JACK
In a blink of an eye,my first three weeks being back home have passed me by, and it already feels like I never left Milwaukee in the first place, like I wasn’t gone for those eighteen months.
Between my shift rotations, therapy sessions, spending time with my mom, hanging out with Emerson, catching up with Luke, and moving into my new place, the time has gotten away from me.
And waking up this morning, I feel a little lighter than I did yesterday.
A pattern that started up a few days ago—one I hope doesn’t go away.
Since my humbling breakdown in the parking lot at the station with the chief after my evenmorehumbling panic attack in the field, I’ve started therapy.
I’ve been going twice a week since the day I promised Chief Sanders I would call.
It’s been hell, to say the least, but I’m still alive—I honestly didn’t think I would make it through talking about Bennett, but now that I’ve started, it’s like I can’t stop.
My first session, we didn’t even talk about the night he died. To be honest, in the last six sessions, that hasn’t even come up. We’ve spent a lot of time talking about who Bennett was and the friendship we had. I didn’t realize how much I’ve avoided thinking about all the good, happy memories from the last thirty years because I’ve been too stuck on moving on.
And I didn’t flip the table when I heard the stupid fire/grief analogy—turns out, it makes more sense to me than any of the other shit Dr. Ramos has said about grief suppression, post-traumatic stress, and emotional avoidance and its ties to toxic masculinity.
“This is the last time I move these damn boxes,” Emerson says, coming up the stairs of our mom’s basement with a cardboard box of my things, setting it down on the hardwood floor.
“I second that,” Luke echos from where he’s waiting by the front door, ready to take the box to my truck.
“As far as I know, this is my last move for a very long time,” I tell them.
The property my mom’s neighbor was looking to sell ended up being a deal I couldn’t pass up. Having money saved up from living with Bennett the last couple of years, I put in an offer Mr. Lenard couldn’t say no to.
“Where’s this place again?” Emerson asks, pushing the box with her foot toward me.
“About ten minutes from here. Down the street from the station,” I answer, picking up the box and walking it over to Luke.
“That’s not too far from me,” Luke says as I hand him the box. “Your apartment with Ben was so much further, so I didn’t get to see you guys that often.” He looks over my shoulder to Emerson. “Any more boxes?” he asks her, and the way he goesfrom talking about his brother to something else so naturally hits me right in the chest.
While my therapy sessions have allowed me to think of Bennett without feeling the need to bang my head against the wall to stop my thoughts from spiraling so tightly that I can’t see straight, I’m still caught off-guard by how casually Luke can bring him up in conversation.
Aside from my therapist, I still can’t bring myself to talk about Bennett with anyone.
“That was the last one,” she answers, wiping her tattooed forearm across her forehead, her cheeks pink from going up and down the stairs with all the boxes. Luke gives her a nod, heading out to my truck.
My sister looks at me. “I gotta admit, I’m surprised you're putting down roots.”
“Thought I’d take off again?” I’ve thought a lot about our conversation at the dinner table my first day back, and it’s one of the many things my therapist likes to revisit at our sessions, in between talking about Bennett or strategies to handle the panic attacks that surface when I have to go into the field.
We haven’t been called to many fires over the last three weeks, and the ones we have were controlled with no danger to anyone in the vicinity.
I’ve yet to freeze up like I did that night of the barn fire, and Chief Sanders put me on exposure protection—protecting nearby buildings from catching fire by cooling them with water—which allows me some distance when we get called to fires.
“So you admit that you ran when you went to Grandpa’s cabin?” Her hair is pulled back in a bandana aside from her bangs, all her tattoos on her arms, neck, and chest on display in her black tank top. “I never thought I’d hear you own up to it.”
I shrug. “I admit that I needed space to process it all, but I can also admit that I didn’t do much processing while I was up there.”
“And what about now? You’re processing?” she asks. Even though she’s my younger sister, Emerson has always been a caretaker by nature. Having had to help me take care of my mom throughout the cancer and remissions, she’s learned how to care for others from a young age.
“I’m doing my best.” It’s the only answer I’m capable of giving right now, and it’s a better one than saying “I’m fine”. Even though there’s a long road ahead of me when it comes to working through my grief and my own PTSD from how Bennett died, I feel like Iamdoing my best. I’m not hiding from the emotions or trying to push them down.
Granted, staying busy helps, along with the early morning workouts and long work days that help me sleep through the night.
Emerson nods. “So the therapy seems to be working?” She rolls her lips together as she fights a knowing smirk—one that hasI told you sowritten all over it.
