Unbroken (3 page)

Milly’s sigh of relief makes me wonder what else she’d told me while I was unconscious. I doubt I’ll ever be able to convince her to ever tell me. She still seems mortified that I remember as much as I do.

“Relax,” I say after a moment, when Milly still hasn’t pulled her head from her hands. Before I change my mind, I quickly say, “I think you’re hot stuff too.”

I
t’s unbelievably humiliating
to realize that Cameron remembers at least some of the things I’d said to him when I thought he was in a coma. But he doesn’t appear to remember the ways in which I waxed poetic about the size of his pecs, so at least there’s that.

Plus, after the embarrassing revelation, our dynamics begin to shift. We’re now more playful with each other—flirty, even. And—best of all—I am rewarded quite frequently with that damn magnificent smile. I seriously don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful. The first time I saw it—right after I’d freaked out over his revelation—it nearly took my breath away.

The stronger and the healthier Cameron becomes, the more attractive I find him. I constantly have to remind myself that he is my patient, that I am his nurse. It’s improper and unprofessional to think that way about a patient. I might as well be fighting a losing battle, however. I can’t stay away.

Unfortunately, Cameron’s encouraging recovery means he’s going to be transferred out of the ICU soon.
It’s for the best,
I remind myself, even as the thought makes my heart ache.

“Looks like your boy is going to be moved to rehab tomorrow,” Linda informs me when I arrive for work nearly two weeks after Cameron’s arrival. He’s been awake for five days now and is doing substantially better. It makes sense that he is being moved out of the ICU. It probably would’ve happened sooner had his father not insisted on close monitoring of his symptoms.

Cameron seems apathetic about the news.

“I’m still going to be in the hospital,” he tells me. “And I’ve gotten used to things here. I’ve gotten used to the nurses and the doctors here. I’ll just have to go through the same process of acclimation all over again.”

“Don’t be so grumpy,” I chide, trying to put on as genuine of a smile as I can muster. “You’ll have more autonomy in the rehab center. They’ll start getting you up and out of bed. You’ll be one stop closer to recovery.”

“Recovery,” Cameron snorts, as if he doesn’t believe it’s possible.

“Yes, recovery,” I reply emphatically. “You’ll be one step closer to getting out of the hospital completely. I know you want that.”

“Yeah,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“And you’ll still be around. I can visit you,” I offer.

“Yeah?” he asks, seeming to light up.

Later, alone at the nurses station, I can’t help but think about our conversation—about
all
the conversations we’d had since he’d woken up. Am I reading too much into things? Is he just being polite to his nurse? Or is he developing genuine feelings for me?

Taking out my phone, I send of a text to my best friend Susie, asking if she’s available to meet for lunch the following day.

S
usie
and I were in the same graduating class in our nursing school. She was the one who’d told me of the position at the Washington, D.C. National Military Medical Center, though she found a job in a completely different department.

We try to get together on a regular basis, even when our schedules are completely incompatible. Luckily, she’s available to grab a quick bite to eat—she is just coming off a shift a few hours before I’m scheduled on.

“Hey,” Susie greets as she slumps into a chair in the cafeteria. She looks utterly exhausted as she glares at her eggs. “Is it possible to be too tired to eat?”

“Yes,” I say, all too familiar with the feeling. “But if you don’t eat, you’re going to feel like crap when you wake up.”

“I already feel like crap when I wake up. Doing this third shift three times in a row thing is killing me.”

“Sorry, Suze. Can you get someone to switch with you?”

“Nah,” she says with a wistful smile. “It sucks, but it pays more than the day shifts, as you know. I’ll have my student loans paid off soon if I can keep it up for a little bit longer.”

“That’s great,” I encourage her, feeling a little guilty. Sabrina might lack the nurturing nature of other mothers, but she’d been able to afford to pay for my college out of pocket—even the enormous tuition fees at Johns Hopkins, which I know weren’t cheap.

“Yeah,” Susie agrees. “I just miss having a life, you know?”

“Me too! I’m not even working three shifts in a row, and I have no life to speak of.”

“Something is obviously going on,” she says with a smirk. “What was this emergency you needed to talk about.”

“Well, it’s kind of work related,” I tell her.

“Oh,” she says, looking disappointed. “I was hoping it was about a guy.”

“It’s about both,” I admit.

“Ugh… not Larson again is it?”

“No,” I assure her. “Though he’s still acting like an ass.”

“Was he ever
not
an ass? Anyway, what is it?” she prompts eagerly. “I don’t want to talk about your asshole ex-boyfriend.”

