Trauma

CHAPTER 8

The town of Hopkinton, Massachusetts, was known — if at all — as the official starting place of the Boston Marathon, but to Carrie it was simply home. The four-bedroom Victorian house where she grew up, with its many gabled windows, wraparound porch, and verdant gardens, was still lovingly maintained by Carrie’s parents, Howard and Irene, who were now in their sixties and showed no signs of slowing down. Howard Bryant continued to work at Mass General Hospital, and Irene had gone back to school to become a speech pathologist, which had led to her current job at a nearby nursing facility.

Carrie’s visits were limited mostly to holidays, an occasional birthday dinner, and of course Marathon weekend, which had turned into a homecoming of sorts for many of her childhood friends. Aside from Facebook, Carrie did not see these buddies on a regular basis, though when they did get together the night always ended with a promise to do it more often.

Carrie drove her beat-up Subaru down the long driveway. In a few more weeks the tiger lilies would start to sprout and the rest of her mother’s gardens would come alive, but right now the desolate landscape was brown and barren in a way that matched Carrie’s mood. She parked in front of the basketball hoop, next to her mother’s Volvo, in the pullout to the right of the detached two-car garage, mindful not to block her father in.

She stepped out into a chilly afternoon. Spring might have officially arrived, but winter did not seem ready to let go its icy grasp. One of the garage doors was open, and Led Zeppelin blasted from within the darkness. Adam must be in there working on his car, as always; the music was probably coming from the boom box she’d bought to welcome him home.

Adam, who’d aced AP biology and gravitated toward STEM subjects, was expected to extend the streak of Bryant doctors that included two of Carrie’s grandparents, but to everyone’s surprise he’d enlisted in the army right after high school. Adam’s commitment to the military had ended years ago, but in his mind, the war raged on.

Wearing jeans and a fleece jacket over a blue V-neck sweater from Macy’s, Carrie wandered into the doorway of the garage, feeling strange not to be dressed in scrubs or sweats. Her brother was bent over the Camaro’s open hood, which looked like it was swallowing him. He wiped engine grime from his hands on his already soiled jeans, and only when Carrie cleared her throat did he pull his head out to look her way.

Adam’s face lit up. “Hey, sweetie!” He approached with his arms open wide. “What brings you out here?” Before they hugged, Adam realized he was covered in filth, so he opted for a quick peck on her cheek. “It’s good to see you.”

Carrie looked at her brother’s drawn face and hollow cheeks and tried not to let her worry show. The old Adam was in there somewhere. If she closed her eyes, Carrie could still picture the handsome, sharp-eyed boy she’d looked out for back in high school. He still had his wry smile, but the glint in his eyes and that playful cocky attitude were gone.

Adam had cut his hair short again, a throwback to his army days, and had a whisper of a mustache that was new as well. Carrie did not love the look, but Adam was doing a lot of experimenting, perhaps searching for an outside transformation to make him feel whole inside. The rest of him looked the same. He had a narrow, lean build coupled with a muscular chest, arms, and legs. His pallid complexion called attention to his dark and sunken eyes, reminding Carrie of the drug addicts she used to operate on at BCH.

Used to.

How could it be over? The thought of never operating again stretched a band around her chest so tight Carrie thought she might stop breathing. She was utterly lost, completely bewildered, and had never been closer to understanding how Adam must feel.

“Mom and Dad didn’t tell me you were coming,” Adam said.

The garage looked exactly as Carrie had expected, a tale of two personalities. Dad’s side, with his beloved BMW 325i, was neat and ordered, just like Howard Bryant. Freestanding shelves kept clutter to a minimum; beloved tools were carefully organized on several wood pegboards. Adam’s side was like a teenager’s bedroom. Tools were scattered everywhere, and the workbench and shelves were covered in oily rags, greasy papers, and indiscriminate mounds of car parts.

“Mom and Dad don’t know I’m coming,” Carrie said.

Adam gave Carrie a conspiratorial look. “Everything all right?”

Carrie nodded her head vigorously and tightened her lips. “Yeah, it’s fine.” Change the subject. Prevent the waterworks. “Hey, the car is looking really good.”

Adam’s answer was to stand a little taller. His mouth crested upward as he turned to face the Camaro. He set his hands on his hips and paused to relish his accomplishment. “It’s coming along, huh?”

The Camaro had shown up six weeks after Adam left his warrior transition unit, WTC in military parlance, without any definitive cure. He reentered civilian life directionless, with empty, fidgety hands. Fixing up a car that reminded him of his carefree high school days seemed like a good idea, though their parents were not as certain when they saw the mound of scrap towed to their garage. The car sat untouched for a long while, until one day when Adam’s inspiration inexplicably kicked in. Now that the body was fixed up and a fresh coat of red paint had been applied, it looked truly special. If only Adam could be fixed up with some elbow grease and determination.

The WTC had begun as an army unit, but a deluge of wounded warriors from two wars had necessitated a rapid expansion. War recovery had become a major cost for the military’s budget, and now close to forty of these transition units were fanned out across the country, helping soldiers to heal. Still, they couldn’t guarantee Adam would leave his program with a cure. Four years and four different therapists later, Adam had his Camaro and not much else.

“Want to hear it purr?” Adam asked.

Carrie gave Adam two wiggly thumbs up. Anything for her beloved brother. Adam got settled behind the wheel and caressed the dash as if it were a stallion he needed to calm before mounting. He put the key in the ignition and gave it a turn. The engine sputtered, but then it just started to click. A series of loud clicks like the countdown of a bomb.

Click-click-click …

He turned the key again.

Click-click-click …

Adam’s forehead wrinkled in a scowl. Darkness radiated from him as he slammed his fists against the steering wheel and yelled, “FUCK!” so loud Carrie flinched. His inner storm flared and he continued to pound the car with his fists — the seat, the steering wheel, the dashboard. Adam flung open the car door and stumbled out with a look of madness. His face was red with rage.

Adam scrounged on the ground and came up holding a large, rusty wrench.

“No, Adam! No!”

There was no stopping him. Adam brought the wrench down on the side mirror, snapping it clean off with a single strike and sending it to the concrete floor with a clatter. Next he went after the passenger window, shattering it before falling to his knees, breathing hard, spent from his tirade.

Carrie knelt beside him, blanketing him in her arms. She rocked him as he wept, his body shaking.

“I’m sorry, I just — lost it. I’m sorry, Carrie — I don’t know why I got so angry. I … I just snapped.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Adam,” Carrie said. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything you’re going through.”

Carrie held her brother while he wept. She did not see or hear her father enter the garage, but when she turned he was there.

For his age, Howard Bryant was exceedingly thin, almost rubbery, with long arms and legs that Carrie was fortunate to have inherited. He wore khakis and his trademark plaid shirt with a sweater vest. Just the sight of him filled Carrie with relief.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Howard said from the entrance to the garage. His voice came out raspy, a little aged, but it was soothing in a way only a daddy could speak to a daughter. Carrie held on to Adam; she was not ready to let go, and he still needed her. Howard looked worried, but unsurprised.

“Come on in the house when you’re ready,” Howard said. “Your mother’s made soup. I’ll heat you up a bowl.”