by E. J. Noyes
“How’s that?” he asked quietly.
“Like I’m about to break. Or break down.” I blew out a breath. “And it hurts.”
“I know it does, angel.”
“No, Mitch, I mean it really hurts. Like physically hurts.” I lifted my right arm and jiggled my hand near my armpit—the area where I was shot. “It just fucking…aches, all the way through to my back whenever I think about the why of it all and how the hell I’m going to get the words out.”
“What’s the shrink say?”
I had actually told Pace about the pain, something that had both surprised and scared me. “Nothing I didn’t already know. It’s psychosomatic or some such bullshit. No physiological reason. All up here.” I tapped my forefinger against my temple. Stupid brain.
His hand closed over mine. “You’ll get there, darlin’. It’s gonna take some time, but I know you’ll be just fine.”
“I don’t want to be just fine, Mitch. I want to be me again.” I pressed the lid back on my bowl, unsurprised that my hunger had evaporated.
“Oh, darlin’, I’m so sorry.” His expression softened and for a moment he seemed like he might cry.
“Me too. I’m just so sick of it all.”
Before my friend could respond, Colonel Collings strode into the room, his gaze sweeping the space before settling on Mitch and me. “Ah! Fleischer, Boyd. Just who I’ve been looking for.”
Mitch and I stood, speaking in unison. “Sir?”
“Come with me please.” Collings turned on his heel and walked out of sight. Quickly, Mitch and I packed up the rest of our lunches and stuffed the bags into the fridge. A new worry overtook everything I’d been thinking about a few moments earlier, and I mentally raced through my last few days of surgeries and completed paperwork. Everything in order. Situation normal there at least.
Mitch glanced sideways at me. “What’d you do this time, darlin’? And why’re you draggin’ me down into the dirt with you?”
“Not a damned clue.” I elbowed him hard in the ribs and we both raced after our CO. “How can we assist you, sir?” I asked when we drew level with Collings.
“Publicity stunt,” he said tightly. “We’ve got a politician in our midst, Captains. You two are going to talk to him and have your photos taken, so smile real nice. Tell him about how wonderful it’s been to merge the old Army and Naval Medical Centers into the new Walter Reed right here in Bethesda, how seamless the integration has been and how of course there’s been no kinks in the last month. Talk about the new facilities and equipment, spin it out and hype it up. Don’t make me look bad.”
Fuuuuck. I knew where this whole thing would go and exactly what I’d end up discussing. “Yes, Colonel,” I said smartly, brushing down my scrub top as we moved three abreast through the corridors toward the far end of the wing and a rarely-used ward.
The usual beds, chairs and medical equipment had been moved out of the way, leaving a single bed and a bank of monitors set up by the window. On the opposite side of the room, a table and some comfortable chairs had been moved in, and a smaller table with a coffee pot and pastries completed the picture of hospitality.
“Looks like a fuckin’ movie set,” Mitch said under his breath. “Are those machines even plugged in?”
I murmured my agreement. Mitch and I held back a few yards, standing at parade rest, as our CO went to a tall, pewter-haired guy over by the far wall. It took a few moments before I recognized him as Congressman Marcus Palmer. I supposed it could have been worse—at least he was a Democrat and had spoken up in support of LGBT rights.
Around the room, people were busy setting things up, or staring at phones or tablets. Next to a large white screen, a photographer fiddled with a light, clicking it through different brightness settings. What the hell had I just been roped into? Collings should have just asked Amy, who was practically a damned model anyway.
I fixed my gaze on the far wall, thinking of what I was going to tell Bec when I got home. Guess what, honey? I’m famous! Mom’s going to be so proud. Cue her buying one hundred copies of this article and papering the neighborhood with my fifteen minutes of fame.
My boss laughed jovially, then both he and Palmer strode over. Palmer seemed taller and older than he looked in the media, but his brown eyes were clear and laser-sharp. Collings gestured to Mitch and me. “Congressman Palmer, this is Captain Mitchell Boyd and Captain Sabine Fleischer, both outstanding and seasoned front-line surgeons.”
