Beyond the Point(61)

“We don’t have to decide about Thanksgiving right now,” Hannah said. “We’ll figure it out.”

“When?”

“Later.”

He sighed.

“You sound tired,” said Hannah. “How are you, really?”

“Well, I’m standing downwind of the rankest floodwaters you can imagine, and thousands of people still need to be evacuated from the city. So, you know. Basically the definition of awesome.”

Hannah laughed. “Basically.”

“I miss you,” he said. “It’s hot here. But at least we’re doing something real, you know? Something that matters.”

A woman at the desk waved at Hannah to come forward. She’d grown to hate goodbyes. Especially abrupt ones. “Hey, Tim, I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Tim said. “I love you. And hey, happy birthday.”

“Thanks. I love you too,” Hannah said, feeling the tears well in her eyes. “Bye.”

“NAME?”

“Lieutenant Hannah Nesmith.”

“Date of birth?”

“Eight, thirty, eighty-two.”

“Hey,” the woman said. “That’s today.”

“Sure is.”

“Any current medication?”

“No,” Hannah said, then lowered her voice. “Actually, I’m on birth control. I don’t know the name . . .”

“Sexually active?”

“Somewhat,” Hannah joked, but the nurse stopped pumping the blood pressure monitor she’d wrapped around Hannah’s arm and waited for a direct answer. “Yes,” Hannah clarified. “I’m married.”

The nurse raised her eyebrows. “Honey, that don’t mean the answer is yes.” She released the pressure that had built and made a mark on a clipboard. “Any sexually transmitted diseases?”

“No.”

“Date of your last period?”

Hannah tried to remember. “Uh . . . I think about three weeks ago?”

The nurse handed Hannah an empty plastic cup. “We need a sample. Pregnancy screening.” She pointed to a partition behind her. “You can go behind the curtain.”

“Oh, I’m not pregnant.”

“Let’s just be sure. You’d be surprised how many women get knocked up so they don’t have to ship out. We can’t send a fetus to Fallujah, now, can we?”

The audacity with which the nurse spoke made Hannah’s neck grow hot with anger. Not once had Hannah heard of a woman intentionally getting pregnant to avoid deployment, and yet, it was a trope that constantly passed through the ranks, as if it were a mark of weakness to conceive a child.

“Afghanistan,” Hannah said, correcting her, now taking on the same short and snippy tone that the nurse had used. “I’m not going to Iraq. I’m going to Afghanistan.”

“Same rules apply,” the woman said, though her tight expression had softened ever so slightly. She pulled back a curtain and pointed for Hannah to go behind a three-paneled screen situated in a half-moon in front of the cinder-block wall. Squatting, Hannah held the cup between her legs and sighed as it filled with warm urine. There was nothing like the Army to humiliate you before sending you to war.

Next, a nurse checked Hannah’s hearing and lung capacity. She moved down the hall for an eye exam. Then a male nurse wearing blue scrubs ordered her into a room, where she sat on a cold medical cot and lifted the sleeve of her gray PT shirt.

“Hepatitis A,” he announced as he jammed the first needle into the fleshy part of her upper arm. He reloaded. “Polio.” Hannah winced. “And, last but not least . . .” The needle looked like a small saber. Hannah closed her eyes.

“Typhoid.”

The small tube of toxins released into her upper arm. The only way to fight a contaminated world was to contaminate yourself, too, Hannah thought dismally. He rubbed a cotton swab over the area he’d attacked and then taped a cotton ball over the wound.

“Drink plenty of water. And don’t worry about your arm. It’ll only be sore for a few days.”

IN A SMALL office on the other side of post, an elderly man wearing a black cardigan sweater and a “Vietnam Vet” hat welcomed Hannah inside. She could tell, walking into his office, that this man wasn’t in any hurry. With a single outstretched hand, he directed her to take a seat in front of his desk, and the calm with which he ambled to his own chair forced Hannah to take a deep breath. He pulled a large folder from beneath the desk and set it before them carefully.

“All right, Lieutenant Nesmith,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Now for the important stuff. This here is called a D—D—nine—three.” He spoke slowly, as if Hannah needed to absorb each letter and digit individually. “Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Any children?”

Hannah shook her head. “No.”

“Okay.” He paused. “Sometime in the next few weeks, you’ll need to fill out the name and address of your spouse . . . skip this line for dependents, and then down below, list your parents and any other family members that you would like to be notified in the event that you become a casualty.”

He took his glasses off his face and watched her look over the blank form. Hannah swallowed and nodded.