17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
We have a new client at work, sent to us from the VA shortly after his discharge from Walter Reed. Kip Kramer is a sweet kid, scarcely twenty-one, with dirty blond hair, bright blue-green eyes, and a smile that reveals dimples on both cheeks. His boyish face contrasts sharply with his powerful body. Like many of the vets we get, he’s all muscle. His physique is similar to Tom’s. They’ve both got thick arms and a bulldog-like broad chest that narrows into a trim waist and hips. Kip sustained a traumatic left lower leg amputation following a military vehicle explosion. My heart hurts when I look at him. After all my years as a medic, you’d think I’d be used to it, but seeing a life-altering injury in one so young saddens me. He’s barely old enough to order a beer, but he’s already battered by the unfairness of the world. I feel it emanating from him, though when he comes in, he’s usually grinning and chattering up a storm. Like a magician subtly distracting his audience so they only see what he wants them to, Kip disguises his pain with a smile. I don’t fall for it. I’ve pulled that routine too many times myself.
Kip ends up on my client list. Unlike most of my clients, he doesn’t lie quietly and relax during his massages. He talks the entire time. Kip was raised by a single mom who worked two full-time jobs to provide for him. His dad was never in the picture. After his injury, her church took up a collection to fly her to Walter Reed; otherwise, he says, she’d never have been able to afford it. When he was discharged, she’d begged him to come home to live with her, but he’d refused. “I love her, but she’d smother me,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve killed people, been shot at, and been blown up, but to her, I’m still that same little kid who cried when she dropped me off at kindergarten.” Instead, he shares a first floor, two-bedroom apartment with his best friend from high school, Kyle. The landlord added handrails in the bathroom for him.
One afternoon, Kip comes in early for his session and stops at the desk where Lila and I are sitting. It’s a rarity – no ringing phones, no appointments for either of us, no stacks of phone messages demanding attention. He halts at the desk, leaning heavily on his crutches, and his normally-chipper expression is missing.
Lila jumps to her feet. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”
He purses his lips. “My girl broke up with me last night.” I study his face – the dark circles under his eyes, the unshaved stubble, the scent of stale alcohol. He looks like he’s grieving the death of a loved one. I fumble through my brain, trying to remember what he’s said about his girlfriend. I remember her name is Jennifer – there was a girl in high school whom I couldn’t stand with the same name, and hearing it still makes my hackles go up. She and Kip have been dating for about a year and a half, but he was overseas for most of that. He’s only been back home with her for a month. And she’s beautiful. He showed a picture to Tom and Lila one day, and apparently she’s model-gorgeous, with jet-black hair and big blue eyes. Tom wrinkled his nose when he told me that. His supermodel ex-wife has left him with a bitterness he rarely lets anyone else see.
Lila comes around the desk and folds Kip into a hug. “I’m sorry. What happened?”
He looks away, not meeting her eyes. Then he makes a sweeping gesture down his body toward his missing limb.
She broke up with him because of his injuries? My temper flares to life.
Lila immediately ushers him into a chair and tosses me a get-your-ass-over-here-and-help-me look. Lila sits beside him. I squat on my heels in front of him.
“Hey,” I say, waiting for him to meet my eyes. “If Jennifer broke up with you because of your injuries, she’s a bitch, and you’re better off without her.” My voice is even, my gaze unwavering.
Kip’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t object to my name-calling. Lila frowns, though.
“What Charlie meant to say is that any woman shallow enough to end a relationship because of your injuries isn’t worth your time or energy. You dedicated yourself to serving our country, and you paid a heavy price. Anyone who would fixate on scars or injuries and overlook all the wonderful things about you doesn’t deserve you. You’re sweet, and thoughtful, and handsome, and you deserve someone equally kind and loyal. Nobody’s perfect, Kip, certainly not that –” she catches herself before echoing my assessment, and Kip’s lips twitch despite his misery – “that woman. All people are flawed, but two people can still be perfect for each other.”
