Ask Me Again

by E. J. Noyes

  “Oh, sweetheart, I know how hard that is for you but maybe it’s not all supposed to fit neatly right now.” Her expression was so gentle and understanding and so like Bec. “Coming home is hard and stressful at the best of times. With everything else that’s happened, I don’t think it’s unreasonable that you feel this way.”

  “Mmm, true,” I conceded. “The stupid fucking thing is eighty-seven percent of the time, I feel okay, like I’m handling it. And then something like today happens, or I’ll have a random thought and it trips back to that day and I feel lost all over again.” Brilliant, Sabine. Eighty-seven percent? Why not drag out a pie chart and display the exact breakdown of all your thoughts and feelings?

  Bec’s thumbs were sliding up and over the back of my hand she was still holding. “I don’t think that’s unusual, darling. You had an incredibly traumatic experience both physically and mentally, and the ramifications of that aren’t just going to go away. As much as we would like them to.”

  “It’s not fucking fair!” I spat out. The moment the words left my mouth I felt the flush of embarrassment on my ears. I was acting like a petulant little kid.

  “No, it’s not fair,” she agreed, her tone even.

  “I’m sorry.” I squeezed her hand firmly, then panicked that I might have hurt her, and pulled mine free. “I’m so sick of feeling like I don’t have any control over my own thoughts. I’m tired of feeling like I’m a completely different person. A person I don’t particularly like. I’m tired of waking up every morning hoping it’ll be different, but it’s always just the same.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Those two words were choked, barely audible. She sounded like she was about to cry. Well done, Fleischer.

  I tried to sort through my jumbled thoughts to explain, to make her understand it wasn’t her, but it was me. “Bec, I feel like we’re just…” I moved my hands together, the left skimming over the top of the right without touching. “Missing each other. You know? Like we’re so close, but we’re not quite connecting. And I can’t tell if it’s the PTSD, or just this deployment or if…” I paused, drew a breath and the rest of my words came out in a hoarse whisper, “Maybe I’m so different now that you don’t want me anymore.”

  Bec’s hands came immediately to my face, cupping my cheeks. “Darling, listen to me. What’s happening in here—” Her fingers gently massaged my temples, then a hand moved from my face to cover my left breast, right over my heart. “Hasn’t changed what lives in here. Everything that makes you you is still here. Everything I love is still here. I love you when you’re strong and brave, and I love you at times like now, when you trust me enough to let me see you vulnerable.”

  I drew in a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry, Bec. I’ve changed so much from the person you thought you’d be spending your life with. You gave up your career for me and I feel like I made you a promise I haven’t kept.”

  “Bullshit!” she said with surprising vehemence. “I didn’t give up my career, I left the Army, Sabine and I did that because I need to be with you. I did that for me. I did that for us and I’ve never regretted it. I’m still a trauma surgeon and I still love my job.” Her eyes closed for a few seconds, and when she opened them and spoke again, her anger had diffused. “And yes, you’ve changed. But so have I. Every day something about us is different and every day, the love I have for you grows.”

  “Are you sure?” I whispered, aware of how pathetic and childlike it sounded.

  “Yes. Love is adaptable, but mine for you has never faltered.” Her forceful words were tempered by her thumbs sliding gently over my cheekbones, my eyebrows, my mouth. “I love you so much and I just want to help you. Please tell me how,” she begged.

  I didn’t think she could help, not really, not by actively doing anything. But maybe I didn’t need that, maybe I just needed her. I wiped away my tears with my sleeve, then took her hands again. “Please, stay with me? I think you’re the only thing that will make sense when nothing else does.”

  She kissed me, just the softest brush of our lips, but it spoke of a deep, soothing connection. Resting her forehead against mine, Bec promised, “You know I will. I’m not leaving, Sabine.”

  Chapter Ten

  Rebecca

  The week after our visit to Ohio passed in a blur of domesticity—daily walks or outings and relaxing at home—just being together until the day we both had to return to work came up far too quickly. I spent the whole morning in surgery then after lunch, hid in my office trying to lower my pile of paperwork before afternoon rounds.

