Chapter 10 Ryan
RYAN
Three years later…
Icome to slowly, as if swimming through murky water. The world feels far away as I become aware of the soft ticking of a clock, the hum of the refrigerator, the lingering smell of disinfectant, and the dull ache below my knee.
The mattress is stiff underneath me, and I don’t move as I stare at the freshly painted ceiling. It’s too white, and the beige walls are too shiny. It hurts my eyes. So, I shut them again.
In my half-dreams, I’m in a dusty village. There’s a deafening bang, and I’m thrown backwards. The world goes silent, and the scent of burned almonds from the explosion hangs in the air. The scene morphs into a field hospital. There’s dirt and blood and screams, which I soon realize are my own.
I doze again, and I’m back in the desert, waiting at the base for our next mission and shooting hoops with the guys. The team’s laughter carries over the compound. That’s what I miss: being part of a team, belonging, having a purpose.
When I wake again, the pain is too sharp to ignore. The phantom itch burns where my calf should be. I pull the other leg up and drag my foot over the empty space trying to relieve the itch on a limb that isn’t there.
For the first few weeks in the hospital in Germany, I kept checking under the blanket. The itch was so intense I was certain they’d made a mistake. I was sure I’d lift up the blanket and find my limb attached to my knee where it should be.
But twelve weeks later, I know better than to look. It’s gone. The leg, the SEAL Teams, my career. It’s all gone.
The pain rolls over me, and I grit my teeth.
The doctors keep telling me the pain will subside. It was a clean surgical removal of the mangled limb below the knee. No complications. As if that should cheer me up. Losing a limb is a big fucking complication in my book.
My gaze locks onto the bottle of painkillers on the kitchenette counter. I’m supposed to get my own breakfast, too—independence helping recovery and all that—but that feels like too much work.
The wheelchair beside my bed feels like a silent challenge. Though it’s only a foot away, it may as well be a mile.
Behind the wheelchair is the prosthetic limb that’s been tailor made for me. It can gather dust in the corner, for all I care. If the wheelchair feels like a mile away, then the fake leg is a marathon’s length.
A sharp pain spikes up my nonexistent leg. My body jolts, and I grit my teeth. I need those fucking meds.
I drag myself into a sitting position. My once-muscular arms have gotten soft. I push down the anger and resentment. I don’t need to keep myself in shape for missions anymore.
I pull the wheelchair toward me with one hand and inch myself toward it. My body sweats with the exertion.
Once upon a time, I could crawl through mud under fire, carry a small boat above my head while running five miles, and clamber over slippery rocks wearing a 100-pound backpack, but this…this feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
My hand slips, and the wheelchair jerks away. I lose my balance and roll onto my side, right onto my stump. Pain engulfs me, and I cry out.
I roll onto my back and lie there staring at the ceiling, waiting for the waves of pain to abate. They don’t.
The pain consumes me until I can’t think of anything else. I no longer think of what I lost. There’s no room for any other thought in my mind, and that suits me just fine.
There’s a knock at the door. I ignore it, but it opens anyway.
Hudson appears, his broad frame blocking the light from the corridor.
“You planning on staying horizontal all day again?” His voice is amused but no-nonsense.
“Doctor’s order,” I grunt. “Said I need to work on my core.”
Hudson chuckles, and I roll over onto my good side. The movement sends a new spike of pain through my leg, and I wince, sucking in air through my teeth.
“You take your meds this morning?” I hear Hudson moving around the room and then the shake of a bottle.
There’s the sound of cupboards opening followed by running water. A few moments later, he’s by my bedside.
“Sit up and take these.”
He smells like coffee and fresh air, and for a moment, I hate him for it. Hudson got out on his own terms. He chose to leave. He’s whole and has purpose and doesn’t have a missing limb and an emptiness in his chest.
“I’m going to stand here until you take these, so you’d be doing us both a favor if you sat your sorry ass up and took your meds.”
I roll over and find Hudson by the bed, holding a glass of water out to me and wearing a don’t-fucking-try-me expression.
I know he’s only trying to help, and even though all I want to do is kick him and tell him to leave me be, I owe him more than that. I try to inject humor into my lifeless voice. “You gonna feed them to me too, Mom?”
Hudson rolls his eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”
I drag myself into a sitting position and grit my teeth as the pain sharpens. He watches as I swallow them, gulping down the water as if I’m still in the desert.
“Are you happy?” I ask him.
“Not even close,” he replies. “But it’s a start.”
I mutter a curse under my breath, but Hudson just grins.
“Get your wheels tuned up. We’re going for a spin around the center.” Hudson indicates the wheelchair.
I glare at the wheelchair as Hudson rolls it over to the bed. “No chance.”
“Why not? Sun’s out. It’s a good day to show you the center.”
I don’t want to admit to Hudson that I can’t even drag my sorry ass into the chair. “I said no.”
“You think staying in bed all day helps?”
When I say nothing, he folds his arms across his chest.
“I had to pull a lot of strings to get you here, Ryan. You’re the first resident at Jake’s Retreat.”
Hudson’s been helping to set up the veterans’ retreat in his hometown. I should be more thankful, but the pain’s too sharp to feel gratitude. I ease myself back onto the bed, waiting for the painkillers to kick in. “You should have left me in Louisville.”
Hudson puts his hand on my shoulder, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet. “Never leave a teammate behind.”
His hand on my shoulder is solid and steady. All the things I’m not. I roll onto my side and face the wall, done trying to be cordial.
“I want to be left alone.”
Hudson doesn’t move for a long time. Then I hear him walking around my room, the squeak of the wheels of the chair as he places it near my bed, the running of the tap as he washes up my glass. After a few minutes, I sense him next to the bed again.
“Fine. I’ll leave you alone today. But tomorrow, I’m getting you out of this room even if I have to drag you out of here.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the pain meds to take over. “Good luck with that.”
Hudson chuckles. “Challenge accepted.”
He walks to the door, and it clicks shut behind him. I roll onto my back and glimpse the wheelchair waiting for me by the bed.
As the meds blur the edges, I tell myself that tomorrow, I’ll try again. Maybe tomorrow the pain will be less. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get out of bed. Maybe.