This is One Moment

by Mila Gray

  Walker lies down beside me and pulls me into his arms. I lie there, unable to talk, surges of electricity making my muscles twitch. I curl tighter, almost into a ball, and Walker wraps himself around me, stroking my hair, and now the tears do come and I don’t know why and I don’t want him to know that I’m crying because I feel stupid.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, propping himself up on one arm. ‘Are you crying?’

  ‘No,’ I mumble. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’ he asks, anxiety rich in his voice.

  I roll to face him. ‘Just because,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know that’s what it could be like. I thought people were exaggerating.’

  A grin splits Walker’s face. ‘I’m not finished with you yet,’ he says, bending to kiss me again.

  Walker

  ‘So, did I win the bet?’ Sanchez asks, storming into my room before they’ve even brought breakfast round. I sit up. What the hell time is it?

  ‘Shit,’ Sanchez says. ‘I guess not.’

  I hear him walk around to the nightstand and pick up the condoms. ‘Unless she brought her own?’ Sanchez asks. When I don’t answer he sits down on the bed and whispers, ‘So did you get to third base at least? Come on, I want details. Everyone’s waiting.’

  I don’t answer. I can’t hide my smile, though, as memories from last night rise to the fore. Fuck, that was a good night.

  ‘Oh man, you dirty dog, you did get some!’

  ‘A gentleman never talks,’ I say, getting off the bed and making my way to the bathroom.

  ‘Come on, it’s me, Sanchez. We’re like bros, you gotta tell me. Dodds said he heard a lot of noise coming from here last night. I’m guessing you two weren’t playing Scrabble.’

  ‘Monopoly,’ I tell him, shutting the bathroom door behind me. It doesn’t fully mute Sanchez who I can hear still peppering questions my way. Didi only left a couple of hours ago. I should be tired – I’ve only had about an hour’s sleep – but I’m not. I’m fully awake. And I think I need a cold shower. I’m still buzzing, and the memories are now racing through my mind on play-back. I can smell Didi on my skin, can still taste her on my tongue.

  ‘You up for some pool time?’ Sanchez hollers through the door. ‘Or are you all spent after last night?’

  ‘Give me five minutes,’ I yell back. Maybe ten, I think to myself. I think I want to relive last night again, on my own, in the shower.

  ‘OK, I’ll see you down there,’ he says.

  I don’t make it to the pool. I make it to the doorway where I bump straight into José.

  ‘You got an appointment down with occupational,’ he tells me.

  I sigh and roll my head backwards.

  ‘Come on, let’s get going,’ he chides. ‘I’ve spent all morning clearing up petals from the pool, and now I’m running late.’

  Oh shit. I forgot about the clearing-up part. I was too distracted last night.

  ‘You have fun last night?’ José asks as we walk to the elevator.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘You’re a lucky guy,’ José answers. ‘She’s a catch. If her mother’s anything to go by, Didi’s going places.’

  I fall silent as we get into the elevator, and by the time we make it to the occupational therapy room my good mood has evaporated. I don’t even know why for certain, but José’s words echo around my head, sticking there like a burr. Didi’s going places, he said. And I’m going exactly nowhere. That’s the crux of it. She has this bright future ahead of her. She wants to move to LA, for Chrissake. My future involves learning how to use a white stick and probably moving in with my brother, because it’s not like any other options are cropping up. I’ve got no job, no prospects. How can I tie a girl like Didi down? I’d be crippling her.

  ‘So, Lieutenant Walker, how we doing today?’ the occupational therapist asks in a bantering tone. ‘How was last night?’

  I arch my eyebrows. Is there anyone in this place who doesn’t know about last night?

  ‘Right,’ he says hastily, seeing my reaction, ‘let’s get you set up. Are you ready to start practising with a stick? I know you’re resistant, but the sooner you learn, the sooner you’ll be out of here. I also have some information here about seeing-eye dogs.’

  I grit my teeth. Welcome to the future.

  Didi

  ‘How’s Lieutenant Walker?’ my mom asks as I drive her into the centre in the morning.

