Page 101 of PSYCHOlogical

Chapter Forty-Five

Vincent

Our departure from Virginia may have been premature, but we were both eager to explore our possibilities of a future together. A future away from an area that provided a constant reminder of the cost associated with freedom.

With our belongings packed into moving pods and our personal effects stuffed in suitcases, we drove in a southernly direction, to an unknown destination.

The events of my life had been planned since my introduction to adulthood. My manner of walking, what I wore, how my hair was cut, the positioning of ribbons and citations—everything was planned for me. Then, I went to war. My missions were planned—and executed—with precision.

The post-war portions of my life that weren’t strategically planned by others became ritualistic events. Eating was done at the same time, every night. I washed my truck on a particular day at a predestined time. Yardwork was done at the same time, every week. I shaved, showered, shit, and brushed my teeth—in that order—every morning before I began my day.

In my life, an unplanned event caused the same type of mental meltdown that a death of a loved one would cause in a normal person’s life.

Yet.

We drove along the coast to a destination unknown—without a plan.

Slumped in the seat with a lightweight New England Patriots blanket pulled up to her chin, Val drifted in and out of sleep. Each time she awoke, she glanced in my direction. If I met her gaze before she looked away, the corners of her mouth curled upward. Naturally, mine would follow.

As if my smile provided reassurance that all was well, her eyes would fall closed and she’d return to her state of slumber.

We realized the possibilities of where we chose to call home were truly endless, but even so, we were incapable of picking a location based on photos from various websites. We made a list of several cities along the eastern coast that interested us, including Wilmington, Myrtle Beach, and Charleston.

Having that list provided me minimal comfort. Given the circumstances, it was the best we could do.

As the morning sun began to peek in my window, I got on I-95. Our first stop was five hours away. A small town with promise of beautiful views and a relaxed atmosphere, Wilmington, North Carolina, offered the tranquility we both felt we needed to proceed with a quality life.

Halfway there, Val awakened. “Holy cow. I was exhausted.”

“You were up the entire night, packing. I knew you’d be tired.”

“You didn’t have anything to pack.” She laughed. “A few gun cases, some dishes, and a closet full of clothes.”

“I’ve lived my entire life out of a sea bag,” I said, referencing the US Marines’ canvas bag that most of my belongings had been stuffed into since my graduation from high school. “I rented that house, furnished. What I packed is all I own.”

“Does it seem weird? Being in your mid-thirties and being able to fit everything you own in a few cardboard boxes?”

“The clock on the outside world ticks at a different pace than the clock in the military,” I responded. “Everything in the free world advances. Makes progress. Changes. In the military, everything remains the same. The days run into one another, each offering a different glimpse of the same thing. Go on a mission. Engage the enemy. Kill. Repeat. After completing a year-long deployment, I’d get a glimpse of the outside world and realize I had no idea of how to survive in it. Another deployment would follow, and I’d feel at home again. Short of accumulating a body count, there’d be no progress. No change.” I glanced at her. “In a sense, I’m still eighteen years old. A high school kid looking to get his start in life.”

I didn’t know if it was from sleep or sorrow, but she wiped her eyes. “That’s sad and exciting at the same time.”

“There’s nothing sad about it,” I said. “The military gave me the structure that my childhood lacked. It was a step that I had to make to evolve, and to survive.”

“Any regrets?” she asked. “Now that it’s over?”

Not being completely truthful with her about everything was the only regret I had. “Not really,” I responded. “How about you? Any regrets?”

She shifted her attention to the side window and gazed through it for a moment. With her eyes fixed on a distant meadow of grass, she responded. “A few.”

I wondered what they were. I had my suspicions, but they were just that.

Suspicions.

Two hours later, we stood on a boardwalk in Wilmington, staring at a river not much different than the Potomac.

“What do you think?” I asked.

Her gaze was glued on the far shoreline. “I dunno.” She looked at me. “You?”