It was completely dark outside as April and I opened the door and stepped out of the house. Only then did I remember that we’d parked the car all the way at the bottom of the hill. To reach Apri’s Volvo, we would need to go back down the wooded path to the main road. The woods seemed sinister all of a sudden.

Fear gripped me, and I reached for April’s hand. She must have felt the same way, for her hand felt cold to the touch.

“Ready?” I asked, my voice quivering.

“Yeah.” April turned to me, and I kissed her.

Feeling her face close to mine, I felt once more on the verge of tears and blinked fast, trying to will them away. But they came anyway and, before I knew it, I felt myself dissolve into tears. Sobs came, wave after wave, taking over me with such force I almost doubled over. I could not remember crying so hard. Not even when Mama died did I cry so hard. In fact, I’d been holding it together all these years, going through my life sure I was doing fine.

But that clearly wasn’t the case. I was unraveling, fast. I heaved, desperate to stop the tears, but the more I tried to stop myself from crying, the harder I cried. Everything was wrong. My life was a disaster. I’d lost my Mama, and there was nothing that could bring her back. I was bound to become a loser without a future, without a college education, with no prospects in life. The best I could hope for was a job at Vista Communications, and the AI Lab where April’s dad worked would only lead to a disaster, if I were so lucky as to get a job there.

“Rodion, what’s wrong?” April asked, her voice gentle, and it nearly broke me.

More tears came, and now I cried over April, the only good thing in my life, who was leaving to go to Penn, and would inevitably forget me, because there was nothing holding us together. Nothing connecting us, and once she was in Philadelphia, she would never think of me. A loser with no prospects in life. I couldn’t respond and shook my head, half-hoping she would leave me alone.

As terrifying as it was, being alone in the darkness was tempting. Maybe I’ll be eaten by a wild animal, I thought, and this misery would be all over. My expression must have changed, because April opened her eyes wide and, without saying a word, rushed back to the house. She knocked, hard, and screamed:

“Open up, Aunt Molly, please help!”

Immediately, the door opened, and I saw Aunt Molly’s concerned face peek out. She took one look at me and rushed outside. Behind her, I saw Michael, his burly frame moving surprisingly fast.

“Rodion, oh, I am so sorry.” Aunt Molly started to say, but Michael interrupted her.

“Honey, let me, please.”

His voice was low and so full of authority that I gulped and my tears immediately dried up. Aunt Molly stepped back, and so did April, and I was face-to-face with Michael. It was as if I was really noticing him for the first time, though he was hard to miss. He was very large, tall, at least 6’3, maybe taller, with broad shoulders and a protruding belly. Next to his wife, he looked enormous. His beard was long, with streaks of gray in it, and now, outside, in the dim light coming from the house, he looked half-magical, almost like a lumberjack from a fairy tale who emerged from the forest. I expected Michael to lead me back inside, but he pointed to the porch and said,

“Let’s you and me sit over there and talk. Man to man.”

It wasn’t quite an order, but felt like one, and I followed him, shuffling my feet, surreptitiously wiping the tears. Michael dropped onto the bench and patted a spot next to him. I sat down, unsure what to expect. Would Michael now call ‘son’, ‘sport’ or ‘bud’? What was a man-to-man talk, anyway?

I’d never had one, certainly not with Phil who dumped me before I was even a teenager, not with Vlada’s husband, Boris, who, unlike his garrulous wife, rarely spoke and kept mostly to himself. The closest I’d ever come to having a man to man conversation was with my high school art teacher, Dr. Clark, when he’d spoken to me about his ancestors and succeeding against all odds, though those weren’t exactly conversations, more like pep talks.

“Sit right here, Rodion, I’m gonna go grab us a lemonade. I’d bring you something stronger, but Molly would kill me,” Michael said. I couldn’t tell if he was joking. He left, leaving the door half-open, and I sat alone on the porch. I heard crickets, and the forest didn’t seem so sinister any more. From inside of the house, I could hear Aunt Molly speaking with April. Michael re-emerged quickly, carrying two glasses. He handed me one and took a sip from the other.

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“Molly makes great lemonade. All natural. Sweetened with our own honey.” The man noted casually. It was a strange thing to hear from this guy. “You know, I’m lucky I found her when I did.” I figured he’d expect me to respond, but he continued speaking. “Molly is into all this natural stuff. She helps people heal. You know, I wasn’t a believer, not until she helped me turn my life around.”

I fidgeted and stared at the glass of lemonade. Was this guy going to tell me about his amazing life? If so, I would have none of it. What did this guy know about suffering and misery? He could never understand what it was like to be me, to be miserable and worthless, to have no future, and to live for one thing. Revenge.