  The day was shaping up to be one I wanted to forget. Barely two hours into my shift, I’d had a patient death, then for the rest of the morning worked on a teenage girl who’d been thrown through the windshield of a car in which she was joyriding. I could do little for her massive brain injury.

  Something else popped up whenever I tried to push it aside. My eyes strayed to the dress I’d hung behind my office door ready for tonight, and the feeling became uncomfortably clear.

  Guilt.

  I felt guilty because I was going out to dinner with a coworker when I should have been home with my partner. My partner who was clearly struggling. My partner who today, had started her first full day back at work, in a new place at the freshly integrated U.S. Military Medical Center. My partner who’d admitted that she didn’t feel like herself, didn’t feel like she fit into our life. She hadn’t said anything further since our emotional discussion last Saturday night, acting typically like nothing was amiss. The silence was telling.

  Sabine was afraid and she was avoiding.

  Chasing her would only make it worse, so I’d resigned myself to waiting until she was ready to come to me again. The fact I could be waiting a while settled like a lead weight. All I wanted to do was go home after a long and awful workday and curl up on the couch with her. To have her head pillowed against my breasts, both soothing and being soothed.

  My pager beeped, interrupting my melancholy. I saved my report and rushed out of my office toward the bank of elevators fifty feet away at the end of the corridor.

  Dr. James Felton, one of my newer trauma residents, was sweating. Thin rivulets ran from his temples to his stubbled cheeks and every now and then he would drop his jaw to his shoulder to blot the sweat away. By the look of him, he hadn’t slept, showered or probably even eaten in a while. That was trauma surgery.

  I pointed absently to the CT images, but my focus remained on him. “What do you think, James?”

  Bloodshot hazel eyes moved back and forth over the monitor. “Penetrating ballistic trauma to…small bowel, other organs appear uncompromised?”

  My poker face was in place but inside I was smiling. “Best course of treatment?”

  James paused, eyes now moving between me and the scans at tennis-spectator rate. “The patient is hemodynamically stable…” He still didn’t sound particularly convinced. “Laparoscopic extraction and repair?”

  A resident who didn’t want to go in scalpels flying. Interesting. I tilted my head as I posed the question, “Why laparoscopy?”

  “It’s a small caliber ballistic trauma with only minimal damage?” He swallowed and licked his lips, the movement furtive like he was trying not to give away how dry his mouth was. “In my opinion, laparotomy isn’t indicated here. I think it’s overkill to open him right up, Doctor Keane, and this less invasive treatment plan would give the patient a shorter recovery period. We could always move to a full laparotomy if we can’t find the bullet.” It was the first thing he’d said that hadn’t been phrased as a question.

  I stared at him. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” Another glance at the scans, then a more confident, “Yes I am.”

  “Excellent, so am I.”

  James followed me to the sinks and as he pulled a mask down from the boxes affixed to the wall, I glanced over at him. Despite his relief after my confirmation of his treatment plan, his jaw was now rigid, tension radiating from his body. In the few months I�
�d known him I’d discovered he was a quiet young man, a little nervous but seemed focused enough and had the skill to back it up. I started my scrub.

  Laparoscopic procedures weren’t an everyday occurrence for us in trauma and each time I did one, I thought about Sabine and me removing a gallbladder in Afghanistan while artillery fire was dropping nearby. I’d sought her out to assist me, knowing it was a flimsy excuse to spend more time with her. She was adorably clumsy with the unfamiliar scopes, and when she’d finished, Sabine had glanced up, her eyes bright and creased with the smile that lay hidden behind her mask. I’d wanted to grab her right there and kiss her.

  While we’d scrubbed out, nearby shelling shook the floor and Sabine’s tension was evident as she stared at her feet. I’d wanted to draw her out, to relax her and see that smile I adored—so I’d teased that if she could do that procedure in a shaky OR, she could do it anywhere, and that she should put the skill on her résumé.

