A Study in Honor

by Claire O'Dell

  “Name and date of birth?”

  “Belinda Díaz. September first.”

  She gave her birth year. Only twenty-five, then.

  “Military ID.”

  I typed the number she provided. The system chimed to signal a match, and the screen blossomed with new information. Belinda Díaz had graduated from high school in Charleston, West Virginia, part of the growing population of Latinx in that state. She joined the army the next day and, after the standard training, served thirteen months in the Crimea. When President Sanches recalled the military from abroad, Private Díaz transferred with the rest of her squad to Tennessee. On June 3 of this year, she lost her leg from the knee down during a reconnaissance mission in enemy territory. The surgeon in the closest medical unit had fitted her with a device. Her last visit to us had been just one week ago. Dr. Patel had been the physician.

  Díaz kicked off her shoe and pulled up her trouser leg.

  The device before me was an ugly collection of metal rods with boxlike compartments at the knee and ankle, which housed the primitive electronics, and a foot that looked like blunt pedal. The last time I had seen a device like this, it was over ten years ago, and even then it had been an outdated model. The thing enabled her to walk, but not much more. If she had been a dancer, a nurse, she would have lost her career. As it was, she could only stand two hours at a time.

  But that was life for our soldiers these days. That was our whole economy tumbling down into the black hole called the New Civil War.

  “I want to work,” she said.

  “I understand.”

  Díaz glanced at my left arm. “I guess you do.”

  There was not much I could say to that.

  “You came to us last week,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Any problems with your medication?”

  She hesitated. “No. Nothing wrong.”

  There was a long, long mile between wrong and good, our nurses had told me, during my intern days. I could also sense the tension radiating from Díaz, and I knew better than to press her for answers.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I said, my tone and expression carefully neutral. “Now, I just need to check what I typed here, Private. My left hand isn’t so good as it used to be, so it might take me a few minutes. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

  There wasn’t much to tell. After the army had discharged her, Díaz had returned to her family in West Virginia. To no one’s surprise, there weren’t many jobs for someone like her. Now she lived with a cousin in DC, where she had signed up for all the VA’s recommended programs. She had also enrolled in classes at UDC, so she could get a certificate in data entry. But she had trouble sleeping and eating regularly.

  I know how that goes. Lord, I know how that goes.

  I kept those thoughts to myself as I typed in her comments about sleep and appetite under the section labeled Preliminary Observations. Anderson and Wright were the physicians on duty this morning. Both men had a reputation for ignoring comments from the medical technicians, but regulations required me to fill out the section, so I did.

  “Just a few more things before I send you on,” I told Díaz.

  Weight, 130. Pulse, 80—well inside the so-called normal range, but edging toward the high end. Still, visiting the doctor often did that. The blood pressure, though, measured 135/90. Not dangerous, but not good for someone her age and weight. It all depended on her current diet and medical history. I glanced at the yellow icon, then the clock on the wall. Two minutes left, unless I wanted to cut my lunch break short.

  “Tell me why you came to us last week,” I asked her.

  Her voice came softer and slower now, wary almost. “Nothing to tell. I can’t sleep. I can’t . . . Dr. Patel gave me some meds. I don’t remember what they’re called, but he told me to come back if they didn’t help. They didn’t. Not much anyway.”

  I laid a hand on her shoulder. Felt a tremor that could have been simple nervousness, could have been something more.

  A standard suite of blood tests might uncover the problem. Hopefully Patel had done that. I’d have to check her history and the laboratory portal later. For now, I recorded the numbers for weight, pulse, and blood pressure, adding the notation Borderline on the last two. Consult records to compare previous readings. Wright and Anderson might ignore my entries, but Thompson would pay attention. She could make the doctors listen, if she thought it necessary.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” I asked.

  Again Díaz hesitated. “No. Nothing. I just want to see the doctor.”

