Page 10 of Warrior's Walk

“It’ll be six to eight weeks before your fractures heal on your left leg. By that time, you should be able to bear weight on your right leg. But you’re looking at six months before you can even consider resuming normal activity. We’re going to start you on some light physical therapy that you can do right there in the bed, and after you’re discharged, when you can bear weight on your right leg, you can begin more intensive therapy.”

“So, I’ll be here for what, eight weeks?”

The doc nods. “This is our LTAC unit.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

He chuckles. “Long-term acute care. Any patient that is with us for longer than twenty-eight days is moved to long-term care.” He places a stack of paperwork on my tray table and I have to fight not to roll my eyes. I’ve read books that aren’t as thick as this stack. “If you get bored, you can start on this file.” One thing about the Army, they love their paperwork. “I’ll be back to round on you tomorrow. Take care.”

And then I’m alone again. Alone with my thoughts, my grief, and my fears. I have nothing but time on my hands to sit and think and worry and remember, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to drive myself mad watching this movie over and over again in my head. I need a distraction. I need to feel less alone, connected to someone, anyone, in some way. Palming my cell phone on the bedside table, I dial the only number I have memorized by heart.

“Mama? It’s me, Rhett. I’m… I’m back…Home.” She sounds joyous, but her happiness brings tears to my eyes. Somehow, just hearing her comforting voice makes me feel safe enough to tap into my grief, and it flows through me like an open tap, making my chest feel heavy and tight. Hot tears burn my eyes and roll down my cheeks. “Yeah, Mama, I’m safe. But…Mama? I got hurt.”

Day three of sitting on my ass and trying not to go insane isn’t going so well. I build a long stick made from connected straws that extends about twelve feet before it gets too heavy-ended and bends in half.

Day four - I make a splatter paint masterpiece on the wall using redJell-O. Liza is not amused.

Day five - I sleep mostly, catch a show on the making of the transatlantic railway, and sleep some more.

Day seven - I’m fucking cranky beyond reason. My leg itches but I can’t scratch it. Liza says it’s the skin graft and stitches healing. She changed my dressings and wrapped it in a soft cast. She was right; it looks just likeFrankenstein’s Monster’sleg, pieced and patched together with jagged scars and stitches. It’s a fucking mess.

Day nine - I doodle on a sketch pad, contemplating the sleeve of tats I’m gonna get to disguise my scars. My psychological state is deteriorating rapidly. I feel restless and jittery, but empty. So empty. What I wouldn’t give to get the fuck outta here and attend Brian’s funeral. Grabbing my phone, I google his mom’s name, hoping to find her number. There are only two Sandra Biddell’s in the Fort Worth area, and I call both, reaching her on the second try.

“Yes, ma’am, this is Rhett Marsh, Brian’s buddy.” She has to know me; we shared a barracks unit for two years. I met her briefly when she visited the base.

“Rhett?” Emotion thickens her voice, distorting it, and I can tell she’s crying from just hearing my name.

“Yes ma’am. It’s me. How—” My voice fails me and I clear my throat before continuing. “How are you?”

“I’m trying, Rhett, but I’m not okay. How are you?”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am. He was my best friend. I—I miss him.” My fucking voice cracks and I cough again. “I’m in the hospital. Got injured on the same jump as he did.” I’m not telling her about his body crashing into mine after he got shot, about tasting his blood on my tongue, or how I clung to him afterward.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that, Rhett. Are you going to be all right?”

“Yes ma’am, eventually.” I feel guilty for admitting I’m gonna live when Brian didn’t. “Ma’am? I was with him… after we lost him, I held onto him. He wasn’t alone, ma’am.” Shit, I said I wasn’t gonna mention that, but I did leave out the unnecessary details, at least. Maybe it would bring her comfort to know he wasn’t alone. It brought me comfort.

Sandra breaks down again, and I remain silent as she pours out her tears. “I’m glad he had you, Rhett. Thank you, honey. They’re going to ship his belongings home. If there’s something you want, please call back and let me know. I wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Actually, if you could send me a copy of the obituary or somethin’, I’d really appreciate that.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of, ma’am. I just want you to know you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers. Brian’s a hero. He’smyhero.”

“Thank you,” she cries, and I know I need to let her go before I join her over the edge. As soon as I hang up, it hits me. He asked me to go through his things before his mother saw them. I snort, the first sign of a laugh in over a week. He probably had a porn collection or something. Lube and a cock ring, maybe. But there was no way I could manage to go through his stuff before they ship it to her. I’m stuck in this goddamn bed for five more weeks, at least!

Fuck, I made him a promise. My best friend’s last request, and there’s no way I ain’t gonna fulfill it. I just have to figure out how.

I grab the bed remote and press the red button, and a moment later, Liza’s sweet voice fills the speaker. “Do you need something?” she asks.

“Yeah, I need a favor.”

Liza bangsher hip into the door frame as she hustles into my room, balancing a large heavy box in her arms. “I can’t see where I’m going. If I trip over something, you’re in trouble,” she threatens with a laugh. She dumps it on my bed beside my feet, huffing as she stretches her arms. “How many favors did you have to call in to get this box?”

“All of ‘em.” Which is the truth. Four days ago, I called a buddy on base whose wife has a cousin who works in the office responsible for keeping track of the personal items stored by deployed soldiers. He explained to her about my promise to Brian to make sure his mom never saw what was in his stuff before they shipped it to her. Overriding policy, she allowed Liza to pick up the box for me, with strict orders that I return it the next day, just like it never happened.

“It’s a good thing I had an extra uniform in my locker. I was covered in dust. Do you know how many boxes I had to sift through to find his?” Liza complains.

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