  I glance her way, panic-stricken, my gut clenching. Does she know? Has she somehow read something on my face? Did I say his name without realizing it?

  ‘Um, he’s . . . fine. I think.’ My mind flits back to last night, to Walker kissing me. My skin still tingles from his touch almost twelve hours later. Every time I think back to last night my stomach flips over on itself.

  ‘How are you finding it?’

  ‘What?’ I ask, alarmed.

  ‘Keeping an emotional distance. From the patients.’

  I swallow and focus on driving. ‘Um . . . it has its challenges,’ I say.

  ‘All relationships do. Some more than others. But particularly doctor–patient ones.’

  What are we talking about here? I cast another glance in her direction. She’s putting lipstick on, holding a compact mirror in one hand. She pauses and looks across at me. ‘That’s a lovely bracelet. Is it new?’

  Oh shit. I forgot to take it off. ‘Um, yeah, Jessa gave it to me for my birthday.’

  I stare straight ahead at the road. I’m the worst liar, and my mom is trained in reading body language. I can feel the heat rising up my neck. Last time I lied to her I was fifteen and told her I had absolutely no idea what had happened to the peach schnapps in the living room cabinet when I knew full well I’d just regurgitated most of it into the toilet.

  ‘Did you have a good time with her last night?’ she asks.

  The heat scores across my face. I told her and my dad that I was going out with Jessa to celebrate my birthday. Which technically means that the last time I lied to her was last night and not when I was fifteen. ‘Um, yeah, it was fun,’ I say. Images of Walker pinning me to the bed are graffitied on my mind.

  ‘What’s that?’ my mom suddenly exclaims, snapping her compact shut. ‘Is that – ’ she leans towards me across the handbrake – ‘a hicky?’

  My hand flies to my neck. ‘What? No!’ Oh God. Is it?

  My mom arches a thinly plucked eyebrow at me. ‘Bernadette Monroe,’ she says.

  I cringe at the use of my full name.

  ‘I know a hicky when I see one.’ She smiles wickedly and I almost veer across a lane. ‘Just so long as you’re having fun and no one is going to get hurt,’ she says.

  Does she know?

  ‘Are you in control?’ she asks.

  Once again I think back to Walker holding me down last night and taking the lead. ‘Um . . .’ I say, frowning.

  ‘Because I don’t want you to get hurt,’ my mom says, zipping up her make-up bag.

  I indicate and pull into the base, my heart hammering. She knows. Has she told my dad? Or am I being paranoid? Maybe she doesn’t know a thing. If this was a game of poker I’d tell myself to hold my cards close to my chest until I knew the other player’s hand, so I say nothing.

  We get out of the car. My mom walks around to my side and slips her arm through mine. We start walking towards the entrance of the centre. I’m still rattled and trying desperately not to show it.

  ‘It’s a lot to take on, Didi,’ my mom says gently as we approach the door. ‘Go into this with your eyes open.’

  I almost trip over. I turn to look at her.

  ‘One of you has to,’ she says before patting my arm and walking off.

  I mull over my mom’s words all day. She knows, but why isn’t she telling me off? I know she doesn’t believe in interfering, and she’s never judgemental about other people’s choices, but her reaction is so tame compared with the reprimand from my dad.

  I’m so distracted that I blunder straight int
o the art therapy teacher by the elevators.

  ‘Did you hear?’ she says, eyes bright as I help her collect the paint tubes she’s dropped.

  Oh God, I think to myself as we straighten up, does she know too? Are there any secrets in this place?

  ‘About Callum.’

  Dodds? I shake my head perplexed.

  ‘Some fancy art gallery in Palm Beach wants to represent him!’

  ‘Really?’ I ask.

  She nods, beaming happily.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘It was Lieutenant Walker’s brother that arranged it. I’ve been on the phone to him this morning.’

  ‘Dodds must be so happy,’ I say.

  ‘I was just on my way to find him to let him know.’

  I go with her, eager to see Dodds’ face when he hears the news. We find him in his room staring out the window. His breakfast tray sits untouched on the table beside him.

  ‘Hi!’ the art teacher says.

  Dodds looks over his shoulder blankly, then goes back to staring out the window. He doesn’t say hi.

