Captured(76)

Eventually, he reaches to the other side of the bed and produces a prosthetic leg, one of those metal, curving ones you see the athletes using. Derek rolls a type of sock over the end of his leg, fits the cup of the prosthetic over the stump, fastens the blade in place. He pivots on the bed and sets his foot on the floor, then moves so he can get the foot portion of the prosthetic on the tile. He takes my hand, smiling at me gratefully as I move to help him.

“Been practicing a little. It’s hard.” He shifts forward, tries for his feet, pushing on the mattress.

He gets up, wobbles, and then falls back. He tries again, and makes it. He stands, balancing uneasily. I stand in front of him, both of his hands in mine. He takes a step with the prosthetic, frowning in concentration. Another step. He grins at me hesitantly, I’m doing it! clearly written on his face. And then loses his balance and topples backward. I pull him forward over his center of gravity again.

Now he’s focused. Step, step, step, pause, step, step, step. He’s sweating; his lips are tight.

“Derek, do you want to sit down?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Been lying down or sitting for a f*cking month and half. Fuck that. I want to walk.” He makes his way to the corner of the room, where a pair of crutches lean against the wall. He takes them, fits them under his arms, and tries walking again.

I follow him step by step around the room, seeing the pain on his features, the stubborn determination. I think he thinks he can master this right now, here, and be running PT again in a few days. I watch him carefully, aching for him with each step. He sets one of the crutches aside and tries a step with only one. He stumbles, falls, and he’s too heavy for me to catch him. He lands against the wall, clutching my hand in a crushing grip, his good foot braced out wide and the prosthetic sliding out in front of him. He regains his balance and gets his feet under him. Feet, or foot? I don’t know.

He bumped his head against the corner of the bedside table, and he’s bleeding from his cheek.

“Goddammit, Derek.” I help him to the bed, snatch a Kleenex from the box, and touch it to the cut on his cheekbone.

“I’m sorry,” he grunts, easing down into a lying position, gasping, sweating. “Harder than I thought. Overdid it. I guess I wanted to impress you.”

“You have to take it easy. Take it slow.”

“I know. That’s not how I do things, though.” He wipes at his forehead, smearing the sweat away.

“Well, now you do.”

A nurse must have heard the racket, and she comes in, sees Derek’s cut, and tisks at him. “If you’re trying to leave, Mr. West, this is not the way to go about it.” She puts antiseptic on the cut, and a Band-Aid. “Now, stay off the leg, or you’ll be stuck here for that much longer.”

“All right, all right,” Derek growls. “I get it. Damn.”

The hours pass. Derek turns on the TV again, and I sit close to him, my hand in his, content for now to simply be near him. Eventually a nurse returns with the paperwork. Derek signs, takes a folder full of informational brochures and packets, and a list of doctors and physical therapists and support groups. It all takes another hour before I can bring the truck around to the front entrance. I set Derek’s crutches and personal things in back, and then help him in.

I point us toward Houston, and we settle in. He twists the volume knob on the radio, and “Smoke a Little Smoke” by Eric Church comes on. We listen in silence, Derek staring out the window.

There’s tension.

Finally, he turns to me. The volume goes down, muffling Gary Allan. “Reagan? The unfinished letter. Was there…was there more?”

I keep driving and don’t answer. I sniffle. Bite my lip. A little dirt side road forms a T-intersection, with a wide shoulder at the apex. I pull over. I crank the window down and hang my hand out.

“My purse. It’s by your feet,” I say. “Can I have it?”

“Foot,” Derek mumbles. “Only got the one, now.”

He hands me my purse, and I unzip an inner pocket. I withdraw the folded square of yellow paper. I hand it to him. My eyes lock on his. “I love you, Derek.”

He fiddles with the corner of the paper, folding it, unfolding it. Then he looks out the window, watching a turkey vulture soar. After a long moment, he turns back to me. “Love you, Reagan.” My heart swells at the emotion in his eyes as he says that. “When the Huey went down, I got thrown free. Thought for sure I wasn’t gonna make it. My first thought was….” He pauses, then, “Ah, shit, got dust in my eyes. My first thought was you. That I’d broken my promise. To make it back. To come back. My other thought was, the sky up there, in those mountains. Same color as your eyes.”

“Dust in your eyes, my ass,” I say with a laugh and a sniff.

He wipes at his face. “Fine, f*ck. I’m crying about it. Happy?”

“That you’re back, yes. You’re alive. You’re coming home. Home, Derek. You’re home. You kept your promise.” I kiss him.

Slow, but deep.

Finally, he pulls away and stares down at the letter in his hands and unfolds it. I can read it sideways or upside down, because I’ve got it memorized. I rewrote that letter ten times before I could write it without crying all over it.





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