Brass & Unity, page 21
She is about two inches taller than me, forcing me to look up to meet her gaze. “Hi! I’m Kelsi. My husband Brady and I live in that house over there.” I smile as I point to our home.
“Oh, you’re the one with veteran plates on your car?”
“Yep!”
“Well, my husband and children are Muslim. Does that mean you’re going to kill them?”
Those words knock the wind out of me more than a kick in the stomach would. My smile folds into a grim line, and in my stunned state I manage to mutter, “I don’t kill children.” Almost robotically, my feet move away from the house, and I barely notice my neighbors Tina and Shelley as they pass me.
“Hi, Kelsi!”
I don’t even look up.
“Hey, Kelsi?” Tina gently holds on to my arm. “What’s wrong?”
I stop, try to relax my shoulders, unclench my teeth, and I explain what just happened.
Tina looks at me, agape. “Seriously?”
I nod.
Shelley adjusts the purse strap on her shoulder. “What an awful thing for her to say to you.”
“Yeah, pretty terrible.”
Tina shakes her head and lets out a deep sigh. “You know that’s not what the majority of people think, right?”
“Whatever, I just need to cool down. I’m going to go home and bang on some bullet casings.”
“Hey,” Shelley says. “A few of us are meeting for drinks tonight. You should join us and see that not everyone in the cul-de-sac is awful.”
Somewhat reluctantly, I go to the party, knowing I can’t stare at another wall as a coping measure.
“Welcome, Kelsi!” I’m greeted by a smiling woman on the opposite side of the door.
“Thanks for the invite.” I hand her a bottle of wine.
“Oh, thank you! I’ll add this to the collection. Would you like a glass of red?”
“Yes, please.”
I scan the space until I spot Tina and Shelley, and they wave me over from across the room.
“Kelsi, this is…” Shelley starts naming people, and as I try to remember the faces, I feel hot and overwhelmed. I take a deep breath and feel very thankful for the therapist-approved marijuana I smoked before coming over here.
“Everyone, this is Kelsi.” Shelley picks up my wrist and shows off the bracelets I’m wearing. “Kelsi has started a fabulous company called Her Wearables. She’s planning to donate money to programs for veterans and first responders with PTSD.” She points to the crowd with her wide grin. “You all have to buy one.”
“Did you bring any with you?” asks Tina. She’s one of many RCMP officers who live in the “sac,” and I really hope she can’t smell the marijuana on me.
I nervously take a sip of wine, trying to contain my excitement. “No, but I can text Brady to bring some over if you want.”
“Please do.” She claps her hands.
“Okay!” I take out my phone and text Brady. They want to buy some of my pieces. Can you please bring some over?
“How did you get into making bracelets, anyway?” Tina reaches for my wrist to take a closer look.
“Well, my psychiatrist recommended that I try art therapy to help with my PTSD, and it really worked. It’s crazy how relaxing it is to put beads on string.”
“I love that idea.” Tina’s kind eyes hold my gaze for a moment. “If you ever need help with it, would you let me know? I could use some relaxation myself.”
“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks!”
A voice comes from behind. “Your work is beautiful!”
“Thank you!” I say as I turn around. The woman admiring my bracelet has dark brown eyes and hair and an accent I can’t quite place.
“My name is Asma.” She extends her hand.
I take her hand. “Kelsi.”
“Yes.” She smiles. “I know! I’d love to see more of your pieces, but I have to go now—baby at home.”
“Sure, come over anytime,” I say. My heart breaks a little bit at the thought of the baby we lost.
“Oh, if you came to me, that would be great. That way, my child won’t destroy your home.”
I laugh. I can already tell I’m going to like this woman.
“I can do that.”
“Can I put my number in your phone?”
“Yeah, here you go.” I pass my phone over to her, and she adds herself to my contacts.
“I’ll be home all day tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
Accent
You’re chatting with the enemy.
Can’t you picture her in a burka?
If she wore a headscarf, would you have spoken
to her?
Are you really letting down your guard?
Perhaps you need a reminder.
“Thanks so much for coming!” Asma says when I knock on her door. “You picked a great time to visit, because it’s nap time!”
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
“Can I get you a coffee or tea, juice?”
“I’m fine for now, but thanks.”
“All right, come on in, let’s sit in the living room.”
Asma leads me to a big leather couch, and we both sink into it.
“So, how do you like the neighborhood?” she asks while I pass her some pieces of jewelry.
“We really like it.”
“It’s a great place to raise a family.”
“Seems that way. Brady and I are trying for a baby.”
“Oh, that’s great! Trying is the best part.”
We both laugh. Then she asks, “Are you from BC?”
“No, actually, I grew up in a small town in Ontario.”
“Oh, you’re from out east. It must be hard being away from your family.” She tries on a bracelet and touches the stones. “I’d love to buy this one, please.”
“Sure! Thank you. And yes, it is tough being away, but we talk every day. Where are you from?”
“I’m from Serbia.”