  Sabine had looked up at me, a slow smile forming on her lips as she’d responded, almost cheekily, “May I use you as a reference for this particular skill listing, ma’am?”

  I’d almost shuddered at the way she’d said ma’am in a slow, unconsciously seductive drawl. It was then that I knew I had to do something about the way I felt about her. So I made a promise to myself that I had to move past my attraction because it was becoming overwhelming. Then less than a month later, I’d done the complete opposite.

  Felton cleared his throat again. Fatigue or nerves or doubt were starting to creep up. Still scrubbing, I turned toward him, my hip bumping against the edge of the sink. “You know, I once did a laparoscopic cholecystectomy in Afghanistan while troops were engaged in battle nearby. The floor was vibrating every few minutes and the instruments were rattling on the tray.” I laughed softly. “It’s quite interesting to operate in a theater that’s shaking, worrying about artillery fire coming through the roof.”

  He looked over at me, eyebrows raised. “I imagine that would be quite difficult, Doctor Keane. I didn’t know you were in the military.”

  I smiled at him, hoping he would see it in my eyes while I was hidden behind a surgical mask. “Yes, for eighteen years. I promise that all of this gets easier.”

  He remained silent, staring down at his hands as he scrubbed. I nudged the faucet to shut off the water and sniffed to clear the scent of chlorhexidine scrub from my nose. “A little fear is a good thing. Without fear, you get careless. But if you let the fear take over it will overwhelm you.” I dipped my head to catch his eye. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, Doctor Keane.” Slowly, he raised his head. “…but what if the fear never goes away?”

  “Then you have to decide if what you want is worth it, if it’s worth the time and effort to find a way to work around your fear. If it is, then you do whatever you need to do.” Even as I said the words I knew I wasn’t really talking about a surgical career.

  I was talking about Sabine. And me.

  * * *

  I completed rounds on autopilot. Talk, check, confirm with nurses, adjust, sign, next. At a quarter to seven, I began to feel a glimmer of hope that I might be done on time and the moment I thought it, I chastised myself. Superstition dictated if you thought about finishing on time, something would pop up at the very last moment. For once, I was lucky.

  When my shift had officially ended, I sent Vanessa a quick text to let her know I’d be on time for our reservation, then texted Sabine with a simple I love you, won’t be home too late. Then I rushed to my office before anyone could grab me, signed myself out, turned my pager off and set it to charge.

  The institutional locker room and showers at the hospital reminded me of being on deployment, except the water was always hot and full-pressured. After a blissful shower I changed into a simple black dress and heels, then wiped the mirror with the edge of my hand so I could quickly but carefully apply makeup. A quick brush through my hair with my fingers, and I was ready.

  Vanessa waited by the automatic doors, elegantly dressed in wool slacks and a cashmere overcoat, with a hint of a royal blue silk blouse showing that brought out the intense color of her eyes. Her heels gave her another few inches on the four she already had on me. She grasped my arm, her touch light. “How lovely that we both managed to finish work at a civilized time.”

  I smiled up at her. “Isn’t it? I almost feel like a regular person.”

  Vanessa laughed, and gestured to her left. “Shall we?” After a quick stop to stow bags in my car, we began walking along the sandstone hospital path toward the sidewalk, talking about our respective days. It was a lovely late October night, with a lingering half-hearted threat of rain and the cool air hinting at the colder weather to come.

  The ten-minute walk to the restaurant passed in easy, companionable conversation. Though we were a little early, we were shown immediately to our seats, settled and handed a wine list and menus. Vanessa perused the former and quickly made her choice—a white Pinot Noir. I requested the same and when the waiter left, I gave Vanessa a rueful smile. “Goodness, I could dive into a bottle right now.”

  “One of those days?”

  I smoothed my hand over the tablecloth. “Yes. First day back, and I’ve had two bad outcomes. Doesn’t bode well for the rest of the week.” For some reason, as a civilian doctor, I found it harder to cope with losses. Most of my patients were victims of circumstance, which bothered me far more than my former job. And my former job had bothered me a great deal at times.

