“It’s me, isn’t it?” Jane lay on the bed they’d shared for the past week, curled up on her side. “I feel like I’m setting him off, or something.”
Ellen was afraid to look up from the pile of mail in her lap. Now was the time. “It’s everything, honey. He’s not himself. Yet.” She had scanned bills and statements until the numbers made no sense, and then simply began to drop them one by one in the wastepaper basket at her side.
“Yeah, but…” Jane rolled on her back. She put her boots on the bedspread. “I get the sense that the sight of me makes him crazy. Like he’s disgusted by me now.” Tears slid down her temples into her hair.
Ellen went over and sat by her side. “You need to focus on taking care of yourself. That’s your only job right now, sweetheart. Michael is on a long journey of—”
“Mom: ‘journey’? Really?”
You had to swallow it, the way she ricocheted from vulnerability to this withering sarcasm. Ellen took the opportunity to tap her daughter’s giant boots: “Take these off the bed, please. What I mean is, we don’t know how long it will take for him to recover. But you’re on a very specific timetable.” Jane stuck one leg up, then another, and Ellen tugged at the heavy boots.
“It’s not like I have anything to do, back home.”
“Other than prenatal appointments, setting up the baby’s room, filling out all that insurance paperwork I left you, taking the infant care class, the CPR one, the birth one, visiting those four pediatricians we lined up…”
“Oh my God.”
“And the emotional toll this takes, seeing him like this—well, it isn’t good for you. Lacey agrees.”
“Please. That would be your dream come true, if I had a spontaneous stress miscarriage.”
“I’m not even going to respond to that.”
“Do you think he can tell?” Jane rolled to face Ellen. “About the baby?”
“I’ll tell you what I can tell, which is that this is obviously Michael’s baby. And that you and he had a relationship, some kind of relationship. I don’t know whether it’s ongoing, or … But you did, in our house, without telling me.”
Jane stared up at her, a face full of you can’t make me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Mom, please. I’m talking about what to do now.”
Ellen stayed on the bed, Jane’s knees resting against her side. She closed her eyes. How could anyone know what to do now? Was there anything to do? The combination of Mike’s amputation and his PTSD made almost every interaction fraught. Had she pictured this, she would have expected the pain and suffering, but not the thousand ways she was made to feel inadequate, unhelpful, and often simply in the way. Yesterday, when they were in to dress his stump, the group of residents and nurses must have temporarily blocked Mike’s view of Ellen, off in the corner. Or he had forgotten she was there. But when they parted and he saw her—fighting to keep her face blank as the raw, purplish, stapled skin was revealed—he let out a yelp of vivid surprise and displeasure, as if she’d burst in on him doing something private. “Get out of here!” he had shouted. And the day before, when she called his room around 9:00 p.m., while Jane was in the shower. (It was a habit to call and check that everything was okay, even if she’d just left him an hour ago.) “Oh,” he said, voice dropping in disappointment. “Thought it was Tom, ’cause he’s calling me back. I gotta go.” He’d hung up, without another word. It wasn’t Jane making it worse for Michael. It was as likely Ellen herself. It was everything, and nothing.
“Mom? Do you think he knows?” Ellen ransacked her memory for the last time Jane had looked to her so trustingly, so in need. Jane, who had slivered Ellen’s heart over and over through high school. Jane, who had screamed things in the worst of their fights it was pure misery to recall. Jane, with the underage drinking and most likely drugs and the late nights and the lies and the unerring ability to take the hardest path, always.
“I don’t know, honey.” Do it now. “The doctors say he—”
“The doctors.” Jane waved them away, irritated. “Mom, do you think he’s reacting against—this?” She touched her belly and for a moment they both looked down at it, covered in a ripped sweatshirt. “Not intentionally, or, like, consciously but … is it just one more thing about his situation he can’t handle?”
Ellen took Jane’s hand. “It’s a lot for you to handle. I’m sure it would be for Michael under any circumstances, assuming that … he’d be involved.”
“He once told me that he—”
“What?”
