Karma

by RJ Blain

  Jake’s smile was radiant. “I love you, too.”

  Pivoting on a heel, he headed to the door while whistling a merry tune.

  “It’s just the drugs talking, you know,” I called after him.

  “Sure it is.” He paused long enough to blow me a kiss before unlatching the door and sticking his head out into hallway. It didn’t take him long before he made his way back to the bed, slid under the covers beside me, and snuggled close.

  “You really went to the door naked, didn’t you?”

  “Got a problem with it?”

  I thought about it. Did I have a problem with him prancing around naked?

  I didn’t have to think long on it.

  “I’m the only one allowed to see you naked.”

  “Will doesn’t care, Karma.”

  “No, but I do,” I hissed at him.

  “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

  “So what?”

  Jake laughed.

  I had no idea what was in the needle the doctor jabbed me with, but it didn’t take long to numb me to everything and leave me in a half-awake daze. With my awareness flitting in and out, it was difficult to make myself care, even when the doctor stole Jake away, leaving me with promises of his return.

  That’s when my parents visited, and I was grateful for the painkillers. My parents weren’t criers, but they sobbed at my bedside. The numbness kept me cocooned in a protective layer, cradling me from reality.

  My nose was playing tricks on me; relief shouldn’t have had a scent, but it hung so heavy in the air it made it hard for me to breathe.

  Maybe I was drugged, but I knew better than to say a word. If Ma found out I was dreaming about foxes again, she’d beat them out of me. I opted for the safest course possible: silence.

  Tears were far better than rage.

  The doctor returned without Jake, spending far too long discussing the miracle of my ongoing survival with my parents. While I was of the opinion the gray-haired man talked far too much, I waited it out. It was difficult to make sense of the conversation, but I came away with a few important facts.

  First, I’d make a full recovery. I had no idea how; when bullets tore through the shoulder, they destroyed a lot of things. Real shoulders weren’t like the ones on television; I wouldn’t hop back to my feet at the end of the episode as though nothing had happened. In a few weeks—more likely a few months—the injury would heal, but it would leave behind scars and bones that would never heal quite right. Those scars would impair my movement in some fashion or another. If I got lucky, I would escape with minimal nerve damage.

  In a few years, I’d find out how impaired my movement would be. Physical therapy would help, but I’d always carry reminders.

  Second, I wouldn’t be going anywhere soon, but the doctor somehow managed to talk my ma and pops into returning to the United States. I regretted not comprehending most of the conversation; I was able to focus my attention on exactly one thing at a time, and analyzing the reality of my injury and the doctor fibbing about a full recovery had consumed the little coherency I had.

  Finally, once the doctor managed to drive my parents out of the room, he removed the splint from my wrist, winking at me as though letting me in on some joke. He set it on the nightstand beside the bed, which also held a tray littered with pill bottles, syringes, and clean bandages.

  “You lied to them,” I accused in a slur.

  “The only lie I told was the period of time it will take for a complete recovery.”

  I was so focused on how I couldn’t possibly recover completely, I had missed the part about how long it would take. “Huh?”

  “Under normal circumstances, the injury you sustained would take half a year to a year for a full recovery with a substantial chance for impairment. However, thanks to your rather unique circumstances, I expect the entire process will take no longer than two months.”

  “That’s impossible,” I informed him.

  “Under normal circumstances, it is. Frankly, under normal circumstances, I’d probably still be in the operating room searching for the missing pieces of your shoulder and trying to piece the fragments back together. For the moment, it’s probably easier if you don’t think about it. Enjoy the fact you’re healing well, take your medication exactly as prescribed, and be grateful. I have instructions on your general care for the next week. My primary focus is on your weight. Until your nutrition problems are resolved, I can’t begin a physical therapy regime for you.”

  I frowned. “How long?”

  “For what?”

  “Until physical therapy.”

