This is One Moment

by Mila Gray

  ‘Vietnam,’ Zac answers.

  ‘What are you doing there? I thought you were in Hawaii?’

  ‘No. That film wrapped. I’m doing reshoots for Dogs of War.’

  ‘The Vietnam War movie?’ I ask, frowning. I think I remember him telling me that film was already in post- production.

  ‘Yep, that’s the one,’ he says. ‘The ending didn’t play well to test audiences so they’re reshooting the final scenes. In this version my character gets to live.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ I say, wishing there was an option for reshoots in real life. I’m sure the real soldiers here at the centre would appreciate that. ‘How’s it going?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s hotter than hell,’ Zac says. ‘But the food is amazing.’

  I smile. Zac and I share an obsession for good food, though I like to cook, and not a single one of the multitude of shiny appliances in Zac’s kitchen other than the bottle opener has ever been used. His cutlery drawer is dedicated to take-out menus.

  ‘I’m back a week next Thursday,’ he says. ‘I was hoping we might catch up.’

  My stomach flip-flops like a fish out of water. ‘Um, sure,’ I stammer.

  ‘How does that Thursday sound? Do you want to come to my place? I’ll cook.’

  I raise an eyebrow. I want to see him, but is this a bootie call? I’m not sure how I feel about a bootie call. What if I go and then he never contacts me again? I don’t think I can handle rejection a second time. Then again, it’s Zac Ridgemont asking. I think about the girls who hang out outside his apartment building in LA screaming hysteric-ally. They would probably give their right arm to be in my shoes.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I’ll bring cheese.’

  Still riding a wave of happiness and excitement, I exit the bathroom and head down the hallway, an imaginary soundtrack playing in my head.

  José, who’s sitting at the nursing station, looks up from his paperwork as I pass. ‘Someone’s in a good mood,’ he observes with amusement.

  I grin at him and stride into Walker’s room. Straight-away the grin dies and the soundtrack playing in my head screeches to an abrupt halt.

  Walker’s sitting up in bed. He’s no longer wearing a sling. He’s facing the window and I wonder if he’s imagining the view or thinking about something else entirely. Judging by the downturn of his mouth, I’m guessing he’s not visualizing rolling green hills or sparkling ocean.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, and then remember to add, ‘It’s Didi.’

  He turns his head my way. Because his eyes are covered I can’t tell what his expression is, but I do notice the way his lips purse ever so slightly. He still hasn’t shaved. That’s what strikes me now. It’s odd, because in the military the grooming standard means most men are clean-shaven, except for Navy Seals or Special Forces soldiers who have a get-out clause. I wonder if it’s because Walker’s refusing all help and can’t manage to shave on his own.

  ‘Can I come in?’ I ask.

  Walker shrugs. ‘There’s no lock on the door.’

  I bite back my smile and enter the room.

  ‘I brought you something,’ I say.

  He turns towards me as I approach, a deep furrow creasing his forehead. He’s wearing a marl grey T-shirt and I notice the Naval Academy logo on it.

  I take a step closer to the bed.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s my iPod,’ I say, pulling it out of my bag.

  ‘I’ve got an iPod,’ he says, nodding his head at the nightstand drawer.

  ‘I know,’ I say. I saw it the last time I was in his room and noticed the cracked screen. ‘I just thought you might like some audio books. I have hundreds. I listen to them in the car. When I’m driving. I drive a lot. Back and forth to classes. And back here to see my parents,’ I add when he doesn’t say anything. ‘Do you read?’ I ask, my voice taking on a disconcertingly high pitch. It’s usually the therapist who’s supposed to say nothing and the patient who’s supposed to babble on.

  A smirk pulls up one corner of his mouth. ‘Yes. I might be a jarhead but I can read.’

  ‘I mean do you like books?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says with a sardonic voice. ‘I like books.’

  I choose to ignore his tone. ‘I’ve got a mix of fiction and non-fiction on there. Hopefully there’s something you might like.’ I set the iPod down on his nightstand. This close to him I also get a hit of his deodorant (it can’t be aftershave) or maybe his shampoo, and find myself in- haling again before I can stop myself.