“Never mind.” She scooted to sitting, using Ellen’s hand to pull herself up. “Tell me honestly. Do you think I’m making it worse? By being here?”
If she leaves it’s best for her. It’s best for him. “I don’t know,” Ellen heard herself say. “It’s possible.”
Jane stared, nodded once, and then wiped her face hard. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
“I’ll have groceries delivered,” Ellen said, desperate. “From Willy Street, or whichever co-op you want. And I’ll come home in a few weeks. For next weekend, maybe! Wes will be there, back and forth from Chicago, and for Christmas we can—we can maybe … And you know the neighbors, Mrs. Easton? I’ll have her check in to see—”
“Okay, Mom. I get it.”
“There’s plenty of time before the baby gets here. By then maybe—”
“Mom.”
No matter how many times she’d heard that word, in that exact tone, meaning enough already, Ellen couldn’t help but feel that this one was different, worse, more knowing. She’d injured a tender and frail connection. And by doing the right thing, she’d gone wrong. What was it they said about this, the military? Collateral damage.
* * *
Lacey would have let Ellen in except for Lolo, how she was acting. It was like she couldn’t see how much Eddie had lost, up top. She babied him, she thought his giggle was sweet—Oh, you think that’s funny? What’s so funny, baby?—she was having the time of her life taking care of him. Right now she was trimming his neck on the nasty stained love seat while Eddie lolled his head around and burbled with pleasure. Otis was flopped on the bed with headphones on. And Lacey was going out of her mind.
So she made them stand in Building 18’s third-floor hallway when Ellen stopped by, after quickly introducing her to Lolo and pointing out Otis, who could care less.
“Sorry,” she said, leaning against the closed door. “But you don’t want to be in there, trust me.”
Ellen, who’d tripped on the ripped old hallway carpet earlier, wasn’t sure she wanted to be out here, either. “It’s … nice,” she said, and Lacey burst out laughing.
“Nice try. But it could be worse. I guess. How did it go, with Jane?”
Ellen touched her glasses lightly. “She’ll fly back tomorrow. Apparently she’d bought an open-ended ticket. On my credit card, of course.”
“Wow.” Lacey had no idea what that cost, but to Ellen it meant only a wry smile. “Well, it’s for the best.”
“Do you think so? Because I feel terrible.”
“Are you kidding? They think they want to be here, but they have no idea what it means, for real.” Lacey jerked a thumb backward at the closed door. “For her it’s all play time. She’s in pretending mode. Like he’s five again.”
Ellen nodded, unconvinced.
“Plus, do you really want your kid around … this?” Lacey pointed to a giant poster of Jessica Simpson taped to the opposite door, breasts spilling out of a tight minidress, and the bumping music from inside the room. Up and down the hall, women went in and out of doors, talking loudly on phones, often wearing nothing more than robes or boxers and T-shirts. Everyone had overflowing garbage cans set out, takeout boxes piled on top. The cafeteria was nearly a mile away and few of the guys could get there without major pain. Lacey didn’t even mention the cockroach situation, in the drains of the kitchenette sink and under the counters. Lolo was going to flip out.
“Gotta love the army,” she said, shooting for lightness. “If it’s possible to cut corners, they’ll find a way.” Yesterday, when she’d tried to have Otis tell Eddie about JV basketball tryouts, he’d kept his mouth shut and shook his head. In the bedroom later she started to chastise him and he cut her off with one sentence: It’s not like he was ever my real dad.
“But—” Ellen looked truly disturbed. “How are you—”
“Did Michael get his rating yet?” Lacey switched topics quickly, not able to bear the direct pity. As usual, Professor Ellen had no idea what she was talking about. “Disability rating? From the P.E. Board? Physical evaluation.”
“Oh. No. That is, I don’t think so. I could ask—”
For Christ’s sake. “Well, you’d know if he did. It’s the amount he’ll get of his base pay, depending on how bad he is. They sent me to four different offices and I still can’t get anyone to give me a ballpark figure. But we’re hoping for at least seventy-five.”
“Seventy-five…?”
