One Was a Soldier (6 page)

O ALMIGHTY GOD, WHO HAST COMPASSED US ABOUT WITH SO GREAT A CLOUD OF WITNESSES …

—Collect for the Proper of a Saint, The Book of Common Prayer

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 12

At their second meeting, Sarah saw that the preschoolers had taped up large autumn leaves to go with the apples and school buses. Each leaf had a name on it in bold block letters.
KATELYNN. BRIANA. JOHN. SAMANTHA. TYLER
.

She watched through the window as Clare Fergusson loaded up her coffee with sugar. The amount she’d drunk at the first meeting exceeded Sarah’s daily limit, and they met at seven o’clock at night. That sugar … Sarah wondered if Fergusson was a closet drinker. A lot of alcoholics craved sugar carbohydrates to get them through until their next fix.

From her angle, she couldn’t see Will Ellis’s face as he watched Trip Stillman and Eric McCrea unload the folding chairs from the storage rack. He worried her. He had seemed too upbeat, too—for lack of a better phrase—too well adjusted, for his condition. He was playacting, she was sure of it, but she couldn’t figure out why. He had already been medically discharged. It wasn’t as if the marines were going to take him back if he had the right mental attitude.

She couldn’t put her finger on Tally McNabb, either. Last week, the woman had limited her remarks about homecoming to her last duty station at Fort Drum. She hadn’t touched at all on returning to Millers Kill, or her family, or transitioning to work. Well, that was going to be tonight’s topic.

Sarah emerged from the office. “Hi, everyone.” She took the twelve o’clock seat again and watched the group members drag and drop into position. They sat in exactly the same configuration as last week, except Tally and Trip Stillman switched places, so that she was on Sarah’s left and he was on the right. “How did everyone’s assignment go this past week?” She had asked them to share their feelings about homecoming with one other person in their lives.

There was a general silence. Sarah looked around at each of them. Twenty seconds passed. Forty. Fergusson fiddled with her ring, twisting it back and forth, before she reached down and picked her coffee cup off the floor. “I feel fortunate,” she said. “My spiritual adviser was a marine in Korea. Fought at the Chosin Reservoir.”

Sarah was about to point out that military history was all very good, but Fergusson hadn’t said she had spoken about her experiences with—what the hell was a spiritual adviser? Sounded like somebody who read tea leaves. Then Will Ellis said, “Really? Do I know him?”

“He’s Deacon Willard Aberforth. You’ve seen him during the bishop’s visitation, but you probably don’t remember.”

“Chosin Reservoir,” Will said, a light in his eyes. “Wow.”

“I’ll introduce you, if you like.”

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I don’t think we got into this last week. What is it you do?”

“I’m a priest,” Fergusson said. “An Episcopal priest. I’m the rector of St. Alban’s, here in town.”

Sarah blinked. Well, that explained all the black. Over the years, she’d counseled lots of service members and dependents who were religious, of course, but she’d never had a cleric. Intellectually, she knew they must have the same sort of mental health problems as the rest of the population, but it surprised her that one would be self-aware enough to recognize she needed help—and humble enough to get it. All the preachers she had met in her girlhood and youth had been raging egoholics, far more concerned with exhortation than with introspection. Then again, the various storefront churches her parents dragged her to didn’t feature any women in the pulpit. Maybe it was a gender thing.

“I’m glad I asked, because we’re going to talk about work this session. How the switch from your military to civilian occupations is going. Where the bumps are, and some strategies for helping the people around you adjust to the new you.”

“That sounds like a makeover article.” Tally framed air quotes. “It’s a new you for fall!”

Sarah pushed on. “Tally, what do you do, and how long have you done it?”

“I started as a bookkeeper at the new resort at the beginning of August. My husband works construction for them.”

“My sister’s at the resort. I didn’t think they still had construction going on.” Stillman sounded dubious.

“Naw. He’s an employee of BWI Opperman, the holding company. They send him out on jobs all over the place.”

Fergusson looked as if she wanted to ask a question, but she glanced over at Eric and shut her mouth.

“Trip, I know you’re a doctor,” Sarah said.

“Third-generation Dr. Stillman in Millers Kill.” Stillman looked justifiably proud. “I have an orthopedic practice with two partners.”

