Consequence (32 page)

Mellina writes a story about suicide. It's about a suicide he witnessed. He writes about riding on a train and ignoring the inquiries of a patriotic old man. I write a ghost story about victims of war. In the story, there's a government bureau responsible for assigning these ghosts to the men who killed them. I call it the War Ghosts Bureau. My ghost is the mayor of Fallujah. He rides with me on the bus out of the Port Authority.

Mellina and I go out for beer. He asks whether I'm okay. I don't look well. I look sick. He says, “You sure, brother?”

I go home to Bethlehem. I'm not okay. I call an ambulance. It takes me to the local hospital. The local hospital calls the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. They tell them I don't look well. They tell them my ejection fraction is even lower than before. There are irregular heartbeats. They arrange for a transfer. In early 2012 a cardiologist in Philadelphia says, “Your time is just about up.”

13.3

By May 2012, I've become a regular participant in the NYU writing group. At the end of the spring semester, NYU organizes a reading at the Kennedy Center in Washington. Prior to the reading we're required to submit our material for editorial review. The Kennedy Center sends me an email:

Hi Eric,

First, thank you for sending your writing selection. I thought it was outstanding work. That said, I am wondering if there is a way to change the words “shit,” “fuck,” and “tits.” I have attached your piece with those words highlighted in yellow as a reference. We try to do everything we can to keep these Millennium Stage performances at the Kennedy Center appropriate for all ages, but it is not always possible. Just let me know your decision by Tuesday morning.

The short story I submitted was about a young man struggling to integrate memories of Iraq into his everyday life. He gets baptized, he opens body bags, and he and his friends get drunk and practice committing suicide. Mellina wrote a short story about a friend who does kill himself. Matt Gallagher, who wrote a memoir about Iraq, wrote a short story about a mother whose son has committed suicide. Roy Scranton, a PhD candidate at Princeton University, wrote about an Iraqi girl named Nazahah who sees terrible things. Perry O'Brien, a conscientious objector, wrote about training rabbits to fight an insurgency.

We all receive similar emails from the Kennedy Center asking that we eliminate language inappropriate for young families. At the workshop, we don't always write about war, but when we do, it is inappropriate for young families. We all agree not to eliminate inappropriate language.

I leave Bethlehem and make my way to New York's Penn Station to catch Amtrak's Northeast Regional into Washington. I find Roy Scranton and Perry O'Brien waiting in the passenger lounge. Mellina and Gallagher meet us on the train. We commandeer a booth in the dining car and tell jokes about saying “shit,” “fuck,” and “tits” at the Kennedy Center.

Amtrak passes through Princeton, not far from the theological seminary. I think about spending time in the library and ignoring homework for my Old Testament or modern Christian history class. Instead, I wrote stories about Iraq, using words like “shit,” “fuck,” and “tits.”

In the train, Gallagher reads the newspaper, where he comes across an article about Marines who took pictures of themselves urinating on dead Taliban. Mellina says, “We all have pictures of us in Iraq doing far worse things. We all have the dead-body photos. We all stood next to dead bodies and took a fucking picture.” I don't have a dead-body photo, but I do have a photo of me crouching next to the Palestinian chair.

Mellina wonders whether Amtrak serves beer this early. A man in the booth next to us tells him yes. Mellina goes for beer. When he comes back, O'Brien is talking about the drugs the VA has prescribed for him. He's on a beta blocker. It lowers his blood pressure when he gets nervous. We all understand.

Mellina starts talking about suicide. He says to me, “It's not like you haven't considered it, right?” He starts saying “fuck” a lot. Mellina is loud. As the profanity increases and the volume rises, he begins to catch the attention of other travelers. I watch as a woman in another booth turns around to look at us. She does this a lot, and she doesn't look happy. By now, she must know we've been to Iraq. She wants to say something like “Excuse me, would you gentlemen please refrain from cursing so much?” She doesn't do this. She just keeps turning around every time Mellina says “fuck.” She gets off the train in Baltimore.

