Captured(75)

CHAPTER 20





REAGAN





San Antonio Army Medical Center, October 2010





I stand with my back to the wall beside the door to his room and gather my courage, my strength. I can do this. I can do this.

I can’t do this.

But I have to.

I breathe again, deeply, and let it out. Then I open the door, trying for a smile. He’s awake, sitting up in the bed with the sheet across his waist. Dressed in a black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest and molded to his thick arms. Stubble darkens his jaw. Hair is grown out a little. He’s watching Sports Center, replays of the Cowboys losing to the Vikings. At the sound of the door, he glances up, sees it’s me, shuts off the TV, and tosses the remote onto the bed beside him.

Staff Sergeant Bradford told me what had happened, injury-wise. Derek lost his right leg from the knee down, and he’s got broken ribs and a concussion. There’s some hearing loss, temporary, they think. He was in a hospital over there for several weeks before he was stable enough to be moved to the States. He’s only been here a few days. He called me, and the conversation was short and tense. It amounted to me assuring him I was on the way, and then we hung up. Too much between us to say any of it over the phone. So I packed a bag and drove to San Antonio.

He looks healthy. Gorgeous, vital. But the sheet…I can clearly see the outline of his left leg, thigh, knee, toes. But, beneath the sheet, his right leg ends abruptly. My heart seizes at seeing that.

“Reagan.” His voice is hesitant, soft.

“Derek.” I whisper, finding it hard to speak. I cross the room, arms hugging my waist.

I stand beside the bed and look down at him. His green eyes search mine. I feel wetness, stinging tears, vision blurred. I reach down and touch his cheek with my palm. He cups his hand over mine and sucks in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing.

His lips move, press thin, then open. “Reagan, I—”

I cover his mouth with my hand, lean down over him, and put my head to his chest softly. “You came back.” I find his jaw with my palm. Slide it up past his ear, thread my fingers in his hair, the way I know he loves. “That’s all that matters.”

“I made it back. Close one, but I made it.” He holds me for a long moment. Then nudges me up. Twitches the sheet down. “Wanna see my leg?”

I don’t. I really don’t. But of course I do. He kicks the sheet off with his left toe. He’s wearing khaki shorts. His left leg is thick and muscular and hairy. His bare toes wiggle. The right leg? No knee, just the rounded end of his thigh, scar-pinched, sewn shut. I touch his thigh, just beneath the hem of his shorts and slide my fingers down the muscle and short dark hair. I touch the end. He just watches, wiggling the toes of his left foot.

He goes for casual, but I can tell he’s nervous, emotions roiling deep. “Funny. I wiggle my toes, and I still feel like I should see my right foot moving. I can almost feel it still.” He looks up at me. “Pretty ugly, huh?”

I sit beside him, perched on the edge of the bed. I leave my hand on his stump and touch his cheek. “Derek. Every part of you is beautiful.”

He just smiles. Then the smile fades and looks at me. “I read the letter. Soon as I sat down on the jet to Kandahar. I read it so many damn times.”

My heart pounds, beating so hard it almost hurts. “Yeah?” It’s hard to breathe or swallow, let alone speak.

“Yeah. And you know what, it felt like you hadn’t finished it. That’s the thought I had anyway. Is there something you want to tell me?”

Not here. I don’t want to do this here. “I—yeah. I hadn’t finished it. There was too much—too much I wanted to say, and—and…I just couldn’t write it all down.”

A doctor comes in just then, and I’m given a brief reprieve. The doctor is short and wide and balding, and bustling with busy efficiency.

“Corporal West. Or, rather, Mr. West, I should say. How are you?”

Derek shrugs. “Ready to get the hell out of this hospital, doc.”

“I know, I know. You need months of physical therapy, though. You have to relearn how to walk, essentially, using the prosthetic. It’s going to take time.”

“I know. I’ll do it. Can’t I just go home and find somewhere to do the therapy closer to there?”

“Well, you’re healthy, aside from that. Ribs seem to be on the mend, although I’m assuming you’re still a bit stiff and sore?”

“Yeah, nothing too bad. Had worse playing football on base.”

“Any headaches? Dizziness?” Derek shakes his head, and the doctor continues to examine his chart. Finally he nods, and does a thorough examination of Derek’s leg. “It’s looking good, and I think you are in decent shape there. I suppose you’re ready to go, physically, if that’s what you want. We have a list of doctors who can provide the post-care you’ll need.”

Derek just nods. “Got it. I just need to be out of here. I can’t stand it.”

“I suppose that’s understandable, son.” He closes the chart and whacks the file with his pen. “I’ll get your papers together, have you out of here in no time.”

Another nod from Derek. The doctor leaves, and silence settles over the room. Our conversation has been put on hold, it seems, an unspoken agreement. I just hold his hand and rub my thumb on his knuckles.