Page 37 of The History in Us

“It’s not going to be worth one dime to me, unless you wear it. Show him what he’s missing.”

I smirked in the mirror with a gentle laugh.

“I don’t think he’s a scholarship candidate.”

“Then entice a rich donor to be your sugar daddy.” My hands came to my hip and I laughed heartily. Sidonia laughed as well. “But honestly, girl, that dress is made for a queen. You need to wear it and let me live vicariously through you.” She winked, and the curtain fell. I took a second look at myself. If I lived in a fairy tale then Sidonia just became my fairy godmother.

* * *

On the weekend, I volunteered at VetGym, an organization established for veterans within the community. VetGym calmed people. They found camaraderie there. Members understood one another. If no other life experience would have brought them together, the loss of limb, sensation or spirit did. It was a place to find comfort with those who might better understand the veteran experience. Pity got checked at the door, according to Maxwell Huston. This place was about finding a new you, not grumbling about the old one, he’d tell new recruits, as he called the members. Most volunteers were from within the unit, his nickname for the group collectively, but I got my position because of my skill.

I’d worked here as often as I could for four years, and while guidance counselors mentioned it would look good on a resume, I decided early on that the only reason I was at the gym was because it was something I felt I needed to do. Knowing what it was like to be closed off, to hide inside silence, I wanted to help others learn to express themselves. Communication was important, I’d learned as I grew older, although I wasn’t terribly good at putting it into practice for myself.

“Hello beautiful.” Victor Puterburgh met me with a smile every time I entered the doors. The wrinkled man looked a hundred but acted like he was fifteen. He winked at me, appraising me with watery blue eyes that had seen his share of history and a war long forgotten by too many. His gnarled, shaky fingers held up a pen for me to sign-in and then he handed me a volunteer badge.

“How are you today, Vic?” He demanded I call him by his nickname after repeated attempts to respectfully call him Mr. Puterburgh. He said it was a mouthful of peanut butter to say that name, and Vic sounded svelte, like him. He exaggerated his attempt at swagger by slipping a hand over his barely-there, white hair.

“Never had a bad day in my life,” he teased as he took the pen back from me. “We have some new recruits. One of them looks rather swanky.” His eyebrows wiggled back and forth. Vic had tried to set me up with his grandson, but I’d politely refused. It didn’t stop his eternal prompting for me to date someone, calling me a “catch,” and continually prodding me toward people too old or too damaged to want a relationship. I giggled with each suggestion and appreciated his flirtatious attention to my love life.

VetGym was an old elementary school complete with a variety of classrooms and a tight gymnasium hosting a basketball court. Many rooms were made cozier with overstuffed chairs and love-seats versus school desks and folding chairs. I entered one such classroom to work with my students.

Hello beautiful, Frank Bickell greeted me in a manner similar to Vic. At forty-five years old, he was a veteran with hearing loss after an explosion burst his eardrums. It took a new mindset to learn sign-language at his age, but Frank decided he could help others if he learned the common language of the Deaf community. I’d learned the skill as a child and kept current myself by practicing it. Emily and I considered it our private language, often using it to speak without others listening. VetGym offered me the opportunity to teach ASL to those with permanent loss as the result of injury. The psychological side effects of an adult losing his or her hearing was not my domain, but I’d seen an occasional breakdown in someone’s spirit. The thought reminded me of Levi.

Xavi, I spelled out, catching Xavier Gomez’s attention after tapping his forearm. Heavy tattoos covered his skin, cascading down his arm from a too-tight, standard ARMY T-shirt. He suffered auditory loss when he was captured unaware during a routine sweep. He wasn’t “buying-in” to learning to sign, but he showed up to his sessions each weekend. His attitude preceded him through the door, but Maxwell often made a pass through the lessons to keep Xavier in check. At thirty-three, the burly man with a neck thicker than my thigh didn’t realize his presence alone spoke volumes. He wanted help, he just didn’t know how to ask.

Hi, Carmela Mastus waved at me. She’d lost her vocal cord use with a neck injury. She’d had some kind of reconstructive surgery but her mouth struggled to form words. Carmela decided she couldn’t speak her whole life using paper. Her pretty caramel skin and dark bobbed hair matched her attitude of acceptance. She was eager to learn and share her skills with her children. All three of my students had been through extensive surgeries and rehabilitation upon return to the United States. Their journey home intrigued me and I’d learned much about them over the last years. Our session fell into its normal Saturday rhythm. Around eleven, we took a break for lunch.

Did you see the new recruit?Carmela signed and wiggled her eyebrows at me. I shook my head with a laugh.

People keep mentioning him,I signed and spoke to use both forms of communication with Carmela. She grabbed my elbow and guided me down the hall. I could hear the bouncing of a basketball rhythmically echoing down the corridor. As we came to the entrance of the gymnasium, she pulled me around her body, and I stopped short. My eyes blinked to focus. Men with prosthetic legs and arms dribbled and dodged, racing for the hoop at one end of the court.

Carmela nudged me for her attention. He’s hot. Her head nodded toward someone I’d never seen at the gym before and I couldn’t remove my eyes from him. There on the court, in black shorts and a sweat-filled, gray T-shirt, was Levi.