt like the same little kid trying to run away from home, never good enough, always searching for what he wanted to be. With my friends back in Singer's Ridge, with Porter and Danny, and especially Aly, I didn't feel that way. Conversation came naturally. They didn't see me as Lincoln the soldier. They saw me as Lincoln the person.

I couldn't wait to get home and put this whole trip to the VA behind me. "What did you do while I was in there?" I asked my dad as he powered up the truck and moved away from the curb.

"I stopped in to talk to the bank," he answered.

"Oh." I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." He swung right, maneuvering through the city on his way to the highway on-ramp. "Just wanted to check on the loan."

"For the business?"

"Yeah."

Silence fell, and I wondered if I should bring up the medal.

Dad beat me to it. "How'd the meeting go?"

"Okay." I shrugged. "I didn't qualify for as many benefits as I hoped."

"What did they offer?"

"Tuition assistance. Free college at a state university. Health insurance."

"That's not terrible."

I exhaled, settling back in my seat. "I was hoping for some cash."

Dad grinned. "Aren't we all?"

"Yeah, but…" I trailed off. I wanted to explain how dangerous my job had been, how many friends and colleagues hadn't made it back home. There should be some compensation for that kind of work beyond a handshake and a medal.

Dad seemed to understand where I was going. "We should write to our congressman."

I let the matter drop. Staring out the window, I watched as the trees flew by. We were on the interstate, just a few minutes from home. It was only noon, so I asked him to drop me off at work. I didn't want to just hang around Mrs. Washington's basement watching television. I did enough of that at night.

Dad obliged, pulling into the lumberyard during my usual lunchbreak. I hadn't packed anything but didn't want to bother anyone with that technicality. I figured I would just work through lunch and eat when I got home. I stuffed my medal into my back pocket along with my phone and left the printout in Dad's truck.