“So there’s this patient. Young. Hot. Like… really hot.”

“Okay,” Susie says with a smirk, and I can tell she’s rubbing her hands together in her mind.

“Well, we’ve developed a bit of a… flirty back-and-forth. And he leaves today for rehab. He’ll no longer be my patient—technically—so I was thinking of giving him my number. Is that wrong?”

“Do it,” Susie says entirely too loud. People at the surrounding tables stop to look at us, and I sink lower into my chair. Susie just smirks. “Come on. I have no prospects. Let me live vicariously through you.”

“You don’t think it’s improper?” I ask hesitantly.

“He’s no longer your patient after today, right?”

“Right…”

“So why not?”

I don’t have anything to say to that, so I bite my lip and consider her words.

“Listen,” Susie continues when I don’t respond. “Just give him your number. After that, the ball is in his court. If he wants to see you again, he’ll contact you. If not—no harm done.”

I
replay
Susie’s words in my head as I make my way towards Cameron’s room for his final check up. He looks up when I enter and offers me a small smile.

“Come to say goodbye?” he asks.

“Among other things,” I say as I check his vitals and log all of his information. We chat for a few moments, and I finish filling out his chart for the last time. Finally, once I’m done, I take a deep breath and collect my courage.

“Listen,” I say, nervously shifting from foot to foot. I tear a piece of paper that I’ve already written on from the back page of his chart and hand it to Cameron. “This is my number. In case you need anything. Or if you just want to talk. You’ll have a lot of free time in rehab, once you’re feeling better, so if you need anything—or just want me to visit—text me.”

I’m rewarded with an even bigger smile. Cameron’s green eyes dance as he gazes at me, and for a moment, the chemistry between us is tense and palpable. Before he can reply, however, someone from rehab has shown up to collect him, and he is being wheeled out of the room and out of my department.

Part of me is sad to see him go. There is another part of me, however, that’s glad he is no longer my patient. I don’t have to feel guilty anymore for the way I’ve been thinking about him. I can now give those fantasies a free reign.

I’m distracted for the rest of my shift—all jittery and anxious and already checking my phone constantly, though I know he probably isn’t going to text me any time soon. His first round with a physical therapist, after weeks of inactivity, is probably grueling, so texting me is the last thing on his mind.

That night, however, as I splay out across my bed, I let myself think about Cameron in ways I hadn’t allowed myself up to this point. I think about his rippling muscles, adorned with all those tattoos. I imagine tracing those images first with my fingers, then with my lips and tongue. I can’t stop myself. I don’t want to, either…

I never saw him stripped off his hospital gown—bathing was the job of the nursing assistants. But I could tell he had strong legs and a tight, hard stomach as well. I think about those thighs now and what inevitably lay between them. I moan as I think about his rigid, throbbing manhood, exploring my own body as I imagine running my tongue along his veiny shaft and pressing soft kisses against the tip before taking him into my mouth completely.

The images in my mind shift now. Cameron is better—completely healed and restored to his original strength and glory. He stands above me, naked and powerful. He pushes me down and holds me against the bed, moaning over my neck as he pounds into me roughly. I cry out at the thought, coming against my own fingers as I imagine him taking me, hard and fast.

Afterwards, as I lay panting into my pillow, my fantasy shifts once again. Now Cameron is lying next to me in bed, sharing in the post-coital bliss. He pulls me into his still-sweaty arms and buries his face against my hair. Wound around each other, we drift off to sleep together.

W
hen Cameron doesn’t text
me the following day, I remind myself that he has probably been busy with physical therapy. The day after that, I still refuse to see his silence as a bad sign. His father had only brought him a phone a few days before he’d been transferred out and, even after that, I’d barely seen him use it. Maybe he isn’t much of a texter. He would call… eventually… right?

But he doesn’t.

The days add up, and—nearly a week after his transfer—I still haven’t heard from Cameron. Sadly, I realize that I must have read the signs wrong. Sure, he’d laughed and flirted with me. But he probably did that with all attractive women. It didn’t mean anything. It’s not like he’d ever said or done anything to lead me on.

Trying not to grow bitter, I attempt to push all thoughts of Cameron out of my mind. This is much easier to do during the shift, when I’m busy in the ICU. At home, however, when I’m curled alone between my chilly sheets, I allow my mind to wonder. I imagine hard, tattooed flesh pressed against mine. I think about his warm lips and dark stubble running across my sensitive skin. And I drift off to sleep each night with a smile on my face, even if that smile is gone when I wake up alone.