“Eric?”

“I’m a sergeant at the MKPD. I’ve been there nine years now. My duties split between investigation and regular patrol time. If we were a bigger department, I’d probably be a detective by now, but…” He shrugged.

Follow up on that,
Sarah thought. “Will? I know you’re not working at the moment, but do you have plans for after you complete your rehab?”

“I…” Will’s sunny smile faded into a blank line. He sat without moving, like an automaton whose battery had run out. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I’ve never been real academic, like my brothers. I liked working out. Fixing up cars. Playing my guitar.” He shrugged. “Being a marine seemed like the best thing for me after I graduated.”

“But most marines aren’t career service,” she said. McCrea frowned at her and looked pointedly at the boy’s rolled-up pants legs, pinned beneath his knees. She ignored him. She wanted to push Will a little, to see if he had some sense of identity beyond that of lance corporal. Or amputee. “What did you want to do after you got out?”

There was another long pause. Then, “Coach.” He was so quiet she almost didn’t hear him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Coach,” he said, more loudly. “I was an Empire State champion in track and field when I was in school. I helped out with the middle school track and cross-country team, too. I liked working with kids.” For a moment, he looked straight at her, as if defying her to point out the obvious. Then his gaze slid away. “I thought maybe I could get an ed degree at Plattsburgh after my enlistment was up. Coach for middle school or high school.”

No one spoke. Fergusson folded her hands and set them in her lap. Eric compressed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest. Finally, Trip Stillman leaned forward. “You know, there are double-amputee runners out there.”

Sarah watched as the cheerful mask came back up. “Yeah,” Will said, “but I’ve decided I want to be a tap dancer instead.”

Everyone laughed, the relieved laughter of those who had gotten to the brink of the abyss but had avoided falling into the bottomless pit of complete and merciless honesty.

Sarah sighed. “Work,” she said. “Let’s talk about work.”

MONDAY, JUNE 27

Trip Stillman sat across his desk from his old colleague, watching her fall apart.

“I’m just trying to get him the help he needs.” Dr. Anne Vining-Ellis’s voice was clogged with tears. “But it’s so hard! Since he came home from Walter Reed it’s been like pushing a rock uphill. On both sides! He qualifies for physical therapy, but Stratton Medical Center can only fit him in once a week. Chris hauls him down to Albany for his sessions, and the rest of the week, he just sits there. Then they suggested a therapist for his depression, but he refuses to go.”

“Depression?”

“Lethargy, sleeping dysfunction, loss of appetite—you could use him as a teaching case for interns.” Anne swiped at her eyes with a crumpled tissue and waved her hand. “Oh, he’s trying to hide it from me, with his smiles and his jokes. I think the marines indoctrinated him with a good-little-soldier attitude.” Her lip curled and cracked around the word “marines.” “But he’s lost interest in everything. He doesn’t want to go anywhere, he doesn’t want to do anything—”

“Have you prescribed anything?”

“No, of course not. Not that I haven’t been tempted.”

“And now he’s reporting pain?”

“At the amputation site. Whenever he tries to walk on his prosthetics. I don’t know if he’s really having a problem or if it’s an excuse to not do his exercises at home. I’ll take him back down to D.C. and get him refitted if it’s necessary, but what if it’s not?” She blew her nose.

Trip slid the tissue box toward her. “Let me take a look at him.”

“Oh, God. Thank you, Trip. I know you’ve done a couple of tours of duty. I’m hoping he’ll listen to another soldier where he won’t listen to me.”

He pushed back from his desk. “I don’t know if two ninety-day stints will qualify me as a fellow soldier to a marine, but I’ll do what I can.” He opened his office door, ushering Anne into the wide corridor that led to the waiting room. Trip had to admit, her tears and jitters shook him. Anne was the very definition of an emergency department jockey—cool under pressure, calm when everything around her fell apart, able to process rapid-fire information and turn it into a rational diagnosis and a measured treatment plan. He had consulted with her half a hundred times before she left the Washington County Hospital for Glens Falls. He had never seen her lose it. Never.

Will was slouching in his wheelchair as they entered the waiting room. He sat up immediately. He would have been a big kid before—all the Ellis boys took after their dad—and his five months post-trauma hadn’t entirely wasted his natural youthful muscle, although he looked way too pale and had clearly lost weight.