  ‘I have news,’ the teacher says, bustling forwards.

  Dodds turns around again, still stony-faced. Undeterred, the teacher proceeds to tell him about the exhibition and slowly Dodds’ blank expression gives way to a frown, and then, once she’s finished talking, to utter bemusement.

  ‘For real?’ he asks, looking at me for confirmation that she’s not joking.

  We both nod. The teacher nods so hard it looks like her head is about to fall off. I think she’s seeing Dodds as her protégé and her excitement is contagious. At least to me. Dodds, however, appears to be immune.

  ‘So can I tell them yes?’ she asks, clapping her hands together. ‘That you’re happy for them to represent you?’

  The half of his face that works scrunches up. I’m not sure he fully understands what she’s talking about.

  ‘It means they’ll sell your work on your behalf and take a small cut of the sales price,’ I explain.

  Dodds nods thoughtfully then shrugs. ‘Sure. I guess. Why not?’

  The teacher beams some more and hurries past me, probably to make the call to Isaac.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I say to Dodds.

  Dodds gives me a tight smile in response.

  ‘I guess you don’t need that brochure about careers any more then,’ I laugh. ‘I mean, now that you’re going to be a famous artist.’

  He gives a bitter snort and turns back to the window. ‘Yeah.’

  I frown at his back. He isn’t as happy as I thought he would be.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  Is he being sarcastic? His empty pant legs seem to taunt me. I think about saying something more, trying to gauge what his real thoughts are, but it’s clear he’s not wanting to talk. I turn to leave. I’m due to see a patient with my dad anyway.

  ‘Hey, Didi?’

  I turn back. Dodds is wheeling himself over to his nightstand. He roots through the drawer and then wheels himself over to me. ‘Here,’ he says, handing me his pack of playing cards. They’re military issue ones, the ones we played poker with a few weeks ago. They have the faces of wanted Afghan and Iraqi terror suspects on them. ‘These are for you,’ he says.

  I frown at the cards. ‘Um, thanks,’ I say, not sure what to make of the gift.

  ‘Think of it as a late birthday present,’ he explains, giving me a wry smile. ‘They’re my lucky cards.’ He pulls a face. ‘Well, they were until you beat me with them. Figure you should have ’em now.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, looking him in the eye. ‘You know, I really hope your paintings do well.’

  He nods. ‘Yeah. Maybe I could, I don’t know, donate some of the money to, like, charity or something.’ His face reddens. ‘You know, if they actually sell.’

  I smile.

  ‘Didi?’

  I turn around. José is standing in the hallway holding a huge bunch of red roses. He raises his eyebrows at me over the top of them. ‘These just arrived for you,’ he smirks.

  My heart lifts and a smile bursts on my face.

  I take the proffered flowers from José, glancing at Walker’s half-open door and grinning.

  ‘There’s no card,’ José tells me, ‘but no guessing who they’re from.’ He tips his head towards Walker’s room. ‘On the outside he’s a tough marine, on the inside he’s a marshmallow,’ José calls to my back as I head towards Walker’s room.

  I knock and push the door open. Walker’s sitting on the bed, scowling towards the window, and I stop abruptly, struck immediately by the powerful storm front in the room. Something’s up.

  ‘Hi,’ I stammer, my heart starting to thud heavily.

  Walker turns his head slowly towards me. Gone is the look of longing, the glint of desire I saw in his eyes last night. Gone too is the lightness I’ve seen in him over the last few weeks. He looks just like he did the very first time I met him: glowering, unapproachable, completely untouchable. My heart drops.

  ‘Thanks for the flowers,’ I hear myself say. ‘You didn’t need to—’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Walker cuts in.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re not from me.’ He stares at me stonily.

  I look down at the flowers, realization dawning. They’re the exact same flowers I received before, even down to the black silk ribbon binding them and the name of the florist written on it in gold font.

  They’re from Zac.

  Walker

  ‘What are the chances I’m going to get my sight back?’ I ask Doctor Monroe before I’ve even sat down in his squishy chair.

