Didi
Isaac takes in the center with the same expression I’ve seen on Walker when José comes to tell him he has a psych appointment with my dad. His nostrils quiver and his lips purse. They really are uncannily alike, though Isaac is much quicker to smile and has a more frenetic, unbottled energy to him. I can’t help but wonder if Walker used to be the same, before what happened happened. Or was Walker always the quieter more thoughtful one of the two?
In the lobby Isaac pauses to read the platitude posters and there’s no disguising the look of distaste on his face. The look transforms into one of shock when he sees two marines come through the door, both on crutches, both missing legs.
“Shit,” Isaac murmurs under his breath as they pass us by.
“This way,” I say quickly and lead him toward the elevators.
When we’re in the elevator, Isaac turns to read the poster stuck to the elevator door showing a marine summiting a mountain. The original slogan was “Nothing is impossible,” but someone—that someone probably being Dodds—has added the line, “Except growing a new pair of legs.”
Isaac turns to Walker. “So how long do you have to be in here for?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” Walker shrugs.
As soon as we got back here Walker’s mood deflated. He was as happy as I’ve ever seen him on the boat, and stupidly I thought that maybe it would last, that it would be enough to finally lift him out of the lingering depression he’s been in. I wanted him to have a sense of what was possible. But now that we’re back it’s as if the blanket’s been pulled down even more firmly over his head. He’s barely responsive, not returning my squeeze when I take his hand, no longer smiling.
“Hopefully it’ll be just a few more weeks,” I say brightly, willing him to smile at me.
“And then?” Isaac asks.
Walker shrugs again. “And then I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought.”
We get out of the elevator and start walking toward Walker’s room. He lets go of my elbow. He knows how many steps to take along this hallway and where to turn into his room, and I know he likes to feel independent, but even so I feel a tug that he’s let go of me, as if he’s pushing me away.
“You going back to Mom and Dad’s?” Isaac asks as we enter Walker’s room.
Walker shakes his head. “Not if I can help it.”
“Yeah, I don’t blame you.” He pauses, studying Walker for a moment. “You know, you’re welcome to come stay with me.”
I look from one to the other. Walker looks momentarily phased. He starts to talk, but Isaac cuts in.
“Only if you want to. I have space. I’d love to have you. Until you figure out what you want to do, that is . . .” He looks awkward. It’s there unspoken, hanging in the air. What is Walker going to do next?
Walker runs a hand through his hair. “Thanks. Yeah, I need to think about it.” He turns away to face the window.
“I guess you want to stay near Didi,” Isaac says.
Walker nods, but it’s a vague nod and he’s frowning into the middle distance. I watch him closely, holding my breath. We haven’t spoken about this, but it has crossed my mind. What if he decides to go back to his parents? Would we keep things up long distance?
“Yo!”
I turn around. Sanchez is standing in the doorway. He’s wearing shorts and his prosthetic is proudly on display. I see Isaac’s gaze fall to it immediately.
“Where you all been at?” Sanchez asks.
“We went sailing,” I tell him.
Sanchez does a double take. “You went sailing? What? There I am in the gym, my triathlon buddy, and you’re out sailing?” Sanchez suddenly notices Isaac standing in the room. He walks toward him and holds out his hand. “Hey,” he says. “I’m Jesús. You gotta be Lieutenant Walker’s brother.”
Isaac shakes his hand, looking bemused. “Yeah, how’d you know?”
“You two look like twins.” Sanchez glances my way. “Better keep him out of the way of Angela.” He smirks. “She’ll think all her Christmases have come at once.”
Isaac shakes his head, confused. “Who’s Angela?”
“Just some girl who’s got the hots for Walker over there,” Sanchez tells him, then slaps him on the shoulder. “You do realize who your brother is, don’t you? As well as being the resident man candy and uber player at the center, that is?”
Isaac seems to be struggling to keep up with Sanchez’s divergent train of thought. “Um, no? Not sure I do.”
Sanchez’s expression falls serious. “Your brother is the reason I’m still standing here today. On one leg as that may be. But better one leg than dead, as my wife keeps on telling anyone who’ll listen.”
Isaac shoots a look at Walker, who’s standing now with his back to us, staring out of the window. I want to go to him and put my arm around him, but I can’t. Not here, in front of people. Anyway, I can tell he wants to be left alone, that he hates being reminded of that day.
“This guy,” Sanchez goes on, nodding at Walker, “isn’t just your brother. He’s mine. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for this man.” He slaps Isaac on the back again. “You take care of him, okay?”
My throat is all twisted up. It’s hard to swallow. Even Isaac seems moved by Sanchez’s admission.