“Hi, Will. I’m Dr. Stillman.” They shook hands. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? You were in Catrin’s class.” Trip’s middle daughter was a sophomore at Smith. No wonder Anne was so overwrought. A nineteen-year-old ought to be in college, his worst problems hangovers and getting girls to go out with him.

Will nodded. His light brown hair was growing out of its baldy sour, giving him the appearance of a hedgehog. “Catrin and I were on the cross-country and track team together.”

Behind Will, his mother made frantic no-no-no gestures. Talking about running was off-limits? That wasn’t a good sign. “Your mom says you’ve been experiencing some difficulties with the prosthetics.” He gestured to the hall. “Why don’t you come on in and we’ll take a look?”

Anne swooped behind Will and grabbed the handles of his chair just as the boy laid hold of the wheels. “I can do it, Mom.” He sounded like a nice son trying not to be annoyed with his mother.

“Of course. Of course you can.” Anne’s voice was unnaturally perky. Trip led them down the hall, opening the door to his largest examining room. Will back-and-forthed a couple of times before getting the chair lined up with the entryway. He rolled through, Anne right behind him.

Trip made a hold-up gesture. “Will? Do you want your mother to wait while we talk?” Anne’s frown almost made him miss the boy’s expression. It clearly hadn’t occurred to either of them that Will could see a doctor without his mother tagging along.

Will looked at Trip. Looked at his mother. “No, it’s fine.” He smiled weakly at Anne. “After all, she’s the expert.”

“Okay.” Trip took his usual seat, the rolling stool tucked under the counter. He flopped open the fresh case file and clicked his pen.
Ask if P. wants alone
w/o
mom nearby!

Anne hovered behind and to the side of the wheelchair.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s up?” Trip said.

“He’s been complaining of pain—”

He held up one hand. “Let me hear it from him, Anne. You know a history isn’t complete without the patient’s own words.”

She made a disparaging sound and clamped her lips together. Trip looked at Will. “Well?”

Will shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. It hurts some when I practice standing.”

His mother took a quick breath.

“I haven’t been working on my mobility as much as I should,” he added quickly.

“Why’s that?”

Will shrugged. “The wheelchair’s actually more convenient. With the crutches, my arms and hands are all tied up. It’s like … it’s like I’ve got four prosthetics instead of two. In the chair my upper body is completely free. And it’s hard. Walking, I mean. Just a couple steps and I’m sweating.” He spread his hands. “Why not use the wheels?”

Trip rolled toward him. “How about I take a look?” Will pulled his loose khakis up and unstrapped his prosthetics one at a time. Trip took them and examined their cups, running his fingers inside and pressing into the pads. They were very high quality work, suggesting made-to-measure. There shouldn’t be any mechanical irritation involved. Will pulled off his socks—the close-fitting coverings that went over his stumps—and Trip cradled the amputation sites in his hands.

It was a classic traumatic transtibial amputation, neatly finished off and well healed. The left leg was a little rawer than the right. “This is the one that was an attempted tarsal resection?”

“Yes,” Anne said. “They tried to save his entire tibia, but his vascular network was too compromised.”

“My foot got blown off, and then they had to chop the rest of it off up to my knee,” Will translated.

Trip rolled back to his bench and scribbled a note on the stump condition. “Are you experiencing pain at any other times?”

“Not in my … not there. I get phantom pain sometimes, especially at the end of the day, before I go to bed. Tingly, crampy sensations, like I’m getting a charley horse in my calves.” Will’s mouth screwed up. “In what used to be my calves. They told me I could expect that, once the real pain from the operations went away.”

Trip nodded. “Phantom pain may be your brain’s way of trying to create input from nerves that ought to be there, but aren’t. Practicing your walking could help that, by giving your brain real nerve information to deal with.” He pulled an X-ray request from a tray and jotted down the series he wanted. “I want to get a few X-rays while you’re here, just to make sure you aren’t developing bone spurs or stress fractures. Once we rule those out, I’d like to get you into physical therapy.” He glanced up at Will. “Have you seen anyone since you were released from Walter Reed?”