Penny opened the door of her Uncle Jorge’s home and walked in. She heard the croaking of the tree frogs from the living room, and she smelled the fresh scent of an automated air freshener in the electrical outlet wafting through the room. The television was on; a true-crime show presented the case of the dressmaker’s children, who apparently liked knives. Uncle Jorge watched TV all the time, and he enjoyed a good mystery.
After saying hello, she put her handbag on the kitchen counter and made herself a cup of camomille herb tea. The kitchen itself was spotless, maintained by a maid who came in twice a week. The cups in the cupboard had interesting catchphrases such as ‘Of course I talk to myself, sometimes I need advice’ and a cup shaped like a prescription bottle with the prescription reading ‘coffee.’ Uncle Jorge’s Persian cat jumped onto the counter and rubbed against her arm, meowing loudly. Penny patted the cat while her water boiled. The atmosphere reminded her of her father; their home had been a lot like this before he died in the helicopter training accident off Camp Pendleton near San Diego. The pain of that memory still smoldered; her mother had never gotten over it. She committed suicide a year later.
Tough things happened to a lot of people, not just her, she reminded herself. People who made a difference got over it and carried on.
When she joined her uncle on the couch next to his wheelchair, she put her hand on his arm, which he petted while smiling. He was slightly bald with gray hair at his temples. “How did your date go,” he asked.
“Pretty good,” she said. “He’s an attractive man and an Iran veteran like me.” She took a sip of her tea. “He was in the Robotics division: 273rd RAS.”
Jorge turned to her. “The Terminator Division. That was a nasty business before they pulled those machines out. They killed a lot of civilians as I remember; too many civilians for some people.”
“True. It sounds like he has some PTSD about it.” Penny wished he would mute the TV.
As if he read her mind, he turned the volume down. “I know the Army and Navy needed those killing machines to win the war, but I’m with the people who are against them. It makes warfare too impersonal. To me, it’s like using cluster bombs.”
“If they do the job,” Penny said. “War is about killing. They sure didn’t have any problem killing our guys.”
They sat in tense silence for a moment, then Penny said, “I know it sounds weird, but I find that one of Tim’s most attractive features is his PTSD.”
Jorge’s look froze on his face like dry frost on a window. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It so hard for me not to want to fix people Uncle. And it’s even harder for me to actually fix them.” Penny’s frustration welled up in her as if she would never be rid of it. “I’m only really comfortable when people around me are happy.”
“That’s not always going to be the case, especially if you date veterans,” Uncle Jorge said. “Look at me. It was years after I came back from the Stan before I was even decent to people. A roadside bomb and then the hospital was there; no leg, no buddies, just pain and loss. He patted the bald spot on his head. “I remember that it took three therapists and risperidone to get me to the point where I could just be around people. If I had a girlfriend who was trying to psychoanalyze me, I probably would have broken her neck.”
“Not really?” Penny said.
“Well, maybe not bad, but I would have reacted, perhaps violently. People in pain don’t want to listen to someone talk about their pain.”
“He doesn’t seem near that bad,” Penny said.
“If your soldier is up and functioning okay, that’s pretty good. Just don’t push it. In fact, here’s a challenge for you: Try to get to know Tim without trying to fix him.”
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