  “Two to three weeks—maybe sooner, depending on circumstances.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Most doctors I knew would have been offended by my disbelieving tone. Mine smirked instead of getting angry. “I wouldn’t hold on too tightly to your perceptions of what is and isn’t possible, Mrs. Thomas. It’ll make things easier for you down the road.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’ll see. For now, you should rest. As soon as your husband’s parents are convinced he’s on the mend, I’ll send him back to you so you both can get something to eat and some sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll be taking you to the local hospital for a new set of tests to confirm how well you’re healing, and I’ll reevaluate things from there.”

  The doctor was halfway to the door before I realized I didn’t know his name. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “I’m Dr. Sampson, ma’am.”

  “No, you’re not. Dr. Sampson is a woman.”

  He laughed. “That Dr. Sampson is my daughter. If you think that’s bad, wait until you meet my wife. That Dr. Sampson will be your physical therapist. Trust me on this, you will want to speed your recovery along as quickly as possible. She’ll make your life hell if you give her half a chance.”

  I had a very, very bad feeling, but before I could say a word, the doctor swept out of my room and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Dr. Sampson, Mrs. Dr. Sampson, and Mr. Dr. Sampson joined forces, and whenever I was coherent enough to realize all three of them were in the room with me, I snarled curses at them.

  I thought they were having way too much fun confusing me. One of them I could handle. It was when there were two or more of them I had problems. When two or more of them came, they stole Jake away from me.

  At first, they kept me so drugged I struggled to focus enough to be upset he was gone. When I complained, Jake smiled, kissed my forehead, and assured me he would return. Then the devil doctors drove him out of our room.

  Only the knowledge they were helping my shoulder heal kept me cooperating.

  I had no idea how much time had gone by, but the fact all three of them had come warned me of trouble.

  “What?” I asked, tensing warily as they regarded me.

  “We’re going to give you a choice,” Mr. Dr. Sampson announced.

  Choices were bad. The last time they had given me a choice, it had resulted in pain, pain, and more pain—and a trip to the hospital for tests. I grimaced. “What choice, sir?”

  “You can go to the hospital with us for tests without a fight, cursing, or trying to crawl under the bed to get away from us.”

  I waited for the second choice. It didn’t take me long to realize there wasn’t a second choice.

  Even I could learn a new trick, and resisting would only result in pain and going to the hospital anyway. “Yes, sir.”

  All three of them stared at me.

  “You’re going to cooperate?” the youngest Dr. Sampson asked.

  “Yes, Dr. Sampson.”

  “We’re not going to have to drug you this time?” Mr. Dr. Sampson didn’t sound like he trusted me one bit, not that I blamed him.

  I was a terrible patient, especially when they sent Jake away. The fear he’d disappear had faded, but it didn’t take long for the first trembling signs of anxiety to set in. Why couldn’t they just let Jake s
tay in the room?

  Better yet, why couldn’t he go to the hospital with me?

  I sighed. “You won’t,” I promised.

  For once, I’d like to have some idea what was going on—and walk in and out of the place under my own steam. At least they were taking me to a smaller hospital for testing, which limited the number of people who witnessed my embarrassment.

  Mrs. Dr. Sampson narrowed her eyes at me, placing her hands on her hips. “You’re not going to try to climb out the window again, realize you’re afraid of heights halfway out, and indulge in a fit of hysterics?”

  Jake had tried to warn them what happened when I was given Demerol, but no one had listened to him. I had no recollection of the incident, but if the stories I kept hearing were to be believed, I had been a devil of destruction on a mission.

  At least I wasn’t responsible for the bill for the damages.

  I lifted my chin. “That was not my fault.”

  Of the three Dr. Sampsons, my psychologist was my favorite, and she grinned at me. “It’s true. We were warned. It’s not her fault you didn’t listen, Dad. When Agent Thomas warned you and backed out of the room when you disregarded his warning, you should have known.”

  “We can’t keep giving her morphine. It’s too much of an addiction risk,” Mr. Dr. Sampson announced.

  All three sighed.

  “It’s not my fault,” I muttered.