  There’s a pregnant pause and then he speaks. ‘That’s up to you, Lieutenant. There’s nothing more I can do. You have to confront the trauma head-on if there’s to be any hope of lifting the blindness.’

  Frustration bites at me. ‘But I just want to move on,’ I growl at him.

  He replies very quietly, as if countering my outburst. ‘Sometimes we can’t move on until we’ve looked back and dealt with the past.’

  I scowl, my fists punching the chair. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘I think you can.’

  Now I’m angry. Why doesn’t he get it? ‘I can’t!’ I yell. ‘You don’t understand! I think about it all the time already. I can’t get away from it. It doesn’t matter how much I confront it, how much I look back, it doesn’t get me anywhere. There is no way of dealing with it.’

  ‘There is.’ Doctor Monroe answers in that ever-calm voice of his. ‘It’s called forgiving yourself.’

  I laugh, short and sharp. It comes out like a whip cracking against bare skin.

  ‘If you can’t do that, Lieutenant—’

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ I snap. ‘I’m not a lieutenant any more. I’ve applied for a discharge. I’m going to be a civilian soon enough – call me by my name. My real name.’

  ‘Is that what you want? Because you know you can stay in the military. There are options.’

  ‘A desk job?’ I scoff. ‘What am I going to do? Learn to read Braille?’ I laugh again, this time even more bitterly. I shake my head at him. ‘I don’t want to stay in the marines. I’m not a marine any more.’

  ‘I thought it was once a marine, always a marine. Isn’t that what they say?’

  ‘Not in this case,’ I shoot back.

  All those qualities he made me list off during that session we had are all just lies, adjectives they use to make us believe we’re better, stronger, more capable than other people. They’re lies they tell kids like Dodds who don’t have any other options and nothing better to believe in, and idiots like me who should know better. But now I’ve seen the truth, faced it in a way none of the PR people who make up those adjectives ever will. We’re as weak and vulnerable as everyone else.

  And what I know is this: there’s no honour in dying on a dusty road in a foreign land for a cause you don’t even understand, screaming for your mother who’s ten tho
usand miles away as you bleed out, begging for someone to save you. There’s no peace to be had in knowing you’re fighting for something bigger than you, there’s just horror when you come to realize in that moment – that infinite time-stretching moment – how insignificant you really are, how, in a blinding flash, you can be reduced to nothing but ash and bone and a boot lying tipped on its side.

  And that cancels everything out.

  All that bullshit they spout about heroism . . . they tack a silver star to my shoulder and think that’s all it will take to make me feel better, to erase the memories? Five people dead and a silver star is my reward. My punishment.

  ‘And then?’

  I realize the doc is talking to me. Waiting on an answer.

  And then . . . nothing. And then . . . nothing will ever be the same again.

  ‘And then I don’t know,’ I say because he’s still waiting on an answer. ‘I might go stay with my brother.’

  As soon as I say it I know I’m talking out of my ass. I can’t stay with Isaac. What am I going to do? Tag along with him to glittering art openings? The blind brother who can’t even make small talk about the art on display? I just want to hole up and hide. I want to hole up and hide with Didi. His daughter. Because in bed with her, holding her in my arms, is the closest to peace I’ve come since that day, the closest I think I’ll ever come. Last night was the first night I’ve had with no nightmares.

  But I can’t tell him that. I can just picture his expression if I did – his glasses fogging up with fury. Yeah, a mental patient probably isn’t too high on the list of potential suitors for his daughter. And how can I run away and hide with her – with a girl who has a bright future? A future I’d be holding her back from. I can’t do that to her.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve started thinking about the future,’ Doctor Monroe says, ‘even if you’re reticent in thinking about the past.’

  Yes, I have started to think about the future. And it’s becoming more and more apparent that my future points one way and hers points another.

  Didi

  I decide to wait for Walker in his room. I tried explaining to him about the roses, that Zac wasn’t in the picture any more, that I had no idea why he’d sent them, but he didn’t seem to want to hear it. He became as deaf as he’s blind, I couldn’t get a response out of him, and then José came to take him to an appointment with my dad and he left without a word – so add mute to the equation too.