This is One Moment

by Mila Gray

  Right. Of course.

  I spray the shaving foam into my palm, then I kneel down in front of him and start applying the foam to his face, aware that my hands are shaking a little and hoping he doesn’t notice. Neither of us says anything. It feels weirdly intimate, and I wonder for a second if this is something I should be doing. I mean, does this breach some patient–doctor boundary? But I’m not his doctor. And he’s not technically my patient. I push the thought away. I can’t exactly stop now that he’s half covered in shaving foam.

  Resting back on my haunches to wipe my hands on a towel, I take the opportunity to study him. His eyes are grey-green and beautiful, framed with the kind of thick black lashes that it takes me three layers of mascara and an eyelash curler to achieve.

  I knew he was good-looking – the bandages couldn’t hide that fact – but I didn’t realize he was this good- looking. It’s the eyes that do it, ironically enough. Not just their colour, which is striking on its own, but something about the sadness in them. When I look at Walker, I see someone physically strong, fit and capable, but when I look into his eyes, I see someone hurting, someone vulnerable, someone in pain. It gives me a jolt – the sharpness of the contrast – and it makes my heart bruise.

  Zac is beautiful – but boyish with it. Walker is the complete opposite. Though they’re the same age, twenty-four, you could never, ever call Walker a boy. He’s fully, one hundred per cent man. He’s well over six foot, whereas Zac is about five eight. And though Zac works out, Walker’s physique is more than just sculpted, it’s like he’s hewn from rock. I muse on their differences a little more. Zac is charming and flirtatious, always smiling and easy in conversation, whereas Walker’s gruff and silent a lot of the time. But there’s a quiet confidence about him that I like. I get the feeling that he’s never trying to impress anyone. If anything, he’s trying to keep people at a distance.

  Why am I comparing the two of them? I shake my head and grimace to myself. Walker’s a patient. I need to be professional. These thoughts are about as professional as a lap dance.

  ‘OK,’ I say, ‘let’s do this.’ I grasp the razor.

  ‘You done this before?’ Walker asks.

  I pause with the razor halfway to his throat. I’m a pro at shaving my legs. How much harder can this be? ‘Um, yeah,’ I say.

  His eyebrow arches, but he lets it lie.

  ‘Hold still,’ I tell him, taking his chin firmly in one hand. I start slowly shaving his right cheek.

  He holds still.

  The only sound is the scrape of the razor and the splash of water as I wash off the blade. It requires concentration. But after a while the silence gets to me.

  ‘I saw you in the gym,’ I say. I’m pretty sure that Dodds caught me staring and said something to him, so I may as well admit to it.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I figured I should get back into shape.’

  Get back into shape?

  ‘Are you doing the triathlon?’

  The edge of his mouth quirks up into a smile but his eyebrows draw together. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘No one. I just heard Sanchez say he was doing it. So are you doing it too?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I am.’

  ‘You are?’ I’m surprised, for some reason.

  He nods at me.

  ‘That’s great. Now hold still.’ I move to his top lip, trying not to focus on it or on his mouth, though this close it’s hard not to.

  ‘How are you getting on with the books?’ I ask quickly to distract myself.

  ‘Good,’ he says, trying not to move his lips. ‘I’m listening to Misery.’

  ‘The Stephen King?’

  He nods, and I tighten my grip on his jaw and move the razor to his left cheek. He smiles. He has a dimple this side.

  ‘Did you get to the part where she cripples him to stop him from leaving?’ I wince. ‘Oh . . . sorry.’ God, I keep putting my foot in my mouth.

  Walker laughs. ‘No. It’s OK. Don’t say sorry. I’m so tired of that word.’

  ‘Sor—’ I clamp my mouth shut before I can finish saying it again. ‘I’ll just shut up,’ I mumble.

  ‘No, don’t do that either.’

  A half smile, half smirk pulls the edge of his mouth up. I start on his neck, accidentally flicking some shaving foam onto his chest and having to reach for the towel to wipe it up.

  He says nothing as I run the towel across his chest trying not to stare. I glance at the scar on his shoulder. It looks like a shrapnel wound. Something tugs harshly on my insides. What are the scars on the inside like? Are they just as bad? And how do you heal those ones when you can’t even see them? I guess that’s a therapist’s job and I should know how, but I don’t.