“Percent, Ellen. Of his pay? But this doctor requires this test, and then this guy needs something else, and then the file gets sent to the wrong place.” This was pointless. What would Ellen care? When it came to money, she had her head stuck in the sand. For a moment, Lacey even felt a surge of connection to Lolo, who at least had been following the rating office debacle with interest and verve. “So I should probably get back—”
“Can I ask a favor?” Ellen said, out of the blue.
“Me? Sure, what?”
“Michael’s PT aide says he needs to work on some upper-body strength. He has this bar, you know, above the bed—”
“The trapeze, right.”
“Yes. Well, it’s meant to be how he can get himself in and out, move from the bed to the chair. And even though he’s been doing these arm exercises, for some reason they think he doesn’t have enough strength yet overall. I’m not sure why.”
“Probably it’s a core issue.” At Ellen’s puzzled look, Lacey patted her own stomach. “His core. You need those ab muscles, and especially in his back, to be able to pull his own body weight up. Eventually”—she was warming to this—“he’s going to need to twist himself, right? To sort of swing himself out of the bed and onto the wheelchair? Yeah. That means a torque motion, where his obliques are going to need to take all that load.”
“Obliques.”
Lacey demonstrated, twisting her torso from side to side.
“Well, he doesn’t seem to be getting what he needs from the aide. And I don’t know a thing about it, obviously, so … what do you charge?”
“Excuse me?”
“What is your hourly rate, for private sessions? Would you have any time this week, and next? Maybe twice a week would be good.”
Lacey stared. This was a joke, right? But why did Ellen seem so serious, so straight? “You don’t need that. I’m sure the PT guy can—”
“No he cannot. He specifically told me that Michael needs practice on the whole upper body, above and beyond what they do in therapy. I can’t get him to do much of anything, let alone any type of—” Here Ellen tried to mimic Lacey’s twisting sit-up move and they both had to laugh.
“But—” Lacey fought her inclination to argue. Could it be true? It wasn’t just a handout, was it? Not that she could afford to turn down one of those, either.
“How about one session, to start. You can assess what needs to be done, and then we’ll see about going forward. Totally around your schedule with Eddie, of course.” Not a glimmer of pity or embarrassment.
“Um … my rate is—was—seventy-five. An hour.”
“Fine. Let me know what times you have, either tomorrow or Thursday, and we’ll set it up.” Before Lacey could react, Ellen leaned in and gave her a brisk hug, and then was walking swiftly down the hall, stepping neatly around the garbage cans in her petite loafers. But then she hurried back.
“I almost forgot! The whole reason I came by. Here, take this.”
Lacey peeked in the plastic tote bag Ellen handed her. “CDs?”
“Audiobooks. For Eddie, I got two military histories and a new thriller by Michael Connelly. For your son, not as much choice, but there was a mom returning this right when I was checking out and she said it was great.”
Lacey held up The Mark of Athena by Rick Riordan. “He actually loves this series,” she said faintly.
“Perfect,” Ellen said, oblivious to Lacey fighting back tears. “To play them, they loan out that CD player, and there are headphones in there too. Seems strange they haven’t upgraded to MP3 players, but … Anyway, last one is for you.”
“Me? I don’t really—”
“I know, I know. But just in case. Sometimes a book can help.” Ellen reached over to pull it out of the bag and this time she did have a twinkly look, as if she had Lacey’s number. It was an actual book, hardcover, called Birds of America, by Lorrie Moore.
“Never heard of her.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Ellen called back, on her way down the hall again. “Short stories. Give one a try!”
Damn. Lacey grinned. The English professor couldn’t help herself.
* * *
It was raw and wintry-damp as Ellen hurried across Georgia Avenue, holding up a hand—sorry, sorry—to the wailing honks of passing traffic. She was smiling, even though Building 18 had thoroughly upset her. Why hadn’t Lacey mentioned the shoddy construction, those moldy panels in the front hall? The damp darkness of the stairwell, and of course the trash everywhere. She couldn’t help but feel relieved to be back on the main Walter Reed campus, where there was the relative luxury of Mologne House. Did anyone know? Who was in charge of the housing? Why were injured, recovering soldiers allowed to live in such conditions? Why were their wives and mothers?
