“You mean, I’m left without recourse,” I said, interrupting them.
The administrator grimaced. The director was more polished.
“You have your benefits,” Greene said. “Pension and medical care.”
“As well as our rehabilitation programs,” Moskowitz added.
“But no chance for a new device.”
I held up my left arm—so quickly that both women recoiled. Sunlight glittered off the brassy mesh that covered the mechanics, accentuating the darker patches where the protective coating had worn away. It was an ugly thing, made uglier by the all-too-obvious difference between its dimensions and what remained of my arm.
I made a fist of my hand. Or rather, I imagined my hand making one. My ghost hand responded as swiftly as my thoughts. My hand of metal shuddered, then the mesh rippled down my arm to my hand, where the fingers at last curled into a knot.
“You see?” I said.
No need to explain what I meant. They saw, these two women with arms and hands untouched by war.
“There’s a waiting list,” the director said at last.
I nodded. I understood wartime shortages.
“We can’t accommodate you ahead of others,” the administrator said.
Of course. I was too much a doctor to let others go wanting.
“Where do you intend to relocate?” was their next question.
“I don’t,” I said.
“But—”
“I intend to find a job here, in DC. And I’ll wait, however long I must.”
“A year?” the administrator said. “We can’t promise anything sooner.”
We can’t promise anything at all, said the tone of her voice.
Martínez would say they should have promised. My father would have muttered how there were no guarantees for people like us. We had to slide around those obstacles, he told me and Grace. My mother . . . My mother would remind us we had to make and keep our own promises. Both of them stubborn people, but in different ways.
“I’ll wait as long as necessary,” I repeated.
And to myself, I added, I will not give up.
* * *
Dr. Greene left her administrator to discuss the details. Cleanup operation, the civilian edition. Moskowitz herself was conscientious enough, but I recognized all the signs of someone wanting to finish off a case, close up the incision, and have me shipped off to a recovery ward far, far away.
“We’ve entered your data into the system,” she said. “Once you have a permanent address, update your records through our portal site. You have a tablet? No? Not a problem. We have facilities here. My assistant can give you an overview. Today, if you wish.”
What I wished more than anything was to retreat into my hotel room, where I could turn the shower to its hottest setting and scrub away the indignities of the morning. I also wanted a painkiller, though I hardly needed one. But the craving for a pill frightened me.
“Yes,” I said. “I do wish. Thank you.”
The assistant escorted me back to the ground floor, then into an open wing with printers and faxes off to one side, and rows of tables equipped with secondhand tablets. There were even a few laptops that surely dated from the previous decade. The Veterans Center had once housed this equipment, the assistant told me. It was only in the last year that the center had closed and merged its operations with the headquarters.
Several workstations had cardboard signs reading out of order taped to the wall or on top of their keyboards. A technician wearing a uniform labeled tekSolutionsEtc knelt next to one such station. He had a laptop hooked up to a diagnostic machine on the floor and was fiddling with the controls. As we passed by, Moskowitz’s assistant murmured something about the rising cost of repairs.
A warning? A hint about my own not-so-reliable device?
Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.
A few stations beyond the technician and his equipment, we came to an open workstation near the windows overlooking Sixteenth Street. I settled into the chair and followed the instructions for logging in to the portal. I would have access to all the sites for the VA’s rehabilitation programs, the assistant explained to me. Job search. Training. Loans and other financial assistance. A link to the nearby VA Medical Center for appointments. The system also permitted limited access to the internet. She walked me through the steps for each feature before she left.
So. First the permanent address. A web search brought up two dozen inexpensive hostels inside the city limits. I located one within walking distance of the VA headquarters. With a few clicks, I reserved a room starting the next day, then set up a local bank account using the hostel’s address. More clicks sent a deposit to the hostel to make the reservation binding. That achieved, I updated my VA records with the new address and account number. Even as I worked, the VA system had transferred any held sums over to my new account.
The total . . . was more encouraging than I had feared, less than I needed.
I rubbed my left shoulder absentmindedly as I studied the numbers. My pension was two thousand a month, including bonuses calculated for bravery under fire. The hostel cost $750 for two weeks, plus the usual local taxes and fees. Even though I still had a few thousand from the sale of our parents’ house, I needed money for food, medication, renewed payments on student loans . . .
The tide of hopelessness rolled in. Why bother? Why did I ever bother with university and medical school? I might have taken a degree in business and started earning a salary at twenty-two. But no, I had chosen a career that left me with a debt of several hundred thousand dollars, and that was after the scholarships.
I logged out of the bank portal and rested my head on my hands. One felt soft and warm against my forehead. The other was hard and slick with accumulated damp. Around me, other computers hummed, and I heard another assistant running through the same explanation of log-in, password, and menu structures with yet another veteran. My arm ached from flesh to ghostly hand, and my gut cramped from hunger. The meager continental breakfast at the District Hotel had been six or seven hours ago. Since then, I’d consumed only black coffee and water.
I need money. For money I need work. But for work, I need a new hand and arm. And for that . . .
For that I needed money—an endless Escher sketch of this for that for this.