  Even the morphine derivatives turned me into a psychopath. Drugs that had worked before no longer helped without doing something to me. The nicest of them had induced hysterical giggles, which had disconcerted Jake so much he had begged the doctors to take me off it immediately.

  Morphine did strange things to me, too, but I was a tolerable nuisance rather than a danger to myself and those around me.

  “If you can successfully address us by name, you’ll get to walk yourself to the car and in and out of the clinic today,” Mr. Dr. Sampson declared.

  “Mellisa, Arthur, Denise,” I chirped, pointing at them in turn. “Psychologist and psychiatrist, orthopedic surgeon, and tort—ahem, physical therapist with a specialty in bone trauma recovery. All three of you are attached to London’s United States embassy when abroad, and when in the United States, you service the Baltimore-Washington area.”

  Maybe they had kept me drugged, but when I was reasonably coherent, I paid attention to the chatter around me.

  The doctors stared at me.

  “What? You asked.” I scowled. “You weren’t expecting me to know, were you?”

  Mellisa held her hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I warned you, Dad.”

  “So you did. Try not to embarrass yourself, Agent Thomas.”

  I caught myself looking for Jake before realizing the man had been talking to me. I doubted I’d ever get used to people calling me anything other than Agent Johnson, and I resented the reminder Jake wasn’t with me. While I wanted to snarl a curse at the implication I couldn’t handle walking, I breathed until I could force a smile.

  Everyone had good reason to doubt me. If I managed to walk without tripping over my own feet, I’d be impressed.

  I couldn’t wait until they decided I was able to handle life without the medications clouding my head. “I think you’re asking for a miracle, sir.”

  “Mellisa will help you get changed. Once you’re ready, we’ll head out. We’ll try to make this as quick as possible, but we have a lot of tests to run.”

  I sighed. Some battles weren’t worth fighting, and I recognized a lost cause when I saw one.

  The drugs had worn off by the time we reached the small hospital in the British countryside. My shoulder ached, but it was a tolerable pain. My hand, which should have still hurt, didn’t bother me unless I tried using it too much. When I did, the stiffness in my joints was the primary source of discomfort.

  I had a feeling the only reason physical therapy on my hand hadn’t already started was because of my shoulder. Even the act of wiggling my fingers made the gunshot wound throb.

  For the first time I could remember since waking up in bed with Jake, the doctors didn’t drug me, allowing the painkillers to work their way out of my system. The battery of tests did a good job of distracting me, although I couldn’t stop checking over my shoulder. Without Jake around, my nervousness grew, and when the doctors took their eyes off me, I took advantage of the opportunity to get my back to the nearest wall, as far from the windows as I could.

  They were so absorbed by my x-rays, the doctors didn’t notice I had moved for at least ten minutes. When Mellisa looked up and noticed I was gone, she scanned the room and spotted me in the corner.

  “What are you doing over there?”

  I reminded myself I liked the woman. I reminded myself it wasn’t her fault I hurt. Taking deep breaths to help calm the fluttering feelings in my chest and stomach, I matched her stare for stare.

  Without Jake around to watch my back, tension cramped my muscles.

  “I like it over here.” I couldn’t stop myself from glancing in the direction of the big window. A green lawn stretched to the edge of a forest, and the forest had too many places for people to hide.

  Melissa was a lot of things, but she wasn’t stupid, and her gaze flicked to the window before returning to me. Her answering frown didn’t last long, but she did get up and close the curtains. “You’re going to have to deal with it eventually, Karma. Suppression is an excellent short-term coping tactic, but you have to face the underlying trauma eventually.”

  “I’ve been shot before,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, you’ve been shot before. Those injuries, however, were not nearly so severe or traumatic.”

  “I’m used to watching my own back,” I muttered. “Fine. I didn’t like the window. We are on the third floor.”

  “As long as you acknowledge the real reasons you do not like the window.”

  I clacked my teeth together. “Yes, Dr. Sampson. I’m uncomfortable with my back facing a window. Yes, I’m aware of the circumstances. Yes, someone tried to shoot me in the back, and I was only facing the shooter because Jake had noticed and reacted. Yes, I’m aware they shot him, too. I’m unarmed, and damn it, I miss my fucking gun.” I huffed, wrinkled my nose, and poked at the sling keeping me from using my right arm.