But overall, Ellen felt good. She reviewed the moment of spontaneously offering Lacey that work—had it been too obvious?—and judged it successful. Now all she would need to do was smooth things out with the overbearing PT aide, who was determined to get Michael lifting weights through his own orders, barked out military-style of course. Taking things into her own hands. A once-familiar feeling, flooding back.
Ellen stopped at the guard gate to show her identification and stepped quickly onto one of the front paths curving up to Heaton. It was nearly dinnertime, and Michael, who had lost almost thirty pounds since his arrival from Baghdad, had finally started to eat. He’d been promoted to soft foods, and Ellen, taking a tip from another mother on the ward, had stopped by Pediatrics on the first floor and wheedled a box full of baby food jars. She simply opened them—that same twist-pop giving a jolt of body memory stretching back almost thirty years—and scraped into a bowl or cup for him. If Michael knew or suspected, he said nothing. His favorites so far were banana, beef-and-rice, and peach oatmeal. He rejected peas outright. Just like Wes and Jane had!
Jane. They were barely speaking. Ellen squelched the sharp prick of guilt over how she had handled things. Jane was better off at home, focusing on the baby—oh God, she was going to have a baby!—and Michael was better off without the knowledge that he was about to become a father. But still: Jane, Jane.
Ellen let go of her coat collar inside the spacious dated foyer. A twelve-foot Christmas tree placed at the front windows was glowing with colored lights. Underneath, large boxes designated for troop gifts and charity donations. But what were these nearby draped tables set up for? NO LIMITS ON OPPORTUNITY read a placard, over the black and gold Army star. Three or four people in uniform stood behind the tables, stacking pamphlets into boxes on the floor, chatting and laughing as they broke down their setup. Different placards on the table read: TROOPS TO TEACHERS. TRANSITION STRESS. FINANCIAL COUNSELING. Ellen picked up a flyer.
No degree? No problem! With expert training in over 150 jobs, the U.S. Army can provide you with career services that will make you a top prospect for today’s leading industries. If you are a U.S. Citizen or permanent resident alien, between 17 and 35, and within good moral standing, ask about how the U.S. Army can further your career goals … TODAY.
“What is this?” Ellen said aloud, glancing around the lobby. Behind the security desk, none of the busy staff seemed to notice her. “Excuse me,” she called, and one of the service members looked up, a smiling young woman with her hair tightly pinned back under her cover.
“I’m sorry, we’re closing up. Back tomorrow at 0800 though.”
“No, I—what is this program? What are you doing here?”
Wary of this lady’s tone, the young soldier squared off. “It’s a career services info table. There are job training opportunities, and stuff like that. When soldiers transition out of—”
“Recruiting,” Ellen said loudly. In disbelief. “Right here, in the lobby of Walter Reed. That’s what this is!”
“No, what I said is that we provide separation and transition career information for interested parties. If you have a question, we’d be happy to discuss that tomorrow when—”
“Who do you provide this career services info to? Obviously our patients up on the wards are already in the armed services. And so are they—” Ellen gestured to security, to official-looking men walking briskly through the lobby, to the staff at the front desk. “All of them … so who are you here for?”
“Ma’am. I’m afraid we don’t have time for questions right now.”
“I don’t have a question, I have a comment. We are not fooled by this rhetoric, this, ah, ‘find the right fit for your skills seminar.’ It’s soliciting, and I’m appalled. Not to mention the fundamental idiocy … I mean, talk about not knowing your audience. Who are you going to hand these out to? The families who’ve already donated someone to the cause and are now here to pick up the pieces?”
Underneath her outrage, Ellen felt her dormant authority kick in like a furnace. She welcomed it. That brisk walk across the campus, the deconstruction of the false lingo, even the chance to speak out, loudly and clearly—it all converged into this moment of righteous fury unleashed on some hapless low-level flunkies who didn’t ask to be here.
