Chapter One
Ash
The war is over. So how come it’s still raging in my head? How come I hear gunshots and explosions in my dreams? How come the feeling of being trapped with nowhere to run remains long after I wake up? How come the echoes never die down?
Just a bunch of questions that have no actual answer. At least not an answer that would make anything better.
They’re all questions best left unasked. That’s what my father would’ve said. He’s the only one I could talk to about it. Not that he understood. But at least he sometimes listened. Now he’s dead. And I finally think that maybe he was right all along.
Twenty-seven years old and free. Whole and uninjured and with enough put by to live like a king for awhile. So I don’t know why I’m even tripping on those annoying thoughts. It’s a gorgeous fall day, the sun warm but not too hot, the sky cloudless, the air fresh, cool and thick with the smell of redwoods and the pristine dark earth they grow from. I have all of the rest of my life to look forward to. So many of my friends don’t. I’m one of the lucky ones. The war is over and I got out in one piece.
The bus ride from San Diego to my hometown Pleasantville was long and winding and took damn near all night. Now, I’m standing at the bus stop, and I hardly recognize the place. If I hadn’t read the sign, my heart sort of leaping for joy in my chest the way coming home always does whether you’re actually happy to be home or not, I’d think I got off the bus in the wrong town.
When I joined the Marines nearly seven years ago, I took a bus from this very station. Only then, it was just a sidewalk with a post and broken wooden bench. Now it’s on an island of its own, covered by a wooden roof in the shape of an overturned boat and I think the bench might be cushioned.
The whole town screams new money now, much in the same way that it used to scream no money back in the day. I bet my mother regrets moving to the next town over now. Pleasantville looks like the town of her dreams now. I guess I can ask her over dinner tonight. Or not. If I do we might end up not speaking for a couple of years again. Been there, done that, and maybe I don’t want a repeat.
Main street stretches out in front of me, every shop, cafe, juice bar and whatnot lining it clean and bright like it belongs on some fake town built just for filming cheesy chick movies. Back before I left the town wasn’t much to look at. But it had character. Now it’s all just fluff.
I shoulder my bag and turn my back on the prettiness, which even smells nice now, like cotton candy, sweet coffee and orange juice, for some reason. It’s drowning out all the natural scents of this town I enjoyed through the open window of the bus.
My dad’s house is in the direction in which I’m walking, but so’s the cemetery—the place where he is now.
I haven’t come to terms with his death yet, so for a while I just think about how my feet feel hitting the pavement and how the strap of my duffel bag feels digging into my shoulder. Not pleasant. Not as painful as it maybe should be, given that it contains all my worldly possessions.