  My instincts told me she was lying. But I was no internist, nor a counselor. My job was to record the patient’s symptoms and send her on to the next waiting room.

  * * *

  I logged out at four p.m., as the regulations required. And as regulations required, I spent the next forty minutes double-checking my records for the day, comparing each patient’s symptoms and vitals against their history. Williams, Reyes, King, Mendoza, Young, Guzman . . . I could match each face against their fifteen-minute slot in the day. Out of curiosity, I navigated to the screen for details about Belinda Díaz’s visit today. No blood tests, today or the week before, which surprised me, but perhaps there was a quota. Anderson had prescribed a drug with the company code LP#2024016.

  A click on the link brought up a summary of LP#2024016. Approved by the FDA a couple months ago. Originally intended to treat high blood pressure, it had a better score treating stress-related disorders.

  Stress-related disorders. Call it PTSD, why don’t you? Call it the disease of war.

  A drug like this was almost tailor-made for these times. Livvy Pharmaceuticals owned the patent, which usually meant a higher cost, but they supplied the drug at a discount as part of their contract with the VA. One of the senior med techs had made a passing joke the other day about big pharma and their endless government contracts, only to get reprimanded by one of the doctors. Another, more nebulous memory about Livvy—or was it about another company?—hovered just out of reach. A conversation I’d had . . . When? Last month? Last year? It would come to me later, I decided. I made a note in my personal log to check the drug’s details, then went on to the next patient’s records.

  At four forty-five, Thompson arrived to review my performance. Her critique was brief and to the point. I hadn’t made any outright mistakes, she told me, but I needed to improve my patient-to-hours ratio. By the time I changed from scrubs into my own clothing and started for home, I was trembling from exhaustion.

  Home. More like a temporary shelter. A damned expensive one.

  It’s better than a dirt farm. It’s better than that goddamned hostel. It has air conditioning. And sometimes Sara cooks.

  What an inadequate word. To say that Sara cooked was to say that Dalí used a paintbrush. I had watched her at work, plucking fresh herbs from her miniature garden, dashing sesame oil into a shallow pan, her hands moving rapidly as she diced and chopped and stirred.

  Do you cook? she had asked me that first day. Yes, I did, but nothing like that.

  Tonight, however, she had sent word through her texting gadget—the gadget she refused to take back—that she had obligations elsewhere that evening. I could order ahead to Hudson Realty’s concierge service, or I could fend for myself.

  I allowed myself the very brief fantasy that I could afford the concierge service. That fantasy went along with my dream for a new device and higher pay. The regret lasted as long as it took me to travel half the distance along my usual route home. My path took me between the stark white buildings of the medical complex, around the silver-threaded expanse of the reservoir and its grassy banks, then past the brightly painted row houses on Harvard Street, with their slate roofs perched like conical hats above yellow and red faces. Those gave way to larger houses set back from the sidewalk, and in turn to the small shops and diners on Columbia Road.

  I stopped by one of the grocery stores on Columbia f
or chicken breasts and fresh greens. Rested my feet a bit when I came to a bench. By the time I climbed the steps to 2809 Q NW, the sun had dipped behind the rows of brick houses, and the first breath of coolness cut through the late summer air. Even so, my feet ached from the long walk, and invisible claws gripped my skull.

  I need a Metro card. I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care how many times I have to transfer.

  Next paycheck, I promised myself. Next paycheck had become a promise to me. Oh, the luxuries I would indulge in then. A Metro card with extra zones included. A journal with thick creamy paper, bound in leather. And a genuine fountain pen, the kind I used in my residency days. My imagination rolled on to the paycheck after that. Better shoes. A jar of that expensive hair cream I once saw in a shop window. An insulated carafe so I could drink hot coffee all morning long. And I would treat Jacob to his favorite diner, then a night at the theater.

  I balanced my bag of groceries against my hip and pressed my right thumb over the door’s security reader. There was a glimmer of green, a spark, and . . .

