puts him back at square one. He’s under strict orders regarding his activity, and rule number one is that he’s not allowed to get up without help. This has been stated ad nauseam. Monica even wrote it in capital letters on his whiteboard. Despite the warnings, a few mornings after surgery, I enter his room to find him getting out of bed alone. He’s upright, but his bedsheet is tangled around both the cage and his crutch. “Freeze, Big Guy.”
Mark glances up with a guilty expression. It quickly turns to annoyance when he realizes I’m not the nurse. “I’m not a fucking invalid,” he snaps. “I’m a goddamn soldier. I’m going to the bathroom and I don’t need an escort.”
“Well, Captain, perhaps you should unwrap the sheet from your leg and crutch.” My voice is calm, my expression neutral as I kneel in front of him.
He dips his head, seeing the fabric caught around his leg and the crutch. “Lean on your left crutch,” I instruct, and when he does, I lift the right one, freeing it and the cage from the offending sheet. “You’re good now.”
“Charlie,” he begins, his face reddening, but I shake my head.
“Bathroom.” I point, barely resisting the urge to add, “Soldier”.
When he returns at a snail’s pace, he still looks sheepish. “Sorry.” He eases onto the bed, slowly positioning his caged thigh on a pillow and moving gingerly, wincing with every movement. Normally he’d be up in the recliner, watching the sunrise. Today he’s pulling the covers up, his expression tight, the shades still down.
“Want me to call for something for pain?”
He glares. “No.”
I’m not surprised. I can’t recall Mark ever taking anything stronger than an aspirin before this. Whatever discomfort he had, he pushed through. Pain medications are one more thing forced upon him. His expression sours every time the nurses administer pain meds, but it’s a necessary evil. If he can’t participate in rehab, he can’t achieve his recovery goals.
“I’m going back to sleep. It was a rough night.”
“Want me to wake you for breakfast?”
“Powdered eggs and soggy bacon? I’ll pass.” He drags the covers over his head.
Hostility oozes from him, composed of layer upon layer of frustration. The abrupt end to his career. The loss of his identity, nearly inseparable from the military after all this time. Losing the only home he’s known for fifteen years. His surviving brothers-in-arms he couldn’t tell goodbye. The brothers who fell beside him and never got up. Survivor’s guilt. Lackadaisical healing. Pain. Body image issues. Being trapped in a hospital. His loss of independence. And now phantom pain. It’s agonizing, seeing him struggle under the weight of his growing despair.
Phantom pain is understood by few, even within the medical community. After an amputation, particularly traumatic ones, amputees sometimes experience severe, unrelenting pain that seems to originate in the missing limb. The only proven treatment? His nemesis, pain medication. As a result, discouragement and depression have crept in, black panthers slinking through the darkness after scenting their prey.
Mark views his phantom pain as a failure because it forces him to take pain medication. I’d hoped Dr. Friedman could get through to him. He’s one of BAMC’s top psychiatrists, and he specializes in head injuries and limb loss. They’ve been meeting twice a week, discussing depression, anxiety, mood swings, and pain – or rather, Dr. Friedman discusses them. Mark ignores him. Therapy is another thing Mark equates to personal failure.
Dr. Friedman has explained that shrugging off a headache is far easier than coping with the brutality of burned flesh and shattered bones. He encourages Mark to view his pain as a healthy response to overwhelming trauma. That might have been a concept Mark could accept, but as soon as he brought up psych meds, Mark tuned him out. To him, if pain signifies weakness, depression is even worse. He dismisses every suggestion of meds for his emotional turmoil.
“Try viewing medications as one more tool in your arsenal,” I encourage him one day over pineapple and pulled pork sandwiches from the nearby deli. “They’re a resource to boost your recovery. You’re learning to cope with your injuries by using crutches to walk and climb stairs. Meds can help you push through the pain and bolster you emotionally.”
My words fall on ears that choose to be deaf.
Not only does Mark adamantly shun antidepressants, he starts ditching his mandated appointments with Dr. Friedman. In a military hospital, that flies about as well as a lead balloon. Dr. Paxton pays him a stern visit with the psychiatrist in tow.
“Captain, we were discussing your progress in our interdisciplinary care meeting. You’ve failed to attend your last three sessions with Dr. Friedman. Those sessions are every bit as critical to your recovery as PT, and you will attend. If necessary, I will arrange for officers to accompany you. Am I making myself clear?”
