Chapter Text
He didn't believe it, when they told him. They opened the doors and set him free, but he couldn't take it in. Too sick and injured to walk, he wore a dazed look as they wheeled him out into the open air. It had to be a dream. The air smelled fresher, but there had to be another, more rational explanation. There wasn't an outside world anymore, so how could he be in it? The prison had become his life, the space within its walls his world, and his cell his kingdom.
From the Hanoi Hilton to the Hanoi Taxi--it happened so fast.
Mike didn't begin to believe the truth of his freedom until he felt the lift of the plane and his ears popped. It was a feeling he knew well, from his years in the service. It was a military plane, so there were no windows in the aircraft cabin to look out of to view the vastness of green land and then the dark sea below, but he sensed it. He knew he was rising, high into the sky. He was leaving the last seven years behind.
He was going home.
***
He was a freak again, but not because he was tall. It was likely that no one watching on television realized how tall he was, since he wasn't standing up. He used a wheelchair now, although the doctors told him it should be temporary, that he'd be walking normally again in year or two. The long months of torture and starvation had left him weakened and damaged. That was one of the reasons he was being stared at. The reporters kept asking him questions about how they'd treated him in Hanoi, what he'd suffered at the hands of the prison guards. He smiled and answered politely, if briefly. He avoided saying too much, responding in single words and half-sentences, with nods or shakes of his head. They eventually realized that he wasn't the ideal interview candidate, especially as some of his fellow former POWs were much more forthcoming and charismatic.
He didn't like being on display, like an animal in a zoo exhibit, but he wasn't about to complain. He was home again. He got to see his mom again. When she saw him, she threw her arms around him, and in spite of how small she was, she held him so tight, he could hardly breathe. She was wearing the same perfume she had always worn, a familiar floral scent from his childhood. His lanky father stood beside her, his eyes full of tears, and he reached out to ruffle Mike's hair, like he used to when Mike was little. "My son, the hero," he said, and Mike realized he was crying, too. He didn't care if anyone saw the tears run down his face. Sitting through the nosy questions of reporters was a pain, but one he could bear. It was worth it, for this.
It was like a dream, being home with his family. A good dream, but a disorienting one. He worried that it might end at any moment. He sat with a nervous tension in his limbs, half-expecting the dream was about to end. He'd start awake and find himself covered with filth and sweat, a sour taste in his mouth, a sharp pain lancing his thigh.
They took him back to the house where he grew up. It was as odd to see how much things had changed as it was to see how much they'd stayed the same. The same old photos were up on the wall, pictures of him and his parents from his childhood, but there were new ones added, of scenes and stories he didn't know. There were pictures of his parents without him. On vacation. With a friend he didn't recognize. The china in the china cabinet was still Mom's wedding china, with the same old pattern, but the carpet and the wallpaper framing it were different, yellow and green. It intensified that nagging feeling that he was stuck in a dream. In dreams, you visited familiar places that your mind made warped and weird.
His mom cooked him his favorite dinner on the night of the first full day he spent at home. She threw in his second and third and fourth dinners as well, creating a feast to which she invited everyone he knew. Everyone in the family came over, along with every single person he knew who was still living in Roseville, Iowa. There was one important face missing, someone in particular that he wanted to see, but he tried not to worry about that. He knew the reason for that absence, and he could wait, because he had to wait. Not everyone had stayed in Roseville, so they couldn't all arrive immediately. After seven years, a lot of things had changed. He might not have known what all those changes were yet, but he knew that.
Roseville was the town where Mike had been born, where he'd grown up, and the town he thought he'd live in for the rest of his life, until he'd been captured. Over the last few years, he'd come to believe that he'd never see it again, that he would die far from home, in the dark and alone. It wasn't impossible that he could have gone mad. The years of solitude could have driven him from his mind and into fantasy at last. He'd seen that happen to other men.