  I pick up the razor and start shaving him again.

  ‘Um . . . you know,’ he says, ‘it’s better if you shave downwards.’

  ‘What?’

  His hand comes up and circles my wrist. He covers my hand with his own and then guides the razor downwards. ‘Like this.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, swallowing hard.

  He still hasn’t let go of my hand. I try it myself. ‘Like this?’

  He lets go. ‘Yeah. Otherwise it causes razor burn.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I say.

  He shakes his head as if to say don’t apologize.

  My heart has started beating triple-time and my hand shakes as I finish off shaving his neck. I need to get a grip. When I’m done, I stand aside and let him wash his face.

  ‘How do I look?’ he says, turning to me. There’s a sardonic smile on his face.

  ‘Good,’ I say. Really good. ‘Wait.’ I snatch the towel from his hand and dab at a fleck of shaving foam by his ear. ‘There,’ I say.

  His hand comes up to take the towel and our fingers touch and stay there for a beat too long. My breathing hitches, then speeds up. I resist the urge I have to stroke my other hand down his newly-shaved cheek.

  There’s a look in his eye now – confusion overlaying the sadness. His head cocks slightly to one side. I pull my hand away and just then the bathroom door swings wide open.

  ‘Hello? . . . Oh.’

  I spin around. My dad is standing in the doorway. He blinks a few times and frowns as he takes in the fact that I’m standing almost pressed up against a half-naked Walker.

  ‘Hey, Dad,’ I say, turning bright red. ‘Um, I was just helping Walker, I mean Lieutenant Walker, shave. His beard.’ Oh God.

  ‘I can see that,’ my dad says, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips at me. ‘I just came looking for him because he missed his appointment time.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Walker says. ‘I didn’t know it was that late. José normally comes to get me.’

  ‘Um,’ I mumble. ‘I’m going to go now. Bye,’ I say quickly to Walker, and then ease past my dad and rush out the door.

  I know from the look on my dad’s face as he turns to watch me go that this won’t be the end of it.

  Walker

  I don’t say much in Doctor Monroe’s session and he doesn’t push it, makes no mention about me going over what happened in Helmand. I’m grateful for that but also uncomfortable, aware from the tone he used with Didi that he thinks he walked in on something and that he’s not happy about it.

  I feel awkward, but then again, what is there to feel awkward about? There’s nothing going on. Even without being able to see and pick up on the normal cues, my gut is telling me that all those things I’m feeling – the connection, the hyper-awareness when I’m around her, this attraction, if that’s even what it is – are one-sided. If she was staring over at me in the gym, it was probably because she was surprised to see me with my bandages off. Dodds was probably overplaying it. She just feels sorry for me. Hell, she’s said it two or three times. And she has a boyfriend.

  If the girl who supposedly loved me and wanted to spend her life with me – in sickness and in health – was so repulsed by me, why would a girl who never knew me before, and who barely knows me now, ever
look twice at me? No. If Didi feels anything for me, then it’s just pity.

  After the hour’s therapy session is up and I’m back in my room, I find I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s frustrating as hell. I need to find a way to get her out of my mind. I think about going to the gym again. My knee is throbbing, but I could probably go a few more miles on the rowing machine. Maybe I should take the painkiller next time José comes around with it.

  ‘Hey, Lieutenant.’

  It’s Dodds. I hear him bang his wheelchair into the door.

  ‘How you doing?’ he asks.

  ‘Good. You?’

  I hear him sigh. ‘Yeah, OK. You shaved.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I run my hand across my jaw. She did a good job.

  ‘You want to come and play poker with Sanchez and me?’ he asks.

  I give him what I think is an arch look.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he says, realizing how stupid the question was. ‘Well, the game’s on the TV,’ he says. ‘You can come and watch it. I mean listen to it.’

  I start to say no thanks, but then I figure what the hell. Anything to take my mind off Didi. And I should really give my knee a rest or I might not be able to work out tomorrow at all.

  In Sanchez’s room I sit on his bed and listen to the game, though I can barely hear it over the bitching happening between Sanchez and Dodds as they shuffle and deal.

