◊
We were sitting in the cafeteria of a VA hospital. My dad needed psychiatric care. He suffered from Post Traumatic Stress—his year in Vietnam. I hated being there.
I was twenty. I was trying to be his son. I desperately wanted a father. He heard helicopters on the horizon, always. He told me so. He wept when we were there.
I went with him every week. We ate lunch between his sessions — group therapy, one-on-one counseling, and a medication adjustment. He was always frazzled. He sat and silently stared.
Disabled veterans swarmed all around us: missing hands, phantom legs, a single face that was bleached pure white—horrible: chemical warfare. My father answered when I saw him.
This is how it happened:
My father was saying I should never support war. His eyes were so absent. Of course not, daddy. I could never support a war. I spouted this proudly. Then the bleach-faced man walked in.
He looked like a vampire: perfect white skin and clumpy bleached white hair. He had no lips, they were burned away. His eyelids were gone. He glanced at me with a wide whole eyeball stare. I was frozen. I stared. I couldn’t help it. He saw the shock on my face. I don’t know how to write this. His face seemed to cringe and start screaming:
Oh God! I’m so sorry. I know I’m a freak. I didn’t mean to scare you.
I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just… Oh please, please forgive me. I’m so fucking sorry. The man ran out. I starting sobbing. I sobbed pure guilt in my hands. I felt such bottomless despair.
My father rubbed the back of my head to console me. He said I should never support war. I believed him.
I will never. I promise. I swear, daddy. I swear.
I haven’t.
◊
