Page 95 of Crashing Waves

He nodded. “It takes a real man to admit his shortcomings,” he’d said.

I wondered momentarily if he’d ever admit his, but I wasn’t going to push my luck by asking.

Later, just as we were leaving, he laid his hand over my shoulder and said, “They’re beautiful, Maxwell. You’re very lucky to be so blessed.”

“Thank you,” I replied, suddenly verklempt because right there, in his eyes, was that look I’d always wanted, always craved.

My father, in this moment, for whatever it was worth, was proud of me.Me!

Oh God, I wanted to cry, scream, dance down the street, sing from the rooftops. I wanted to do everything all at once and then collapse from the relief it brought.

“What does the future hold for you now?”

I shrugged, looking out the door as Laura piled the girls into the car. “Well, this year, I’m going to find a job. That’s number one.”

I’d been living off my pension since being discharged, and combined with Laura’s salary, it was enough to scrape by, but if we wanted anything more out of life—a bigger house, nicer things, family vacations—we needed more money.

“Very good,” Dad replied approvingly. “Any thoughts about more children?”

“We haven’t really talked about it much,” I told him honestly. “We’ve spent the last year settling into being together, the four of us, so having another baby hasn’t really been at the top of the priority list.”

He grunted, nodding curtly. “Understandable. And anyway, there’s still time for that. But—and I say this as your father”—he stepped in closer to my ear, his hand still on my shoulder—"youdowant to think about it. Have that conversation with your wife. You will regret it if you don’t. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life raising another man’s children. They’ll never be truly yours. No … you need to have your own. Trust me on that.”

***

Soon after Christmas, I found a job as a night watchman at a cemetery just outside of Salem. Laura had thought I was insane for taking the position, and she wasn’t sure it would do our relationship any good to be on completely opposite schedules. But I took it anyway. The pay was good, and the lack of interaction with the outside world was even better.

And it wasn’t that I was incapable of socializing; I just didn’t like to. I was better in solitude, focusing only on my family. It left little room for criticism; it left little room to be triggered and sent back to Afghanistan. On my own, in my house, I could control my environment, but in the outside world, there was little I could do about the things other people did or said.

So, the cemetery made the most sense. It was me, an office, and the dead. The only other living soul on the grounds at night was Ivan, a guy who looked about as strange and unusual as you’d expect a gravedigger to be, and during the time I was there, he was sleeping in the cottage he lived in, on a hill in the middle of the graveyard.

I quickly learned that I liked the job.

It was more of a visual job, less of one that relied on my hearing. I sat in my little shack of an office, watched the cameras, and waited for something to happen, but most of the time, it was dead—pun intended. So, I drank my coffee and read my books. Just before the sun began to rise, Ivan unlocked the gate for the day, and I was free to get into my truck and watch the sun rise through the windshield as I drove home to my wife and daughters.

I was honestly, truly, unabashedly happy.

I couldn’t remember a time when I could say that and know that I was being sincere with myself. But I was. I liked my job, I liked my house, but most of all, Ilovedmy wife and the quiet she brought to my otherwise very loud and dangerous mind. She brought me peace, she brought me love, and I figured, as long as she was in my life, everything was good—Iwas good—and there was no reason to believe I’d ever not be.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Three years into our marriage, Laura asked if I’d thought about having a baby. She pointed out that I was thirty-five, she was thirty-four, and that her reproductive clock was ticking—loudly. She was worried that the longer we waited, the harder it would be to get pregnant—given her advanced maternal age and all.

Her words, not mine.

She wasn’t the only one who’d mentioned it either. Dad had brought it up numerous times throughout the years, much like that first time on Christmas. My sisters, who had been busy building their own families, were also regularly dropping hints that a little Max or Maxine would be a great addition to my pack of four. I had dodged every comment, every hint, but when Laura brought it up, it was hard to ignore.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, stretching her arm out across my chest and resting her head against my shoulder.

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly, curling an arm around her waist and staring toward the ceiling.

I had only just gotten home from work about fifteen minutes ago, and I was exhausted. It was never the best time to have a serious conversation, but there were very few times throughout the day when we were able to talk like this—alone.

“What don’t you know about?” she asked, snuggling into my side and wrapping her leg around one of mine.

In the years we’d been together, I always made it a point to be honest with Laura. But approaching this topic suddenly felt like walking on a frozen lake. Saying the wrong thing might cause the surface to crack and shatter, leaving me drowning in frigid waters.

“I mean,” I answered hesitantly, “we’re good, right? So … why unsettle the balance? We have the girls already. We—"

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