  Of course my mood was due to more than just work, but I wasn’t sure if I should mention personal issues. While Vanessa and I were friends, I wouldn’t have considered us close. Still, it would be nice to have a sympathetic ear. Someone who wasn’t involved the way Jana was. After my quick internal debate, I added, “And…things at home are a little up and down right now.”

  She frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is it something you’d like to talk about?”

  Talking about PTSD resulting from a military incident when I was about to tell her son about the Army probably wasn’t a great idea. Before I could answer, the waiter returned with the wine. I declined a taste and indicated he should just pour. To my surprise, Vanessa also waved away a sampling, the action surprising me because I’d had her pegged as someone who’d send a bottle back if it wasn’t up to standard.

  Once we were alone again, Vanessa raised her wineglass. “Well, here’s to better outcomes for the rest of the week. And good things at home.”

  I lifted mine. “Indeed.” The wine was fantastic, rich and smooth with a hint of fruit. The kind of white Sabine would enjoy. I smiled to myself and mentally amended my thought—the kind she’d enjoy if she could tear herself away from red meat and red wine.

  Vanessa’s question broke me from thoughts of the woman waiting for me at home. “So, which came first? Medicine or the military?”

  “Medicine,” I said instantly.

  She nodded slowly, her gaze unerring. “Why trauma surgery?”

  I set the wineglass down. “My parents died in an MVA when I was five and I formed a, well…morbid sort of fascination with the surgeons who’d worked on them. I wanted to be as noble as I imagined they were.”

  “And the military?”

  I laughed. “That was less noble. Running away from a relationship.”

  Her unselfconscious laughter caught the attention of the couple at the table beside us. “I don’t know, Rebecca. I think there’s a certain nobility in not deluding yourself or another person about what you really want.”

  I tilted my head in acknowledgement. “Perhaps. At any rate, it felt like a good decision at the time. Until I realized I didn’t want to run away any longer.”

  She leaned forward, her fingers briefly brushing the back of my wrist. “Honestly, I admire your making such a big career change in leaving the military. I’m not sure I could do something so life-altering.”

  I turned the wineglass in slow circles. “It took me six months
or so to adjust but the core of the job is the same.” I laughed softly and added, “Though I admit I’m still adjusting to not being called Colonel or Ma’am.”

  Her mouth quirked into a mischievous smile, but as she was about to speak, a tall, sandy-haired young man in a charcoal suit appeared to her right. He acknowledged me with a polite smile then turned to Vanessa who aborted whatever she was about to say, stood and stepped into his outstretched arms. “Nicholas!”

  After they’d parted, he raised both hands placatingly. “Sorry, Mom. Traffic was awful.”

  Vanessa gestured to me. “Rebecca, I’d like to introduce my son, Nicholas Spears. Nick, this is Rebecca Keane.”

  I stood as Nick offered his hand. He had a plain, open face, his mother’s eyes and her broad, easy smile. He didn’t, however, have her last name. Interesting. “Hi, Rebecca, nice to meet you.”

  His grip was firm, something I appreciated having spent my life enduring limp, soft-gripped handshakes from men. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too.”

  Nick held my chair first and then his mother’s. Once we were seated again, he took his place opposite me, his expression expectant and interested. “Well. Shall we?”

  The rest of the evening passed swiftly and enjoyably. Nick, like his mother, was charming and polite. He was also deferential but confident—he would fit in the military like a hand in a glove—and I knew after ten minutes of conversation that regardless of what I said he was going to join one of the services. Vanessa listened without trying to sway opinions and her only real interjection was to try and suggest that her son become an officer.

  After coffee and dessert, Vanessa took the check with a quiet, “I insist, you’ve been so helpful.”

  Pleased, I acceded. “All right then. Thank you.” As Vanessa settled the check, I fished a card from my purse. “If you want to talk some more, Nick, please contact me any time.”