Page 39 of Sol
While my breathing had returned to normal from our run, his stayed elevated, and his facewhitened.
Suddenly Euro-police sirens went off, seemingly all around us. Eee-oh, eee-oh, sounding like Minions. Two passed by, the Doppler effect of the sound getting louder and thenfading.
I watched them go. There must have been anaccident.
The blades of a helicopter cut through the night, hovering over us and then going off into thedistance.
Under a streetlight, I glanced over at Trent, who’d gone so pale I thought he’d faint. His legs shook and his handstrembled.
What on earth was goingon?
“Are you okay?” Iasked.
“I’m fine,” he saidcurtly.
He wasn’t. “Do you need to sitdown?”
“No. I just need a minute.” He leaned over and put his hands on hisknees.
“You’re not okay. Maybe that run was too much. Come with me. Let’s sit.” I guided him to the alcove of a building with a little step. He grasped the wall behind him for support, then sank to the ground, sitting against the building, his knees up, his head between them, breathinghard.
“Do I need to call anambulance?”
“No. I’m fine,” he said to the ground, his muscles clenched everywhere. He held his hand over his face, slicking back his hairrepeatedly.
“You don’t lookfine.”
“It’s nothing, Dani,” he snapped. “It’s just in myhead.”
Then it dawned onme.
He’d seen my brotherdie.
That sobbing lump that I thought I got out of my system came welling up. My heart seized in mychest.
What else had he seen inAfghanistan?
A flash of anger tore through me at his fallen appearance. He had post-traumaticstress.
I’d spent years of my life helping people in other countries. But here was one of my own compatriots, and look how we treated him? What had he gone through? And why did we as a society do this to our young men andwomen?
I guess at some point, it didn’t matter why. We, as a society, had sent him to a war zone, and he bore the scars. As Audrey Hepburn said, “I don’t believe in collective guilt, but I do believe in collectiveresponsibility.”
I was responsible for helping make Trent wellagain.
This poor, broken man. This brave, bravesoul.
“Trent,” I said quietly, getting down next to him. I put my hand on his shoulder, and his skin twitched. “Look at me. It’s okay. You’re in Granada with me. You’re safe. Nothing is going to happen to youhere.”
He shook his head. “Goddamn it. I wish…I wish I didn’t dothis.”
How often did he suffer likethis?
“It’s okay. I’m here with you. Take a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth, like the yogis do. Let your lungs fill up. Let your belly get bigger. Then let it out. We’re gonna go slow. Get your breathing undercontrol.”
He closed his eyes and did what I said. I reached over and held his hand. His long, slim hand, covered with healthy veins, clutched my fingers firmly. Pedestrians passed by us, but I ignored them. I only focused onhim.
Breathing in and out. Breathing in and out. All the while, I was thinking if I shut him out, I shut out my brother, too. I didn’t want to do that. As painful as it was, I loved my brother. And I was sure Trent loved himalso.