  . . . And nothing.

  My heart gave an uncomfortable jump. A fault in the system, I told myself. Hudson had warned us about glitches on the hottest days. Security was working on the problem. I wiped my hand dry against my trousers and tried again. This time, the light flickered a moment before turning red.

  “Security breach,” announced the device. “Contacting precinct. Please stand by.”

  Goddamn it.

  The last thing I needed today—any day—was a conversation with the local police.

  I leaned against the doorframe, trembling. The rage I had locked down these past two weeks pressed hard against its invisible cage. Do not shout. Do not make any kind of show. Do not, do not look over your shoulder to see if anyone is watching.

  From what Jenna Hudson had told us, I had five minutes before the local cops showed up.

  I needed to fetch my metal keys from my pocket, but my right hand shook too hard, and my prosthetic had begun to tremble from the electric pulses of my panic. Breathe, I told myself. Let’s take this one step at a time.

  There was an option the med techs had described to me, almost reluctantly, in the last week of therapy, but not anything I had tried for myself. Saúl himself had warned me the mechanism for this particular model was not reliable. It might fail. It might never unlock.

  At this point, I did not care. I set my arm in position around the bag of groceries. With a flick of my thumb, I opened the control panel and pressed the keys to initiate the lock sequence. The arm twitched once before the mechanism clicked over and the arm went rigid.

  It took me a count of ten before I could trust the lock was secure. Another interval after that before the trembling throughout my body stilled. Only then did I unzip the pocket of my trousers and fetch out my key ring. Do not hurry, I told myself. I had at least three more minutes.

  The key slid into the slot and turned. I dove through the door and shut it after me. By now I was counting the moments until I could hide in my bedroom. I chose the stairs over the elevator, purely to keep in motion. Once I reached the second floor, I didn’t even bother with the biometric reader at the apartment. I unlocked the door with my backup keys and hurried inside.

  The living room was empty, another blessing. If my luck held, Sara would not return until morning. But as I rounded the corner toward the kitchen, I heard voices coming from Sara’s bedroom. Damn. Another one of those nights.

  I had lived with Sara Holmes for twelve short days. I had expected a series of infuriating confrontations, mostly variations on that first and very uncomfortable encounter we had in front of Dalí’s extravaganza. Difficult, yes, but in the ordinary sense of the word, even though Sara herself was anything but ordinary. It was the price for this luxurious apartment, I had told myself over and over. The penalty for my foolish love of beauty.

  But I had never imagined the visitors.

  Oh, those visitors.

  Every couple or three nights, Sara entertained. Or at least that is how she explained the matter to me. Two days after I moved in, I came home to find a dozen strangers in the parlor. Rich people, judging by their clothes. I had not waited for introductions. I had fled into my rooms, where Sara had left an exquisite meal, which she had clearly cooked herself. An apology? A bribe?

  The visitors had stayed until dawn. The following morning I demanded an explanation, or at least a promise that she would warn me the next time. I got neither. Instead, another party arrived the same night, smaller and quieter, but no less an intrusion. After that, the pattern continued. A night or two of quiet, followed by several noisy ones. Once she had met me at the door with a handful of hundred-dollar bills. “Go,” she whispered. “The Fairmont has a room waiting for you. I’ll send over a bag with your things.” After those first few incidents, they left no traces behind, these visitors, which I found more unsettling than their presence.

  A man’s laughter echoed from Sara’s bedroom.

  Ignore her. Ignore them. Eat your dinner, then hide in your room.

  I hauled the bag of groceries onto the counter and slumped against the cabinets. My anger had leached away, along with it the temporary surge of strength, but the drills from my physical therapist had now kicked in. I unlocked my arm. It fell to my side, as limp as metal could be. The clock on the microwave read 6:20. Fourteen hours until the next workday, with its lists of questions and carefully measured-out parcels of attention for our patients. Thompson had called my work adequate—a compliment, actually—but what had I accomplished? Other than earning $150, minus taxes?

