Didi
After the volunteer meeting I head down to the canteen. My dad manages to corner me just as I’m getting in the elevator.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Are you leaving?’
‘No,’ I say, unable to look him in the eye. ‘I thought I might get started on organizing the decorations for the party and then do some work on my thesis.’
‘OK. I’m heading home in half an hour, but how about we get a quick coffee before I go?’
‘Sure,’ I say. Here it comes.
We head down to the canteen, which this late in the afternoon is empty. My dad sits down opposite me, setting down two cups of coffee.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ I tell him as I start stirring Sweet ’N Low into mine.
‘Do you?’ my dad asks.
I keep my eyes on the coffee ‘Yes. You’re thinking that something is going on between me and Walker, Lieutenant Walker,’ I correct myself, ‘but it isn’t. I swear. I was just helping him shave.’ I risk a glance up. Why is my voice shaking?
My dad squeezes my hand. ‘Sweetheart, your empathy and your compassion are what are going to make you a great therapist one day, but you need to work on keeping an emotional distance. It won’t help him in the long run when you leave. He needs to be independent, not come to rely on you. And there should never be any question of anything else developing.’
Anything else? He means anything romantic. I’m fairly sure my face is a convincing shade of tomato by now. ‘I was only helping him shave. You’re making this into a much bigger deal than it actually is.’
‘Lieutenant Walker’s a special case.’
I frown. ‘Why?’
‘He won’t open up about what happened to him.’
I raise my eyebrows. That’s not uncommon with members of the military. They’re taught that showing vulnerability or complaining is a sign of weakness.
‘I know,’ my dad goes on, seeing my expression. ‘That’s not so uncommon, but post-traumatic stress can manifest in various ways, and with him it’s manifesting in a really unique way.’
Now I’m curious. ‘What do you mean?’
‘OK.’ My dad looks at me sternly. ‘This is between you and me and you need to treat this like a doctor-to-doctor confidence. I’m only telling you so you know exactly why I’m warning you to keep a distance. Whatever Walker seems like on the surface, there’s a lot going on underneath.’
I frown at him again. Now I’m worried.
‘His blindness is psychosomatic,’ my dad says.
‘What?’
‘There’s no physical reason for it.’
I shake my head in confusion. ‘I know what psycho-somatic means. But I don’t understand.’
‘It’s a conversion disorder caused by psychological trauma. In the old days they used to call it hysterical blindness.’
I sit back in my chair, blinking, trying to process this. ‘So,’ I finally say, ‘he can actually see?’
My dad tips his head to one side. ‘Yes, but no. There’s nothing physically making him blind. It’s purely psychological.’
‘But what’s the cure for that?’ I ask, still reeling.
My dad shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Honestly, there isn’t one standard approach. It’s not a very well documented condition. Recovery often takes a long time, and even then nothing is certain. He seems to be in denial about the diagnosis as well.’
I stare at my coffee for a long while before looking back up. ‘But you think if he talks about what happened to him, if he processes it and deals with it, then it might go away? He might get his sight back?’
My dad shrugs. ‘Well, it’s the most likely scenario. If he doesn’t deal with it, it’s only going to manifest in other ways too.’
I let out a long breath. I know what else post-traumatic stress can cause – debilitating depression, angry outbursts, inability to control emotions, a change in personality that can lead to marriage breakdowns, affect job prospects and in some cases lead to suicidal thoughts. It’s the single most diagnosed condition among members of the military. In fact, I was thinking of writing my thesis on the subject.
I play with my cup of coffee. Walker’s angry and definitely depressed. He doesn’t seem to be suicidal, but do I really know about what’s going on in his head? What do we ever know about another person? I have a sudden thought.
‘You want to get him to talk, right?’ I ask my dad.
He nods.
‘I think maybe he would open up to me.’
My dad shakes his head. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think he’s developing feelings for you that are more than just platonic.’
‘Why do you say that?’ I ask, my voice uneven and my heart starting to thump so loudly I’m sure my dad can hear it.
He arches an eyebrow and smiles at me. ‘I might be getting on, but I know something about men and women. I know what I saw.’
I look down at the tabletop and grip my coffee cup tighter to stop my hands from shaking. How can Walker be attracted to me? He doesn’t even know what I look like. My dad’s got to be wrong.
‘Well, what if I make it clear to him that we’re just friends?’ I say, looking up.
‘Didi, this is what I’m talking about – you can be friendly, but you can’t be friends with a patient.’
‘But he isn’t my patient.’ I hear the truculent tone in my voice.
‘Semantics,’ my dad says. ‘You’re here at the centre, working as an intern. You need to abide by the same rules as all the staff here. There are very strict guidelines. You know this.’
‘OK,’ I say, looking him firmly in the eye, though it’s hard to.
My dad finishes his coffee in one gulp and stands up. ‘Well, I’d better get going. I have another meeting.’
‘OK,’ I say, and I smile, but inside a million emotions have started to wage war. My dad leaves and I sit there staring at my coffee as it grows cold.
Five hours later, having got nowhere either with my thesis or with ideas for decorations for the party, I decide to call it a night. I glance up at the clock in the darkened canteen. It’s almost midnight. I close my laptop and walk to the door, hesitating when I get to the elevators. I should leave, go home, get some sleep. But I can’t stop thinking about Walker. It was around this time the other night, maybe even earlier, when I walked in on him having a nightmare.
I tell myself I just want to check in on him and that once I know he’s OK I’ll leave, choosing to ignore the voice in my head that yells at me that I’m being stupid. Before I know it I’m riding the elevator to his floor, my foot tapping, my heart starting to gallop.
What am I doing? I scold myself even as the doors open and I step out. I shouldn’t be checking in on him. That’s José’s job. I should be keeping my distance from him. But I can’t stop myself. He’s all I’ve been able to think about since the conversation with my dad.
Can it be true? Does Walker have feelings for me? I can’t ignore the buzz in my stomach at the thought that he does, the quickening of my pulse.
The door is ajar so I can see that the light is off in Walker’s room. I tiptoe closer and then stop, holding my breath. Walker’s asleep, lying on his side, facing me, the sheet thrown off the bed. He’s bare-chested, wearing just a pair of grey boxers, I watch him, my heart starting to crash against my ribs. He’s mumbling in his sleep, but then he rolls over, away from me, and falls quiet. I stare at the tattoo on his shoulder, still unable to make out the words.
I hesitate. I could take a step into the room. One step and I’d be able to make out what it says. One step, just to make sure he’s OK.
I remember my dad’s warning. I think about Zac.
I turn on my heel and walk away.