This Is War, Baby - K Webster Page 0,71

like a lovely lady. You speak fondly of her.”

His grip around my waist tightens and his voice becomes hoarse as if he might cry. “She got pregnant, my Paula. At forty-four years of age. It was a miracle and a blessing.”

I smile at his words.

But then he goes on to tell a horrifying story that roils my breakfast in my belly. A story that paints a vivid image of how War became the man he is today. The story of the loss of his pregnant wife causes Land to choke on his emotion.

A huge wave crashes toward us and if Land hadn’t have gripped on to me at the right time, it would have knocked me over. My dress, now wet, clings to my thighs and I shiver.

“Come on,” Land says gruffly and guides me out of the water and onto the warm sand. Together we sit and stretch our legs in the sun.

“What did you have?” I shouldn’t ask but I’m curious.

He swallows and doesn’t speak for a few moments. “A little girl. Constance was her name.”

Was.

Tears brim in my eyes and I drop my gaze to my toes that are dusted with white sand and still dripping with ocean water.

A tear rolls out and I sniffle. He seems to sense my sadness for him and his wife because he pulls me against him again in a side hug. I like Land and am grateful for his presence.

“Poor War. My boy, my sweet boy.”

His words are hollow and sad as he replays scenes so horrific involving War that I’m not sure I’ll ever get them out of my brain. I try to quiet my sobs after hearing the details but they won’t quit.

“After…after we lost them,” he chokes out finally, the worst part of his words over, and I reach for his hand to grip it. “I lost War too. Not like I’d lost them but he’d become a shell of himself. And then, he turned into this person I was unsure how to help.”

Something tells me he doesn’t tell this story often—if at all. We both grow silent aside from our sniffling.

“Why couldn’t the doctors help him?” My question is almost a whisper getting lost in the wind. I shiver and he hugs me tighter, rubbing his arm up and down my bicep that’s covered in goosebumps.

“They tried. Believe me, they tried. But my son,” he says with a teary chuckle, “is a stubborn one.”

A smile plays at my lips. That he is. “I’m familiar,” I tease.

“He spent five weeks in the psych ward after the accident, his obsessions grew and grew despite the constant psychiatric evaluations and therapies. The psychiatrist explained to me that he had PTSD, anxiety, depression, and OCD issues among other new problems including a delusional disorder. He seemed miserable there, so finally, I took him home where we struggled for months trying to learn how to cope. Together. Eventually, when his obsessiveness over blood and germs became too much, I’d asked if he’d feel more comfortable in his own place. A place where he could control the environment. I’d bought him this house in an effort to make him feel close to his mother and to give himself space. As time went on, I became angry at him for his behavior—as if he had some way to change it. We fought but eventually I decided having my son was more important than trying to make him heal when he wasn’t ready.”

I turn my head over my shoulder and look back up at the house. A dark shadow stands at the window.

War.

That poor, beautiful, tortured soul.

“What about his girlfriend?”

He groans. “Lilah? She only made things worse. Out of desperation for him to return to his normal self and either reconnect or break up with her, I’d invited her over while he was staying with me. I’d already learned to respect his no touching rules, but she’d barged in and had thrown herself at him. What she didn’t know or understand was that War was no longer the boy she knew. When he pushed her away and roared at her to not touch him, she burst into tears and spewed nasty words at him that don’t need repeating. Needless to say, I ended up dragging her out of my home and that was the last we’d seen of her. War tells me she’s married now with three kids.”

Turning back to look at the ocean, I sigh. “I feel so bad for him. For you. I’m