Walker
I can hear Sanchez and Dodds down the hall, laughing and joking around. They’re in Dodds’s room and Didi’s with them. I can hear her voice cutting through theirs, and then more laughter. I sit up in bed, trying to hear what they’re saying. What’s so funny?
A lightning bolt of pain rockets through my knee when I try to move, and I grimace. Damn, it hurts. The painkillers are wearing off post-op.
Before I can struggle fully to sitting, someone knocks on my door.
“Hey.”
It’s Didi. Even if she hadn’t said hi I would have sensed it was her.
“Hi,” I say back, running a hand through my hair.
Shit. I must look a mess. I still haven’t shaved and I’m wearing the hospital gown that they made me put on for the operation this morning.
“How are you doing today?” she asks.
I shrug, wincing as pain flares hot in my knee again. What the hell did the surgeon do? Blowtorch the inside of my kneecap? It was only keyhole surgery, so why the hell does it hurt so much?
“How was the operation?”
“I don’t know. The surgeon hasn’t been around yet to speak to me.”
“Do you want me to find out when he’s coming?” she asks.
I shake my head. I’m happy to put that off as long as possible.
“You feel like a visitor?” she asks. “I brought my laptop so I could add some music to the iPod.”
I do a weird shrug-nod thing that probably makes me look like I’m having a fit.
I hear her walk around to the nightstand beside the bed and there’s that familiar smell again—it does something to me, makes the tension in my body ease up. I relax back against the pillows. My senses were already heightened after months on deployment, every moment chasing death, feeling death stalking you right back, breathing down your neck at every turn—it sharpens your senses to a knifepoint. But now my senses are riding off the scale. She’s making my head spin.
“Did you listen to any of the books?” she asks.
“I started the Stephen King,” I tell her.
I can hear her unzipping her bag, pulling something out, then the sound of a computer switching on.
“What did you think?”
I smile. “It’s not as good as The Psychology of Sex.”
There’s a pause, then, “Oh my God, did I leave that on there?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s one of my set texts.”
“I figured.”
I hear her fingers tapping on the laptop, and after a few more seconds the sound of her unplugging the iPod and placing it back on the table. “There you go,” she says.
“I hope you put some Justin Bieber on there,” I say.
“Every album he’s ever made.”
I smile some more.
“Actually, I had to raid my dad’s music collection,” she says, “and I downloaded some things too. I’m not sure it’s stuff you’ll like. I don’t know much about jazz and blues. That’s kind of my granddad’s arena.”
“Ha-ha. Thanks,” I say. She downloaded some for me? “You didn’t need to do that.”
“It’s fine. My pleasure,” she adds.
There’s a few seconds during which neither of us speaks. I wonder if she’s about to leave and realize that I don’t want her to.
“What were you doing with Dodds and Sanchez?” I ask quickly, trying to stretch out the time.
“Oh,” she says lightly, “I was teaching them how to play poker.”
I grin.
“I totally whipped them.”
“That I would like to have seen,” I say.
Another pause. What is she doing? Is she looking at me, thinking how pathetic I am? It’s so hard to know what the other person is thinking when you can’t see their expression.
“You want to play twenty questions?” Didi suddenly asks.
“What?”
“Twenty questions,” she says.
“Uh, okay,” I say.
“Where did you grow up?” she asks.
“That’s not twenty questions. Twenty questions is when you think of an animal, vegetable, or mineral and then the other person has to guess what it is.”
“Oh yeah,” Didi says. “Well, I meant you ask twenty questions about me and I ask twenty questions about you. I thought it could be a good way of getting to know each other.”
I pull a wry face. “It sounds like something you’d do at speed-dating.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she answers quickly, and something about the way she says it tells me she’s lying. Maybe speed-dating’s where she got the idea in the first place. I wonder if she met her boyfriend that way? I’m assuming she does have a boyfriend, because according to every guy in here, not just Sanchez, Didi is officially hot, and in my experience hot girls in their early twenties normally have boyfriends.
“Anyway,” I say to her now, “I thought good therapists never divulged anything personal about themselves. Isn’t that the golden rule? You do the asking, and then nod occasionally and say things like, ‘That’s interesting,’ and, ‘Tell me, how do you feel about that?’ At least if your dad’s anything to go by.”
Didi doesn’t say anything for a beat, and I wonder if maybe I’ve upset her, but then she speaks up. “Yeah, you’re right,” she says, “but I’m not a therapist yet.”
There’s a pause.
“So,” Didi says. “What do you say?”
“Virginia.”
“Sorry?”
“That’s where I grew up. You asked.”
“Oh, right. Virginia, huh? I’ve never been.” She takes a breath. “Brothers or sisters?”
“One. A brother. Older. Isaac. He’s an artist.”
“Do you get along?”
I think about that for a moment. “We used to. Until I was about fifteen. But not so much anymore.”
“Why?”
“Now we’re getting into therapist territory.”
Didi laughs and I get the sense that laughter comes readily to her, that she’s got what my mom would call “a naturally sunny disposition.” She starts asking another question, but I cut her off. “Wait, when do I get a turn?”
“Oh yeah,” she says. “Sorry. Shoot.”
“Brothers or sisters?” I ask her.
“No. Just me.”
“Did you grow up around here?”
“Yep,” she says. “San Diego. Born and bred. But I’m studying at UCLA so I’m living in LA at the moment. That’s where I think I’ll move after college.”
LA. I wonder when she’ll be heading back there. I feel a slight disappointment settle in, but I quickly bat it away.
“Okay,” she says. “My turn. Why’d you join the military?”
I exhale loudly. I’m not sure I want to get into it. But before I realize what I’m doing, I find myself telling her.