“And in case I was unclear, the perfect woman for you is not that callous bitch,” I add. The corners of my mouth turn up a bit, and he gives me a sad smile, catching me off guard when he sighs and leans his forehead against mine. I don’t panic, because Kip’s like a big, sweet, muscle-bound puppy – a soldier version of Tom’s dog, Bella. Lila leans against him, one arm around his shoulders, the other gripping his upper arm.
Tom chooses that moment to poke his head around the door. “I feel excluded,” he grumbles. “Someone should have called me. I’m a hugger.”
I glance sideways at him, Kip’s head still pressed to mine. “I’m sure Kip will hug you if you ask nicely.”
The mood lightened, Kip pulls back. “I need to get to PT,” he says. “But thanks. I needed that. My buddy Kyle said the same thing, but he’s a guy, so…”
“While I’ll admit it’s rare, men do occasionally have a few words of wisdom,” Lila teases, glancing at Tom. She tips her head in his direction. “Tom will tell you the same thing we did. Although hopefully,” she frowns at me again, “he won’t use profanity to express his opinion in a clinical setting, unlike some people I know.”
I smile angelically. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
My period is late.
I’m never late.
I’ve peed on the stick, and now I sit here, unable to stop bouncing my leg up and down, counting down the seconds.
I’m not going to get my hopes up. The hormone shots have probably just thrown off the timing of my cycle. Besides, I’m not very late, not even a week.
Hell, I’ll probably have a negative pregnancy test and then get my period this afternoon, so I can have two crushing defeats in one day, because, yay me.
And then of course, I’ll cry and rage and take it out on Tucker, who’s had to deal with my godawful mood swings from these hormone injections. I constantly feel like I’m at the mercy of my emotions, like they’re controlling me instead of the other way around, and that’s never been me. Not until very recently, anyway.
My heart is in my throat as I look at the timer on my phone again. Thirty seconds until I see just how badly my day is going to go.
Twenty seconds.
Ten.
Time’s up.
But I can’t bring myself to look. I don’t want to see that single line, telling me I’ve failed again. I sit on the closed toilet, my head in my hands, my legs shaking.
Suck it up. You’re stronger than this. You were a battlefield medic. You’ve seen all manner of horrors. This is nothing. It’s a stick. You can look at a pink and white stick.
I grab the test before my bravado can fade away and stare down at it.
Two lines.
Two lines.
Oh my God.
“Oh my God!”
I don’t realize I’m screaming until I hear feet flying up the stairs. Tucker grabs the bathroom door handle, but it’s locked, and he pounds on the door.
“Lila! Lila! Are you okay?”
I open the door and he rushes in, looking me over from head to toe, scanning for injuries. When he sees nothing, he glances around the room before looking back at me.
I’ve gone from shrieking like a banshee to completely mute.
Tucker grabs my upper arms and squeezes. “Sweetness? What’s wrong?”
I hold out the test with shaking hands. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s right.”
He stares down at the test. I watch as comprehension slowly falls over him. “Two lines? Is that – did we – are you – pregnant?”
I’m downstairs pouring myself a cup of coffee when I hear a scream from upstairs.
“Lila?”
There’s no answer. My mug shatters on the floor as I bolt up the stairs two at a time, rushing into the bedroom. “Lila?” The bedroom is empty, but the bathroom door is closed. I race to it, but the door is locked. “Lila! Are you okay?” I pound the door with my fist.
I’m about to rip it off its hinges when she opens the door, pale and tearstained, a pregnancy test in her hand.
Dammit. Not again.
Then a stunned smile appears on her face, and she holds the pink plastic test out to me.
It has two pink lines.
I’m not entirely certain what that means, but I’ve seen Lila’s reaction to finding out she’s not pregnant several times now, and this isn’t it.
So then…
“Two lines? Is that – did we – are you – pregnant?”
Lila nods and throws her arms around my neck. “Yes.”
I snatch her up and spin her around before setting her down and looking into her stunning eyes. “Pregnant?”
She nods again, and it feels like everything is moving in slow motion for a minute. Then my brain catches up with my body.
