Dad is a Ninja
by A. M. Johnson
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4 |
part 1
“Do you remember,” began Elaina, sitting in the corner of the cramped room in the ICU, “when Diego got away from us and went into that storm drain, and we were just getting ready to board a plane?”
I looked up from the book I was pretending to read and nodded. “How could I forget,” I said. “It was terrible. We were in this big hurry, and you were so upset, thinking your cat was going to get left behind.”
“I don’t remember that,” said Jamie. “When did that happen?”
“You were still pretty young,” Elaina said. “It was when we were leaving Hawaii, right after Dad got back from Iraq. We were changing duty stations.”
“Coming here?” Jamie asked.
Elaina nodded. “So, Diego got startled. He was on his leash and we were trying to get him to do his business before we stuck him back in the carrier to head to the airport. The neighbor’s dog comes crashing through their screen door and scares him so bad that he wriggles out of the harness, and into the storm drain he goes.” Elaina paused for effect. She was always a good storyteller.
Jamie leaned forward. “Well,” he said, “I know you got him out somehow because, you know, he’s still our cat.”
Elaina shook her head. “Not me,” she said, gesturing toward the figure in the hospital bed, hooked up to machines and hoses.
“Dad here,” she continued, “being the crazy man that he is, takes off his BDU top and hands it to Mom, and dives head first into the storm drain.”
Jamie’s eyes got wide, then he laughed, shaking his head. “That sounds like a thing Dad would do,” he said.
“Yep,” Elaina said, “we were standing around, with no idea what was going on in that storm drain, couldn’t hear or see anything. We stood there for like five whole minutes. Then, like something out of a movie, an arm shoots up out of the next drain hole maybe twenty feet up, with Diego held tight by the scruff.”
Jamie laughed again, looking at the figure in the bed. “Dad saves the day,” he said.
“I ran over and grabbed Diego,” Elaina said, “and shoved him right into the carrier. Then Mom and I had to help Dad get out of the drain. He was completely covered in dead bugs and spiders. It was really gross.”
I smiled and nodded. “And we didn’t even have time for him to change clothes,” I said. “He flew all the way to Colorado with little bug carcasses stuck to him.”
Jamie shook his head. “Well, that just shows that I’m right,” he said, looking at Elaina. “Dad is a closet ninja.”
Elaina laughed. “I think he’s out of the closet,” she said. “Even the soldiers in his squad talk about him like he’s superhuman.”
I shifted in my seat and looked at my children. “I’ve got another story for you,” I said, “and Jamie you probably don’t really remember this one either. Elaina might remember.”
Both looked at me expectantly.
“It was right after we got to Hawaii,” I began. “We had driven up North Shore to see a surfing competition. But you kids were not the least bit interested in watching surfers. The waves were much too rough for swimming, but there were some fairly deep tide pools, and both of you were wading around chasing fish and little crabs and stuff. Dad did like he always did when y’all were little,” I said with a hint of bitterness, “he said ‘I’ll be right back’, and headed off to see the surfing. He said he’d hurry so I could also walk up the beach and see the competition. But you know how he loses track of time.”
The kids both nodded.
“It felt like an hour or more, and the tide was coming in,” I continued. “There was this huge cluster of rocks that I climbed to see if I could pick out your dad’s location. When we first got there, the ocean was a good ten feet from those rocks. But by this time, it was right at the base of the rock pile, and these huge waves were crashing up against the front of the rocks. I was getting pretty wet from the spray. And I couldn’t see your dad at all; in fact, the entire beach was mostly deserted. I could see a group of people way up, maybe half a mile away. But no sign of your dad.”
I paused, remembering. “So I’m in the middle of this pile of rocks, and I can’t see your dad. Next thing I know, Jamie comes trotting past the rocks on my left, headed for the waves. You were four years old at the time. And I could have sworn two seconds before you were happily splashing your sister in the tide pool. I have no idea how you got there so fast. It had taken me two or three minutes to climb into the center of the rocks. No way was I going to be fast enough to get down and keep the ocean from eating you alive. I screamed and screamed, but the waves were so loud you couldn’t hear me.”
“Okay,” said Jamie. “But I’m here now, so... somebody saved me, right?”
I looked at him. “Don’t rush me,” I said, “you’re ruining the dramatic effect.” I paused a second longer. “I froze, you know?” This part was hard to admit. The words choked in my throat for a moment.
“There was my baby boy, headed for killer waves. I mean, they were eight feet tall just a few yards out, crashing against the rocks so hard that I could feel the rocks shake from the impact. I was watching you walk toward the ocean, I knew those waves would be the death of you, and I couldn’t even move.”
I paused again, remembering the intense fear I had felt. “Then,” I said, once the threat of tears was passed, “out of nowhere, your dad just... appears. He dives right into the ocean two seconds after a wave grabs you and you disappear. You guys were underwater for three or four seconds, then up you both came, sopping wet. You were coughing and choking. I suppose you swallowed a couple gallons of sea water.”
“I remember that!” declared Elaina. “Didn’t Dad lose one of his shoes?”
