Peaches, Second Skins, and the Slow Work of Healing
- Tanya Madsen
- Jun 14
- 11 min read
Updated: Jun 14
“Peaches” is a gentle story about two veterans who have forgotten how to be soft. At a retreat tucked between orchards and open sky, Sam and Karen learn to loosen their grip on survival mode. While picking peaches in the mid‑summer heat, they discover what it means to shed their second skins — the armor built from grief, war, and the long echo of things they never said out loud. This is a story about vulnerability, buried pain, and the unexpected sweetness of finding someone who sees you, scars and all.
After a non-profit gave a beautiful and touching Memorial Day presentation at my work, a story popped into my head. I jotted it down on Friday morning. Sometimes, a story is a single scene that burns its way into your mind and simply won't leave. Such is the case here. Inspired by retreats such as Warrior Rizen, the orchard and the characters in this story are entirely fictional, but I believe in cathartic love and enjoy writing about it. Thanks for reading!
Peaches
By Tanya Madsen
“My name is Karen,” she said, standing slightly to introduce herself. “And yes, I am a Karen.”
She didn’t smile when she said it. In fact, she didn’t smile at all, which was refreshing. Women were conditioned to smile, as if the fate of humanity rested on their positive attitude. If that were the case, then Karen was single-handedly wrecking the world.
He hadn’t checked out a woman in months. Or to be honest, in over a year. Rarely left his apartment either. She looked Army. Her sand-colored calf-length capris with all those baggy pockets reminded him of Army-issued fatigues, which got him thinking about a whole bunch of stuff he’d rather not think about.
Fitted white T-shirt. Only a military vet knew how to keep a T-shirt white. There was a trick to it. It was called changing into a clean one every hour on the hour. But it wasn’t her shapely breasts or toned thighs that had him staring. It was her scar. From upper arm to elbow, she brandished a massive scar, pieces of flesh long gone now, all healed over with thick, uneven tissue. It looked like a shrapnel wound. He’d bet his life on it.
“So glad you decided to join our retreat, Karen.” Their camp mom, Wren, was a real sweetheart. She smiled warmly. “Do you mind telling us what prompted you to come?”
“A free vacation?”
There was a titter around the fire pit. That was the main reason most of these folks were here, but few were willing to admit it.
It was six in the morning. The sun hadn’t yet risen. They clutched mugs of hot coffee as they introduced themselves to each other on day two of this week-long retreat for Veterans. Esconced in a valley on a farm away from meddlers and noise. There were horses in the pasture and chickens pecking around next to a barn. There was a massive garden, a meandering stream lined with cottonwood for all the fishing aficionados and to Sam’s surprise, a peach orchard. The rows of trees were lined up like soldiers in uniform, and he couldn’t help but think it was intentional. Some subtle way of paying tribute to the brave men and women who gave their lives for this country.
“What about you, Sam?”
Wren nodded at him. She was like a real mom. She emanated warmth, and he caught a scent of chocolate chip cookies every time she passed by. Did they make a chocolate chip cookie-scented lotion? In this wild world, he’d believe anything.
“You introduced yourself but didn’t tell us why you chose to join this retreat.”
He paused. Really had no idea how to say it. He didn’t sport an injury. He didn’t have PTSD. He wasn’t hung up on the ethical dilemma of whose side he was fighting on since he had no control. War was war. It had been stupid as fuck since time began and the favorite pastime of men with massive egos and shriveled souls. War was killing and destroying. But it was also preserving and protecting. It was noble and shameful. There were plenty who considered him to be a facilitator of evil. And others who praised him. There were two sides to every story—and both were right.
“Well, let’s see.”
Should he say it? He felt sixteen curious eyes on him. It seemed like he needed a really big reason to be here since he was selected from a long list of vets who applied to come. The retreat was run by a non-profit and partly funded by government grants. His cause sounded trite, and he doubted anyone could understand. But it felt wrong lying to his compadres.
“Don’t judge me too hard, okay? I don’t have a disabling injury, nor do I suffer from PTSD. My wife did not leave me—never been married. And I don’t suffer from depression, anxiety or really anything else other than a chronic case of insomnia. I guess I signed up for this because, um, well—”
“It’s okay, Sam,” Wren soothed. “You don’t need to explain. We all get it.”
“I’m lonely,” he blurted. “Even though I’m surrounded by people. Sure. I go to the gym every day. I’m involved in a few local charities. I chit-chat with my neighbors. But I feel alone. Like, I don’t fit in anywhere. I’ve tried working a civilian job. It’s weird. All these people grew up with freedom. They fucked around through their twenties while I succumbed to brutal training exercises and a strict no-partying regimen. So yeah, it sounds lame but—”
Wren put her hand up.