Palmer’s smile was fixed in that way all politicians seemed to have perfected. “It is an honor to meet you both.” He eyed Mitch, his expression turning to one of delight. “Well, look at you, son. You’re so All-American you’re practically made of apple pie!” He turned to me, and my inspection was a full up and down. “And with your pretty face, this is going to turn out a treat.”
It was only by clamping my molars together that I managed not to snap back something about my pretty face. My smile probably looked more like a grimace, but I managed to push out, “Thank you, sir. I’m very pleased we could help out.”
A brunette who couldn’t be more than twenty-five, and who I could only presume to be an aide, leaned over and spoke into the Congressman’s ear. Palmer eyed me, his expression changing to a mixture of respect, awe and sadness. It was an expression I knew. And loathed. My annoyance turned to mild discomfort and borderline alarm. Here we go. He’s going to ask and you’re going to have to tell him, Sabine.
“Captain…Fleischer was it?” When I nodded he continued, in a musing tone, “You were involved in an attack on one of our own a couple of years back, am I right?”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct.” Well done, Sabine. That was a very steady voice. You’ve got this.
He spoke to the brunette without lowering his voice. “Make sure you put that in the article. I want the readers to know this is a real hero.”
I pressed my fingertips hard into my thighs. Bec, sunshine on my face, kittens, crunching leaves underfoot, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. “Sir, with all respect due, I’m not.” Pointing to the doorway I added, “The men and women out there in those wards you walked past? Those are heroes, sir. I’m just a physician, I didn’t…” After a steadying breath I finished, “Maybe I’m not the best person for this, sir.”
Collings began to object to my objection, but Palmer raised a hand to quiet him. “Captain Fleischer, we’re not here to diminish these folks’ sacrifice, but having you, a surgeon who’s not even a field soldier come out of something like that? That’s good for Everyday Joe sitting in his living room.”
I sensed that this whole thing was a lost battle. There was no point in reminding him of the man who didn’t come out of it, or the other man who still carried physical and emotional scars as I did. I was an expert in false enthusiasm, so I straightened my shoulders, plastered yet another fake smile on my lips and chirped, “Well then, sir, I’m thrilled to do my part!”
“Good girl.” He flashed a camera-ready smile of his own, clapped Mitch and me on the shoulder and pulled Collings over to the coffee urn. The aide gave us vague instructions on where to stand and wait for further instruction. Perfect. I was also an expert at standing and waiting. I turned slightly away and closed my eyes. Breathe in, count to five. Breathe out, count to five. Rinse and repeat. The exercise calmed some of the panic, but I still felt it like a living thing clawing at my insides. I thought of meeting Jana for coffee after work, of what I should pick up to take home for dinner, of the object in the safe at home. Bec, I love you, will you—
A hand touched my back, fingertips stroking gently down my spine, steady and supporting. “Sure you’re okay with this, darlin’?”
I opened my eyes, fixating on familiar features. Mitch was here and it’d be okay. I shrugged. “Not really, but it’s not like we have a choice.”
“I’ll cover you, if that’s what you want.”
“Thanks, Mitch but it’s fine. I’m upset but I can handle it.” I had to. I couldn’t keep doing this.
Couldn’t keep turning in on myself every time I had to talk about it. This is good practice, Sabine. Do this and maybe you can talk to Bec. You need to sort this out or you’re going to lose her.
The flustered aide appeared as though by teleportation. “Okay, we’re just about set up, if you two would just go over there and Carla will take care of your hair and faces.”
“My what and what?” Mitch asked disbelievingly.
“Oh it’s nothing, just a little makeup to make sure there’s no shine in the photos, that’s all.” She passed us each a bright red stethoscope. “Here.”
Confused, I held it up. “But we already have our own? I’ve only got two ears, so…”
“Yes I know,” she said in a tone that indicated exasperation at my questioning the process. “But this color has better contrast in pictures. Now, over there please.” The aide gestured to two plastic chairs in the corner. I sat where directed, and Mitch stood at my side.
