Walker
I can feel her standing by the bed. I’m not sure what she’s doing or why she’s even in my room. It must be the middle of the night. I pretend I’m asleep. I don’t want her to know that I know she’s there.
What did she see? What did she hear? Was I yelling in my sleep? Or worse, screaming? I know she’s seen me crying. That’s bad enough. I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want anyone to.
But at the same time I register somewhere deep down inside me that same feeling I had this afternoon, that I don’t want her to go anywhere. She doesn’t even have to touch me. I just want her here. In the room. With me. So I wait, trying not to hold my breath, every one of my still working senses primed—acutely tuned—to her presence in the room.
When I woke up from my nightmare—heart thundering, feeling like a thousand pieces of white-hot shrapnel were thudding into my body, Lutter’s screams still echoing around my skull—I thought at first that it was Miranda in the room with me. But then it all came rushing back: the blistering road in Helmand, the scouring blindness, the scorching pain in my knee, the engagement ring lying discarded in the drawer of my nightstand.
But instead of being sucked into a maelstrom, as usually happens when I come round and am hit by the reality that’s worse than the actual nightmare—they’re dead . . . it’s my fault . . . there’s nothing left—there was Didi, taking my hand and whispering to me that everything was okay.
And for a moment, just a brief one, I believed it. I want that now. I want that tiny moment of respite again. A split second outside of time where everything—both reality and dreams—is suspended.
Is it possible to crave something you’ve barely experienced, and only for such a short amount of time? I guess I’m just starved of affection and touch and closeness. Because right now, that’s what I want. That’s what I’m holding my breath for, even though I’m trying so hard not to.
But it’s not going to happen. I hear Didi take a shallow breath in and then back away toward the door. I almost say something—the words are there, on the very tip of my tongue—but I clamp my mouth shut and force myself to stay silent.
I hear the shush of the door being pulled to and wait a few minutes before I roll over onto my back. I stare into the void and let the sounds of the ward filter in: the radio buzzing, the water cooler humming, nothing from Dodds.
I think about reaching for the TV remote but I don’t. Instead I replay what just happened over and over in my head, trying to put a picture to it.
• • •
“Wakey wakey, rise and shine, Lieutenant, you got an appointment in half an hour with the doc.”
I groan and roll over. I must have fallen asleep after Didi left. I don’t normally do that after I’ve had a nightmare. There’s usually no chance of sleeping again—the images in my head are too vivid, the adrenaline pumping too hard around my body. It’s like trying to sleep after drinking a vat of coffee while watching a horror movie.
I struggle into a sitting position. For a second, as José bustles around me, setting down a breakfast tray and pouring my pain meds and happy pills into my palm, I wonder if I imagined the whole thing. Was Didi really in my room last night? Did I dream that too? But then I remember the feeling of her hand on mine, the sound of her voice—I couldn’t have imagined that. She was here. She was definitely here.
“So, are you going to let me shave that beard off?” José asks.
“No,” I answer, dry-swallowing my pills.
“You’re starting to look like a bum.”
“Yeah?” I say. “Well, it’s not like I have to see it.”
“The rest of us do, though,” José jokes.
“I don’t want to shave, okay?” It comes out angrier than I mean it to. For the first five weeks of being here José helped me shave every few days, but only because I was a total zombie and didn’t have the energy or will to say no. Now I do.
José mutters something under his breath. I ignore him and start stabbing at the plate, unsure what it is I’m even stabbing at. Probably some rubbery reconstituted egg. That’s usually what they serve up at breakfast.
“You got toast today,” José points out helpfully. “Want some help buttering it?”
I put down the fork and reach for the knife, but manage to knock over a glass of something as I fumble to find the butter.
“Shit,” I growl as water drips off the tray table and onto the bed, soaking my sheets.
“It’s okay, I got it,” José says, and I hear him whip away the breakfast tray and put it down on the side. “Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll change the sheets? I’ll order up another breakfast for you.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m not hungry.”
I get out of the bed, stubbing my foot on the nightstand and cursing again as I reach for the crutches they gave me yesterday after my knee op. I hobble my way to the bathroom, shut the door, and then sit down heavily on the toilet seat, realizing too late that it’s up. I toss the crutches to the ground and put my head in my hands, then toss the pills I’m still clutching in my palm into the bowl.
The pain in my knee is just a dull throb today, but I wish it were worse. I want it to be worse. It’s a reminder of why I’m here in the first place. It’s a constant reminder of how I failed.
Why should I be the one who gets to live? Why should I be the one who gets to walk around on two legs, pain free? Why the fuck should I be the one getting a medal for bravery when five men—my men—are dead in the ground?
The nightmares every night? The pain? That’s my punishment. A pathetic punishment, sure, but it’s all I’m going to get.
• • •
Sanchez bangs on the bathroom door ten minutes later.
“What are you doing in there? Beating off?”
I ignore him.
“Want me to come back? How long do you need? Twenty seconds? Longer?”
I open the door.
“Oh, hey,” he says. “You’re done. Awesome.”
I swing my way toward the bed on my crutches, feel for it and sit down.
“You want that toast?” Sanchez asks.