“That is much farther away!”
She smiles warmly. “I heard what happened to you with the new family that moved down the street. Listen,” she continues, “I’m Muslim, and I don’t feel that way about you, if it makes you feel any better.”
My breath catches in my throat. I look at this tall, thin, fair-skinned woman. I never would have expected that she’s Muslim. Every instinct I have says to leave, but I reprimand myself. Kelsi, you’re not in Afghanistan anymore. This woman is not the enemy.
I feel myself shutting down, and suddenly the marijuana in my purse is screaming at me to take it outside. I can’t find it in me to speak. My face is flushed, and I start to break into a sweat. I have to respond to her. “Thank you for saying that.”
“I understand war. It wasn’t fair of her to say such things to you. Do you mind if I ask, how has your transition to civilian life been?”
Looking into Asma’s dark brown eyes, I don’t see the hatred that looked at me through the burkas in the compounds I searched. Rather than coldness, I sense warmth, compassion, and curiosity. “It’s actually been really, really hard. I was medically discharged with PTSD, and I never got any support from the military.”
“PTSD is a real crisis. I hope you’re getting some sort of help.”
“I don’t tell many people this, but the biggest lifesaver for me has been cannabis.”
“Hey, girl, whatever works!” Asma curls her feet up underneath her. “I’m not here to judge.”
I’m so relieved by her reaction that I feel safe asking her something that’s been burning on my mind. “I have a weird question for you.”
“Sure, what is it?”
I turn toward her, nervously twisting my Warrior bracelet. “Will you teach me about the Qur’an?”
She seems a bit surprised but answers right away. “Of course. May I ask why?”
“I want to understand Islam better.”
A wide smile spreads over her face. “Well. The absolute first thing you need to know is that the Taliban’s extremist version of Islam is not practiced outside of Afghanistan.”
She talks about Allah and prophets and messengers. I’m glued to her every word until a cry comes from the baby monitor. “Be right back,” Asma says as she rushes off to the nursery.
I hear her soothing voice through the monitor, and as she softly coos to the baby, all I dream about is holding a child of my own. The cries fade, and as I listen to Asma sing to the child, I feel my eyes start to well up. In a minute she’s back, sitting on the couch next to me.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “Where were we?”
I twist again to face her. “You were telling me about Jesus being mentioned in the Qur’an. It sounds so similar to what I grew up hearing in Catholic school.”
“I think all religions are about peace and love at the root of things.”
I shift my position and hug an oversized throw pillow. “It’s so ironic that religion is also at the root of most wars.”
Religion
There’s one war that religion has nothing to do with—the one you’re waging now.
Against me.
And this is the type of battle that doesn’t end until everyone is dead.
“Look at you two, still on top of each other all the time,” my mother-in-law teases.
Brady and I are snuggled on their couch by the Christmas tree during the yearly gift exchange.
“Here, Papa.” Brady passes a gift to his eighty-nine-year-old grandfather. “This one is for you from Kelsi and me.”
His face brightens with a big smile. “You know you don’t have to be getting me presents. You should be saving your money!”
“Open it!” My stomach is full of butterflies, watching him carefully pull off the paper.
“Hmm…what could it be?”
Shelley, Rick, and Nessy all watch in anticipation. We haven’t told any of them what we got for Papa this year.
He opens up the box and pushes aside the light pink and blue tissue paper. He reaches into the bottom of the box and pulls out the sonogram photo, bringing it to his face to study it closer. “Oh, you’re having a baby!”
“Yes! And Papa, if it’s a boy, we’re naming him Jack, after you.”
“Well. I can’t think of a nicer gift than that! Congratulations!”
“Oh!” Shelley squeals. “We’ve been waiting for this announcement since last year!” She comes over and gives me a tight squeeze while Rick shakes Brady’s hand.
“How far along are you?” Nessy throws her tattooed arms around my neck.
“Just a couple of months.”
“How are you feeling?” Shelley asks.
“I’m feeling really good. My treatment is going well, and I love being pregnant.”
“Well, you’re glowing,” she says.
Both Brady and I wear a permanent grin for days after sharing the news, and months later, our perfect little Jack-a-Roo enters the world ahead of schedule. As promised, we name him Jack.
Baby Blues
Let it all out, Kelsi.
You have something new to live for now.
But that isn’t making things any easier, is it?
I’m counting on it.
A month after having Jack, I’m sitting beside him and a basket of laundry, crying. I slept through Tina’s visit earlier when she dropped off some meals for us, and I’m so upset that I missed her. Brady is working, but his mom’s here to help me. She rubs my back while I sob. “It’s okay, Kelsi. Let it out.”
“I can’t stop crying.” I blow my nose with a damp wad of tissues. “I’m so tired. I’m the worst mother ever,” I manage between sobs.
“It’s normal to be emotional after you have a baby, but how about we make an appointment for you to see your doctor, just in case? They did say that postpartum depression (PPD) would probably happen for you, so you should talk to someone.”