Dr. Friedman balks at the idea of punitive participation. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Perhaps Captain Chandler was unaware of the importance of these visits. I’m sure he’ll make every effort from now on.” His eyes hold Mark’s from across the room.
Mark grudgingly attends, but he still refuses meds and shuts down any conversations about his worsening emotional state. His discouragement and depression snowball into irrational outbursts and angry tantrums with physical therapists, nurses, and even me. His angry highs are higher, his depressed lows lower, and his outbursts increasingly volatile. Dr. Friedman pulls me aside a few days later to offer some insight.
“Picture Mark’s emotional distress as an infection, brewing below the surface and thriving in darkness. Bacteria breed and form noxious matter that spreads unchecked until the body overcomes it, whether alone or with help. The mind responds that same way to depression and self-loathing. Poisonous self-talk forms deep roots. Mark’s self-talk is toxic because his self-image is toxic. He needs a catalyst, a breakthrough, to help him see more clearly.”
I envision Mark’s depression and self-loathing as a huge purple amoebic blob, engulfing everything it touches and growing exponentially. “How can I help?”
Dr. Friedman smiles, his steel-blue eyes softening. “Keep doing what you’re doing. It’s not you he’s angry with, it’s his situation. Because he trusts you, he knows it’s safe to ‘lose it’ with you, because you’ll still be there for him. It’s a terrible compliment.”
Now nine weeks out from the explosion, Mark’s thigh bone is finally fusing, his burns have mostly healed, and he’s fully recovered from many of his other injuries. Measurable PT achievements boost his mood, but only temporarily. His primary focus of contempt is the appearance of his injured leg. Angry purple scars track from his upper thigh to just above the knee. The newest one, still pink, runs almost directly down the center of his thigh; two others run down the outside. A dozen or so punctures from the external femoral pins dot the surface, connecting to the cage. Pale rectangular patches highlight his skin grafts, and a thin lavender scar crosses the tip of what remains of his limb after they reshaped it following the amputation.
Mark’s now in a (mandated) support group for new amputees. The meetings are led by experienced disabled vets who initially had difficulty coping with their new reality and have opted to help “newbies” learn things it took them years to discover on their own. One topic they’ve discussed at length is phantom pain, and while nothing besides medication seems effective, he’s learned he isn’t alone.
Mark’s mentor from the group is a brawny, boisterous double-leg amputee named James Mackey, though he goes by the nickname “Stubbs”. I meet him when he stops by the room one afternoon.
“What are you doing in that bed?” demands a deep voice, startling me. A huge man strides into the room, dressed in camo shorts that come to his knees and a khaki tee shirt that’s tight across his broad shoulders. He's easily six-five, with rich mahogany skin, a massive chest, and muscled biceps bigger than my thighs. He reaches for Mark’s covers and yanks them down. “Let’s go, Pretty Boy. You can lay around when you’re dead, and you don’t look dead yet to me.”
“I’m damn close,” Mark mutters. “I just got back from three hours of PT.”
The man snorts, then catches sight of me in the chair. He lays a huge hand on his chest. “Apologies, ma’am. I didn’t see you there. Sorry for busting in. I’m Stubbs.”
My eyes drop to his matching carbon-fiber prosthetic legs. An amputee named Stubbs? My exhausted brain doesn’t catch up to my mouth in time. “Seriously? Your name is Stubbs?”
He smiles broadly, showing perfect white teeth. “Actually, it’s James, but I go by Stubbs.”
“On purpose?”
Damn exhaustion.
He laughs, unoffended. Maybe he’s used to dealing with people whose brain-to-mouth filter doesn’t work. “Do I look like somebody who’d put up with name-calling? Stubbs is my nickname, spelled with two B’s, because I’m black and beautiful, baby.”
“Clearly, there’s no H for humble,” I say with a wry smile.
He chuckles. “Humility isn’t an affliction of mine.” Then he turns to Mark. “Let’s go. You’re late for the meeting.”
Mark pulls his blankets back up. “I’m not going today. I’m tired.”
“I wasn’t asking. You can go voluntarily, or I’ll carry you like a little girl, but you’re going.”
Mark glowers at him. Stubbs crosses his arms and plants his solid body like a redwood. After a minute, Mark concedes defeat, throwing back the covers. “Fine. Get out of my way.”
I hide my smile as Stubbs passes him his crutches. “You need to check your hair or fix your makeup?”
“Fuck you, asshole,” Mark mutters, and Stubbs laughs out loud.
