Dear Soldier Boy (15 page)

I’m a half right now. A half of a person. I’m empty. I’m trying to be strong and hoping that the reason you can’t email is because you are hiding out somewhere. I’m hoping you have no access to the internet, or a phone, or anything. Just that you are hidden and safe. That’s all I want, Matthew. I just need to know that you are safe.

If for some reason, any reason, I don’t care, whatever it is, if you have just chosen to not write me back, that’s okay. Just please tell me that you have the capability to do so. I need to know.

I’m freaking Duke out. We just got back. I didn’t think it was possible. I really didn’t, but we ran twenty miles today. I don’t think I ever would have thought that I could run twenty miles, but I did. We did. Right now, Duke has crashed on the floor next to me. I promised him on the last lap that I would give him a break tomorrow. That I wouldn’t run. That I wouldn’t need to run because I felt like I was going to hear back from you. I felt like I would.

That you were just out there and, for some reason, couldn’t write me, but tomorrow you would. You would make it happen. No matter what. You would come back to me.

I’m sorry, I said it was okay if you didn’t want to be with me, and it is (not really), but I really need you to let me know if you are out there. Wherever that is…please just say something.

With Love, Your Civilian Girl,

Vivian

Chapter Thirty-Six

The nurse was talking again. They never
stopped talking. Matthew kept his eyes shut but nothing would stop her. Every
day, she talked. All day, every time she came into the room, it was the same
speech, well-rehearsed. She gave it in every room, at every bed, just changing
the relevant parts.

“You’re safe, Matthew. You have been in
an accident. You’re in the hospital in Germany. We’re taking care of you.
You’re going to be ok.” She recited her speech before she pried his lids open and
dropped medication into his left eye. Every hour, she came in. Same speech, same
drops, around the clock.
Then she would leave, and he would sleep,
only to be woken an hour later. All day, every day. How many days had it been?
He'd lost track. There was no delineation between day and night, just an
endless cycle of eye drops, and platitudes, and assurances. Why the hell did
they feel the need to tell him every hour what had happened? He remembered. He
knew exactly what had happened. His leg had taken a hit, not his God-damned head.
He had been hit by a grenade from an Afghani soldier, one who he'd trained,
the scrawny asshole with the bad aim. Turned out, his aim wasn’t too bad when he was honest about his target.
He was dead though, the scrawny
insurgent. Matthew couldn’t remember which nurse told him that. One of them did,
probably the one with the Southern accent who stroked his face when she spoke.
She wanted him to know they got him. Because that was supposed to make a
difference to him how? The asshole got Matthew first. If they
were keeping score, that had to count for something. And he took off Matthew’s
left leg above the knee. Must be some extra points for that. And the blind left
eye, and the burns, what about those? What was the score for him after all those
were added together?
He wanted to tell the nurse to just go
away, but that would mean speaking, and he wasn’t going to do that. So, his eyes
remained closed until he was alone, and then he opened them and counted the
pinprick-sized holes in the ceiling tiles with his remaining good eye. Counting
the holes like he counted the steps at Ranger School, and the way he counted
the days...with…
The nurse rubbed his arm and told him he
was going to be fine. “This part of the healing is as much mental as physical. You can’t
let your spirits get down.” She was going off script. Pep talks, fantastic. He
had that to look forward to for the foreseeable future. Please don’t let her
start talking about her family, or pets, or anything outside this room. Just give
the eye drops and go. He didn’t care about her life. He didn’t care about his
own life, either.
Another nurse came in. Matthew didn’t
need to see to know that. The one that smelled like a funeral—roses and
formaldehyde—was here. “Still not
talking?”

“No. It’s such a shame. You’re such a handsome
man. Do you have someone waiting for you at home, Matthew? No wedding ring. Do
you have a girlfriend? Who is waiting for you? Someone is waiting for you.”
Matthew tried not to move but his body
retaliated against the sentiment. He tensed, every muscle—the ones he had left—coiled until they were painfully tight. There was no one. No one. He was alone,
the way he wanted to be. The way he deserved to be.

“I’m sure he has several ladies wanting
to nurse him back to health, right soldier? I don’t think he'll be hurting in
that department.” Funeral smell laughed at her own joke.
Just go!
he screamed inside his head, but did not let the sound
make it past his lips. The words burned in his belly.

“His brother is here. He’ll be in in a
second. He's just talking to Dr. Solomon. Lets see if he can get him talking.
You want to talk to your brother?”
Luke. Matthew’s breath caught in his
chest.
Go home, Luke.
He didn’t want to see him, not now, not like this. His
leg was still a gaping wound. He had a fungal infection, and until it cleared, they couldn't close the wound to create a stump. Why were they bothering? Just
leave him already. He was done. He should have died last year. The last 12
months weren’t borrowed time, they were somebody else’s. He had stolen them, created
an illusion of happiness, but now it was over. He was finally being punished.

“Hey,” his brother’s voice called softly
from the doorway. Matthew squeezed his lids together.

“As I said before, he is still non-responsive, but the CT is clear. It does not appear to be physiological.”

Matthew ground his teeth together. That
was the polite way of saying he was crazy. He wasn’t fucking crazy; he was
done. There was a difference. He would love to be detached from reality, but it
was there, hanging over him, crushing down on him with its oppressive weight.