I
f possible
, things have gone even worse now.

The staff members in the rehabilitation center are all perfectly adequate. I definitely do not miss the sniveling weasel that was Dr. Larson. The doctors here are much more personable. But they’ve been putting me through a rigorous set of physical exercises three times a day. I’m in constant pain, though it’s no longer predominantly coming from my head. Instead, it’s my aching muscles—which had begun to atrophy after the weeks of non-use—that are now the main source of discomfort.

“You need to hurry up and recover,” my father says when he visits me a few days after I’d settled in at the rehab center. “You have people waiting for you back on the front line.”

“All my people are dead,” I say bitterly.

“They’ll give you new men,” my father replies. He then explains that if I recover fully and quickly, I would be able to remain with the Marines. I would return to Iraq for a while, before being promoted again and brought back to D.C. Eventually, I may even follow in his footsteps, becoming the Commandant of the Marine Corps, a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It’s what we’d always planned—or, more honestly, what
he’d
always planned—for my life.

If I don’t fully recover—at least not in a timely manner—I’d face a medical discharge. He says the words “medical discharge” as if it’s the worst outcome imaginable.

The entire situation makes me sick to my stomach, and I am unable to eat for days afterwards. The opportunity to return to Iraq, to be given another squadron, seems absolutely nauseating. But the possibility of being discharged—of becoming a failure—is somehow even less desirable.

And so I choose not to think about the future. Instead, I throw myself into my physical therapy, embracing the constant throbbing of my aching muscles. Soon, I am up and walking around, and if I continue to improve at this rate, the doctor promises me that I’d be back to peak physical condition in a matter of weeks.

Mentally, however, things are progressing much slower. My memories of the accident are as clear as if they’d happened five minutes ago, yet things that actually happened five minutes ago have a way of slipping away from me. I forget words, details, information—even from my own life. I spent ten minutes trying to remember my own middle name yesterday. The pitying look on the doctor’s face had made it all the worse.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she’d said. “You’ve come a long way after a severe brain injury. These things take time.”

But time is something I
don’t
have. At least not according to my father.

I’m ruminating on all of this, a week after my initial transfer to rehab, when someone I’ve never seen before enters my room. He’s a middle-aged man with greying hair and a friendly smile. For some reason, I immediately feel apprehensive about him. It’s probably his smile—too overzealous for my tastes.

“Cameron Watson?” he asks, and I nod silently.

“I’m Dr. Ruiz. May I have a seat?”

I nod again, choosing to remain silent.

“How are you doing?” he asks after a moment.

“Peachy,” I reply with more bitterness in my voice than I mean to express. The doctor smiles at me again, and I begin to grow worried. Why is there suddenly a new doctor visiting me? “What’s wrong with me now?” I ask.

“Nothing is wrong, per se. Your doctors just asked me to come in for a consultation.”

“What kind of a doctor are you?” I ask, but the sneaking suspicion is already there.

“I’m a psychiatrist,” he answers. “Your doctors have noticed that you seem a little… sad.”

“I’m still in this damn hospital,” I remind him. Of course I’m freaking
sad
. All of my friends are dead. I don’t say any of this. I only glare.

“Be that as it may, a positive attitude is imperative for a full recovery.” If possible, I scowl even harder at his words. He continues, ignoring me, “I know this is difficult for you. You’ve gone through an extremely traumatic experience. You’ve suffered a great loss as well as a serious injury. No one is expecting you to be
happy
.”

“Then why are you here?” If I’m not expected to be happy, then I really shouldn’t need a shrink to tell me this.

“Your doctors say you’re not eating.”

“I’m not always hungry,” I reply. “And the chow here is disgusting.”

“That may be true, but you’re not going to heal if you’re not eating enough to remain healthy.”

I snort but nod. Whatever, I can eat. That’s something I
can
do—especially if it will get the doctors off my back.

“If you want to talk about what happened… I know you’re suffering from nightmares. The nurses have had to wake you up on several occasions because you were screaming.”

“I don’t remember them,” I lie. Since leaving the ICU, I’d been weaned off a lot of the pain medications and sedatives I’d been pumped full while I was there. I then discovered that the narcotics were all that was keeping the nightmares at bay. Even with the lighter sedatives they’re prescribing me here, I’m still only able to sleep for a few fitful hours at a time.

“That’s why it may help to talk about what you
can
remember.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply.

“Has there been a time—even if it was only for a few minutes—that you
have
been happy since you were injured?”