Stubbs is exactly the push Mark needs. He calls Mark on his bullshit in a way only military brothers can. He’s a Marine (“no such thing as a former Marine”) injured in an incident similar to Mark’s. Stubbs swaggers through the hospital like he owns the joint, his cheerful bellows echoing down the halls. He stops by frequently to visit and “take the emotional temperature,” judging the caliber of the day by Mark’s mood. If he’s bitchy, Stubbs bitches right back, somehow unruffling Mark’s feathers, at least temporarily.
Two weeks before Mark’s discharge, his tension erupts like Mount St. Helens.
My night terrors are the worst they’ve been since I was first hospitalized immediately following my rescue from Afghanistan. I spend every night backed against the hotel room door with my tactical batons, always awakening in a panicked crouch, panting and drenched in cold sweat.
Every. Damn. Night.
It happened again this morning.
The Chihuahua taunts me, holding his makeshift whip in my face. I clench my jaw, steeling myself, and he smiles evilly before stepping behind me and flaying my back again. The whip bites my flesh, and hot blood drips down my hips and legs. Then I see his leering face and cruel eyes, and once again, I wake up backed into the corner, crouching, my batons raised to strike even though I’m a trembling, sweaty disaster.
Fuck. No matter how hard I try, I can’t escape those soulless black eyes.
What if they torment me for the rest of my life?
Despair settles over me like a wet blanket. I can’t keep doing this night after night.
I’ll give therapy another shot when this is over, even though I despise talking about my darkness. It’s bad enough I know what happened. The idea of verbally reliving my past again makes me cringe, but the thought of living the rest of my life like this is far more horrifying.
Because I rarely sleep, I’m normally at the hospital long before sunrise. This particular morning, though, I have to wait for a department store to open. I’ve got to have new jeans. I’ve lost so much weight that my clothes are hanging off me. Stress destroys my appetite and makes me nauseous, so even if I eat, it’s only a few bites. Last night I took off my skinny jeans by sliding them down and stepping out of them, still buttoned and zipped. While I’m waiting, I pay bills online and reply to business emails. I also email Lila and Tucker seeking their opinions about changes to my home to accommodate Mark’s needs, attaching a staggering sixty-seven page file of his therapists’ suggestions. I need help finding a local contractor quickly, one who does good work and won’t overcharge me. I don’t trust my own judgment. Unyielding stress and sleep deprivation have me functioning on autopilot, and anything requiring mental focus is a struggle.
While I’m in line at the store, I text Mark to tell him I’m running late, but there’s no response. I text again to ask if he needs anything, but he still doesn’t answer.
It’s a shame I didn't grasp the significance of that before waltzing in unprepared.
I leap from the armored vehicle before it’s come to a full stop, desperate to find her. One of our MRAPs is blackened and smoking, fully incinerated. The other is tipped over on its side in a ditch. There’s no movement around either of them. I scan the interior of the burned vehicle and see four charred bodies. My stomach lurches.
Please God, no. I can’t lose Charlie.
I race to the other vehicle, jumping down into the ditch. Two of my men are there, Max and Mike, gunned down on the medical aid call I sent them on. Now they lie in blood-soaked sand with unseeing eyes, their bodies riddled with bullets. I snatch the back door of the vehicle open. There are four more bloody bodies, but not Charlie. Not Lila, either. Insurgents.
Tucker grabs my shoulders from behind. “Lila? Is she –” I hear the panic in his voice and shake my head.
“They’re not here.”
“They’re gone?” He can barely speak.
I nod my head, gesturing to the men lying behind the vehicle, my own men, men I sent to their deaths. “Max and Mike rode with them. But the girls – they aren’t here.”
Tucker whirls around, scanning the horizon, looking for any sign, any clue. I sink to my knees. Of the eight I sent out, six are dead, and two are missing. The two women.
They’re gone.
She’s gone.
And it’s my fault.
I bolt upright in a panic, breathing hard, seized by intense physical and emotional pain. Spasms of phantom pain violently grip me, leaving me gasping and writhing. It’s brutal. The pain meds barely take the edge off, and the frustration of everything conspiring against me piles higher and higher until I’m ready to explode.
Charlie’s safe now. We found her. She’s safe. Lila too.
I need Charlie.
Charlie grounds me. Reassures me. Centers me.
I’m up the rest of the night, watching for her long before daylight. She always senses when I need her. She’ll be here soon.
But she isn’t. Sunrise passes without her. That’s not like her.
I wait, fidgeting. Another lousy breakfast comes and goes untouched. No Charlie.
Where is she?