“Oh my God – we did it!” I cup her face in my hands and kiss her long and hard, until her body molds itself to mine and we’re both breathless. “I can’t wait to see you carrying my baby.”
Lila wrinkles her nose. “Stretch marks and cankles?”
“Badges of honor, Sweetness, badges of honor.” I pick her up and sling her over my shoulder caveman-style as she squeals. Then I take her back to our bed and spend a very long time worshiping every part of her incredible, newly-pregnant body.
Mark and I gradually resume a routine at home. He sees Tom daily to evaluate whether he’s ready to increase the pounds of pressure on his footie-tipped implant or if he needs to maintain his current regimen for another day or two. He’s making fast progress, which surprises me – not because he isn’t driven and determined, because he is, but because it was such a struggle to get his bones to fuse after the explosion. I’m glad he’s healing faster now, because every bit of progress he can make is a good thing. I’ll do anything to remove the shadow that clouds his eyes.
He’s regressed to concealing his residual limb and abutment when he isn’t actively exercising with the footie, something he hasn’t done since he first came home. Instead of wearing just shorts, he tops them with pinned-up sweats. He removes his sweatpants for PT, then quickly dons them again, even wearing them to bed. I’m not sure if he’s hiding his leg from himself or me.
We still have group workouts and dinners three days a week, often with Tom and Maya. Mark is pleasant but quiet. He answers when spoken to, but doesn’t voluntarily engage. None of us mention it. We’re trying to wait it out. When it’s just the two of us, the silence is deafening. He finds ways to escape, cutting his time with me as much as possible. Each day twists the knife in my heart a little more, because he’s pulling away, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
Not in the daytime, at least.
At night, it’s a different story. He knows I have night terrors when I’m not with him, though I’d never use that to manipulate him. However, because he knows firsthand how bad my night terrors can be, he sleeps beside me, and I have no qualms about using his proximity to my advantage. I go to bed wearing silky barely-there camisoles or chemises, or if he’s exceptionally withdrawn, nothing at all. His mind may tell him to withdraw, but his body answers to me.
A few days later, I barricade myself in my office while Mark is in the rehab gym. He’ll be in there for close to an hour before spending another hour in hydrotherapy and massage. When I’m alone, I turn on my computer to video chat with the one person who might be able to help.
Stubbs’ rich mahogany skin and shaved head contrast against the bright sun streaming in the window behind him. He flashes me his brilliant smile, and when he speaks, the deep timbre of his voice rolls over me. “Missing me already, Green Eyes?”
I grin. “Hey, Stubbs. Did you get your exam results? Are you official yet?”
He beams. “As of this morning, I am an officially licensed mental health counselor.”
“Congratulations! So what now?”
He shrugs. “I have a couple of offers I’m reviewing. The VA from Pueblo is one,” he adds.
My breath catches. “You know we’d love to have you here.”
He nods. “I’m considering it. Moving is a pain in the – “ He clears his throat, and I smile. “I’ve lived in Texas a long time now. I’ve got roots, you know?”
“I understand. Our offer isn’t going anywhere. And if you decide you want it, Lila and I can fly down one weekend to help you pack.”
He laughs. “Is that a job perk? I didn’t see that in the paperwork.”
I laugh, too. “It’s in the fine print.”
He grins, then his eyes turn more serious. “You said you needed to talk. What’s up?”
I fold my hands together, my fingers suddenly cold despite the warmth of the office. “What was your osseointegration surgery like?”
He shakes his head and blows out a deep breath. “Rough. I had both legs done at once. They wanted to do them one at a time, but I told them I was a badass motherfu – uh – that I was tough enough to handle it.”
I laugh at his attempt to control his swearing. “You know, you’re not going to offend me with profanity. There are days my language could make you blush.”
Dark eyes meet mine. “Mark won’t answer my texts or voicemails. How’s he doing?”
“He’s not answering you?” That surprises me. “He’s… struggling.”
He frowns. “Physically? Or up here?” He taps his temple.
“Emotionally. He went into the surgery happy and hopeful and came out completely different. Distant.” I swallow hard. “Since the surgery, he’s been withdrawing. He spends most of his time pulling away from me now. After your cryptic warnings on the camping trip, I was hoping you’d give me some insight.”