“It’s not lame. It’s brave of you to be so candid. Loneliness is a real issue, and if not resolved, it can lead to a whole lot of problems. We are so happy you have joined us.”
He felt his ears turn pink and his face heat up. Embarrassed. It was silly to feel this way, but that’s how people were—ashamed of their feelings.
“Now, as you know, part of this retreat requires that you work. And we all know how you vets love discipline,” Wren laughed. “I am going to give you assignments and assign you each a work buddy. And no, you don’t get to choose. People tend to mingle with those they like instinctively or have the most in common with, but that’s not what this is all about. We want to challenge your thinking and help you form bonds with those you might not otherwise associate with.”
Down the list she went. Sam knew who his partner would be before she spoke the words.
“Sam and Karen, you’re working the orchard. We have a ton of ripe peaches. Once these are picked, they go straight to the Farmer’s Market, and the proceeds help to pay to run this place.”
“So, we’re glorified migrant workers?”
Karen snapped as she stood, dumping her entire cup of coffee onto the dirt beside her stone bench, then glanced over at him and glared.
Wren shook her head.
“Nothing like that. If you really don’t want to do it, we can accommodate your preferences and find you something else to do.”
“No, I’m fine with chores. Been doing them all my life,” Karen huffed, then stalked back toward their sleeping quarters.
“Okay then. Everyone, let’s head to the dining hall for breakfast, and then you can get started. We like to wrap our chores up before we hit the hottest part of the day, so let’s plan to meet back here at ten.”
Sam hung around the gas fire pit and watched the sunrise. The golden light spilled across the fields, reminding him of the relentless sun in the Middle East. Then he hit the dining room and wolfed down a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, fresh fruit and scones. Karen didn’t join them.
He sauntered toward the orchard. The air was moist and cool with the spray of irrigation and shadowed with insect wings. This place was absolutely magical. He glanced around. No Karen. Figured she would join him if she wanted to. Eventually, he heard steps behind him.
“How many peaches do you think they expect us to pick?”
“This ain’t work. It’s just supposed to feel like it.”
“Where are you from?”
“Missouri.”
“Hmm. I could have sworn I heard a drawl.”
He felt his face flush once again.
“I was born in Kentucky but moved away when I was nine. No one can ever detect my native accent. Are you Army?”
“How did you guess?”
He didn’t want to tell her it was due to her scar. Didn’t want her to feel marginalized, so he said nothing.
“I’m a good listener. That’s what I did as a soldier.” She paused, then added, “MOS 15Q.” When he didn’t respond, she then said, “I was air traffic control.”
“I know what MOS 15Q stands for. That’s impressive.”
“Is it? Or are you just flirting?”
“Ahh, um—”
Was he flirting? No. After a dozen years of hardcore conditioning to not ogle or flirt with his female counterparts, he was pretty scared shitless to even glance at a woman in uniform, even if she was dressed down. Eyes averted, he replied.
“Na, just being conversational, I guess. I know nothing about air traffic.”
“I do it for a living too. Work for the FAA.”
“That’s gotta be stressful.”
“Yeah, if you’re a pussy.”
She grabbed one of the crates stacked at the entrance to the orchard, then headed down a row of peach trees. Wren was right. The branches were heavily laden with fruit, abundantly so. Sam felt a sense of awe with Mother Earth. She was the perfect friend. Always giving and always replenishing, lifting up the world and keeping them alive. And yet most people treated her like shit.
He grabbed himself a crate and followed. Soon, he realized they were in a competition. Karen had filled up two crates by the time he had filled one. She stared at him contemptuously.
“Is that all you got?”
“Don’t you know how to relax?” he asked defensively.
“Nope.”
She grabbed her third crate and had it filled in no time.
“Why don’t you get yourself a dog?” Karen called out from across the row. “You say you’re lonely. Well, get a pet.”
“I’m allergic to most dogs and most cats.”
“That’s gotta suck ass. I don’t know. You could use an antihistamine. It’s better than offing yourself, which is what will happen unless you make some friends.”
Sam skirted around the row of trees until he was standing in front of her.
“You realize that is a rude thing to say? Offing myself? Have some respect. I’ve had friends who’ve ‘offed themselves.’” he used finger quotes. “And no. Getting a fucking dog wasn’t going to fix it. And to answer your real question, I’m not suicidal.”
He flipped around to return to his tree. He heard her reply softly,
“That’s what he said, just before he went through with it.”
Sam stopped and turned. Karen was holding her shoulders. Tense. Guarded.