My frustration builds, accompanied by a tightness in my chest I haven’t felt in a long time.
Not in four years.
It’s time for PT, but I skip it, my anxiety skyrocketing as I wait for her.
An hour later, she’s still not here.
Where is she?
I’m running through scenario after scenario in my head. Where could she be? What if something’s happened to her again? How can I get to her? How can I save her?
She doesn’t need me.
Maybe she’s with someone.
She’s found someone better to spend her time with.
Someone who’s not a fucking useless cripple.
Then Charlie pops in as though nothing’s happened, and every drop of my anxiety morphs instantly into white-hot rage.
Mark should be in PT by now, but I grab two large coffees nonetheless. It’s about four hours later than my usual arrival time when I breeze in, balancing the cups carefully. But he’s not in the rehab gym. He’s in his chair, staring out the window, and I’m too focused on not spilling coffee to catch his mood.
“Morning, Big Guy. I brought two different kinds of coffee this morning. This one –” I raise a cup with a brown sleeve “– is a medium roast with two shots of dark chocolate. I’ve had it before, and it’s pretty good. This one is your usual dark roast. Your choice.”
“Nice of you to finally get here,” he says, glowering with animosity.
Apparently, it’s going to be one of those mornings. Given the way my day started – again – I should have expected it.
I sigh inwardly and let his frostiness roll off my back, setting both cups down on the table between us. “Sorry I’m late. I texted earlier to tell you I was running behind. I needed new jeans.” His jaw muscles flex as he returns to staring fixedly out the window.
He’s pissed. I guess he didn’t see my text. I take a deep breath. Distract him.
“How was breakfast?”
No answer. I wait a full minute before I try again to lighten the mood.
“Someone must have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed.” I lean over to kiss his cheek and feather my fingers through his hair.
Mark childishly jerks his head away, refusing to look at me. “I didn’t sleep. But maybe you didn’t either.”
I straighten up, pretending not to notice the bite in his tone. Of course I didn’t. I woke up in a sweaty panic for the umpteenth morning in a row, and my tailbone aches from spending every night perched on carpet-covered concrete, leaning against the hotel room door. But Mark doesn’t need to know that. He’s dealing with enough as it is.
“I never sleep well in hotels,” I reply instead. “I’m sorry you didn’t either. Is your leg bothering you?”
He turns his head slightly to glare at me. “You’re bothering me.”
Icy rage ripples just beneath his words, and it’s unsettling. I keep my voice gentle, hoping to disarm him. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”
He stares out the window and ignores me.
If I were thinking clearly, I’d go for a walk to give us each time to recalibrate. Unfortunately, I’m running on fumes. I stand in uncomfortable silence for several seconds before changing the topic. “This coffee smells fantastic.” I pull the lid off the dark chocolate one and hold it out. “Want to try a sip?”
“I don’t want your goddamned coffee!” Fast as lightning, he snatches the cup from my hand and hurls it past me. I gasp as hot coffee splatters all over my clothes, the walls, and the floor.
“What the hell, Mark?” The scalding liquid soaks my top and my new jeans. I quickly pluck the wet fabric away from my chest. “Dammit,” I mutter. I grab paper towels and dampen them, wiping coffee off the walls and floor before attempting to salvage my clothes.
“Yeah. Make sure your assets are on full display.” Sarcasm oozes from his words.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? My assets are fully covered. I’m wearing jeans and a hoodie.” I give up on my coffee-stained clothes. “What’s gotten into you? You’re acting like a jerk.”
He snorts. “How about what’s gotten into you? Or should I say, who’s gotten into you.”
I stare at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “What are you talking about?”
“I assumed being stuck here with a cripple was cramping your sex life. I guess not. You did say you didn’t sleep because you weren’t in your own bed.”
What. The. Hell.
I take a deep breath, followed by another, closing my eyes.
This is not about me.
Breathe.
I open my eyes to find him watching me with a cold expression on his hard face. His open door catches my eye, and I cross the room to close it. Mark laughs, a cruel laugh, so unlike the warm chuckle I’ve always known. “What? Don’t want everyone hearing you’re a slut?”
Sharp pain twists in my chest. I know this is his head injury talking. The personality changes, the hostility, the anger – it’s a toxic sludge coursing through him, spilling out onto everyone around him. His medical team expects it. They see this stuff all the time.
But I’ve never seen this behavior from Mark, especially not directed at me. And calling me a slut? I panicked a few months ago because Blake ran his thumb over my cheek. I’m pretty sure sex is permanently off the table after what those bastards did to me.