  ‘I’m putting fifty dollars on Walker beating you,’ I hear Dodds say.

  ‘Nah,’ says Sanchez, ‘it don’t work like that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re going to be tied together.’

  ‘What?’

  My ears prick up. What are they talking about?

  ‘Yeah, that’s how they do it with these kinds of triathlons. They tie us together for the running and the swimming part.’

  ‘Like on a leash? He’s, like, your dog?’

  ‘Wait,’ I say, interrupting. ‘Hold up. What are you talking about?’

  ‘The triathlon,’ Sanchez says. ‘We’re entering as a team.’

  Dodds bursts out laughing. ‘You’re going to be tied to him!’

  ‘I’m your eyes,’ Sanchez explains. ‘You’re my legs. It’s a win-win. We use a tandem bike for the cycle ride. When we swim and run you’re tied to me.’

  Tied to him? For a moment I think about laughing and telling him there’s no way I’m taking part, but then I remember that I’m supposed to be setting a positive ex-- ample. I also recognize that Sanchez needs me as much as I need him, and I know how much this triathlon means to him, so I just nod. I can feel the competitive streak in me stirring to life.

  ‘You better be fast,’ I say.

  ‘Road Runner’s got nothing on me,’ he answers, laughing. I hear him tossing some coins into a pile. ‘Figure between the two of us we’ve got about one and a half functioning bodies. We’re gonna win this thing for sure.’

  ‘How the hell did I let you talk me into this?’ I say, shaking my head.

  ‘He could sell ice to the Eskimos, that’s how.’

  It’s Valentina. She bustles into the room and I hear her planting kisses on Sanchez and Dodds before my turn comes. She wraps me up in a hug and I get a waft of eyewatering perfume.

  ‘You know, you can’t call them that any more,’ Dodds interrupts. ‘Eskimos. The real name’s Inuit.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘I watched this show on National Geographic,’ Dodds explains.

  ‘You know what, Dodds?’ Sanchez laughs. ‘You aren’t half as dumb as you seem.’

  ‘Screw you, Sanchez,’ Dodds says, but he’s laughing under his breath too.

  I join in.

  ‘Amor,’ Valentina interrupts, ‘I just stopped by to bring you boys some food.’ I hear the sound of plastic containers being snapped open and suddenly the aroma of Mexican food fills the room, making my mouth water. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Where?’ Sanchez asks.

  ‘To the volunteer meeting,’ Valentina tells him. ‘I’m helping with the food for the party next week.’

  ‘Sweet,’ says Dodds. ‘I was thinking we’d just get cold cuts and jello.’

  ‘My cousin Angela’s coming. She’s going to help too.’

  ‘What with? Eating all the food?’ Sanchez asks.

  Valentina says something in Spanish that makes Sanchez mumble something under his breath like a scolded child.

  ‘OK. I have to run,’ Valentina announces. She strokes her hand down my cheek. ‘You look so handsome without the beard,’ she clucks. ‘Keep it off. Angela prefers her men clean-shaven.’

  ‘Shame she doesn’t apply the same philosophy to herself,’ Sanchez laughs.

  There’s a pause, then a sharp slap, and Sanchez lets out a yell.

  ‘You say one more word about my cousin and I’m going to tell Doctor Monroe all about that thing you don’t want anyone to know about . . .’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Sanchez shouts, but I hear the fear in his voice.

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t I? Just watch me.’ And with that she leaves. I imagine she probably flounces out the door.

  ‘Damn woman,’ Sanchez mutters once she’s out of earshot.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Dodds says and I pick up his angry tone. ‘You got a wife. And she loves you. You know how lucky you are? Jesus. You got way more than the rest of us have got.’

  Sanchez doesn’t say anything in reply. A minute later, though, he mumbles ‘Fold’ and I hear Dodds gathering up the coins.

  I get up from the bed and make my way to the door, my hands out in front of me, feeling for the wall. I’ve counted the steps from here to my own room and if I hug the wall I can manage on my own.

  ‘See you, Lieutenant,’ Dodds calls to my back.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say in answer.

  I head to my room, leaning against the wall the whole way.

  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?’
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  ‘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.