  You have delusions of importance, my sister had once told me.

  The same delusion that had led me to volunteer for the army.

  Maybe Grace was right, after all.

  Or maybe I was just tired and sore from a long, unaccustomed day. I rested my head on my hands and let the air conditioning work its healing upon me. Gradually my headache receded. Much more gradually, the sweat evaporated from my skin and I felt a brief resurgence of energy. I unpacked the groceries and fetched a cutting board from its latest hiding spot.

  A sudden swell of voices caught my attention. Holmes’s visitors had emerged from her bedroom and were heading for the parlor. It was a smaller crowd than usual—four strangers, plus Sara herself. One man was holding forth in a language I couldn’t identify, but I could recognize someone expounding on a much beloved topic. A woman interrupted him. A question? An objection?

  Their footsteps slowed as they passed by the kitchen. They must have noticed my presence. I bent over the counter and concentrated on chopping up the chicken breasts.

  Sara made a comment in that same language. Her companions laughed and continued onward to the parlor. The outer door slammed once, and the apartment fell abruptly silent.

  I blew out a breath of relief. Only then did I realize I had begun wrong. I needed to set the rice boiling before I sautéed the chicken and greens. I set the cutting board to one side and rousted out the deluxe rice cooker from one of the bottom cabinets.

  I had not dared to confront Sara since that first incident, but that didn’t mean I had stopped having questions. Worrisome questions. Who were all these visitors? Was Holmes a drug dealer, perhaps? What if the police raided our apartment and considered me an accomplice?

  After that first incident, I checked my lease. The section covering terms and conditions went on for several pages of legalese, all of which translated to You are stuck for twelve months, and ain’t no way to get around it. The fine print said I could terminate the contract with two months’ notice, plus a forfeit of my security deposit, which equaled another month of rent. I’d spent a few evenings cursing my trusting nature. Perhaps I could convince Jenna Hudson that Holmes had misrepresented herself to me and to Hudson Realty. Was there an exception clause if your roommate turned out to be a criminal?

  I dumped a cup of rice into the cooker, then rummaged through the cabinets for the liquid measuring cup. I
had just located one when Holmes strolled into the kitchen, whistling softly. She wore a rumpled brown tunic and trousers, the cloth shot through with threads of gold. Her locs hung loose today. The scent of sandalwood perfume was stronger, the memories of Angela almost irresistible.

  Almost.

  “You work too hard,” she said.

  I filled the cup with water. “Is that another deduction?”

  “No. Simply an observation.”

  She reached out and laid a hand on my arm before I could pour the water into the cooker. “What do you say to dinner out? I heard about an exquisite new Thai restaurant near the diplomatic quarter. It would be my treat, of course.”

  I froze. She had never touched me before. Her fingers were like flames, warm and ephemeral. It was not so much that I found her attractive—though I did—but that she seemed so utterly unconnected with the physical world. This reminder of her being flesh and blood unsettled me. I took a moment and cleared my throat. “Why?”

  Holmes shrugged. “I’ve had some luck this week. I’d like to celebrate.”

  “With me?”

  “You’re restful. Or, if you don’t believe that, you’re useful.”

  Useful. I wanted to laugh. And yet, I’d questioned my usefulness not an hour ago.

  “Who were those people?” I asked instead.

  Sara laughed. “You don’t want to know.”

  I slammed the cup onto the counter, sloshing water everywhere. “Yes, I do, goddamn it. Who are they, Sara? And don’t tell me they’re just friends. Friends like that are usually called business associates. Maybe I should expect the police to come sniffing around next week. Or maybe the FBI.”

  She regarded me with an expression I could not decipher. Amused? No, not that. As if she were gauging my competence. Only now did I see the faint lines etched beside her eyes and mouth, lines of laughter, yes, but others that spoke of great anxiety. She was older than I had guessed. But how old?