I take a deep breath, returning to stand in front of him, keeping my voice even. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I’m sorry I was later than usual. I was waiting for the department store to open because I needed jeans. If I’d known you’d had a bad night, I’d have postponed my errands. And I assure you I wasn’t having sex. I don’t have a sex life, here or anywhere else.”
Contempt glints in his pale eyes. “No sex? You really think I’m a fucking idiot, don’t you? I’m the one that found you screwing every goddamned one of those fuckers.”
My heart pounds erratically as the room swims before my eyes. I try to take a deep breath, but breathing has become difficult. The familiar iron bands start tightening, and I force my words past numb lips. “I didn’t have a choice.” I look at him, pleading silently. “You know that.”
He shakes his head furiously. “You went with them.”
My mouth falls open. “It wasn’t like they offered an invitation, Mark. We were kidnapped.”
“You should have fought harder!” he roars. “You just let them take you!”
I find my voice as fury rushes over me. “I didn’t let anyone do anything!” I yell, matching his volume and intensity, stabbing the tabletop with one finger. “I fought those bastards with everything I had. I just wasn’t strong enough to stop them.” I turn away for a half second before whirling back. “You know, I already blame myself for being weak. I don’t need you blaming me too. Yeah, you found me getting screwed. I was strung up and unconscious. That’s called rape, asshole.” Shocked by my ferocity, I turn to one side, fighting to regain control of my emotions.
I sidestep reflexively at a sudden movement in the corner of my vision. Mark shoves the rolling table past me, and it crashes into the wall. The remaining coffee cup flies into the air before splattering everywhere.
I have to get out of here.
I’m picking up my shoulder bag when the door bangs open, bouncing off the wall and startling me. Stubbs strides into the room and pauses, giving me a quick once-over. I recognize that look. He’s scanning me for injuries.
“You okay?”
I nod once. “I’m going out.” I reach for the door handle.
“They were right! You really are a stupid cunt whore!” Mark explodes.
His coup de grâce.
The words rip through my soul. I freeze, paralyzed, unable to breathe. My purse slips off my shoulder and thuds to the floor.
I turn to meet his eyes, hoping to see remorse or shock or… something. Anything. There’s emotion there, but not what I’d hoped for. Cold eyes glitter with revulsion.
“Here,” Stubbs murmurs. He scoops up my purse and passes it to me. “I’ve got this.”
I barely make it to the stairwell three doors down.
How dare Charlie just waltz in here like that?
After all I’ve been through, all I’ve been worried about, how dare she?
She’s wearing jeans that fit her better.
Is she dressing up? Why?
She says she didn’t sleep.
What the hell was she doing?
Suddenly I’m sure what she was doing.
What she had to be doing.
And I lose my shit.
She’s shocked at first, but then she gets angry. I don’t care.
How could she do that when I needed her?
I lash out again, shoving a table into a wall.
Stubbs bursts into the room and looks Charlie over like he’s worried I’ve injured her. She turns to leave, and I deal her my deadliest blow, my ace in the hole.
“You really are a stupid cunt whore!”
All color drains from her face. She looks as shocked as if I’d slapped her. There’s anguish in her eyes and defeat in her posture when she leaves. Seeing I’ve hurt her fills me with a perverse pleasure. After all, she clearly didn’t mind hurting me this morning.
“Hey, pussy, pick on someone your own size,” Stubbs demands, striding toward me, his beefy frame moving purposefully.
I look away. “Get the hell out.”
Stubbs cocks his head. “Make me. Or are you just an asshole to women?”
“I’m warning you, Stubbs –”
He scoffs. “What are you gonna do, Chandler? Kick my ass with your crutch?”
“Maybe I am!” I yell, facing him.
Stubbs shrugs. “Fine. Bring it, Pretty Boy. Won’t bother me a bit to beat your crippled ass.” He assumes a widened stance, cracks his massive knuckles, and waits, solidly planted.
I glare at him, and he glares right back. We remain like that for long moments until finally I look away in annoyance.
“That’s better.” Stubbs grabs the straight-backed chair, spins it backwards, and sits down facing me.
“What the hell are you doing?” I growl.
“Waiting for your sorry ass to settle down.”
“Get out.”
Stubbs shakes his head. “Nope. I’m giving you ten minutes. Ten minutes to sit there and figure out what you’re really mad about, because it’s not Charlie.”
“I said get out.”
“And I said ten minutes, asshole. And no more talking.”