“This is turnin’ into a goddamned circus,” Mitch mumbled, swapping his ever-present black stethoscope around his neck for the red one.
I hmmed my agreement and swapped my stethoscope too, as a petite woman with amazing pink hair approached us with a small bag in her hand. This must be Carla of the hair and faces. Mitch’s smile was broad, his voice cheery when he said, “I suggest you don’t try to put any of that stuff on my face, ma’am. And I’m certain my hair’s just fine.” He scooted out of her reach, and beelined for the coffee and donuts.
Carla didn’t seem at all offended, merely shrugged and turned back to me. I sat impassively in the chair, studying my hands while she did whatever she had to do. Then my five-hours-at-work-under-a-scrub-cap hair was pulled out and redone. I made an effort to be polite. “Maybe you could come over every morning and do that for me? I don’t think it’s ever been done so quickly or neatly.”
“I could.” She laughed. “But I’m not sure I could cope with doing the same hairstyle every day.”
“It gets kind of boring, that’s for sure.” Or…comforting because of the sameness.
“I can imagine.” Carla patted my shoulder. “You’re all set.”
“Thanks.” I stood as a short, solidly muscular Hispanic woman was wheeled into the room—Lieutenant Anna Hernandez, a patient of mine, who surprisingly wore a hospital gown instead of her usual sweatpants. The gown gave a clear view of the stump of her left leg, neatly bandaged a few inches below the knee, and the supportive brace and bandaging on her damaged right leg. My mouth soured at the contrived display. For the pictures, right? They’d made her face up too, and I had to swallow convulsively lest I vomit.
Anna looked up at me, offering a smiling and polite, “Afternoon, Doc.” A nurse wheeled her to the bed, positioning the chair close to the frame.
“You drew the short straw, Lieutenant?” I asked as cheerfully as I could manage.
“No, ma’am, I volunteered.” The smile grew. “My partner’s pregnant with our first baby, and this will be something cool to show them when they’re older. Now I’ll have met President Obama, Vice President Biden and two Congressmen. I’m hoping for the First Lady and Charlize Theron next.” She held up both hands with fingers crossed, a goofy grin overwhelming her face.
Chuckling, I bent to lock the chair’s brakes in place. I’d met her partner, Lauren, once during visiting hours but couldn’t recall a baby bump. Excellent attention to detail, Sabine. For what felt like the tenth time today, I made myself smile. “Both worthy goals. And congratulations!” My smile grew unconsciously when I realized that even a few months ago, she couldn’t have told me about such an exciting and personal part of her life. Catch you later, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.
The nurse and I helped Anna onto the made-up bed and she maneuvered herself so she was sitting with her legs over the side, shuffling around so the gown covered everything important. I smoothed down the sheet. “Do you want to lie down?”
“No, ma’am. I think they want it visible.” She gestured at her legs, seemingly without any discomfort or self-pity.
Of course they did. The flurry of activity around me intensified and I tried to block it out. Holding up my borrowed stethoscope, I said as brightly as I could, “Right, we should try to make this look convincing.”
She laughed as I slid it into the gap at the back of her gown. A flash went off in my face and I flinched, my hand reflexively tightening on Anna’s shoulder. My anxious nausea intensified, and I hoped with everything I had that I could hold on to my stomach. Breathe in, hold it for five. Breathe out. Just a camera. Anna looked up at me, her expression sympathetic, her smile both knowing and sad.
After a small nod to acknowledge our mutual discomfort at the camera flash, I pushed everything but the woman right in front of me from my mind. “So, do you and Lauren have any names picked out yet?”
* * *
The interview was invasive and discomforting. Instead of focusing solely on the work we did to bring people home to their families, the questions had turned to what it was like to have coworkers and friends operating on me, and my subsequent recovery and return to work. When it was over, I’d shaken hands with everyone, thanked them politely and rushed off—counting the whole way to the bathroom—to vomit.
