It is the last night, before the loong flight to Argentina with Dad, to see the Falklands again after 30 plus years, and meet the man who almost killed him.

But I’m not thinking about that. I’m not thinking about whether or not Jon will come in here in the shower and kiss my neck, either. 

I’m thinking about how my mom is doing right now and if she is able to cope when Michael has a meltdown and screams for half the evening. 

Yes, we’re in a motel, again. I won’t tell you which, but it’s close enough to Yuma. 

Jonathan and I are supposed to be “intimate,” as the family counselor so eloquently put it. 

But intimacy has long since become just another casualty of being a special needs family—just like your private life, career, job, friends, and hope in general. 

All you have left is that … white flame inside you, burning you through times when you feel you can’t ever get up again and move on, because there’s nothing left and you don’t get any decent rest—ever. 

Yeah, you may get some sleep-through nights here and then, but then it’s crappy eating the day after. 

Nor clean pants either, at least not every day. 

And so on.

And sooner or later, it’s like your body starts to shut down by itself, and you have to will yourself to keep going when the white flame is not there. 

So, I’m here in the shower in our motel trying to concentrate on having a private—quiet—night with my husband, like we try once every month or so since my mom started flying in from L.A. to help with the children. 

But even though she’s done her best to learn how to deal with Michael and his autism, one evening is more than enough for her. 

I should not be thinking at all. I should just be … 

And when I am thinking about something other than my son then it is about my Dad and tomorrow’s flight and how it’s going to be. 

Hey, it’ll be the first real daughter-father activity we’ve done since I was out picking him up from ditches after his pub binges when I was 14.

I turn off the shower water and listen. I think Jon is watching television in the other room. My Dad used to watch a lot of telly after he came home from the war… 

I have to take this trip—7 days and 7,000 miles—with Dad. He has helped me a lot in the last few years wiring money from overseas and so on. 

Of course, it’s easier for me now to reciprocate, to say yes to help him. Back when I was a teenager and he had said he needed my help, I wouldn’t have believed him. 

Why do we abuse ourselves—we have so many reasons, right? We think they are good reasons. Something happened to us, something bad. So, we are ‘allowed’ to hurt ourselves.

Problem is, we hurt others through that choice as well.

I figured it out when I had children, why couldn’t Dad?

I was three years old when he came home from war. We lived in the middle of nowhere in Scotland. My mom was from the U.S. and never finished her education. We needed him.

My step-brother needed my dad because his mother was, well, not good, and he came to live with us many times, and Dad wouldn’t do anything for him either. 

So here I am, at 37, trying to switch gears in my brain to use a handful of hours for the best: Don’t think about my dad. Don’t think about Michael. 

And what do I end up with instead? Ten minutes of rumination about if I should use the bloody motel soap now or put it in my bag and take it home to save money. 

Mom offered to pay for this motel, a charity from her, and Jonathan’s pride definitely wouldn’t let him accept it. He has to take it out of his salary, which goes to almost everything, because my work is Michael. 

I dry myself, wrap the towel around me and then flump down on the big, wobbly bed beside my husband, who is still fully clothed. 

At least Jon is able to relax, even if it is not the romantic night we hoped for. It seldom is.

But there you have it: We watch television and hold hands, which is really silly because we’re watching another one of those stupid debates. 

After a while, it becomes awkward—to hold hands—while watching Hillary trash Donald in the debate. As if he ever had a chance … 

So we switch to a movie. 

But no, I don’t do anything. Jon doesn’t do anything. We just sit, and listen to the TV and the cars outside and the silence in the room. 

We’re relaxing. Right?

At least there is that.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jon then says.

“Yeah?”

“What if Michael is traumatized in some way? Remember when I found out doctor Larssen had been in the 7th, too—in Iraq? He told me autistic children can have hidden PTSD because they are so sensitive.”

“Because of something … we did to him?”

Jon shrugs. “Because of the world. Michael is sensory overloaded all the time, because he can’t filter out anything—noises, lights, touch. It must be like being at war with the world around him.”

I let my head rest on his shoulder now. “So the whole world is the enemy, huh? Not just something specific? Like the other candidate?”

“Something like that,” Jon sighs. “By the way  … Wanna make out?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I say. And I mean it. 

 “Well, I shouldn’t have asked, ” he says.

And I have to change the subject, of course … “What’s this movie we’re watching …? I know that actress—Halle Berry, right?”

“Don’t know,” Jon weaves his fingers more tightly between mine. “But it’s about some guy who gets killed and then his childhood friend, who’s a heroin addict, moves in with his widow.”

“Does it have a happy ending?”

“We could keep watching and find out.”

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CARRIE & JON, September 26, 2016

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End of the story-in-stories “Pieces of Peace” – part IV

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Cover Photo by Rachael Crowe on Unsplash

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75B-140924

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Song: Bastille – “Things We Lost in the Fire”

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