Paradise Valley (Virgin River #7)(49)

“Ten.”

“What do you want to do while you’re here?”

“I want to ride, run the dogs and sit on my porch with you and a glass of wine, watching the sun go down. Then I’d like to sit on my porch with you in the morning with coffee and watch it come up. And this,” she said, running her hands over his shoulders and down his arms. “I want to stay real close to the feeling of your arms around me.”

“Sounds doable,” he said. “How about we start with a nice, slow, relaxing orgasm? Then we can make plans while we have dinner.”

“I can do that,” she said, kissing him.

Rick Sudder had been at the San Diego Naval Medical Center for a little over a month. He’d transferred from the ward into the barracks weeks ago and had his new preparatory prosthesis. It was a hard plastic socket for his stump attached to a mechanical knee and then a titanium pylon attached to a plastic foot. It would probably be a couple more months before he’d get the real deal, a fake leg that at least looked like a fake leg instead of a rod stuck into a running shoe. And that was another thing—the running shoe. He didn’t wear running shoes unless he was playing basketball. He wore boots. But this was safer, sturdier, and the height of the sole was significant in measuring the length of the pylon so he’d be level. From what he heard from other amputees around the barracks, he should feel lucky to be level.

He was still learning the ropes. A below-the-knee amputation was a piece of cake compared to his—he had to learn to balance and operate a mechanical knee. Frankly, he preferred the wheelchair or crutches. The wheelchair had to be weighted on the front side bars so he wouldn’t tip over backward because he no longer had the counterweight that his leg would have provided, but he still would rather that than a walker. And crutches were a little unstable, not that it mattered to him. But they insisted on the walker, which made him feel like an old man. Plus, he was still hurting. His foot where there was no foot itched till he wanted to lose his mind.

The pain was so much more manageable, but leaning his weight on the prosthesis was tough and the phantom pain still drove him crazy, especially at night. That, he was told, wasn’t exactly easily remedied. It was a process of retraining the nerves, a tedious, frustrating exercise. He was walking now, inside the parallel bars and with the walker.

In rehab he’d been focusing on straightening the leg to prevent contractures—the shortening of the muscles in the thigh of his amputated leg. He’d been forced to lie on his belly, something they called proning, and lift that stump to extend his hip. Then he’d stand at the bars while a therapist pulled back on it. And he was instructed to repeat these exercises while on his own, but he didn’t. Getting better didn’t interest him enough, and he knew that. He also knew he’d probably be sorry, but motivation was hard to embrace.

Then there was group. Group was almost unbearable. Let’s all get together and talk about what it feels like to lose your limbs or not be able to move your body from the waist down, what fun! Let’s have a little chat about how scrambled your brain is after you’ve been shot/blown up/crushed. Or, how about we have a good cry followed by a group hug? And then, the frosting on the cake, accept praise from the group moderator—who, by the way, has arms and legs and doesn’t have to get around in a chair—because you let it all out and cried in front of the boys.

Rick wasn’t sure he could stand much more of this. The only thought worse was going home like this, with a brain like so much spaghetti and one leg even worse than Captain Ahab’s.

He had to admit to himself, being in the barracks as opposed to the ward was better, especially the freedom of movement. All the men had some form of disability, and they traveled back and forth to the hospital physical therapy department, but also to the exchange to buy anything from snacks to paperbacks, to the base movie theater, or on outings with friends or family members. His roommates were more relaxed, more honest. He was actually forming some relationships. They were like members of a squad, almost. The gimp squad. But at least they could bitch about the physical terrorists, the counselors, their families or girlfriends or buddies back home who just didn’t seem to get it, and they didn’t have to bare their souls or cry to be doing it right.

He couldn’t complain about the food or the weather. He couldn’t remember the Marine Corps or navy ever feeding him decent food before this. And San Diego in April was like a piece of heaven. The sun was bright and warm, the breeze was clean and smelt vaguely of the sea, at night the sky was usually clear or the storms gathered off the coast and put on a light show over the ocean. He spent as much time outside as he could, finding a bench or chair in either the courtyard or in front of the barracks and just parked there, soaking up the sun. The southern California sun was so much sweeter than that mean, harsh desert sun in Iraq.

There hadn’t ever been this much sun in Virgin River; if the height of the trees didn’t block it, then the clouds did. In Virgin River you wore your sealskin eleven months of the year; mountain life was chilly to cold almost year-round.

His cell phone chimed in his pocket and he pulled it out to see who was calling. Unknown. That was a trick only Liz tried, hoping he’d pick up. Jack never bothered with that because Jack wasn’t a crafty teenage girl. He let it go to voice mail. Liz had been sending him things at least twice a week. Stupid things. Cookies she made that weren’t all that good, magazines that looked used, cheap cologne, as if he’d be going out on some date or something, Soap-On-A-Rope and razors, like the Naval Medical Center wouldn’t keep him clean. A Saint Christopher medal. For what? To keep him safe from now on? Stupid, stupid things. Things that made his eyes water at her sweet caring, her simple but beautiful attempts to bring him any level of pleasure. He treated her like such shit she should just cut him loose and spend all those efforts on someone else, someone who deserved it.