  “All things considered, you’ve been exceptionally patient.” Melissa smiled at me. “Why don’t you come over here and have a look at these pictures? You can get a good look at your recovery. Unfortunately, the results are in, and my mother is going to have her way with you starting in about an hour.”

  With wide eyes, I rose and approached the table they were using to examine images of my shoulder. Melissa directed my attention to the x-rays.

  One thing stood out: I couldn’t spot a single broken bone.

  “Whose x-rays are these?”

  “Yours.”

  I shook my head. “No broken bones. That’s impossible. Bullets through the shoulder break or shatter bones. I don’t see any pins, rods, or anything else that should be there.”

  “I was unaware you have medical training, Agent Thomas,” my orthopedic surgeon commented, his tone neutral.

  I stared at him. “I don’t. I’ve just seen x-rays of shoulders after a bullet has torn its way through. My instructors thought it wise for us to know what would happen if we got shot, sir. I thought it was pretty effective. Bullets to the shoulder usually impair mobility in the long-term unless it’s a graze or misses bone.”

  In case there was any doubt, I pointed at my shoulder. “There’s a lot of bone right there, sir. I don’t need a medical degree to know that. There is no way those are my x-rays.”

  “They were broken,” Dr. Sampson corrected, gesturing to one of the x-rays. “Look at this one, Agent Thomas. If you look here, here, and here, you can see where the damaged bones have fused.”

  Careful to avoid hurting my shoulder, I bent over the table to look at the image. At first, I couldn’t see what he was trying to show me, but there we
re dark lines on the bones, which I assumed were the evidence of healed fractures. I tapped my finger against one of the marks. “Like there?”

  “Yes, there. Now, look here.” Dr. Sampson tapped on a different x-ray. I looked.

  As far as I could tell there was nothing wrong with the bone. “I don’t see anything?”

  “That’s today’s x-ray. There’s no longer any evidence you were shot. Your muscles, however, are the problem. Fatigue, malnutrition, and stress seem to be the primary factors in your delayed healing. While you’ve gained weight, it’s time for you to begin exercising again to get back into decent physical condition.”

  I grimaced. “Physical therapy.”

  Mrs. Dr. Sampson sighed. “Initially, I wanted to use swimming, but your husband did not handle the suggestion well.”

  “I sink, ma’am.”

  “Yes, which makes swimming a very dangerous proposition. So, we’re going to try something a little unconventional.”

  “Unconventional?”

  When Mrs. Dr. Sampson smiled, apprehension shivered through me. “To begin, we’re going to go to the firing range.”

  I straightened, staring at her with widening eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I had held a gun. Being armed when I had been shot wouldn’t have changed anything, but I missed the security of having a firearm.

  With a gun, I had the means to protect myself.

  I snapped my head in Melissa’s direction, holding my breath in the fear I’d misheard my psychiatrist’s mother.

  “While they think I’m absolutely insane for authorizing it, I’m going to give you a chance to qualify with your left hand. They think I’m the one in need of a psychiatrist now, but I get how you FBI agents tick. They don’t.” Melissa smiled. “If you qualify, you walk off the range with a permit to carry in Britain.”

  “She looks like she’s about to cry,” Mr. Dr. Sampson blurted. “She hasn’t shed a single tear since I got my hands on her. Psychoanalyze that for me, Melissa.”

  “She doesn’t have a mental illness. I’m currently functioning as her psychologist, not her psychiatrist. There’s nothing to psychoanalyze. Let me explain it in small words so you can understand it: little is as liberating for a victim as the ability to defend herself from becoming a victim again. You both have been pressing her buttons while she’s been drugged trying to prove to me she is unstable. All you have to show for your efforts is an expanded vocabulary. Now, if you’re quite finished doubting my abilities to do my job, would you please stop looking for bullshit reasons to delay the next phase of her recovery?”