Page 73 of Proof Of Life
How long will I continue to hide for? When will it ever feel safe to be honest?
Now, goddammit. It starts now, and there’s no looking back.
“Brandt is my best friend, my teammate, and he’s my…boyfriend.”
Mandy doesn’t blink an eye. Just nods and continues to drum his fingers on his knee.
“Boyfriend sounds so high school. Doesn’t it? He’s my partner. My–”
“I get it. You’re fucking. Feel better now? Now that you got that out of the way?”
His lips twist into a half smile and I realize he’s not judging me; he’s laughing at me. I must sound like a stumbling, bumbling gay newbie, and Mandy is amused.
“Much,” I smirk, shaking my head. “The easy road is often the sleazy, measly, cheesy, wheezy road, and it is the road less traveled,” I read from the page.
Mandy laughs for the first time since arriving, and I feel useful. I guess this is why I’m here, to ease his anxiety and help to take his mind off his fears, and thanks to my ridiculous Mad Libs and my baby gayness, it’s working.
“I hate this shit,” he admits.
“Yeah, me too. The waiting, the results that are never what we want to hear. It fucking blows.”
“So, he was your teammate? Was he there when you–” his gaze falls to my leg, partially visible because my pants hiked up when I sat.
“Yeah, he was there. He threw himself on top of me and took the shrapnel hit before the second and third blasts separated us. But the building collapsed and a large chunk fell on my leg. Crushed it. I was unconscious, but I guess he dragged me out.”
A dark shadow falls across his face. “I guess it could have been worse.”
Well, that’s one way to look at it—that I hadn’t. Until now. It could have been a lot worse. I could be a vegetable, brain dead, and lost to the world. I could be paralyzed. I could be dead.
Brandt could be dead.
I’m a fucking asshole for wanting to die. For feeling sorry for myself. Brewer is going to have a field day with this shit. I can hear him now.
“You have every right to feel your feelings, and to grieve for yourself. But you are definitely an asshole. Stop wasting time feeling sorry for yourself and what could have been and go live your life.”
We pass another thirty minutes trading war stories about the Middle East, and by war stories, I don’t mean the blood and gore. I mean the food, the weather there, the fucking sand, and the deplorable living conditions on base.
“This is more boring than when I was debriefed after returning stateside,” I joke.
“No shit.”
“Mr. Cahill,” the nurse announces, saving us from another round of Mad Libs.
“Thank fuck,” Mandy mumbles.
The doctor checks Mandy’s scarring and I was correct earlier when I assumed his body was covered in burns. His shoulder and part of his back have extensive damage. The tissue is red and angry-looking still, and I realize he has a long road to recovery ahead of him.
“You’re healed enough to undergo another skin graft. I’ll schedule you for surgery next month. Do you have someone to help you afterward while you recover? Or will you need to stay in rehab again?”
I remember from what McCormick told me, rehab is a PC term for nursing home. I don’t even know this guy, but I can’t just sit here silently and let him navigate this on his own, especially considering his fears. I’ve never met Armando Cahill before today, but I know him. He’s just like me—alone, scared, overwhelmed, and hurting inside and out. He’s a soldier, a survivor.
He’s my brother.
“He has me. And Brandt. He’s not alone. He can recover with us in our home. We’ll make every follow-up appointment and follow all the discharge instructions to the letter.”
Mandy gapes at me like I’m glowing or something. He’s stunned silent.
I smile and nod my head to let him know I mean every word. Mandy shrugs and nods. “I’m with him, Doc.”