No, it was real. It had to be. His mother's hand was firm on his own. When he looked around the room at the people gathered to see him, he reminded himself that this was happening. He couldn't dream this so clearly and perfectly. Their voices, their laughter, the shapes of their smiles: they were all as Mike remembered, from his previous life, before the war. Friendly, familiar faces, the faces of most of the people he cared about. Older, but the same. They weren't going to disappear, to dissolve into nothingness and leave him lonelier and in more pain than before.
The doctors had said it was normal to feel this way, to experience this sense of unreality. He'd have trouble adapting. They'd told him he'd be all right, that it would pass, in time. Mike wanted to believe that, so he tried to believe it. He tried to be happy. Too much had happened that he couldn't ignore, but for the sake of his friends and family, he could pretend for a little while that he was the same old Mike.
It worked, for a few hours, but he grew progressively more overwhelmed by the attention and company as time passed. The voices started to grate on him. Everything was too loud, too colorful, and his head hurt. The smell of the food made him nauseous. His heart fluttered in his chest. He was nervous, stressed. "Maybe I should lie down for a bit," he suggested at last, tentatively and politely.
His mother gave a start, and he saw the flash of worry in her eyes, rendering her smile brittle for a moment. He wasn't the only one who was pretending.
"If you want to lie down, then you can lie down." She smiled at the guests. "Mike's a little tired," she explained.
"No, I'm fine," he protested. Again, he was conscious of being the center of attention. Everyone was staring at him. They were probably feeling sorry for him.
"Don't be silly. It's getting late, anyway." As his mother crossed the floor, pushing his chair in front of her, a low voice called out, rising above the other voices.
"Let me. That oaf's too big for you."
Mike turned with a smile. "Hey, Nile."
"Hi, Mike."
His mother patted Nile on the arm. She looked reluctant to let Mike go, as if afraid that he'd disappear once he was out of sight, but she stepped back from the wheelchair, relinquishing it gracefully. "You come get me at once if he needs anything, Nile."
"Yes, Ma'am, I'll take good care of him."
"See that you do." After a strained pause, she added, absently, "Have fun, boys." It was what she'd always said when they'd gone outside to play together, when they were kids.
The room on the first floor that was serving as Mike's room wasn't the room that had been his when he was a kid. That one was on the second floor, and it was too difficult for him to climb the steps in his current condition. The room where he was sleeping now used to be the guest room, but his parents had brought down some of his things to make it look more like his, which was why he found himself confronting a teenage boy's posters, faced down by Bob Dylan and Clint Eastwood.
"You want me to get you a beer?" was the first question Nile asked.
It was refreshing. He preferred it to being asked about the plane crash, the prison, his health, or the army, but he didn't want a beer. He was lightheaded and sick, and that might make it worse. "No, thanks."
Nile nodded and clapped him on the shoulder, with a surprising gentleness. "Good to see you." They'd already had their first reunion, in the midst of the crowd, but this was the first time they'd spoken alone. He and Nile had enlisted together. They'd fought together.
"You too."
"You asshole," said Nile, "we all thought you were dead."
"I know."
As so many other people had before, Nile gripped him tightly, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. "Don't you ever do that to me again, you hear me?"
Mike wasn't sure what to say to this. He didn't want to worry anyone. He never had, but what he'd wanted hadn't mattered much in the end. He'd upset everyone he cared about. Guilt made his face heat, although Nile hadn't meant it that way. Nile meant that he'd missed him. Mike understood that logically, but making his emotions understand was another matter. "I'll try."
"Good, you better." Nile released him, the gravity slipping from his voice. "Shit. I thought I'd never see you again." Nile was as lean and sharp as ever, but there was more wear on his face than Mike remembered. "You're gonna see my little girl soon. Thought it would be too much for you and her tonight. You'll have to come by soon. I know Marie wants to have you over."
"I still can't believe you two got married." They were married, and they had a daughter. His friend was a father. Mike was incredulous, but he was smiling. Marie was one of the most lively people in this town, and Nile had liked her since they were kids. It was like a storybook, or a movie. The childhood sweethearts had ended up together.