We arrive at Union Station in Washington. I was here five years ago to meet with the team of lawyers on K Street. They escorted me to a federal building where I was grilled by the Department of Justice attorney and the duo from the Army's Criminal Investigation Command. I told them everything I had seen and done at Abu Ghraib and Fallujah. Today, Perry O'Brien and I share a cab and talk about the need to legalize marijuana.

The Kennedy Center puts us up at the Riverside Hotel. I settle in and walk to the Lincoln Memorial and on to the Vietnam Memorial. I visit World War II and Korea as well. I wonder what they'll do for Iraq. I wonder how contractors will be remembered. I wonder whether there will be something for Ferdinand.

There is a rehearsal at the Kennedy Center. We practice with the microphones in order to familiarize ourselves with the sound system. We line up in alphabetical order. I go first. I read my stories and say “shit,” “fuck,” and “tits.” Middle school students are on a field trip. Someone complains. The organizers scurry to the soundboard and shut off the microphones for the rest of the practice.

When it comes time for the performance, large white signs are placed out front that read, “Tonight's Millennium Stage performance contains strong language and mature themes.” As we wait backstage, Russian ballerinas pass through our green room. They'll be performing on the main stage tonight. We head outside to catch a glimpse of the gathering crowd. There are tuxedos and limousines and beautiful dresses. The ballet starts a half hour after our performance ends. The Kennedy Center suspects that many of the people attending the ballet will drift over to our performance. They tell us to expect a large crowd. There are seats for three hundred.

A Kennedy Center representative tracks us down and leads us to the stage. She says, “The crowd's a little thin tonight. Give it time.” Mellina counts the people in the seats.

We read stories about opening body bags. We read stories about suicide. We read stories about military burials. We read stories about Iraqi girls. We read stories about insurgency. In the background, the tuxedos and beautiful dresses make their way to the auditorium. A few glance at the sign about mature themes. The Russian ballet is well attended.

13.4

In October 2012, Dorothy Fair, my Presbyterian grandmother, dies. I'm asked to speak at the memorial service. I return to First Presbyterian Church for the last time. The kind, handsome pastor from my youth sits in the pew behind my family. I struggle at the lectern. I say that God works generationally and this gives me hope. I hope that someday Grandmother's character will rise again in her descendants. We will see her generosity, her humility, her kindness, and her innocence in our children. We will see it in their children. My son is the only child to carry the Fair family name. I look at him. I hope all of this is true.

13.5

In Bethlehem, Karin and I talk about the heart transplant waiting list. The social worker has warned us about the amount of stress we'll need to endure. She said, “Sometimes, it's too much for a marriage to handle.” Karin and I wonder whether stress has a saturation point. Can you reach a point where more stress doesn't matter? Or is it possible for things to get worse? Karin and I don't think things can get worse, but if they do, we agree, the marriage will come to an end. I don't have a job, and so I don't have my own medical benefits. I haven't worked consistently enough since leaving the police department to qualify for disability, and I only served five years in the Army, so the government owes me nothing. If Karin and I separate, I won't be able to afford the transplant and I'll die. If we stay together and I receive a transplant, the recovery may put too much strain on our marriage and we'll still be forced to separate. So I die in that scenario, too.

And somehow, we find this funny. And somehow, we take comfort in knowing things simply can't get worse. Things will still be terrible, but we've reached the bottom.

We spend weeks talking about the list. I tell Karin I don't want to die in a hospital.

13.6

In February 2013, Karin and I spend time in New York City with Matthew Mellina, and as always, he is funny, and we all feel better about how terrible things are. But on the way back to the Port Authority bus terminal, it becomes difficult for me to breathe. We are on Eighth Avenue, just south of Twenty-third Street; I see the entrance to the A, C, and E trains, but I'm afraid that if we go down the stairs I won't make it back up. I sit down on the sidewalk. Karin is with me and watches over me, and we find a way to laugh about dying on a street in New York. Mellina will have to come get my body. I eventually struggle to Port Authority and we ride the bus home to Bethlehem.