“So,” Sanchez says, switching tack all over again. “What do you do? You’re not a military man, that I can tell,” he says, glancing at Isaac’s skinny jeans and long hair with bemusement.
“I’m an artist,” Isaac tells him.
Sanchez’s face lights up. “Like, for real?”
Isaac nods.
“Awesome. You gotta come see this,” he says, and starts tugging on Isaac’s arm, pulling him toward the door.
“Where are we going?” Isaac asks.
“To the art room. I want to show you something.” Sanchez looks over his shoulder. “You guys come too. You’ll want to see this.”
I glance at Walker, who hasn’t moved. “You coming?” I ask.
I walk over to him and put my hands on his shoulder blades and briefly rest my cheek against his back. I wish there was a way inside that heart of his, a way to find the wounds in there and heal them.
“I’ll be back soon,” I tell him.
I feel him nod.
I walk away toward the door, but then turn back. “Walker?” I say.
He turns to face me.
“I . . .” I stop. “Nothing,” I say. “I just had a good time today.”
I swallow, cheeks burning, and walk out the door. What had I been about to say? That I loved him? No. That’s ridiculous. Yet there it is, the word still hanging on the tip of my tongue. I do love him. And the discovery is startling. It’s crept up on me, yet now I turn and face it I realize it was there all along, like my own shadow.
“Didi, hurry up!” Sanchez yells at me. He’s holding the elevator doors.
I glance back over my shoulder. Walker is still standing looking in my direction. There’s the smallest frown line between his eyes.
I think back to what he said a few weeks ago about not being a romantic, how he was cynical about love. How on earth would he react if I told him I was in love with him? I almost laugh at myself. He’d probably think I should be the one locked up in this place, not him.
• • •
“Not bad. Not bad at all,” Isaac says, nodding thoughtfully. He tips his head to one side. “It’s raw, but he has got talent.”
Sanchez pulls a face as though he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “Seriously?”
Isaac nods and goes back to considering Dodds’s paintings, which cover most of one wall of the art studio. He’s moved on since his unicorn blasphemy phase and his technique has definitely improved. I can tell that the picture I’m staring at is of a Care Bear.
“It’s a fascinating portrayal of war,” Isaac says, nodding. “He’s taken the original medium of the platitude poster and turned it on its head. And there’s a beauty and a truth to these paintings, an authenticity that some artists strive their whole lives to achieve.”
Sanchez’s face is now scrunched up fully. He stares at Isaac as if he’s punking him. “You what?”
Just then a whirring noise catches our attention. I turn around. Dodds has wheeled into the art room. He looks at us staring at his paintings and stops dead. With his sagging cheek it looks like he’s pulling a face at us.
“This is Callum Dodds. He’s the painter,” I say, introducing him. “This is Isaac, Walker’s brother,” I tell Dodds.
“He’s an artist,” Sanchez butts in. “He says you got authenticity, Dodds. You hear that? You’re going to be the next Picasso. This”—he gestures at the nearest painting—of a dove with a bloodied stump in its talons flying against a sunset—“is your Guerniwhatica.”
Isaac laughs. He shakes Dodds’s hand. “These are great,” he says. “Didi says you’ve had no training.”
Dodds stares at him with as much suspicion as if Isaac had just told him he could grow him a new pair of legs.
“I’m serious,” says Isaac. “You’ve got real talent.”
Dodds still continues to stare at Isaac as though he’s talking a foreign language he doesn’t understand.
“Shit. Good thing I saved that first picture you painted, hey, Dodds? Wonder what that’ll be worth one day? What do you think?” Sanchez looks at Isaac hopefully.
Isaac shrugs. “I couldn’t say. Let me take some photographs and speak to my agent. There’s a big market right now for anything authentic. Story is everything.” He nods at the paintings and smiles at Dodds. “This stuff is potent.”
Dodds is still staring at him blankly. I put a hand on his shoulder and smile at him encouragingly. “He’s right,” I say.
“There are people who want this on their walls?” Dodds finally asks. “You’re shitting me.” He looks at me. “He’s shitting me, right?”
We all look at Isaac.
“No, I’m not shitting you. There are people who want to buy paintings like this.”
I think about the painting on Zac’s wall. It must have cost thousands. We all stare silently at the array of artwork. Who’d have thought Dodds might be the next big name in art?
After a moment Sanchez shakes his head and tuts loudly. “There we are, stuck with these images in our heads, do anything to erase them, and there are people who want to see this shit on their walls.” He looks over at Dodds. “No offense, Dodds.”
Dodds shakes his head too. “Shit don’t make sense to me neither.”