Paradise Valley (Virgin River #7)(33)

He assessed the condition of the other patients and came to the conclusion there was no predicting how people got through trauma like this. Some were downright cheerful in spite of terrible pain, some were horribly depressed. He judged himself to be right about in the middle—neither cheerful nor catatonic with gloom. Once they started slacking off on the narcotics, it was harder to sleep. It was like trying to catch a nap in an amphitheater—there was always noise, light, movement. There were cries in the night, sometimes from a breakout of pain, sometimes from nightmares. One guy cried for his mother in his sleep. Moans, groans and, unbelievably, even laughter punctuated the darkness. Rick was afraid to succumb to sleep lest he scream and expose the depth of his vulnerability.

Once the cell phone had arrived, there was already a message waiting—Jack. “Rick, give me a call when you get the phone so I know we’re operational. Call anyone you like—there’s no limit on the minutes.” Rick didn’t call him. He kept thinking he would pretty soon, but after a few days the phone twittered and the caller ID signaled Jack. This time the message was more commanding. “Rick, if you don’t call me back, I’m going to drive down there to be sure you’re getting by all right.”

Trapped, he returned the call. “Sorry,” he said. “I just haven’t felt like talking.”

“Understandable,” Jack said. “We don’t have to talk long. How are they treating you? Tell me what’s going on.”

Rick sighed. This wasn’t what he had in mind. But, it was better to have Jack on a phone than in his face, so he’d have to play along. “I’m still in the hospital, moving to barracks with other PT patients tomorrow. I get around in a chair or walker. Mostly the chair because it’s easier. Another week or two and I’ll get a preparatory prosthesis and start walking.”

“Preparatory?”

“The first step before the real fake leg.”

“Ah. How are the other guys there doing? Meeting anyone you can, you know, talk to?”

Rick was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Not a lot of laughs around here, Jack.”

“Maybe that’ll get better when you’re in barracks.”

“Yeah, maybe. Listen, I’m pretty tired….”

“Really? Haven’t had enough rest yet?” When Rick didn’t respond, Jack said, “Okay, buddy, I’ll let you get some rest. I’ll call tomorrow.”

One thing about the barracks, the men were in various stages of recovery. They weren’t all newly injured like Rick. One guy was practicing tying his shoes with two prosthetic arms while another was strapping on his preparatory prosthesis in the morning and using only a cane to assist him with balance. But the routine was different here—no more food on a tray or bath out of a basin at the bedside. Here it was a mess hall and showers. Rick had to admit, a real shower felt damn good, even if he did have to have his stump wrapped because the wound wasn’t completely healed. And he sat on a stool in the shower to be safe. But getting himself to the cafeteria for a gang meal wasn’t his idea of a good time.

There were guys here who played poker, passed around pictures of their wives/girls/kids as well as magazines—mostly  p**n . “Gotta keep the pipes clear,” one guy laughed as he tossed a nudie magazine on Rick’s bed. There were men in barracks with no hope of ever clearing the pipes, paraplegics who’d lost movement and feeling from the waist down. Rick knew that if his brain and emotions were engaged right, he’d see they had it worse and experience some gratitude. But his head was tangled around powerful feelings of doom and an overwhelming sense of loss that he couldn’t talk about. Hell, he couldn’t even understand it. He just felt it so deep, as if everything had slipped away from him and couldn’t be rescued—the life he’d had before war, the body he’d had, the dreams and goals.

He’d like to talk about it but just couldn’t bring himself to. Liz called a couple of times and even though he didn’t pick up, he listened to her messages over and over. She loved him, she was praying every day that he was doing okay in rehab, that he was feeling more positive.

He’d always been able to talk to Liz. Even though they’d started out as lovers, right out of the chute, they had always been best friends. They’d been thrown into the deep end of the pool, with pregnancy, fetal death, war. They’d never have stayed together so long if they hadn’t been able to talk and write about their issues. They held on to each other through so much confusion and fear, got each other through not just by talking, but by listening. Jack had taught him that: Don’t worry about saying the right thing, Rick. Let Liz tell you what scares her and tell her you won’t abandon her—that’s all she really wants from you. Had Jack talked to Liz? Advised her? Because it seemed as if she’d always done that for him, too.

He wasn’t sure how she got on the naval base, but he opened his eyes one night and she was there, sitting on the edge of his bed. He could hear the sounds around him, so he knew he was awake—there was snuffling in beds, moaning, humming, snoring.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her, panicked, immediately afraid she was going to be in deep trouble. Maybe arrested.

She reached out a hand and ran her pretty fingers over his temple, down his cheek, softly over his lips. “I thought maybe you needed me, Ricky. And I knew I needed you.” Then she leaned over him and touched his lips with hers. He inhaled sharply, smelling her scent, tasting her special taste. His girl. Not a girl, a woman, and she never let him forget she belonged to him and he belonged to her. He’d had some dates, some making out with girls before Lizzie, but she was the whole deal for him. They might have started out a couple of clumsy, stupid kids, but by now they knew each other’s bodies and needs and their sex was rich and powerful and satisfying.