A few weeks later, Karin takes our son to her parents' house for the afternoon. I lie on the couch and feel what it's like to die. Every breath must be accounted for. Life is no longer automatic. I use the muscles in my chest and abdomen to force air in and out of my lungs. I can sleep for only minutes at a time, waking up and gasping for breath. And then there is a sensation; a desperate need to have someone in the room, a primeval cry to not be alone. I am dying, and I think only of Karin. I call her and beg her to come home. I tell her not to bring our son. She sits with me and rubs my back and we talk about saying good-bye.

The cardiologists said this would happen. They said I would begin to feel the end through a series of episodes. They prescribe powerful drugs to keep me on my feet, keep me alive long enough to have the transplant. A permanent intravenous line is stitched into my arm, allowing medicine to be pumped directly into my heart. I feel alive again, but the cardiologists warn me the improvement is only temporary.

13.7

In Bethlehem, I exchange emails with Seth Goren, the associate chaplain at Lehigh University. He's a rabbi and a single parent. He is gay.

Seth and I have coffee for the first time. He's read some of the articles I've written. He sits and listens while I talk about Abu Ghraib and how I struggled to reconcile the life of Jesus with a church that failed to speak out against war and all but encouraged me to go to Iraq. Seth asks, “Which voices from your church were telling you to go to Iraq? And why did you listen to them?” I tell him the voices were mostly my own. Seth tells me that maybe it is time I listen to someone who will give me better advice. We laugh about this, but both agree that we need a voice of accountability in our lives.

Seth and I meet weekly. We become close friends. We sit at his dining room table and practice Hevruta, a traditional Jewish text-based study done with a partner. We speak softly until his daughter falls asleep, then spend hours sharing ideas and telling each other our stories.

Seth and I discuss forgiveness. Christianity taught me that my own forgiveness could only be achieved through the crucifixion, and that nothing I do on this earth can substitute for the death of Jesus on the cross. People like Don Hackett certainly encouraged me to think about the process of reconciliation, and to seek the forgiveness of those I'd wronged, but true forgiveness was a gift from God, not something to be earned. The memories of Iraq make believing that impossible. I need to earn my way back. I need to pay a price. Seth says, “Yes, this is what's so strange about you guys. How can you not owe anything? Why would you want it to be so simple?”

Seth and I study Maimonides, taking turns to read aloud and share our thoughts. Seth chose Maimonides because he lays out one of the most extensive processes in the Jewish tradition for atonement. Maimonides says the transgressor is required to engage with the aggrieved persons, actively seek their forgiveness, and make restitution for harms done. God has a role to play, but largely for sins against God. The emphasis is on human-to-human interaction. The remedies are often described as lifelong pursuits. When it's my turn, I read the next passage.

For example, a person is not forgiven until he pays back his fellow man what he owes him and appeases him. He must placate him and approach him again and again until he is forgiven.

I say, “I'm pretty sure I won't live that long.”

Seth says, “That doesn't mean you're not obligated to try.”

13.8

In May 2013, I find myself standing behind a Bethlehem police officer at Starbucks. He recognizes me. It's been eleven years. He says I look thin. I say, “Heart failure.” He says they all thought that was bullshit. They assumed I left the department to go work for the CIA. They heard about the Iraq stuff. No way you do that with heart failure. But now I look sick. Now he believes me.

He asks about the articles I've written for the Bethlehem
Morning Call.
He wants to know when the next one will appear. He says a few of the officers look forward to my articles down at the department. I say I know my opinions aren't too popular with most of the guys. He says, “You'd be surprised. Keep writing.”

13.9

In June 2013, I am flown by helicopter to the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. We fly above the Pennsylvania Turnpike. I think of December 2003 and my father driving me to the airport in Philadelphia for my first deployment to Iraq. I still remember telling him it was a bad idea, and I still remember him opening the car door and telling me to get back in. And I still wish I had.

In the hospital, I interrupt Todd, another heart failure patient. He's reading the Bible. I apologize and offer to come back later. He says, “No, no, just reading Psalm Twenty-three. One of my favorites. It calms me. It lets me know that God is in control.”