  ‘Right. Um,’ I say, backing away from him. ‘Well, it’s there on the side, all set up to go. José can help you if you need it.’

  ‘I don’t need help,’ he growls.

  I wince. ‘OK. Well, it’s there if you want it,’ I say and glance over my shoulder at the open door. Half of me desperately wants to escape and the other half of me wants to stay – to talk, to get him to open up. I’m not sure why I’m so focused on him when there are two hundred other people I could focus on and Walker seems like the one who’s least interested. But, then again, a psychologist would probably tell me that’s exactly why I’m focused on him.

  Didi, you are not here to fix him! I remind myself. I take one last look at him – he’s chewing the inside of his lip – and then turn to go, resolving to leave this one to my dad.

  ‘Is there any music on there?’

  I spin back around. ‘Um, yeah,’ I say, frantically trying to remember what music is on it. It’s my old iPod and I’m sure it contains some very questionable choices.

  ‘What have you got?’ he asks, feeling for the iPod and picking it up.

  Oh God. I’m guessing that One Direction isn’t what he wants to hear.

  ‘What do you like?’ I ask, turning the question around and wondering how I can prise the iPod out of his hand and delete all the dud music before he presses shuffle.

  ‘A mix,’ he says and I catch the first hint of a smile from him, a relaxing of the jaw. ‘Classical, jazz, blues.’

  My eyebrows lift. I hadn’t pegged him for a classical guy. ‘So no Justin Bieber then?’ I ask, mock hopefully.

  He raises an eyebrow. I can just see it poking out of the bandage.

  ‘I’ll bring my computer tomorrow and load some new music on there for you, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ he says after a small pause. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No worries,’ I say. ‘See you later.’

  I walk out grinning. José cocks an eyebrow at me as I stroll past. ‘You’re not covered in yoghurt,’ he says, leaning back in his chair. ‘I’d call that progress.’

  Walker

  I turn the iPod over in my hands, feeling for the buttons. It takes me about five minutes before I manage to hit the right ones in the right sequence and find the audio books. Five minutes during which I have to listen to what sounds like a group of prepubescent boys sing about what they want to do to me sexually.

  I’m about to rip my own ears off – happy to be both blind and deaf if it means making the hell that is this music stop – when I find the right button and on comes an audio book. It’s a Stephen King novel. I make a mental note of it for later and keep scrolling through the list, making a few wrong moves that take me back to the music and what sounds disturbingly like a Disney soundtrack.

  Thankfully the books are a lot better than the music. Like Didi said, there’s a real mix, from fantasy and sci-fi through to philosophy and biographies, mainly of people like Freud and Jung but also of the Dalai Lama. I keep pressing buttons, not interested in either psychoanalysis or Buddhism. I don’t want to learn about the interpretation of dreams; there’s nothing to interpret in mine, and I already know that life is suffering. I’ve got that one down pat.

  The next book is The Psychology of Sex, which makes me pause. Interesting. There’s no point listening to that one, though, unless it has a chapter in it on how to erase memories of your ex-girlfriend. The next one is called Sex, Love and Relationships. I might as well listen to a book teaching me Marti
an for all the use that one’s going to be. I notice, though, that the author is someone called Doctor Laurie Monroe. Coincidence? Or is she related to Didi? Maybe it’s her mother? That would be intense, having a sex therapist and a clinical psychologist for parents. I wonder what the dinner conversation would be like.

  My mom’s a homemaker and a proud former Miss Virginia. My dad works in military intelligence. There were no conversations happening around our dinner table except for the odd gruff comment from my father if I didn’t make the top percentile in tests and an undercurrent of nervous chatter from my mother about the weather and where the neighbours were going on vacation that I learned early on to tune out. If anyone had ever mentioned their dreams or sex at the dinner table, the sky would have fallen in, heralding the end of days.

  I think back to Didi. Her perfume still hangs in the air, except I’m not sure it’s perfume. Maybe it’s just shampoo. She’s on edge around me. That’s one of the things you get good at when you can’t see. You pick up on verbal clues you’d normally miss. My ability to tell when people are lying is way better these days, like when the surgeon said my leg would be good as new after the operation. I know my knee’s busted and the likelihood is that I’ll never be able to walk straight again or serve as a marine on deployment, not that that last one is high on my wish list anyway. The docs just don’t want to tell me because they’re scared the diagnosis will push me over the edge.

