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It used to make you proud. Your father could silence an entire crowd of hunters just by standing up and placing his foot on a chair.
“You see this?” Dad would say, lifting his pants until the hard, scuffed plastic was visible. “I’ve been walking around on this for over a decade. If I can get along without a leg, I can handle this just fine.”
You didn’t see it often. Most of the time, the prosthetic was quietly tucked away beneath his jeans. But any time your father needed to settle a disagreement or encourage you and your little brother, one method was tried and true. After a reminder of everything your father had seen, everyone fell in line.
When your brother busted his arm, his school asked too many questions. They sent cops and social workers right to your door. You packed up and drove all the way down to Florida, but the teachers there were nosy, too. After only two weeks, Dad declared it was time to move on. After all your stuff was in the car, he asked both of you to get back in the motel room. As soon as he thought you weren't looking, he took the hacksaw from the trunk.
Dad sat your brother down on the bed, then looked him straight in the eyes. He knocked on his calf until you heard the solid thunk of plastic. “If I can take it,” he said, “so can you.”
You didn't realize why Dad grabbed the saw until it was touching the cast. With a few clean strokes, he split it in two. Underneath, your brother's arm was still swollen and bruised. When Dad saw it, he frowned.
“We don’t want to attract too much attention. You’ll have to keep that arm covered up. Now, you still need to rest, keep it still, and let it heal, but you don’t need a cast to do that.”
After a moment of thought, Dad rolled his jeans all the way up. He took off his leg, then pulled off the sock covering the stump, too. You saw your Dad without his prosthetic sometimes—he didn’t wear it to sleep, and sometimes he took it off while watching TV—but he never, ever showed you the skin underneath.
It wasn’t pretty. There was a long scar along the bottom, but what you really noticed was the rest. All along the sides were raw red spots, like the ones you got on the back of your heel when your shoes were too small. Just one blister made walking painful enough, and Dad must have had a dozen.
Your mouth was hanging open. You closed it before Dad could see. He didn't like being gawked at. It didn't really matter, though, because he didn't remember you were there at all. His eyes were firmly fixed on your brother.
“You see this? Walking on it hurts like a bitch. But I can't do my job in a wheelchair. I have to work to take care of my family. So I get up, and keep on trekking." Dad paused for a moment and slid the sock back over his stump. “You're a good kid, Sam. I know you can do the same.”
“Yes, sir.” Your brother held his gaze and kept his face stoic. You knew what that look meant; you'd worn it a hundred times before. No matter what, even if it hurt, he wasn't going to let your father down.
Dad never picked you up from school on time. Usually, you had to wait by yourself. That day was different. That day, your teacher sat with you until Dad arrived.
As soon as he marched through the door, she pulled him aside. She spoke in a whisper. Your father didn't, though. His response echoed through the entire lobby.
“Let me tell you something. I lost my leg back in 1972. I haven't seen a doctor in five years. If I can handle that on my own, I don't think Dean needs to see a specialist just because you think he has a disorder. He'll get along just fine without it.”
With that, Dad turned around, grabbed you by the shoulders, and walked you out of the school.
That teacher looked at you like a heap of dirty laundry left on the floor. Of course she thought something was wrong with you. Everyone did. For years, you'd known deep down in the depths of your soul that they were right.
Some small part of you wanted to run back and tell her that your dad was wrong. If she knew what your problem was, maybe she also had a cure.
The rest of you knew better.
Once, when Dad was crying, you told him that you wished you could make things better. He barely even let you finish the sentence. “Kiddo, a lot of things have told me that they could fix all my problems. Witches, demons, hell, even people. It's always a trick. I don't want someone to make everything go away, not even you. Nothing good ever comes of that. I just gotta feel sorry for myself sometimes, and then keep on trekking.”
Dad was right. If a stranger offered you a solution, it probably came with a catch. This teacher was no exception. You didn't need her fix. You just needed to carry on.
Your father lost his leg in a war. It seems that you'll lose your hearing instead. When Dad first let you drive his car, you knew the perfect position to set the dial—high enough to really enjoy the music, but not so loud that it would smother your father's voice. These days, you pass that spot right by.
You used to eavesdrop in bars, just for the hell of it. With every snippet, you imagined a different life, one where all you had to worry about was scoring on a Friday night. You can't do that anymore. Strangers don't like it when they turn their head and catch you staring at their lips.
It's all part of the job. Fire that many shots, and your eardrums will pay. When soldiers enlist, they know the cost. War isn't a game—it comes with serious consequences. You just have to keep trekking.
You don't catch half of your father's instructions these days, but you've learned not to mind. Every time you think about asking him to repeat, you hear one sound loud and clear. The solid thunk of Dad's leg echoes through your brain, reminding you that whatever problems you think you have, he's always had it worse.