José must have brought my second tray up.
“Go for it,” I tell Sanchez and hear him head toward the bed. He’s not in his wheelchair and I don’t hear the creak and swish of crutches either, so he must be walking on his prosthetic leg.
“How you doing?” he asks, and I hear him ripping open the butter packet.
“Okay,” I say, and as I say it I remember Didi murmuring the exact same thing to me last night. Everything’s okay. I’m here. My gut clenches.
“So listen,” Sanchez says. “There’s this triathlon coming up. And I want to take part.”
“A triathlon?” I ask, unable to keep the smile out of my voice despite everything I’m feeling.
“Yeah. Like, you have to swim a mile and run ten miles and then cycle, like, fifty miles or something.”
“Yeah, I know what a triathlon is,” I tell him.
“Well,” Sanchez goes on, “I figure I got a chance at winning.”
I start laughing.
“What?” Sanchez asks.
I shake my head. “You only have one leg. What you going to do? Hop for ten miles? Swim in a circle?”
“That’s cruel,” he says, but he’s laughing too. “It’s a special triathlon. Only vets. It’s a triathlon for wounded marines in rehab. Everyone’s gonna be injured. There are guys doing it who got no legs. I figure I got the advantage, seeing how I’ve got one, at least. And you should check out my prosthetic. It’s made of titanium or something. I’m like the freaking Terminator.”
How the hell is he so positive? Are they mashing Prozac into his scrambled egg every morning? If that’s the case, I might have to start eating breakfast, or maybe swallow the pills I’ve been flushing.
“It’s in two months’ time,” he says. “So I got to start training now.” I hear him take a bite out of the toast. “Damn,” he mutters with his mouth full, “this bread is drier than a nun’s—”
A knock on the door interrupts him.
“Lieutenant Walker?”
It’s my ophthalmologist.
“Sir,” I say, standing up and saluting. Old habits die hard. He’s a major. My knee flares; if I wasn’t already blind I’m pretty sure the pain would do a good job of blinding me. I suck in a breath but don’t sit.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you had an appointment,” Sanchez says. “I gotta go anyway. Valentina’s coming in and I want to show her what I can do with my new arm.”
I hear him heading for the door. “Sir,” he says, saluting the doc.
“Corporal,” the doc answers.
“I’ll talk to you about our training schedule later,” Sanchez calls on his way out the door.
“Wait, what?” I call after him.
“Our training schedule,” he shouts back, already halfway down the hallway. “For the triathlon. You’re doing it with me.”
“What?” I yell, but I can hear the doors already slamming behind him.
“You’re doing the rehab triathlon?”
I turn back into the room. The doc’s talking to me.
“Er . . .” I say.
“That’s a great idea,” the doc says. “It will give you something to focus on.”
Before I can tell him that I’m not taking part in any damn triathlon, let alone one that’s called a rehab triathlon, he ushers me backward toward the bed, propelling me with his hands on my shoulders.
“Okay now,” he says, pushing me down so I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. “We’re just going to take off these bandages and see how we’re doing.”
We? I raise my eyebrows. I figure he’s still got his sight, so I’m not too sure why there’s a we in this equation. I sigh, though, say nothing, and let him unwrap the bandages.
When he’s done I have to blink a few times to get my eyelids to work, they’re so unused to the action. They feel gummy, my eyelashes are all glued together. I wait, blinking furiously, expecting, even though I know it’s futile, for my vision to miraculously return like it always seems to do in the movies.
Nothing happens. It’s like floating in space, light-years from any sun. There are no flickers of light, not even shadows in my peripheral vision. I can’t make out a damn thing.
The doc tilts my head backward and makes some humming and hahhing noises as he lifts my eyelids in turn to examine my eyes.
I have blast-related ocular trauma. Basically, the pressure waves from the explosion detached a retina, causing blindness in my right eye, but so far they haven’t been able to tell me anything about why I’m blind in my left eye too. They just mumble about blast injuries and contusions.
“Okay,” the doc says. “Everything looks good. The retina has reattached. You’re healing up well.”
“Then why can’t I see anything?” I ask, frustrated.
“We’re going to need to run some further tests,” he answers in that placid noncommittal doctor tone I’m getting used to. “I’m going to make an appointment for you later this week.”
I shake my head. More tests.
“The orthopedic surgeon tells me your knee’s looking good,” he says in a jovial voice.
“Yeah,” I answer, unable to match his tone.
“You’ll have to take it easy with the triathlon training. Watch that knee. Or use a wheelchair.”
A wheelchair? He’s got to be joking. I came first out of my entire marine class in the physical training exam. There’s no way I’m using a wheelchair for anything. Ever.
I guess he must notice my expression because he pats me on the shoulder. “Okay, Lieutenant, you have a good day now. I’ll arrange those tests for you and be in touch.”
“Wait,” I say as I hear him head for the door. “What about the bandages?”
“Oh, you don’t need those on anymore. You’re good. It was just to protect the retina from any dirt or dust and the chance of infection, but you’re fully healed.”
My eyebrows lift and I can’t stop the snort. Yeah. Sure I am.