  I know they’re worried about my mental state. That’s why Doctor Monroe has upped our sessions to three a week. I’m like a nut he wants to crack. Literally. He wants me to open up to him and start talking about what happened.

  The first three weeks I answered him with silence. The fourth week I threw my iPod at him, missing him, of course, and hitting the wall instead. It’s smashed and won’t work now. My own stupid fault. When Didi came by with her iPod just now I wondered if her dad had told her about what happened to mine. The thought irritates me because that would mean they’ve talked about me.

  Idly, I start to wonder what Didi looks like. I remember Sanchez said she was hot, but I have no idea whether she’s short or tall, dark-haired or blonde. I don’t even know how old she is, though guessing by the music on the iPod and the fact that she’s an intern, I’m guessing she’s about twenty-one, maybe a little older.

  The whir of Sanchez’s wheelchair interrupts my thoughts.

  ‘Yo, Lieutenant,’ he says, bashing through the door. ‘How you doing?’

  He doesn’t let me answer.

  ‘Saw you had a visitor. Hot damn, dude, you should have seen what she was wearing today.’ He makes a satisfied sound; the same noise I’ve heard him make when they serve jello and ice cream at dinner time. ‘What did she want?’

  For some reason I don’t feel like telling Sanchez about the iPod so I just shrug. ‘Not much.’

  ‘She hasn’t been to see me yet. You reckon if I throw some yoghurt at her that all might change?’

  I ignore the comment about the yoghurt incident. Sanchez and José both told me how she had to change into scrubs after that. I still need to apologize to her. ‘She’s just being friendly,’ I tell Sanchez. ‘She’s going to be doing the rounds with her dad later this week. That’s what José said. So I’m sure you’ll get a chance to meet her then.’

  ‘You think she could be convinced to swap places with José when it’s time for my bed bath?’

  ‘I thought you liked José,’ I say. ‘Those soft hands. That gentle touch.’

  Sanchez laughs – a full-on belly laugh – and I picture him throwing back his head. ‘First joke I’ve heard you make in a while, Lieutenant,’ he says. ‘Keep ’em coming. I’ve missed them.’

  I frown. I used to be known for my sense of humour. Not for the kind of jokes that Lutter used to make – ones at the toilet end of the scale, usually involving some kind of sexual scenario featuring goats and somebody’s mother – but for my dry asides, usually delivered when tension was high or when morale was low. Sanchez is right, though. It’s been a while since I’ve cracked a joke, or even a smile.

  ‘Jesús?’

  ‘Oh man,’ Sanchez mutters under his breath.

  ‘Jesús!’ A woman with a thick Spanish accent calls him again. It’s Sanchez’s wife Valentina.

  Sanchez is one of the toughest marines I’ve ever come across, all muscle and brawn. I never once heard him complain, not even on twelve-mile treks across desert carrying one-hundred-pound packs. I’ve never heard him utter a word of dissent when given stupid orders by fools in command further up the chain, have never seen him flinch in the face of battle. But in the face of his hurricane of a wife, the man is flattened and turns into a cowering mess.

  ‘Shit,’ he mumbles now. ‘I forgot.’ He starts cursing in Spanish under his breath.

  ‘Forgot what?’ I ask. Valentina visits most days, often bringing their two small kids with her. Sanchez can often be heard tearing down the hallways in his wheelchair, pushing the engine to the max as his kids hold on to the back and scream with delight, urging him to go faster.

  I don’t mind Valentina. For one thing she doesn’t say sorry. She doesn’t pat me on the arm and tell me things will be OK. The first thing she said when she came to the hospital just after we were flown back to base was, ‘You bring my husband home to me with one leg and one arm?!’ Then she slapped me hard across the face, the sound of it an explosion that made my head ring.

  I was relieved that someone had finally said it, and I sat there, ready to take more, whatever she could throw at me – welcoming it, in fact. But then, much to my surprise, she threw herself on top of me and hugged me, sobbing and planting wet kisses all over my head and face. ‘Gracias, gracias,’ she murmured over and over until Sanchez dragged her off me.