I felt a dangerous lassitude settling over me. Move, I told myself.
Each cubicle was supplied with pens and paper. I scribbled down the addresses for the hostel and my new bank. Tomorrow, I could pick up my e-card before checking out of the hotel. If possible, I could use the card to pay my bill, then take the refund of my deposit in cash. There were certain items beyond the electronic network that I might require. Next step . . .
Next step was to get a job. I brought up the job services site. My cursor hovered over the bright green button labeled Open New Account. Right next to that button was a photo of two soldiers, a young man and an even younger woman, their uniforms clean and crisp, both of them smiling, both of them whole. It was that photo that stopped me.
Almost done, Watson. You can do this.
But I couldn’t. Not today.
With a sigh I closed the window for the job portal. Take each step one at a time, I told myself. Dinner. Sleep. Conquer the Andes one rock at a time. I stuffed the paper into my pocket and stood up. Tomorrow there would be time enough for the next rock.
3
A shrill buzz jerked me awake. I lunged out of bed, reaching for the trousers I kept handy, while the noise pulsated inside my skull. Incoming wounded. Move, move, goddamn it. Move, Captain.
I grabbed for the frame of my bed. My ghost hand closed over air, and I landed with a thump on the floor, breathless and scared and angry, while the alarm clock rattled and buzzed. I finally located the damned alarm button and stabbed it with my thumb. Even so, it took two tries before the clock gave one last gulp and died.
There’s nothing to be afraid of, I told myself
. It’s only a dream. I’m safe, safe, safe.
But my heart was still beating far too fast as I pushed myself up to sitting. Sunlight leaked around the edges of the curtains. From outside came the trill of an all-too-optimistic sparrow. The air conditioner, less optimistic, had died overnight and the air was close and stale. I flipped the clock over and stared blearily at its face.
Six a.m.
God. Too early. Far, far too early.
I rubbed my hand over my face, which was sticky with sweat. Fragments of old bad dreams floated through my thoughts. The horizon erupting into flames. Men and women screaming. The rattle of gunfire. The stink of burnt flesh and blood, including mine. The blank eyes of the rebels as they killed and killed and killed.
But I was alive. I had lost an arm, yes, but I had survived—no matter how much the VA wanted me and my demands to vanish.
By the time the clock chimed seven a.m., I had showered, reattached my arm, and dressed in a fresh T-shirt and trousers. A cursory inspection told me I had no more clean underwear. Laundry, another task, another expense, noted for the ever-longer list of items to track. I fought another bout of lethargy and could almost believe it had vanished as I dutifully visited the bank, checked out of the District Hotel, and carried my duffel bag three miles to the hostel.
The hostel was an ugly squat building tucked between a barbershop and an Ethiopian takeaway. Farther down the block I saw a liquor store with an ATM outside, a couple pawnshops, and a small pickup truck with a sign advertising cheap electronics. It wasn’t the worst neighborhood, but it wasn’t the best either. The hostel’s concrete-brick façade was crumbling and water stained, and I could tell the street would only get noisier at night. Still, the rooms didn’t cost much, compared to the District Hotel, and I could walk to the VA from there.
I climbed the front steps and got myself buzzed into what passed for the hostel’s lobby. Ugly linoleum floors. Ugly plaster walls made uglier by gouges and peeling paint. The clerk behind his bulletproof glass window roused himself enough to check me in and hand me a programmed card key for the room and the front door. My room was number 217 on the second floor, he told me. The elevator was currently out of service. Stairs at the end of the hallway.
The walls were so thin I could hear every word of an argument between a man and his girlfriend, every gasp from another couple having sex, as I traversed the corridor. The stairs were concrete and blessedly quiet. The second floor was a repeat of the first. I hurried to number 217, unlocked the door of the closet-sized room that would serve as my home for the next year, and collapsed onto the bed.
A long interval passed, during which I registered the tick, tick from an old mechanical clock, the absence of ventilation, and the strong aroma of soap and disinfectant.
Footsteps in the corridor roused me long enough to shut the door and draw the bolt. I had little to steal except my cell, my bankcard, and my vanishing stock of painkillers, but these would be riches to some. That brief surge of energy lasted only a few moments. I kicked off my shoes and stowed my duffel bag underneath my cot. The hostel had no air conditioning, but the room did have a fan bolted to the ceiling. I turned the knob to high and sank back into bed.
The mattress was thin and hard, the pillow even harder. In spite of all that, I fell at once into a deep slumber.
* * *
Eight days passed.
Mostly I daydreamed. From time to time, I wrote an entry in my journal, but these were little more than fragmented complaints. My appetite had vanished as well. Only the routine demanded by the army medical technicians ensured I ate at least one meal every day and cared for my stump, which I left free of its device unless absolutely necessary. Very little seemed necessary, to tell the truth. My lethargy troubled me, the way the distant hum of gnats might trouble a person’s restless sleep. Annoying, but nothing that roused me enough to do anything about it.
So I ate. I slept. I ventured forth now and then to acquire a meal, a new box of swabs, and so on. My cell phone went missing—lost? Stolen? It didn’t seem to matter. My favorite pen ran out of ink. I did not bother to replace it.