“You’re here to get the kids!” Ellen almost shrieked. She could feel the lobby’s attention gathering. “Siblings, younger brothers. High school kids. Who walk in here because they’ve got a parent upstairs, plugged into a ventilator or learning how to walk again … How dare you.” A little wobbly. “How dare you!” She steadied her voice and said it again. She was right, wasn’t she? Even if the tables held, she now noticed, clearly marked forms for “Alumni Programs” and “Post-Service Benefits.” By now the young soldiers behind the tables were staring at her without expression.
“Who gave you permission to be here?” Ellen faced the info desk, where the on-duty receptionists shook their heads: Not me uh-uh I’m staying out of this. She whirled on others who happened to be walking in or out of the front doors, badges clipped to breast pockets. “Who cleared this? I’d like to speak with whoever said it was okay to be recruiting right here in the, in the hospital where they ship all the broken—”
But now she couldn’t go on, thinking about Michael. His fast-healing shortened left leg, with its neatly tucked-over flap of skin, a tightly sealed envelope. Ellen’s breath left her; she let the flyer drift back down onto the table. The soldiers went back to packing up, conspicuously turning their backs on the crazy lady who’d gone off on them. A few people made eye contact and nodded, perhaps in tune with her point of view, perhaps only glad she’d shut up.
For a moment Ellen was lost. Where was she headed? Right, Michael’s, for the baby food dinner hour. But she didn’t have the energy needed for the endless elevator banks and the uncertain weather of his mood: gloomy, irritable, silent, or spitting mad, depending on the hour and his medication schedule and whatever else went on inside him, so utterly changed and so far away from her. Spent, she found her way to a lobby bench and sat down heavily, not noticing the woman who had been watching from across the room, who stood now in her line of vision, tactfully waiting for her to look up.
“May I?” She said, gesturing toward a nearby chair. “Wow, that was something. I was wondering if you’d like to talk sometime. About your experiences here at Walter Reed.”
Ellen studied her; psychologist or social worker, she guessed. The woman was in her early to mid-forties, with a light cloud of frizzy, black hair. Dressed in wide-leg pants, shrunken blazer, clog-type Mary Janes, chunky silver jewelry. And was gazing at her expectantly, with a quiet curiosity. And admiration?
“I’m fine,” Ellen said finally. “I don’t need any counseling. At least, not because I find it abhorrent to blatantly recruit here. In the lobby.”
“Completely abhorrent,” the woman agreed. “Not that they were, technically, recruiting. I don’t think. But you made your point, that’s for sure.” She handed Ellen a business card. Shelby Levine, New York Times. “Am I right in thinking you have a … son here? Yes. Is he doing all right?”
“You don’t work here,” Ellen said.
“Oh, I’m working,” Shelby said, sticking out her hand. “I bet there are lots of areas here where you see they could do better.”
“Yes, well. I’m sorry. I need to get back up to the ward now.”
“Ward Fifty-seven? And you’re staying in Mologne?”
Ellen nodded. How did she know? “I’d love to buy you coffee, in the next day or two,” Shelby Levine said. “To hear what this is like for you, living here, and maybe for other people you know.” She cocked her head and smiled. “Off-site coffee, that is. And off the record, if you’d like.”
Ellen paused. Then she gave her cell phone number, which Shelby quickly tapped into her own phone. She liked this woman, this reporter. Most likely she was on assignment for a soft piece on how difficult it was to be here, and though she didn’t particularly have much to say on that other than the obvious—it was difficult to be here—she would give a quote or two. Shelby reminded her of some of her favorite grad students, or new colleagues, the sharp ones who weren’t afraid to show they cared.
They both stood to leave. “So what were you thinking about, back there?” Shelby said, pointing to the now-empty recruiting tables. “You were inspired. You tore into them.”
Ellen politely demurred—oh, I don’t know—and waved good-bye. But in the elevator, she knew the answer to Shelby’s question. What had she been thinking of, when she let loose all that indignation and righteousness, when she hadn’t cared one bit for what people thought of her, loud and insistent and causing a scene?
Jane. With a heavy heart and a sense of obligation and a desperate confusion, she’d been thinking about, she’d been channeling: Jane.