  Now, every time she comes to visit Sanchez she stops by my room too, usually with something to eat (she doesn’t trust the food here) or some flowers, once even a rosary, which I politely took and then hid in the drawer.

  I hear Sanchez drawing his wheelchair closer to the bed, out of the way of the door. ‘We’re meant to be going to some stupid counselling appointment,’ he whispers as we hear Valentina stalk up the hallway, yelling out his name. ‘Something to do with our relationship.’ He lowers his voice further. ‘Valentina wants to know when we can start at it again, whether I’ll be normal in the bedroom department. I keep telling her it’s my leg that got shot off, not my dick.’

  ‘There you are!’ Valentina bursts into the room and I hear her plant a kiss on Sanchez.

  ‘Vien aqui, nena,’ Sanchez murmurs. Valentina murmurs something back and I hear them kiss.

  ‘You guys need a room?’ I ask, ‘because his is down the hall.’

  They both giggle and the kissing sounds amplify, so wet and loud it sounds like someone squelching through mud.

  ‘I might be blind, but that’s not an invitation to make out in my room,’ I tell them.

  Valentina laughs and comes over and hugs me.

  ‘How are you?’ she asks. ‘You looking after yourself? When’s your operation?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I say. They’re trying to fix my knee again. The last operation, done in the field, hasn’t done the job and the surgeon here wants another go.

  ‘What about that girlfriend of yours? She see sense yet?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Putana,’ Valentina spits under her breath.

  ‘I speak Spanish,’ I tell her, but only half-heartedly. I secretly like it that someone is taking my side on this one. When I told my mother over the phone, she exclaimed in disappointment over the break-up, but only because she’d bought her wedding outfit and was already breaking out the crochet needles for the firstborn.

  ‘Sí. I know,’ Valentina says. I can hear her bustling around my room, plumping cushions and drawing the drapes. ‘I’m just telling it like it is. That girl doesn’t deserve you.’ She comes over to me and rubs my shoulder. ‘You just wait. Once you’re out of here I’m going to set you up with
my cousin Angela.’

  ‘You can’t set him up with Angela,’ Sanchez argues. ‘She looks like Shrek.’

  ‘Shhh,’ Valentina hisses. ‘What do looks matter? And who are you to talk anyway? You’re not exactly Zac Ridgemont. And besides, Angela has a great personality. A beautiful heart.’ She pats my shoulder. ‘She’ll make him very happy.’

  ‘And if he ever gets his sight back,’ Sanchez laughs, ‘he’ll be struck blind again when he sees what he’s been sleeping with.’

  I hear the sound of a slap and Sanchez lets out a cry, followed by a string of curses. ‘What? I’m just telling it like it is,’ he protests, but Valentina cuts him off.

  ‘We have to go, baby, or we’re going to miss our appointment with Doctor Monroe.’

  ‘Doctor Monroe?’ I ask, confused. I didn’t know sex therapy and couples counselling was part of his repertoire.

  ‘No. Not him. It’s his wife,’ Sanchez explains. ‘She volunteers at the centre once a week.’

  ‘You know, she was on Oprah once,’ Valentina says. ‘Talking about sex and the female orgasm. Maybe she can teach you a few things, baby.’

  I hear Sanchez starting to reverse out the room. ‘I don’t need anyone to teach me about the female orgasm,’ he argues, banging the wheels into the door.

  Valentina responds, her Spanish sounding like the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire, and I feel my way over to the door and shut it before shuffling back to the bed and sticking in my headphones.

  Didi

  ‘Need some company?’ I ask, poking my head around the door.

  Dodds looks over his shoulder. He’s parked in his wheelchair over by the window and is staring out at the lake. ‘Sure,’ he says, giving me a weak smile.

  I walk into his room and pull up a chair beside him.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ I ask.

  ‘Not much,’ he says. ‘Just physio. What about you?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, I just spent the morning observing an art therapy class.’

  He snorts through his nose. ‘Man, those classes. I did one once. The teacher told me to paint whatever I was feeling.’