“Now, I know what you’re probably thinking.” Michael cleared his throat. “Here’s some old fart trying to talk to me, and he got no clue what it’s like to be 18.” I blushed and raised my hands in protest. Was this guy reading my mind? “It’s alright to think that. I used to be the same way. And listen, what I’m gonna tell you is my own story, and maybe you’ll find it relatable. And maybe it’ll help you. Maybe it won’t, but I’m gonna tell you my story anyway.” Michael continued. Despite myself, I started to like him. “Deal?” He turned to me, and I nodded.

“I grew up in West Virginia, in the mountains, not too far from here. My family was all coal miners, Irish immigrants, proud, and that was what I was raised to expect. I was going to be a coal miner, just like the men in my family. But then I got drafted for Vietnam, right at age 18. I was actually excited, the idiot that I was, happy to be fighting for democracy and freedom. I got my eight weeks of basic training, then nine more weeks of AIT, and there I was. In Vietnam. Same age as you.” Michael took a sharp breath.

I’d heard of the Vietnam war, of course I have, but I never took it to heart. By the time we came to America, it was long over, and I’d never spoken to anyone who’d fought in that war. The war my mother cared about was World War II, and that was because my own grandfather and namesake had fought in it.

“Death and fear. That was what Vietnam turned out to be for me. Fear of dying and seeing death. Day in, day out.” Michael said, his voice cracking. “You know what a kill ratio is?”

I shook my head. ‘Kill ratio’ sounded kind of cool, like something out of gaming.

“It’s how many enemies die for each one of your own to make war worthwhile.” Michael stopped and took a sip of the lemonade. “That was the thing that was the hardest. It was seeing all that death and being responsible for so much of it. In the Army, you’re not supposed to care. They teach you to ignore death. Like it’s a normal thing. ‘Zapping’ is what they call it when you shoot someone. And burning men alive is ‘crispy crittering.’

I felt a knot form in my stomach, thinking of my own dream of killing Phil to avenge Mama. Could death be as scary as Michael was telling me?

“The most terrible part was that at the time, I didn’t even care. We were all in it together. I couldn’t just stop, nor did I want to. And I was one of the lucky ones. I came home in one piece. And then the nightmares started. Not right away, though. It was like my mind was playing tricks on me, pretending everything was fine.” Michael chuckled. “I signed up for the coal mine and there I was, my first day on the job, and we got underground and I flipped out. Straight-up panic attack, though back then no one called it that. But I’d go underground and I’d have to get out, I curled up in a ball and I couldn’t move. Imagine, my pops, and grand pops, all the men in my family, we’re known to the whole town, and here I am, freaking out in a mine.”

Michael shook his head. “No one connected it to the war. To trauma, PTSD. It’s all the terms we use now. But back then, they just thought I was faking it, trying to be lazy, to not work. My parents put up with me for a few months, and they thought even that was too generous. Then they kicked me out.” He sighed. “I was just a twenty-year-old, and had been through war, but my parents treated me like garbage.”

Now, I could relate to that. I immediately pictured Phil and feelings of resentment overwhelmed me, bile rising in my throat. I was feeling outrage for Michael and was eager to hear how he punished his parents.

“And it took me years to forgive them.” He added after a pause, and I opened my eyes wide. I expected a story of revenge, redemption, and this wasn’t turning out that way at all. “But first I had to forgive myself.”

“Forgive yourself?” I jumped. My voice was hoarse, and I realized it was the first thing I said since Michael started speaking. “What for?”

“For the trauma. Part of the tricky part with trauma is that we blame ourselves for it. We think we’re responsible for it. That whatever bad things that happened to us, we are the ones to blame.”

Michael’s words took my breath away.

“We do?” I gulped.

I’d never admitted it to anyone, but I’d always blamed myself for Mama’s death. I was the one to blame for not being Phil’s son. It was because of me, because I’d let myself be tricked into going with Phil to the Lab to do the DNA test. It was my fault Phil discovered the lie about my paternity and left us. My fault. But what if it wasn’t my fault? Thoughts swirled in my mind, and I was grateful for the darkness.

“Yes. We do. Trauma is tricky. That self-blame is sometimes so scary and shameful we don’t even admit it to ourselves. But I know you’re on the right track, Rodion.” Michael turned to me and his eyes sparkled. “Wanna know why?”

I did and nodded eagerly.

“Because you cried.”

“What?” I threw my hands up and nearly spilled the glass with lemonade, now half-empty.

“Yes. Tears are a good thing. They call it catharsis.” He rose from his seat. “It took me twenty years to cry after Vietnam. You’re doing much better than me, kid.”

I also stood up. This was a lot to absorb, but I tried to summarize it in my head, so I could think about this later. Killing was bad and would haunt you. Trauma was hard because of self-blame. Tears were good because of catharsis.

“Now, promise you’ll come back here and let me know how you’re doing.” Michael extended his hand. I shook it and said,

“I promise.”