"Neither can I," said Nile. "She shouldn't have ever said yes."
"She's too good for you."
"That's for damn sure." Nile had gotten his discharge from the Army. He'd gone to the police academy and joined the force. It wasn't the military career he'd spoken of when they were younger, but Mike didn't ask him about that. "I'm the luckiest bastard in this town," Nile said, before adding, "Except for you."
Mike didn't disagree with him, but he didn't feel lucky. It would have been luckier if the plane hadn't crashed. If he'd been found by friendly troops instead of the Viet Cong. There were so many ways things could have gone better, but he could sit and think about that all day, and it wouldn't get him anywhere except lost in his head.
"You haven't seen Erwin yet?"
Instead of his relative luck, Mike focused on this new subject, but it made him feel more anxious rather than less. He glanced down at his hands. They were weathered and knotted and scarred, older than his hands should look at his age, he thought. He wondered if Erwin would think that, that he looked old. "No. I talked to him on the phone. He's flying in tomorrow."
Erwin was Nile's friend, too. The three of them had followed the same course together. Enlistment, the Army, Special Forces, the war. After Mike had been taken prisoner, that course had split. Mike had vanished into the darkness. Nile had continued to serve, but he had left the Army at the first legitimate opportunity, as if eager to return home. Erwin had left after Mike, but much sooner than Nile, after suffering injuries in an attack that were so grave, he'd been removed from combat permanently.
"He's different, you know," said Nile.
Mike looked up. "Different?"
"He changed. You know what they say. War changes some people."
As far as Mike was concerned, it had changed all three of them, but he didn't offer up this opinion. "Yeah."
"He's some kind of hippie peacenik agitator now."
Mike frowned. Nile could exaggerate, and he frequently did, so Mike didn't take his words entirely seriously.
His phone conversation with Erwin had been relatively brief. "I'll be flying in tomorrow, Mike," he'd said. "That's the soonest I could catch a flight."
It had taken Mike a little while to respond, as he was marveling inwardly over the sound of Erwin's voice. "That's okay. I'll see you then."
Erwin had paused. There were probably things he didn't want to say over the phone, and Mike could understand, because he felt the same way. "It's good to hear your voice again," he said at last.
"Yours, too."
"I--" It wasn't like Erwin to hesitate, so it was strange to hear the catch in his voice, to suddenly become aware that he must have been near tears. "They told you about the arm, didn't they?"
Mike had heard that Erwin had lost an arm in the war. His mother had tried her best to update him on the lives of all his friends, sharing the full extent of her limited knowledge. Erwin had moved out to New York City, and he was doing some kind of work for veterans. "They did," said Mike. "I'm sorry."
"It's nothing, comparatively," said Erwin, a trace of odd amusement in his voice. "I wanted to be sure you knew, so you wouldn't be surprised. I'm fine. I'll see you very soon."
"I'll see you, Erwin."
"I can't wait."
As he'd hung up the phone, Mike had realized that his hands were shaking. He'd pressed them flat against his thighs until they'd stopped. He hadn't wanted his mother to see him like that.
"I wanted to warn you," Nile said, "so you don't have to deal with any unpleasant surprises. I don't want you to be disappointed."
Nile didn't want him to be surprised, either. That warning sounded dire enough that Mike wondered if there was a grain of truth in what Nile was saying, or if he needed to take his words with more grains of salt than usual. "Thanks for looking out for me, Nile."
If the words were a little sarcastic, Nile fortunately didn't notice. "What are friends for?"
Nile didn't stay too long, clapping him on the back again and saying that he needed his beauty sleep. Mike was be glad to left alone, to rest, but his thoughts didn't leave him in peace, and Nile's words stayed with him. Had Erwin really changed that much? Seven years had passed, during which they'd had no way to contact each other, during which Erwin had believed Mike was dead. Was an unpleasant surprise the reason for Erwin's reticence, or was it a strong emotion, or an unwillingness to have such a conversation over the phone? He'd find out tomorrow. He was both awaiting and dreading their reunion.