“My dad’s in military intelligence.” I shake my head. “God, that sounds so stupid,” I say. “It’s not like I wanted to be my dad or follow in his footsteps. In fact, I never wanted to join the military. It just happened.” I take a deep breath. “My brother was always the one who was going to go into the military. He was the athletic one.” I break off. “Not that I wasn’t good at sports, but Isaac . . . he was really good. Captain of the football team in senior year, All-Star Athlete, you know the deal. And I guess because he was the eldest he had all the pressure on him. I got to coast a bit more, you know, because all the focus was on Isaac. Then one day he got busted for weed. Failed a drugs test. Got banned. He was expelled from school and just like that, my dad’s interest in him was over. He’s been the black sheep ever since.”
I shrug.
“So your dad started putting all his focus and interest on you instead? Is that what happened?” Didi asks. “And you felt the pressure doubly because now you were the only son in his eyes and you felt like you couldn’t let him down?
I shrug and frown at the same time. For all her claims otherwise, this is starting to feel like psychoanalysis.
“What did you want to be?” she asks, her tone softer.
I shrug again. What’s the point in thinking about it now? It’s not like it’s ever going to be a possibility.
“Okay. Favorite food,” Didi says, sensing correctly that I don’t want to talk about it.
“My grandma’s apple cobbler. She makes it with cinnamon. Old family recipe.”
“Mmmm, sounds yum.”
“Yours?”
“Sushi,” she says. “Followed closely by chocolate in any form.”
“Favorite movie?”
She laughs. It’s a sound I could get used to, like the feeling of early morning sunshine spilling onto your pillow. “No. I’m not telling you. You’ll laugh at me.”
“Why?” I say, unable to stop myself from smiling.
“Because.”
“Tell me,” I say, laughing now.
“No.”
“I’ll tell you mine.”
“Wait,” she says. “Let me guess. Sex and the City, part two?”
“You got me,” I say.
She laughs and I lap the sound up.
“Okay. Place you most want to visit in the world?”
I take a second to think. “Probably Brazil. I’d like to sail down there from Florida one day.” As soon as I say it I feel the wind drop out of my sails, so to speak. I feel my smile fading. “I miss the water.” I snap my mouth shut. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
“I’ve always wanted to go to South America,” Didi says, a wistful note creeping into her voice.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
“Okay,” Didi says, “back to the questions. I think it’s your turn.”
I think about saying I don’t want to play anymore. I’m tired and the pain in my knee is starting to bug me, but I don’t want her to leave. Somehow she’s making the darkness a little lighter. I grab quickly for a question. “If this was a speed-dating event, what kind of question would I ask next?”
“Hmmm,” Didi says. “Probably something about what my idea of a perfect date was.”
“Okay, what’s your idea of a perfect date?”
There’s a pause. “Being whisked off to Paris?” She laughs as though realizing what a cliché that sounds like. “Probably just dinner somewhere amazing—maybe under the stars somewhere, on a tropical beach. There would definitely be sushi. And chocolate cake for dessert. And of course champagne.” She pauses.
“And Justin Bieber accompanied by a string quartet?”
“Ha-ha,” she answers back.
“So you’re a romantic, then?” I ask, unable to keep the mocking tone out of my question.
Immediately I sense Didi’s defensiveness. She bristles. “No. Maybe. Okay, yes. Probably.”
I laugh under my breath.
I shrug. “I guess I’m just not a romantic.” Anymore, I should add. I used to be. I suppose I’m a skeptic now, given how Miranda demanded all those things that I complied to so readily—and how that turned out.
“So you’re a cynic about love?”
I shrug again. You could call me a cynic about a lot of things these days.
“I don’t want to be cynical,” Didi says in a wistful tone. “I want to believe in lobsters.”
“Lobsters?” I ask, confused.
“Yeah, you know, lobsters. They mate for life.”
I pull a face at her. “I don’t think that’s true. How would a lobster even recognize another lobster? Do they have eyes? Would they have to feel the other lobster? Recognize it by the shape of its claws or something?”
“Oh,” she says, sounding disheartened, then bursts out laughing. “Don’t ruin my fantasy. I just mean,” she goes on, “that I like the idea of there being one person that you’re meant to be with.”
“Like a soul mate?” I ask, cynicism dripping off my words. Miranda once told me that we were soul mates.
“I guess so,” Didi admits. “Like my parents. They’re still so in love after almost thirty years.”
“So I guess from the way you’re talking you haven’t yet found your lobster?”
She pauses. “No, not yet.”
“No boyfriend?” I ask, surprised.
She pauses again. Shit. Why did I ask her that? It just came out. Now it looks like I’m trying to chat her up, or that I’m interested in her.
“No. Not really,” she says, as though she’s choosing her words carefully.
“Not really?” I press.
“I’m sort of seeing someone,” she says, then adds, “I think.”
“You think?”
“It’s complicated.”
When isn’t it? I think to myself, simultaneously noting the stab of disappointment in my gut. So she has a boyfriend. Well, who cares?
Just then, and probably for the best, there’s a knock on the door.
“Hi, Lieutenant.”
I recognize my surgeon by his Texan drawl. “Ahh,” he says. “I didn’t know you had a visitor. Should I come back later?”
“Oh no, it’s fine,” I hear Didi say. “I need to get going.” I hear her gathering up her things. Then suddenly I feel her hand come to rest on top of mine. She leaves it there for just a moment. “Bye, Walker,” she says.
After she’s left, all I can feel is my hand. Even when the doc comes right in and pulls up a chair beside me and starts talking about the success of the operation and the full recovery he’s expecting, my focus is split between what he’s saying and the lingering pressure of her fingers against mine.