Then came the morning I woke to discover my bottle of painkillers empty.
At first I did not comprehend the situation. A thin tight band circled my forehead, and my eyes were unfocused. One ill-considered glance at the alarm clock sent my head spinning, and I lifted my ghost hand to my forehead. For one strange moment, I felt the warmth of human skin brush my face. Then came the cascade of memory of the previous day—an inadequate lunch, consisting mostly of coffee. The retreat into my hostel room, where I had shed all my clothes in the sweltering heat. I had retained enough discipline to remove my prosthetic and clean my stump, but then I’d abandoned the cursed device in the bathroom.
They warned you about this stage.
The second assault, the physical therapists called it. I knew it from observing my own patients. A soldier survived the battle, the shock of surgery, disease, and infection. But then came the point when they had used up their strength and courage and were left drowning in despair.
We lose so many then, Saúl Martínez had reminded me. To drink and drugs, or simply indifference.
I stood—swayed as my vision blurred—and breathed slowly and steadily until the nausea passed. My scalp and skin itched. An acrid stink filled the room, an amalgam of sweat and stale air and the antiseptic I used. I glanced around at the clothes scattered over the bare floor. Saturday, it was. Labor Day weekend. I nearly succumbed to the desire to fall back asleep until Tuesday. No, I told myself. I would shower and dress and go to the VA. The computers were available until noon.
My newly recovered resolve carried me through the next few hours. I scrubbed myself hurriedly in the communal showers. I reattached my prosthetic and sorted through my duffel bag. The search yielded a set of clothes that did not reek, and the prescription to refill my painkillers. I paused, the paper pinched between the fingers of my clumsy left hand. The ink had faded from the heat and sweat and one of those brief summer downpours.
Drugs and despair. Soon enough I would have to wean myself from these pills. But not yet. Not quite yet. I folded the paper in half and slid it into a pocket.
The trash I piled into a corner to take care of later. I carried the rest of my dirty clothes to the front desk, where I paid the hostel clerk an exorbitant fee to have them laundered and delivered to my room.
Still driven by this unnatural surge of energy, I bought a bottle of aspirin and a can of Diet Coke at the corner 7-Eleven. I downed two aspirin and a falafel from a street truck, then made the long trek to the VA headquarters. By the time I passed through the front doors, the aspirin had blunted the headache, and my blood sugar had caught up with my fading adrenaline.
The air was delightfully, amazingly cool, lifting the sweat from my skin. I wanted to do nothing more than sit there and take deep breaths of air that wasn’t clogged by humidity and air pollution. The place was quiet, too. The room was nearly empty this holiday weekend, with only three other veterans in the cubicles, and one uniformed repair technician busy with her cables and wires and tools. Why had I avoided this place?
I knew why. I knew as well that questioning myself was unproductive.
I logged in to the job services site and opened an account. A few clicks later, the VA had transferred the details of my education and medical background. For location, I chose DC. Radius, 20 miles. Salary range, N/A. Availability, Immediate. There were no options for I need work as soon as possible. Or perhaps that was a given these days.
The site requested a personal email address. Failing that, it would notify me of any matches to my skill set and experience through the portal, which required me to log in periodically. Fine. Yes. I checked the boxes agreeing to the conditions, then switched over to the internet portal to access my new bank account.
Oh. Not good. Not good at all.
The VA had deposited $9,000 from the holding account, which included my last paycheck for active dut
y. The District Hotel had subtracted $800, the hostel nearly $1,100, a sum that included the security deposit, plus various extra charges such as today’s laundry. The bank itself had taken small bites for each transfer. The remainder seemed extravagantly large, even so, until I calculated I would not receive the first deposit for my pension until September 30.
I need money. I need work.
As if in response, the screen chimed and a lightning-bolt icon appeared in the lower left corner. Before I knew it, I was hovering my mouse over the icon, which immediately changed to a pop-up balloon that said, You have seven new openings. Click to view details.
Impossible, I thought even as I clicked. Nothing is that easy.
The pop-up spun around to display seven job titles with icons next to each. I was still so surprised it took me a moment to decipher that first entry . . .
Cold washed over my skin as I read the description.
The entry was for a surgeon at Georgetown University Hospital. Entry level, with promises of advancement and training. This could almost have been the same position I had rejected three years ago when I volunteered for the army. There was even that throwaway reference to diversity, which I knew translated to their need for government funding. It was also a position I no longer qualified for.
With a quick, jerky movement, I deleted the entry from the list.
The next two were ads for pyramid schemes. Delete, delete.
The fourth and fifth were much better. Suburban Hospital in Montgomery County wanted a doctor for its ER unit. An inner-city walk-in clinic wanted a GP for its night shift. The ER job might require extra training, and the walk-in clinic did not pay well, but this was no time to be picky. I clicked Apply for both.
The last two jobs . . . were less than I had hoped for. One was for a lab technician out in the suburbs of Alexandria. The pay rate was better than expected, the hours less so. Half days throughout the regular workweek, with ten-hour shifts on Saturday and Sunday.
A Study in Honor Page 3
