Authors: Emily Gray Tedrowe
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.
Lacey jerked awake, sweaty and gasping. Where was she? What was that noise? Slowly, it came back: the dusty, overheated room, Eddie’s bandaged face on the pillow near hers. The screeching noise was a power generator outside their window; even from four flights up they could hear it whine and thump all night. Now she let her heartbeat slow to its grinding wheeze, and felt around for her phone on the nightstand: only 12:10 a.m. She’d been asleep for less than an hour.
Days had been sliding together, and sleep was a natural casualty. After Otis and Lolo left—God, she missed Otis—there was nothing to make Lacey get up and get dressed. Often she stayed in the same clothes for days, throwing on a coat when she needed to take Eddie across the street for an appointment. She ate here and there, slept for large chunks during the day, and cared less and less about what the nurses, doctors, and staff might think about her greasy hair or limp jeans.
When the ATM wouldn’t let her take out another twenty or forty bucks, she waited until it would, getting a check here or there from MedFAC and taking as much free food as she could find. All of Eddie’s basic needs were accounted for, of course—meals and clothes and medical. But Lacey once had to sneak a handful of dressing bandages to use as menstrual pads. Though really, all she needed cash for was booze.
In her clearer moments—not that this was one of them, jarred awake, sweaty and disoriented—even Lacey would say that things were getting out of hand in that department. Instead of sitting in on Eddie’s therapy sessions or diagnostics or scans, anything that didn’t need her presence, she’d begun to go outside to “take a walk”—that is, sneak around in the woodsy areas behind those severe brick buildings to drink vodka from a flask. Right, only vodka during the day, or beer if she was back in their room. Brown liquors were for nighttime only. But making up all these rules, then praising herself for sticking to them—another was that she was allowed to drink more of the cheap stuff on the theory that eight-dollar bourbon wasn’t intended to be savored—well, she knew how dumb that was and what it probably meant.
I’m not an idiot,
Lacey told herself.
Not one of those “I don’t have a problem” people.
But did owning it make it better or worse?
Frankly, the only time she got it together was when she saw Ellen or Michael. She’d dry out—as much as was possible in a half day or so—shower, find a decent shirt, shoes. And put on a show. The funny thing was that pretending to be okay actually helped her, for a while, feel okay.
She’d gone over to Ward 57 twice so far for training sessions with Michael. If she’d worried that accepting money from Ellen would feel awkward, well, it did—but less so than being broke. It helped that Ellen herself was distracted and nervous around Michael. His sullen grouch routine really got to her, Lacey was surprised to see. She took it too seriously! Too personally. The right way—Lacey had sized that up within a minute of being in his room—was to get on him, not to take any shit, make sure he knew you had his number.
“Oh, is that too tough, Mike?” she’d said, that first day, when he balked at repeating the simple abs-and-arms circuit she ran him through. “Huh. Sure, I’ll modify it for you. My girlfriend does four sets of these, but…” Soon enough he was fighting her to give the weights back. Also it helped to speak up about his missing leg when he whined. “Off balance?
Yeah,
you’re off balance, because you’re missing a leg! That’s why you need to strengthen the rest. Let’s go.” It wasn’t hard; she could do that flirty-steel routine in her sleep. She and Gwen once did off-season training for a Jersey City arena football team, and this was a lot like that. Except for the bandaged-up half leg.
“He doesn’t respond like that,” Ellen said afterward. She’d heard all their laughter and banter from outside in the hall. “Not with any of the therapists here—”
“Well, duh. They’re part of
this
—” Lacey circled her arm around, meaning:
Walter Reed.
“And I’m not.”
“But not with me, either,” Ellen had said quietly. To that, Lacey could only nod.
* * *
No magic answers
is what she told herself now, lying in bed in the dark with Eddie. No magic. Lacey rolled on her side to face him. Under the bandages, relaxed in sleep, his face looked young, unfamiliar. She gently touched his smooth upper lip, still so strange without the mustache. He flinched, twitching his nose, and she took her hand away. Lacey studied his swollen face on the right side. At her insistence—the Ocular guys argued there was so little hope that it was pointless—they’d begun some steroid shots in the nerves around his remaining, damaged eye. From what she’d read online, two surgeries were necessary: one to repair the nerves, and one to remove any debris still in the eyeball itself. But getting the surgeons to agree on, or even to admit to, a plan of treatment was like getting Otis to be excited about fish sticks for dinner. Why were they so opposed? You’d think these guys’d be raring to go when it came to slicing and dicing. If Lacey hadn’t been on them all the time—it was really the only thing she still had energy for—she got the sense they would have relegated Eddie to the lost cause file long ago. It was hard enough to stop Rehab from putting him in all these blind-accommodation courses.
He’s not completely blind!
she wanted to shout.
Not forever, anyway
. “Little lights,” Eddie had said once. That’s what he saw. Short flashes of light, which meant there was still a chance.