“Who said what?”
She shook her head.
“Who?” he repeated.
Karen shook her head again and lowered her eyes. He could tell she was about to cry, and it was his instinct to back off, let her cry in silence, give her privacy.
“My husband.”
She wiped her eyes and turned away, and in an instant, Sam realized that this was why he was lonely. He always walked away and remained an unbiased third party. So he stood his ground instead and replied.
“You know, we aren’t on the battlefield. You can remove your armor now. I don’t think either of us belongs to the crab family, so it’s not a second skin. You’re safe now.”
“Safe?” she scoffed. “What does that word even mean? Just because we’re not dodging bullets doesn’t mean we’re safe. No one is safe. Mass shootings. Head-on collisions. Life-stealing disease. Mental illness. Life sucks. It’s meant to suck.”
“Tell me what happened. With your husband.”
She leaned up against a tree.
“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who gives a shit.”
“Well, maybe I never took off my armor either. It sure as hell feels like I have a second skin. Maybe that’s our problem. What happened?”
She shrugged, sniffed and laughed sharply.
“Lied to my face for months. Told me he was fine. We were even planning to have a baby. And then one morning—”
She turned away, her face against the rough tree trunk.
“My God. I can’t imagine your pain, but I can feel it. Come here.”
Sam hadn’t wrapped his arms around a woman since he visited his sister nearly two years ago for Christmas. He hadn’t touched anyone but himself in a very long time.
“I’m sorry,” she heaved. “I’m no weeper. But the moment I arrived here, I knew I was fucked. This was Pete’s dream: a hobby farm with goats and chickens, maybe even a peach orchard. I can’t stay here. It’s too painful.”
Arms around her, Sam ran his fingers over her scar, felt the places where flesh was missing, the tissue that had regrown smooth as baby skin and easily as sensitive.
“I’m not the guy people come to for comfort. I don’t think anyone has ever cried on my shoulder. But believe me when I say you did not deserve to go through that. Nor did Pete. Nor did the millions of others who lose their way and surrender. Life is war. War with each other. War with ourselves.”
Karen continued to cry, and Sam was dumbfounded. Up until three minutes ago, he thought he was harvesting peaches alongside G.I. Jane. A badass with a capital B. Now she was crying in his arms?
Sam reached up and plucked a peach from a nearby branch. Scrutinized it for bugs and other defects. Rubbed it on the side of his jeans. It was perfect. He turned her around. His arm was around her shoulder, her neck against his lips. He held the peach up in front of them, turning it back and forth as he spoke softly into her ear.
“This is how I see it. We come into this world perfect. Like this peach. Each of us is beautiful and filled with everything we need to sustain us. But slowly, we are eaten alive. Watch.”
“My mom left when I was nine.” He took a bite of the peach. The juice dribbled down his chin and onto her neck, but she didn’t pull away. “Here. You.” He offered it to her, and she took it.
“My childhood sucked. No further comment.”
She took a bite.
“I tore my ACL senior year of high school and was benched for a semester. Lost my chance at a college sports scholarship as a result.”
He took another bite.
“My high school sweetheart dumped me when I told him I planned to enlist.”
She took another bite.
“Lost my dad to cancer during a deployment to Afghanistan and didn’t get to say goodbye.”
Another bite. Half the peach gone. Karen turned around to look at him.
“Met Pete, and we both were deployed across the world from each other three months later. It was years before we were able to start a life together.”
She took a huge bite. The juice was everywhere. Clinging to the peach fuzz on her upper lip, covering her chin. She went to wipe it away, but he moved in, cupped her face and licked her mouth, her lips, her chin. Looked into her eyes.
“On my thirty-third birthday, I finally accepted that I would never find anyone to share a life with.”
He took a huge bite of the peach, hitting the core. To his disappointment, the juicy flesh was almost gone. Karen cradled his chin in return and licked his lips and cheeks until the licking evolved into kissing. His senses were on high alert. He could taste the fruit along with her breakfast granola. Could smell the wet morning irrigation and the aroma of fertilizer. She pulled away, grabbed the peach and took the last bite.
“Lost my husband and best friend and really my only friend to suicide,” she whispered. Tossed the peach pit on the ground and pushed him up against the tree.
They gathered exactly four and a half crates of peaches that morning. Far less than the average participant. And it was a struggle to make it through the rest of the week without finding a corner to go at it—they had strict rules about fraternizing on the premises. But from that day forward, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other or help themselves from sharing a life together. And they made sure to share a ripe, juicy peach with the sunrise as they had that day in the orchard where they finally learned to shed their skin.
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