He leans back, running a thick finger over his lips. “It’s hard,” he finally says. “You survive devastating injuries and go from being in prime condition one day to flat on your back and damn near helpless the next. You push yourself and push yourself and finally come to grips with who you are post-injury. Then the docs offer you this surgery, and it feels like a lifeline, because even though you know in your head it won’t make you who you were before, some part of you can’t help hoping. Waking up to see metal rods hanging out of your body hits you hard, no matter how prepared you think you are. Some damages can’t be seen. We all choose that surgery to recapture what we’ve lost. Realizing you look like a cyborg knocks you on your ass.”
“You had a difficult time, too?”
He nods slowly. “Worse than with my initial injuries.”
My eyes widen. “Really? Why?”
“I was angry after the explosion, and I used that anger to drive me. By the time I had the surgery, I wasn’t angry anymore. All I had was hope, and that’s a lot more fragile than anger.”
“So what did you do?”
“Support group. A shrink. Reality checks from other guys who’d been in my position were what helped most.” He smiles, but there’s pain behind it. “Never leave a man behind, you know?”
I frown. “I’m not sure I can convince Mark to talk to anyone. If it hadn’t been mandated at Brooke, he’d never have agreed to go.”
“He sees needing help as a sign of weakness, and because of his injuries, he already feels weak. Asking for help isn’t something he’ll do willingly.” He purses his lips, scrutinizing me. “What if he thought he was going to support you? Would he do that?”
I pause. “If I found a support group for vets with body image issues, I think he’d come along, as long as he thought it was for me.” My cheeks grow warm. “I have a lot of scars.” He merely nods, and I wonder how much of my story he and Mark discussed that awful day Mark exploded on me and Stubbs jerked a knot in his ass.
I frown, thinking over his words. “You said people have surgery to regain what they’ve lost. Mark’s said all along that he couldn’t wait to be normal again. We’ve argued several times about his bullshit belief that he’s not ‘normal’ now.” I pause, biting my lip. “I went out with one guy for a while, and when he saw my scars, he freaked out and said – well, it’s not important what he said, but he was cruel.” I pause. “It wasn’t exactly that he hurt me – we hadn’t been dating long enough for that. It was mostly that his reaction to my scars made me believe people would always see me as damaged. But Mark kept telling me that my scars didn’t define me.”
Stubbs’ glower speaks volumes about his opinion of Blake, though his tone is mild when he speaks. “Pretty Boy’s right.”
“It’s the same argument I’ve been making to him about his own body, but I’m not getting anywhere. What am I doing wrong?”
The huge man shakes his head. “Nothing. There’s none so blind as one who will not see, right? Mark’s got to see it for himself.” He pauses. “That day in Texas when he lost his shit was a turning point for him. That was the catalyst that made him realize he needed help.”
My heart sinks. “So there’s got to be another catalyst.”
“Maybe,” he agrees, “but I don’t think he’ll lash out at you again. He was too upset afterwards by how he’d behaved toward you.”
I hope Stubbs is right. That day was one of the worst of my life. “So what do I do?”
“Keep doing what you’re doing. His reality has changed again, and he needs time to deal with it. Once he’s off his crutches, he should be in a much better frame of mind.”
“I hope so,” I murmur. But he won’t be off his crutches till December.
It’s currently September.
“For now, look for a support group, and broach the subject of seeing a psychiatrist. I’ll be happy to talk with him if he’ll take my damn calls, but if he needs his meds adjusted, he’ll need to see someone local. I’m sure the VA can recommend someone. I’ll keep reaching out to him.”
“Thanks, Stubbs.”
The huge man blows me a kiss. “Anytime, Green Eyes. Call if you need anything.”
The following day, I drive Mark to Pueblo for Dr. Walters to remove his sutures. “Everything looks good,” he says. “I’ll see you next week. Bring your prosthesis when you come. You’ll most likely be wearing it when you leave.” Mark beams from ear to ear upon hearing that.