“We have him scheduled for surgery
tomorrow to close the wound. The infection has cleared. I hope he realizes how
lucky he is. We don’t see many single limb amputations anymore.
Landmines usually take off both legs. He's very lucky.”
So lucky, he should send his brother out
to buy him a lottery ticket, because clearly, he was on fire. They were talking
about him the way parents speak to errant children—in front of them but not to
them. The doctor didn’t even know his name. The nurses did, the one who stroked
his head knew, but the doctor didn’t. He called him Mark. Oh, the sweet irony.
 

Dr. Solomon thought he had lost his leg
from a landmine. Idiot. Maybe the nurses should give him the speech Matthew
heard hourly, then he would remember his injury was no accident. A grenade had
been intentionally fired at him, not a landmine. Not that it mattered; his leg
was gone either way. But get it right.

“Thank you.” Luke’s voice was soft. Who
was he thanking? The nurses who changed his catheter and wiped his ass, or the
doctor who didn’t know his name?
Luke sat beside him and reached for
his hand, wrapping his long fingers around his. “Oh, Matty. God, I’m glad to see
you. I was so worried. I’m so glad you’re OK.”
Luke had a very generous definition of
OK. What part of him looked OK? His brother squeezed his hand. “You’re
going home soon. You should be safe to fly back to DC by the end of the month.
You’re going to be OK, big brother. The rehab center is great. I read all about
it on the flight over. They will fit you for a prosthetic as soon as your leg
heals.”
Inside, Matthew laughed. His leg would
never heal. His stump might, but his leg wouldn’t, because that was in pieces on
the side of the road in Afghanistan. How long did it take for the wild dogs to
eat all the pieces? Did it fill their bellies? He hoped it did. Someone should
benefit.

“You will have full mobility. You’re
lucky you survived. I’m so glad you’re OK.” His voice hitched. Luke was crying.
Matthew squeezed his eyes together harder, willing his brother to stop. “It
will take a while, but you will get there. Nobody has more tenacity than you.
You will get there in no time. You’re OK. You’re so lucky you survived that.”
When would people stop telling him he
was lucky? He wasn’t lucky to be alive because he didn’t want to be. He
shouldn’t have made it.

“I brought a picture of the baby. We
named her after mom. She is beautiful, Matthew. I can’t wait for you to meet
her. Steven has some time off in the Spring. I was thinking we could come out.
Maybe go to Florida. Rent a house at the beach. You loved Florida as a kid.
Remember, that was your favorite base. Or we could go to the Keys. It is up to
you. Or you could come out to San Francisco. Steven and I talked about it. We
want you to move in with us for a while, until you get back on your feet. It was his
idea. You can stay as long as you want.”

My foot
, Matthew silently corrected. He
could stay until he got back on his foot, one, singular, not feet. Hot pressure
built behind his eyes. His baby brother was offering to take care of him
because he was a cripple.

“I know it seems insurmountable now, but
prostheses have come so far. According to the literature from Fisher House,
they just become part of you, and you can almost forget about them.”
It wasn't about the leg, or his eye, or
the burns! How could no one see that? Who the hell cared about a leg? He didn’t
even want a prosthesis. He shouldn’t be here. Did they not understand that?
This life didn’t belong to him. He should have died a year ago. They were
talking at him about things that didn’t matter. He shouldn’t be here! Why could
they not understand that?
Matthew turned his head away from his brother. No more, he
couldn’t listen anymore. Sleep, he needed the oblivion of sleep until a nurse
came to give him his drops. They needed to stop trying to save the vision in
his left eye. He didn’t need it. Just leave him alone.

“I brought Grandma Kay’s ring, like you
asked in your email. You might need to have it sized. Grandma was not a small
woman.” There was a smile in Luke's voice.

“No one has contacted Vivian. Do you
want me to call her so she can come out? She'll  want to be here, Matthew. She
needs to know. I know you can hear me. You can ignore your doctors, but don’t
ignore me. I’m trying to help you here. I love you. We love you. She loves you.
You have so much to fight for. You’ve never been a coward, Matthew, don’t start
now. Yes, this will be hard, but no one is better equipped to face it than
you. Fight, Matthew. Damn it. You need to fight.”

The pressure built behind his eyes.
Just leave.
His chest was too tight too
breathe.

“You can hear me, Matthew. I know you
can. You can’t fool me. I'm leaving the ring. You wanted to marry her last
month. You can’t tell me you've changed your mind. Are you scared she won’t
want you anymore? She might not, but give her a chance. She deserves that. You
deserve that. She might walk away, but you won’t know until you ask. Be brave.
Be my fearless big brother.”
Matthew heard the top drawer of the bedside table slide open. “What's this?” Luke was quiet as he examined something. “It looks like
the Living Chess Game in Italy. Steven and I went last year. It was fun. Why do
you have this? Do you want to go? Is that why you have it?” Luke rearranged the
contents of his drawer, rifling through his pictures. “Is this Vivian? Shit,
she is gorgeous. Wow. You said she was beautiful. You really weren’t kidding.
Wow. Well done, you. You’re going to want to lock that one. Ah, I see. These are the picture with the puzzle pieces
she was sending you. It's just missing the queen. Yep, that's what it is. She sent you a picture of a life size chess
game. She's saying it’s your move. Ha! I get it. How can you not have seen
that? She was sending you a message the whole time. I like this girl. Don’t be
an asshole. Marry this girl, or I will chop your other leg off.”