I laughed. “Yeah, he did,” I said. “And that’s the thing he focused on. Not that Jamie nearly drowned. He was hyperfocused on losing that damn shoe.”
Jamie laughed. “Like I said, Dad is a ninja.”
We were all silent for a moment, then Jamie asked the question I didn’t know how to answer. “Mom, is Dad gonna make it?”
I was silent for a moment, tears threatening again. When I spoke, I couldn’t keep those stupid tears out of my voice. “He always beats the odds, doesn’t he?”
Jamie nodded. He seemed satisfied with my answer. I was not.
* * *
When Richard “Ricky” Melrose enlisted in the U.S. Army, they didn’t know what a good deal they were getting. Raised in poverty with an alcoholic father who loved to give everyone a solid beating for his own entertainment, Ricky had PTSD before 1980, before there was even such a diagnosis. His multiple stays in foster care and institutions only deepened the problem.
By the time we met and fell in love, he had become this extraordinary survivor, resilient and determined. His dark side only occasionally reared its ugly head. But when it did, it left an impression.
The Army loved his hypervigilance, his sharp focus, his attention to detail. They loved those things so much that they could overlook the erratic behaviors, the frightening flares of temper, and the occasional gaps in memory that plagued him.
Those things plagued us, too. Families are often the casualties of the internal wars that soldiers fight.
After his deployment to Iraq, his symptoms were even worse and, after a long night of terrifying chaos when he woke us from our beds, screaming that he knew we were planning something against him, I drew a line in the sand: “Go to therapy, or lose your family.”
He was about six weeks into treatment when he was deployed to Afghanistan. He returned barely recognizable as the man I married.
After that, therapy was abandoned and alcohol became his best friend. More sleepless nights followed and, eventually, I grew ashamed of myself for letting him terrorize my children with his unfettered anger. In a night of steely resolve, all the whiskey was poured down the sink, bags were packed, and a hotel booked. The kids and I went to that hotel and waited for word that Ricky had gone back to the psychiatrist. We were in the hotel only two nights.
Ricky went to see the doctor once a week, and the doctor put him on something for sleep, something for mood, and something for anxiety. At the time, three bottles of pills didn’t seem like that much, when they worked.
And it was wonderful to have nights of uninterrupted sleep again. No yelling. No shaking everyone awake at 2:00 a.m. to make crazy accusations. No drinking himself into oblivion and spending the night on the bathroom floor. Things were definitely looking up.
* * *
Then the talk of the “shadow” began, and things got weird.
At first, it was just a glimpse here and there, with Ricky saying his eyes were playing tricks on him.
“Did you see that?” he would ask, looking at some corner of the room or up on the ceiling.
Sometimes I would see a flicker, a play of the light. Other times, I saw nothing. Whatever he was seeing, in my mind it was nothing to fear. I urged him to tell the doc about it, but he refused.
“He’ll think I’m having hallucinations,” he’d say.
“But aren’t you?” I’d ask. He’d shake his head, tight-lipped, looking at me as if I’d betrayed him.
“What I’m seeing is real,” he insisted.
Family heirlooms started flying off of shelves and breaking, five sets of keys disappeared, and the mysterious events all seemed to be connected to a shadow sighting. Ricky blamed the shadows, and I was wracking my brains trying to figure out how Ricky was doing all of this without my seeing. That was the only way I could explain what was happening.
About two months after Ricky went back to the psychiatrist, Jamie was standing at the top of the stairs, yelling something to his sister down the hall, when he mysteriously fell headlong down the stairs, as if he had been pushed. I was watching the whole thing. There was no one near him when he seemingly threw himself forward.
Fortunately, he only dislocated his shoulder and got some bumps and bruises. Nothing was broken.
Nothing physical. However, Jamie took up the story of the “shadow” and went so far as to say he felt something push him in his lower back.
I was immediately concerned that Ricky’s paranoia was spreading, and I insisted that Ricky take me to his next session with the psychiatrist. Even though I couldn’t explain why Jamie flew down the stairs like that, I knew that some shadow figure didn’t push him. That was ridiculous.
The day of the appointment I was supposed to attend, I came home from the store to find Ricky in the game room, unresponsive, three empty pill bottles on the floor beside him. Suddenly, three bottles of pills were a lot.
EMTs were on scene in under four minutes, and Ricky was at Evans Army Hospital within 15 minutes but, according to the attending physician, there was nothing they could do.
“He’s got no brain activity at all,” the doctor said. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but your husband is not coming back from this.”
I looked at that doctor with contempt, and stubbornly replied, “You don’t know my husband.” I refused to let them pull the plug.
Now, we were on day 6 in the ICU, and the pressure was mounting. The doctors insisted there was no brain activity, and I insisted that he be left on life support.
But I was losing my resolve. How long should we wait for him to suddenly jump up from the bed and say, “Hey, look, I’m alright now!”? The first few days, I had expected that to happen at any second. Ricky Melrose — pardon me, Staff Sgt. Ricky Melrose — didn’t give up that easily. He wasn’t an easy man to kill. Just ask his soldiers.
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by A. M. Johnson
