Page 5 of Loving London

I can’t remember even though she’s come to see me every day for the past week. My gaze drops to the badge she wears. Squinting, I read,Dr. Olivia Warner.

That’s it.

Dr. Warner has been more than patient with me. Frankly, I’m not sure why she keeps coming. It has to be clear that I’m not really listening to her. I barely speak in our sessions. I don’t want to participate in this psychoanalytical shit that she’s attempting. I have no desire to break down my walls, face my fears, or anything of the sort. I certainly don’t want to talk about any of it. I’m content to remain in my state of empty existence.

“Loïc?” Her voice is louder than normal with a persistent tone.

It startles me enough to break my stare that was analyzing her pink silk blouse. I snap my eyes up to meet her expectant gaze.

“I said, have you contacted any of your loved ones, like we spoke about?”

I simply gape at her.

“Loïc, it’s important for your recovery. You need to feel that connection with people who care about you. There’s a life waiting for you back home. It’s crucial that you remind yourself of that. Can you please try to contact someone from home? A call would be best, but you can start with an email if that makes you more comfortable. Would you like me to help you?”

I shake my head. “I can do it.”

Dr. Warner lets out a breath of relief. It isn’t often that I respond to one of her questions. I suppose it’s only fair that I give her this small victory.

“That’s great, Loïc. I promise you, it will help you heal. It’s so important for you to realize that you have so much to live for.” She smiles, and a warm kindness exudes from her. I know she means well. “As you know, this is our last session. My colleague, Dr. Benjamin, will be continuing your therapy while you’re at Walter Reed. He’s a wonderful man.”

I nod even though I couldn’t care less who’ll be taking her place.

Dr. Warner talks for a while longer, little of which I actually hear, before she smiles at me one last time and exits my room.

Tomorrow, I will be flying back to the States. I’ll be getting a prosthetic leg, several new doctors, and a new regimen of therapies, both physical and psychological. I don’t know how to feel about it all, so I suppose I’ll continue feeling nothing.

Loïc

“I feel nothing.”

—Loïc Berkeley

“There you go, Berk! You’re kicking ass today,” Lieutenant Dixon, my physical therapist, cheers.

“I’m kicking a ball, Dick, not fighting in an MMA competition,” I say in a grumpy tone with an immature roll of my eyes.

Truth is, Dixon—whom I’ve called Dick for the past month—is my favorite person here. I’ve been an asshole to him from day one, and he’s been nothing but supportive. He held a one-sided conversation with me for the first week of physical therapy until I finally started to respond. He’s upbeat, crude, and funny, and damn it if he doesn’t remind me so much of Cooper. I hate that as much as I love that about him. Regardless, I can’t help but like him.

“And you’re kicking the shit out of that ball. If it weren’t for the obvious metal appendage, I might mistake you for David Beckham.”

“You’re an ass.” I manage a small grin as I kick the large ball with a force equivalent to a five-year-old and certainly not a world-class soccer player.

Dixon says that I’m physically bouncing back quicker than most soldiers do. I spend the majority of my time working out, completing the regimen that Dixon has prescribed me. I always do at least double the repetitions or twice the amount of time he suggests. If he wants me to do ten lunges, I do twenty, minimum. If he tells me to walk for thirty minutes, I walk for an hour.

My body hurts all the time, but I welcome the pain. It takes my mind off the other hurt, which is much more difficult to bear. I don’t have control over a lot anymore. Mentally, I’m weak. My nightmares are debilitating, and my broken heart refuses to heal. But for the most part, I can manage my body. I can strengthen my muscles and improve my coordination. It helps me when I see positive changes in my physical abilities, as it’s the only aspect of my life that I seem to have any real control over.

After an hour, I’m drenched in sweat, my muscles are quivering in agony, and I feel better than I have in a long time. I wouldn’t say that I’m happy, but I feel a sliver of accomplishment, and that’s something to hold on to.

“I have a little over an hour before my next session. You want to meet me in the cafeteria for lunch?” Dixon asks.

I fight my urge to say no. “Yeah. Let me go take a quick shower, and I’ll meet you down there.”

Dixon nods nonchalantly in approval, but I know he’s happy that I accepted. Everyone here is always trying to get me to open up, but I’m a master at keeping people out. I’ve had a lifetime of practice.

Twenty minutes later, I enter the cafeteria and spot Dixon sitting at a table in the corner of the room. I walk through the food line and grab a large Italian sub, an apple, and a bottle of water. As I walk toward Dixon, carrying my tray of food, I can’t help but take note of how far I’ve come. Two weeks ago, I didn’t have the balance to complete a task as simple as walking while holding a tray. I can walk without a cane now, and yes, while it’s more of a hobble than a smooth gait, it’s impressive because I know how much work it took me to get here.

Placing my tray down, I take a seat across from Dixon as he shovels a forkful of food into his mouth.

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