He couldn't talk to Nile about that. There were things he couldn't discuss with Nile. Or with anyone but Erwin.
***
He and Erwin had been friends through all their years of school, through basic training and into the Army. Nile was Mike's good friend, and he cared about Nile, but he was closer to Erwin than anyone else. It was Erwin he'd conjured up in his head, more often than he'd envisioned his own parents. He'd imagined Erwin standing beside him, leaning down to tell him, Don't give up, Mike. Erwin was resilient and determined. If anyone would know how to survive years of deprivation and torture, it would be him.
Mike had survived. He partly credited Erwin with that. He hadn't been there physically, but to Mike, his presence had been real. Now Mike could see him again in person, an event he'd almost given up on witnessing. He wondered if Erwin would have aged a lot, how he would wear his hair. What would he be wearing? Would there be an awkwardness between them, or would it be as if they'd never been apart, that old friendship springing up just like it always was?
Much as he'd tried to be nothing but happy for his friends and family at the party, Mike told himself he should be so happy to see Erwin again. He should be so happy, there should be no room in him for anything else. What he shouldn't be was eaten up by doubts and fears and insecurities. What if Erwin had changed, like Nile had said? Mike hated the thought of a distance separating them, but it had been seven years. Seven years was far longer than they'd been apart in their lives before, because they hadn't known what it was like to be apart. They'd met when they were so young, Mike could hardly remember what had happened on that day. Everything had changed. Erwin had moved away to New York City, and he was a "peacenik", according to Nile. Whatever Nile meant by that. For seven years, Erwin had thought that Mike was dead.
Erwin wouldn't have forgotten about him, but he would have moved on, as he should have, building a new life that didn't include Mike as anything but a fond memory. That would have been the right thing for Erwin to do, the sensible thing to do, but Mike found that he didn't like that idea very much. He didn't want everyone's lives to have reformed into lives without him. Wouldn't that mean there was no place for him?
Did Erwin remember? He must have remembered. The way they used to kiss when they were alone, when no one could see. The way they'd lie together in the dark. Mike would wrap his arms around Erwin and breathe in the scent of him. The memory of Erwin's warm skin against his was painful in its intensity. Erwin's kisses trailing down his body. The words they'd whispered to each other at night.
They hadn't told anyone about it. It was a secret. It was dangerous, especially in the Army, but even here at home, what would people think, if they knew about what he and Erwin had done?
It was possible that, with time, Erwin had come to think it was wrong. It. Whatever it was. Mike had nothing to call it, because they hadn't given it a name, but it was important to him. His feelings hadn't changed, but it was easy to imagine that Erwin's had, in seven years.
It wasn't the normal thing, and Mike had detected a distance in Erwin's voice. Was that because he was afraid that Mike would say something about it? Or was he waiting for Mike to mention it? Erwin wasn't married. That was a fact. His mother would have mentioned it, if anything like that had happened. Erwin apparently came to visit his mother fairly often, and he stopped by to visit with Mike's parents when he did, so they'd remained in contact with him. That didn't mean there weren't things they didn't know about. Erwin had never been forthcoming, especially not with parents. He was good at keeping secrets. He kept his secrets now, because Mike was unable to fathom them.
It was impossible to figure this out, to chart the events of seven years he'd been excluded from. Only Erwin himself could clarify matters, and trying to guess made his headache worse. He wouldn't find out anything for sure until tomorrow. He wheeled himself across the room and rose slowly and painfully from his chair. He could have rung for help. His mother had given him a bell to ring whenever he needed something, but he wanted to do this for himself. He collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard. He'd done it. He pulled his blanket over his body, though he was still wearing his clothes. The softness of the bed and blanket was foreign to him. It was all too soft. The world wasn't soft. He closed his eyes. He tried not to think of anything, until he fell asleep.