I left work on time and took a half-hour detour to meet Jana. The parking gods smiled on me and after only fifteen minutes of swearing and pleading I found a spot a block away. Pulling my jacket collar up against the misting rain, I rushed along the sidewalk to my sister’s favorite coffee shop. Head down, I ducked under an awning and at the last moment veered around a guy huddled on a step a few doors down from the café door. I stumbled, catching myself against the brick façade of the building and knocking over his damp piece of cardboard. “Shit. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he replied amicably, fumbling for the sign which had fallen just outside of his reach. The man’s eyes lingered on my uniform, then found mine and he added a polite, “Ma’am.”
I leaned down to pick up the cardboard and propped it back up against the wall. My eyes strayed to the neat block lettering.
HOMELESS VETERAN WITH PTSD
ANY HELP APPRECIATED
GOD BLESS YOU
I swallowed hard, offered him a helpless smile and kept walking.
Jana was already seated at a table near the front window. I wound my way through the mostly empty tables toward her. My sister stood and tapped her watch, attempting a stern expression which was spoiled by her grin. Of course she’d enjoy this role-reversal. Aside from client meetings and being in court, Jana regarded being on time a crime.
“Fuck off. I don’t work five minutes from here like you do,” I said as we hugged tightly. “Why is it that we always meet somewhere super-convenient for you?”
“Because you always agree to it,” she said with a charming, and fake, smile.
“Mmmph.” This back and forth was nothing new, and I loved its familiarity. “What’re you drinking today?” Jana was the most disloyal coffee person I knew and it never paid to assume.
“Hot Coffee Roaster wants me to try a ristretto. He says…it’s as dark and flavorsome as I am.”
“Wow. I’m sorry, we’re still talking about coffee, right?” I said as I backed away.
Jana’s laugh followed me to the counter. The server only blinked once when I asked for my sister’s sexy coffee. After I’d ordered my not-as-sexy coffee, I added, “Actually could I also get one large takeout coffee and a burger, the biggest one you’ve got? And a….uh…cheese and salad on whole wheat, no mayo. And a couple of those muffins please, any kind is fine. Maybe all that extra stuff ready to go in twenty minutes?” The server blinked again slowly, then nodded when I handed over my card to pay and it seemed to register that the large order wasn’t a joke.
The conversation between Jana and I went as it usually did—frantic and erratic, and with what felt like a hundred topics covered in a tiny amount of time. Jana declared h
er ristretto tasty, but too small and finished far too quickly. With a naughty grin she added that it wasn’t unlike the man who’d suggested it. Time to take a moment of silence for yet another suitor fallen to my sister’s unattainable list of attributes she wanted in a partner.
We made plans for dinner later that week, decided that like the trillion other times we’d discussed it she shouldn’t lighten her hair, and confirmed that we were indeed throwing a surprise party for Mom’s birthday in March. When Jana asked about my day, I brushed past her question with an evasive answer and looped the conversation back around to her soon-to-be-ex lover.
After almost twenty minutes of nonstop word blurting between my sister and me, a server arrived with the extra coffee and two paper bags. Jana stared, an eyebrow quirking. “Just a little hungry, Sabs?”
“No. Not for me.” I glanced at my watch. “I should get going, I still have to pick up dinner on the way home.”
She eyed me speculatively but said nothing more about the bags and tray in my hands. “Okay then. I have a pre-nup I need to pick apart and a bottle of red I want to finish.”
“Your job is boring as shit, no wonder you need wine to get through it.”
She gave me the same response to my teasing she’d given me ever since she’d learned how to poke her tongue out. This time it was accompanied by a middle finger. We gathered our things, I dumped some creamers and sugar into one of the paper bags and Jana held the door open for us. The rain had turned from light mist to annoying drizzle, so I huddled under her umbrella as we wandered back in the direction of my car. As we approached the veteran I’d spoken to earlier, I slowed. “Gimme a minute.”
Jana stared at my tray and bags, then down to the guy who still sat curled up on the steps under the awning. She nodded and moved out of earshot, pressed against the building and angled slightly away with the umbrella tilted to afford us some privacy.