Bright blue eyes and a halo of blonde hair instantly pop into my mind, and I can feel my face spreading in a reluctant grin. But then I think about her number, which I’d instantly put in my phone but never used. The smile disappears from my face.

“What was that?” the doctor asks.

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to play dumb.

“You smiled there for a minute, when I asked you if you’d been happy. But then you seemed sad almost right away.”

I tighten my lips. Did I really want to talk about this with some head doctor? But then again, if I
did
talk to him, he’d probably leave sooner and get off my back. Then I could go about stewing in my misery alone.

“There was this girl… this nurse,” I say.

“Here in rehab? Or in the neuro ICU?”

“In the ICU,” I reply, smiling again as I think of Milly. “She would talk to me while I was in a coma. I don’t remember a lot of it, but I do remember bits and pieces. When I woke up, we… I guess you could say we became friends, of sorts.”

“Have you talked to her since you moved to rehab?” he asks.

“No,” I say, feeling the smile once again slip away.

“That’s a shame,” he replies. “Why not?”

“It’s my fault,” I tell him, though I’m not sure why I do. “She gave me her phone number when I left. She told me to call or text if I needed anything. Or if I just wanted to talk. Or if I wanted her to visit.”

“Sounds like she left it open for things to progress.”

“Yeah,” I admit, looking down at my hands.

“Why didn’t you call or text?”

“I’m… I’m broken.”
Broken
. That word hadn’t crossed my mind before this moment, but as soon as it is out of my mouth, I realize that it’s true. “I’m broken and I have no idea if I’ll ever be
un
-broken. I have nothing to offer her.”

“Why do you feel like you need to offer her anything?” he asks.

The question surprises me. Why would anyone want to be around you unless you had something to give them?

I don’t realize I’ve said all this out loud until Dr. Ruiz replies.

“I don’t know if I agree with you on that point,” he says. “I mean, sometimes, all you have to offer is yourself. Sometimes, that’s enough.”

“Not if you’re broken.”

“Even if you are,” he replies. “And I really don’t think anyone—and especially not you—is broken beyond repair.”

I don’t say anything. I just continue to stare at my hands, thinking about Milly’s vibrant eyes and messy hair.

“Do you really think she would have given you her phone number if she thought you were broken, as you say? If she thought you had nothing to offer her?”

“Maybe not,” I say after a while, finally meeting his eyes.

Dr. Ruiz gives me a nod and a small smile.

“I’ve got to go, continue my rounds. But I’ll check back with you later in the week.”

“Okay,” I reply, then watch him go. I don’t know if I want him to come back, but I didn’t hate his visit as much as I thought I would.

I hesitantly reach for my phone, which is right next to the bed. What do I write? It’s been a week since we’ve talked—a week since she gave me her number. She’s probably already written me off. She’s probably forgotten all about me.

I immediately erase this. I’ve been busy? She knows I’m in rehab. I spend most of my day laying in bed.

I erase this too. It makes me sound weak.

I study the text for a long time. I’m completely glossing over the obvious truth: it took me a week to text her. But maybe that’s better than drawing attention to it. And it doesn’t make me sound weak or weird. I hit “Send” before I lose my nerve, then spend five minutes agonizing over that decision.

Eventually, I put my phone aside and try to read the book my father brought me. It’s an epic tome about military leadership that has so far only served to put me to sleep. But since I’m struggling with insomnia, the book has actually been quite handy. I pick it up now but find that I’m staring at the same three words for twenty minutes.

I can’t stop thinking about Milly. Has she gotten the text and is currently thinking up a reply? Has she gotten the text and is ignoring it, angry that I waited so long? Has she gotten it but no longer cares enough to reply?

“She probably hasn’t gotten it yet,” I say aloud. She usually works from noon to midnight. She’s in the middle of a shift. I need to stop acting anxious and overcomplicating things.
Man up
, my father would say.

Thoughts of my father turn my mind to a more serious place. What am I going to do? I don’t know how to be anything but a soldier. But
can
I be a soldier again? Medical discharge is looming over my head, and it’s probably not too far from what can definitely happen to me, given how slow I seem to be recovering.

My ruminations are interrupted by the chime of a text alert. I push all serious thoughts aside as I reach for my phone.

She is offering to see me again. I really don’t care whether or not I’m allowed caffeine. I just want to see Milly again. Plus, one of the morning nurses can sometimes be convinced to bring me an awful cup from their own machine, so it shouldn’t be a problem.

I can’t believe I’m actually placing an order for stupid coffee with Milly.

I smile. Morning can’t come fast enough!