Spilling Guts

Part 28 - Walking with Balcuwitz

Louis knew how to keep quiet, keep stuff buried until it didn't matter anymore or until layers of sediment caused any potential explosion to be muffled enough to ignore. But there would still be shrapnel. It wasn't his fault Cetz had brought in an archaeologist to dig up Louis' emotional graveyard. Louis had expected Balcuwitz to immediately ask questions, prod, do a few sweeps around the dirt with a metal detector before digging in with a backhoe. Instead, the doctor in a sweater vest seemed content to lounge by the dig sight while Louis came to grips with the trowel in his hand.

Louis kept pace with the socked therapist, going around the viewing deck twice in companionable silence until he sheepishly pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper from his jean pocket. Time to dig in the trowel.

"I brought my list."

"Lists are good," said Milton. He kept walking, hands in his trouser pockets as if taking an afternoon constitutional. "What is the most important thing on it?"

Instead of the list of personality defects, Louis focus on the item scrawled that day in blue ink instead of black. "My family."

"What about them?"

"I haven't called them since the incident. Texted, couple of emails, yeah, but not voice to voice or video calls."

"Hm." Milton's lips quirked to the side. "Could you specify which incident? You have a lot of them in your file."

Louis could taste dirt already, sand and grit in his hair. The grit came out in his voice. "The one that turned me into a freak."

"The Freewill mission. I see. According to your file you are the youngest of three brothers, yes?"

"Yeah."

"Mother and father both alive and married."

"Last I checked." Louis knew his mother and father were entwined like branches from two different bushes. Naught but death would separate them.

Balcuwitz shrugged. "Some people go years without needing to be visual or vocal with their families. Are you close with yours?"

"I haven't much reason to talk to my brothers," said Louis. And they had little reason to talk to him. The bluster and burrs from their childhood had blunted into a politeness and curiosity when they came in contact with each other. Age, marriage, and kids would do that to anyone, turning older brothers into parents, wondering how their youngest brother got on with a life revolving around a career instead of a spouse and offspring. Possibly in their own children they saw a reflection of what they were like as kids. And what to avoid.

"They went their direction, I went mine," continued Louis. His posture slowly mirrored Balcuwitz's, right hand in his jean pocket as they walked. The pacing around the garden space and shafts of noon sunlight allowed him to dig lower into the dirt, speak more freely, without thinking. "I'm more close with my mom. Especially after the last couple of years. I used to call her once a week."

"Why do you think you are reluctant to talk to your family?"

"I don't know," admitted Louis. "Maybe I don't want them to know what happened to me. If it's just a phone call I can lie about my job. But I feel like mom could tell just by how I sound. I've changed." Bitterness and disgust seeped into his voice. "I have to wear sunglasses everywhere, I can't sleep unless I listen to heartbeat audio, I need blackout curtains for peace, I get swallowed at least once a month. Gonna get swallowed on Monday. I can't exactly tell them that. Confidentiality agreements aside."

And he was envious that Will could hold a live conversation with his mother, shooting the breeze. Will didn't shrink down to the size of a mini-action figure if a flashlight shined in his eyes. Will didn't have tests and worries if he would ever return to normal weighing on his shoulders.