PPD + PTSD
I know PPD!
We go way back.
It’s fun when we both get invited to the party!
Before my six-week checkup, I stop at the grocery store to pick up diapers and a few other items. I put Jack’s car seat carrier in the shopping cart and head for the baby aisle.
The store is crowded, and shoppers are rushing past me. I scan ahead of the cart, looking for anything out of place. There are no IEDs here, Kelsi. You’re okay.
Beads of sweat trickle down my back. Taking a breath, I steer us to the diapers and face a wall of options that all look identical. “Which brand have we been using?” My eyes dart at the different sizes and prices. I grab a package of them, and suddenly I can’t remember which size we need. Setting the packages down, I reach into my bag to see what diaper size I have in there, to compare.
Jack whimpers from the car seat, so I stand up and lean over the cart. “Hi, Jack-a-Roo, we’re almost done!” He starts to fuss, and my face turns red. “I can’t remember which diapers we need, bubby.”
Tears fill my eyes, and I break down crying in the diaper aisle. Frantically, I reach out for my phone. Brady, please pick up diapers.
Abandoning my cart, I pick up the carrier and the diaper bag to take Jack and me to our appointment.
Good
Things are playing out exactly how I planned.
When PPD and I work together, we get the job done much faster.
I search a compound filled with women in burkas, each of them holding a baby. “Stand by the wall and put your babies on the floor in front of you,” I yell coldly.
I can’t see any of the women’s eyes through the screens of their burkas. They look like shadows. All of the babies cry. I start searching the first woman, patting her down. The woman next to her reaches out and grabs my weapon while the others hold me and tie my hands behind my back. I am outnumbered. The babies cry and cry, and the woman points the gun at me and pushes the barrel into my cheek.
Say Uncle
Listen to the baby crying.
He’s just like the ones you searched in Afghanistan.
Can you hear them?
How many of your mortar rounds landed on babies?
And their mothers?
That’s the thought I want you to go to bed with tonight.
You’re a monster.
Just like that neighbor of yours thinks you are.
You don’t deserve to live.
“Roo, wake up. It’s okay.” Brady’s voice whispers in my ear.
“The babies are all crying,” I mumble.
“It’s only Jack. Are you okay? I’ll get up with him.”
My face is soaked with tears. “I’m okay. I think I’ll get up with him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
I put on my slippers and go next door to Jack’s nursery. “Hey, bubby, what’s wrong?” I ask quietly. His little cry is so sad, but it feels good to be needed. After a quick diaper change, I scoop up his tiny warm body and sit on the rocking chair with him. He knows what he wants, and I bring him to my breast for a feeding. As I watch him wrap his pink hand around my thumb, I can’t help but cry. But I cry at everything since he’s been born.
“I like being your mom, Jack,” I whisper to him, sniffling through my tears. “I’m crying because I’m happy. I think. Or maybe because I’m exhausted.”
I run my finger over his perfect little pink forehead.
“I never imagined loving someone as much as I love you, Jack.” My finger looks so huge in his wrinkled hand.
“Hey, guess what? I’m almost ready to donate my first check to Honour House, that place for vets and their families to go and get better when they’re sick like Mommy.”
We rock together for a few minutes until he’s milk-drunk.
“The jewelry we’re making is going to actually help people. I hope that makes you proud one day.”
Rocking and crying, I look at him for hours. PTSD is a fickle bastard; he likes to come out right when you feel like you’ve got a handle on your life and make it so you don’t want to go to sleep—that’s where the nightmares live.
My eyes start to grow heavier and heavier, so I set Jack back in his crib. I give him a kiss on his fuzzy warm little forehead and go back to bed, amazed at how good it feels to fill a baby’s needs and proud that I’ve come far enough to keep myself and another human alive.
TWENTY-FIVE
A New Chapter
September 2015
“UGGHH!” I throw down my pliers.
“What’s wrong with you?” Tina asks from her side of the basement workbench. The business has been relocated down here to accommodate our growth and the fact that it’s annoying to work from the kitchen table. Tina has been working with me sometimes to help with her own workplace stresses. She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in…ever.
“I’ve been fighting with this stupid thing for twenty minutes.”
“What did I tell you, Kels? No crying over tangled elastic. It’s time for a break.”
“Okay,” I set down the pliers. “I have to call my parents back anyway.”
“First, tell me what’s bothering you?”
She’s a pain in my ass in the best possible way.
“Since business has kind of exploded, I’m starting to drown.”
“Remember, Kels, any time you’re in a stressful situation, things are going to be harder for you. Are you sure this is what you want to be doing?”
“Yes.” I take a sip of tea. “All this work is going to help veterans. But as things get busier with the business and with Jack, I’m getting triggered more. I feel like such a shit mom.”
“How many times do we need to go over this, Kelsi? You’re a good mother. This is PTSD talking. Don’t let it make you think that.”
“How can you say I’m a good mother when I’m on your doorstep every other day freaking out about something?”
