Didi
I’ll get a ride home with Dad,” my mom tells me as she finishes putting on her lipstick in the rearview mirror.
She’s come with me into work today for some appointments. The soldiers at the center have nicknamed her Doctor Sex, which I think she secretly quite likes. She’s styled to the nines as usual, looking like she’s dressed to appear on Oprah rather than to host therapy sessions with wounded vets, but that’s part of my mom’s whole persona as the glamorous yet still approachable sex doctor. We look alike, my mom and I, both of us with heart-shaped faces and untamable hair, though hers is red and mine dark brown. I have her narrow chin and wide mouth too, but thankfully my dad’s straight nose.
When she’s done, she offers me the lipstick but I shake my head. Over the last two weeks I’ve stopped wearing as much makeup as I used to. I felt like it was drawing too much attention to me. And I was already drawing enough of that, thanks to being the daughter of Doctor Sex and for wearing too-tight scrubs on my first day. I still get a lot of looks, and I see the nudges and winks the soldiers give each other when I walk by, but the comments have lessened and I’m definitely being treated with more respect.
My mom says that when people see a good-looking woman, they naturally assume she can’t be intelligent so you have to fight that bit harder to prove you have a brain. This I have found to be disconcertingly true. Though on the upside, it also means people tend to underestimate you.
We get out of the car and start walking toward the entrance of the building.
“How are things with Zac?” my mom asks.
I can feel my cheeks start to flush. Even the mention of his name makes my heart beat faster.
“You like him,” my mom states, smiling in amusement at my blushing.
I shrug, but can’t help smiling back. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Well, yes, of course I like him.” I think about the texts he keeps sending, always signed off with “xox,” and my stomach does another quick flutter.
“Just be careful,” she says. “He’s an actor, remember.”
I frown. What is she suggesting? That he’s not genuine? Or that I’m shallow enough to fall for fame over substance?
She links her arm through mine and squeezes my elbow. “Sweetheart,” my mom says, “I just want you to be happy. You have a tendency to see only the good in people, and that’s a beautiful thing, but as your mom it makes me worry. He hurt you last time.”
“He told me he never got my texts. He was away shooting.”
Even as I say it I realize how lame it sounds. My mom says nothing and we reach the door to the center, but my mood is dampened. As I pull it open, I spot Walker sitting on a bench on the lawn, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. He’s on his own, and I wonder what he’s doing outside, all alone.
I hesitate, and my mom notices me staring at him. “Who’s that?” she asks.
“That’s Lieutenant Walker, the guy I told you about last week.”
My mom nods. “He looks lonely,” she says, looking at me out the corner of her eye.
She’s right. He does look lonely. And about as approachable as a tornado. He seems wound tight, slouched low on the bench with his hands dug deep into his pockets, and though he’s wearing his bandages he looks like he’s glowering hard beneath them.
“I’m going to go and see if he’s okay,” I tell my mom.
She nods. “I’ll see you at home later.”
“Bye,” I say over my shoulder, already heading toward Walker.
I feel the need to tiptoe as I get close. “Hi,” I say softly when I’m standing in front of him.
His head tilts up at the sound of my voice.
“It’s Didi,” I say, echoing his body language and shoving my hands deep into my pockets. Even though he can’t see me, I feel self-conscious around him, awkward and on edge.
“Yeah, I know,” he answers.
I frown. His tone is off. I thought I’d had a breakthrough with him the other day—that he’d let down some of his barriers—but now they seem to be back up. His voice is flat, as heavy as winter rain.
“How are you doing?” I ask.
He turns his head away from me as though he’s staring off into the distance, and doesn’t answer.
I bite my lip, unsure how to continue. He’s giving off clear signals that he wants me to go away, but something deep inside is telling me not to go anywhere. I sit down, tentatively, watching him closely for his reaction and instantly notice the way his body tenses. His jaw is locked and his nostrils are flaring. The muscles in his forearms are as taut as tripwires, as though his hands are clenched inside his pockets. I want to put my hand on his arm, wishing there was some way I could melt away the tension, but I don’t. It would be tantamount to trying to pet a growling Rottweiler.
He turns toward me briefly and then goes back to staring straight ahead. What can he see? Just endless blackness?
I don’t say anything, and the silence stretches out and wraps around us. At first I can see he’s agitated by it—his lips purse and he frowns; but then, after a minute or two, his body starts to slowly relax, the muscles in his arms unknot, and his shoulders slump inch by inch until he finally lets out a sigh. I let one of my own out, though a quieter one, and feel my own body relax alongside his. How is it that I pick up on his mood so much?
After five minutes of us sitting together in silence, me staring at the lake ahead of us and occasionally snatching glances his way, he speaks.
“What’s in front of me?” he asks.
I turn to look at him, not understanding the question.
He nods his chin at the view in front of us. Oh.
“Here I am sitting on a bench, could be staring at a brick wall for all I know. Or a parking lot.”
“You’re not. There’s a path to your left that leads into the building in one direction, and in the other direction it heads down to the lake.”
“A lake?”
“Yeah. There’s a lawn that goes for about a hundred meters, and then there’s a lake. It’s not a big lake. Maybe two hundred meters across. I guess it’s more a pond than a lake.”
He nods. There’s another pause before he asks, “What color’s the sky?”
I smile, but at the same time I feel a sharp tug in my heart. What must it be like to know you might never see the sky again, or colors?
I look upward. “It’s blistering blue. Swimming-pool blue. Like someone’s poured chlorine into it.”
“Is chlorine blue?” he asks.
I laugh. “Actually, I have no idea. But the sky is very blue today. And there’s not a single cloud.”
He tilts his face up to the sun and I find myself staring at him, at the hard line of his jaw and the soft curve of his mouth. I look quickly away.
A loud bang from the side of the building makes me jump. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a couple of maintenance guys throwing sacks of garbage into a dumpster. I turn back to Walker and see that he’s sitting bolt upright on the bench, his hands white-knuckled, gripping the edge of the seat. He’s breathing hard, almost hyperventilating, and his face has turned ghostly white.
Without thinking, I put my hand on his arm. “Are you okay?” I ask.
He throws my hand off and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and sinking his head into his hands. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, but clearly he isn’t fine. The noise must have thrown him. It’s a classic post-traumatic stress response—hyperreactivity to noises or smells, anything that triggers a memory of the event, in Walker’s case probably the explosion.
I scowl over my shoulder at the maintenance men and then, before I can stop myself, I put my hand on Walker’s back, between his shoulder blades. He doesn’t throw me off this time. Instead I feel his muscles harden, then relax, slowly. I stroke his back until his breathing calms and he sits up straight.
He takes a deep breath in and I let my hand drop from his back.
He nods a little as if to himself, a nod that I take to mean thank you, even though he hasn’t said a word. And even though he can’t see me, I nod back.
“Yo.”
I look up. It’s José jogging toward us in his white scrubs. “Sorry,” he says, “I got caught up in something. You ready to come back inside? You get enough vitamin D?”
He nods at me. “Hey, how you doing, Didi?”
I smile. “I’m good.”
Walker gets slowly to his feet. I stand too. He looks so vulnerable with the bandages on, and all I want to do, what I have to fight against doing, is hug him.
“Bye,” Walker says, turning his head briefly in my direction.
“Bye,” I say as José starts leading him back inside the building. They stop a few feet away from me and Walker turns and looks back toward me.
“Thanks,” he says, and I hear the note of embarrassment in his voice.
A lump rises up my throat. “You’re welcome,” I answer.