A week later, he leaves his appointment with his shiny new carbon-fiber prosthesis in place. He’s on crutches, and he’s only partially weight-bearing, but he’s making strong progress.
“I’ll be walking around like a normal person by Christmas,” he says in amazement.
His words hit me all wrong. I’m stressed from his continued emotional withdrawal, and I feel like a broken record repeating the same phrase over and over. “You are normal, Mark.”
“You know what I mean.”
We’re sitting in the car, but I’m still in park, so I turn to him. “Actually, I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me?”
“Not a freak. I can wear jeans, and no one will know I’m fucked up if I don’t want them to.”
I close my eyes and massage my forehead. “There’s so much wrong with what you just said that I don’t even know where to begin.”
He raises an eyebrow, honestly puzzled, because he actually believes that bullshit.
“People with disabilities aren’t freaks, Mark.”
“No, they’re not,” he agrees immediately, “but I am.”
“Why? What makes you so special that your injuries lessen you as a person?”
He stiffens. “I’m not special to you?”
“That’s not even remotely what I just said. I’m asking you why you’re okay with disabilities in everyone but yourself.”
“Because I don’t want to be disabled,” he snaps.
“I doubt anyone who’s disabled does.”
“People look at me differently now.”
“Which people?”
“People.”
“Do I?”
He rolls his eyes. “That’s different.”
“Do Tucker and Lila?”
“Again, that’s different. We were close before.”
“How about Tom or Maya? They didn’t know you before you moved here.”
He huffs, pursing his lips. “Tom works with people with disabilities for a living, and he’s raised Maya to think disabilities aren’t a big deal.”
“So if it doesn’t matter to your friends, who does it matter to?”
“People,” he says again.
I cock my head at him. “Has someone actually treated you differently because of your amputation, or do you just assume they will?”
“Two people, actually, and Tucker can verify them. He and I went to a sports bar when you and Lila were in Pueblo one weekend. One woman was all over me until she found out I was an amputee. Then she couldn’t get away fast enough.”
“So a couple of drunk strangers had a problem with your amputation, and you decide the problem is you, not the shallow morons who didn’t like you because you were injured in battle?”
“The second woman hit on me because I’m an amputee,” he retorts. “She had a stump fetish.”
I blink, hoping my expression is neutral as irrational jealousy flares. “And that’s a problem because…” I prod.
“She only wanted me for my amputation.”
“Women have thrown themselves at you your entire adult life because of your looks, and I don’t remember you objecting before. Why is it suddenly a problem?”
“It was okay when I was worth looking at,” he snarls.
Something inside me snaps. “That’s the entire problem with your attitude in a nutshell. You thought you were worth more before because of the way you looked. Now that your body’s changed, you’ve decided you’re worthless. That’s bullshit, Mark, complete and total bullshit. Your looks were never what defined you, not then and not now. You’re defined by who you are and by how you treat others, not by strangers you’ll never see again whose opinions don’t mean jack shit. And for the record, you’re fucking sexy as hell, and I don’t give a damn if you have one leg or four. You’re worth everything to me.”
Silence falls over the car. I didn’t use the L-word, but I might as well have.
I reverse rapidly out of the parking space and peel out of the lot, driving far too fast down the curvy mountain roads. My hands are shaking, and I’m on the verge of tears.
“I don’t want you to be angry,” he says quietly, reaching over and placing his hand on mine. It’s the first time he’s touched me outside of our bed in over a week.
I shake my head. “I’m not angry. I’m upset.”
“Why?”
The tears I’ve been fighting fill my eyes, and I try to blink them away, but I’m not quick enough. “Because nothing I say gets through to you. You’ve put this wall up to keep everyone out, even me, because you can’t see your own value.”
He reaches for my face, wiping away a tear with his thumb. “You’re closer to me than I’ve ever let anyone get. You know that, Charlie.”
“Then why does it feel like you keep pushing me away?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
Because he is pushing me away, and we both know it. The likelihood of me losing him escalates daily, and the thought is unbearable. Tears trickle down my face for most of the long drive home, but Mark never says another word.