His Awful Mistake

Lightning struck his face with each heartbeat. Not his face—the place where his face should have been, the chunk of bone and flesh that had been vaporized and now floated somewhere in the air of the world. That’s what hurt. Phantom pain. Ghost pain. The part of his face he couldn’t touch. The part of his face they were going to rebuild at Reed but that never happened because he’d been discharged first, which put him on another list, a longer list, and his turn hadn’t come yet and never would because he’d left no forwarding address where he could be reached, he’d cut off all contact with that world.

The pain now. And now. And now. And now. In perfect rhythm with his pulse. He couldn’t stand it anymore and reached in the center console for his vial of vikes, squeezed the steering wheel with his knees while his hands battled the childproof top. He pried with his thumbs and the top popped off with enough force to send the pills flying on his lap and the floor. He swore and threw the vial out his window. Fuck it. He didn’t need them. That’s what got him messed up in the first place. He reached behind his seat where a couple beers from a twelve-pack remained. He popped a can top and swallowed half a beer in his first gulp, but he was spluttering, crying now, and he began to cough and choke. The can went out the window too. Stab, stab, stab. The pain, the pain, the pain—and then he sensed it easing up. The beats fading, retreating to their hideout. What a grateful moment, the pain subsiding, draining—a rapture he likened to the love of a merciful God if such a thing existed, only it didn’t.

The pain left, and the scent filled its void. The aroma flamed his stomach, watered his mouth. Grandma’s pot roast. Gravy-soaked beef falling apart on his fork with carrots and potatoes soft as boiled macaroni. He pictured it on his plate, tasted it in his mouth, although he hadn’t eaten his grandma’s pot roast since he was twelve years old—the year she died—and then for years afterward never gave it a thought, until half his face had been blasted off. Within seconds of the explosion in the desert he smelled the pot roast, despite the fact he lay in the roadside dust and blood leaked like lava through his nasal passages.

Pot roast. Grandma. Now he was starving. But there would be nothing to eat for Aaron between Canton and Rainbow Lake. He’d spent an hour driving back and forth on the road between Potsdam and Canton searching for that girl, and now when he passed through Potsdam a final time, having given her up, the bars were closed. No one walked the streets. No open signs lit up diners, or fast-food chains, or convenience stores. Might as well be traversing the desert again.

Her purse lay next to him on the seat. He glanced at it once and looked away. When he looked back it was still there. He was afraid of it for a few minutes and then summoned the courage to touch the strap, then put his hand inside. He felt a pack of gum. He unwrapped and put a piece in his mouth, which chased away the smell of pot roast, but a few minutes of chewing made his face hurt again and he spit the gum out.

He shouldn’t have done what he did to that girl.

She was nice. She liked him. He didn’t even remember her name.

He looked at the purse again. He could go in there and find her wallet or ID and learn her name, but it was too late for that. What would he do with the name now? It would be the name of the girl he’d done wrong, and if he learned her name now he’d never forget it. Her name would run through his head for the rest of his life, haunting him like a ghost, a constant reminder of his awful mistake.

But then he did it. He took out her wallet and looked at her license and saw her name: Dana Gates. He took his foot off the gas and slowed almost to a stop in the middle of the road. He’d never wondered who she was or why she was in the kitchen of Gull that night or why she’d made that comment about him being a produce supplier. That’s what Jude must have told her: he was a produce supplier.

He didn’t know Jude had a daughter, but he did know that Jude would kill him, or try to, if she told him what happened.

He lowered his window all the way and threw the purse out, then the wallet.

Then he made a decision. You’ve got freedom. You’ve got money. You’ve got a chance to redeem your life. You don’t have part of your face but you’ve got enough sense to know you fucked up and need to move on.

He used to be a good person. Did that part of him get blown out? Had goodness resided only in one corner of his face?

He’d go back to the cabin and collect his stash of money and hit the road. He knew an army buddy in Nashville; there was no sand in Nashville. No desert. At least he didn’t think there was. But first, maybe he would go back to Reed. They could help him, fix his face. They could make the pain go away if only he would give himself over to them. When he was healed, maybe he would call that girl again someday from far away and say he was sorry. Maybe she would forgive him.

He drove for twenty minutes. He hadn’t run his truck off the road and congratulated himself for that simple achievement. He felt better now. He’d made a mistake but would put the past behind him by leaving and starting over fresh somewhere else in America where fresh starts were handed out even to people like him.

He slowed down approaching his driveway, turned in. “Who’s there?” he said aloud, a funny habit he’d developed knowing he’d hit the sensor and sounded the bell inside and no one was ever there to hear it.