19. CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The pain wakes me, sharp, severe, and unrelenting. It doubles me over, making me gasp with its intensity. I clutch Tucker’s arm. He wakes immediately and sits up.
“Sweetness? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. It hurts.” Stabbing pain hits me, and I cry out. “Tucker, it hurts.”
Tucker leaps from the bed and stuffs his bare feet into running shoes. He scoops me up, wraps a quilt around me, and carries me, half running, down the stairs and out to his truck. I don’t realize I’m crying until he wipes my tears away. “I’ve got you, Sweetness. I’ll take care of you.”
It’s my right side. It must be my appendix. I’ve broken out in a cold sweat, yet I feel feverish. “My appendix,” I say weakly, and he guns the motor, weaving in and out of the light traffic as he races to the hospital.
In the emergency room, they start an IV, draw blood, and give me pain medication. The doctor looks at the nurse and orders an ultrasound when Tucker tells them I’m a few weeks pregnant.
Another sharp pain hits, and I cry out. Tucker grips my hand and rubs a damp cloth over my forehead, wiping away the tears still trickling down my face. The nurse gives me something else for pain, and I drift off to an uneasy sleep.
The call wakes me from a dead sleep. Mark and I rush to the hospital. Tucker’s in the waiting room with his head in his hands.
Lila’s in surgery. She has a ruptured fallopian tube from an ectopic pregnancy.
Mark keeps a hand on Tucker’s shoulder while I grip his hand and other arm. “She’ll be okay. Lila’s strong,” I tell him. But he never raises his head. The misery on his face rips at my heart, and I know Lila’s will be even worse.
We sit silently, just the three of us, alone in a deserted waiting room. Two hours later, we jump to our feet when the surgeon comes out, a tall man with pale blond hair and sad eyes. He keeps a hand on Tucker’s shoulder the entire time. Before he’s even uttered the first word, I know it’s bad news because of his hand bracing Tucker’s shoulder. He’s trying to reassure him, but there aren’t any reassurances he can give. Not really.
“I tried to repair your wife’s fallopian tube, but it was too damaged. She still has one functional ovary and fallopian tube. However, this will make it much more difficult for her to conceive. It’s not impossible, but given her history, natural conception is very unlikely.”
Tucker is devastated. He collapses in tears when the surgeon leaves. I wrap my arms around his waist, and Mark throws an arm around his shoulder, looking miserable.
I can’t stop crying. It’s bad enough that I’m infertile. But Lila?
Please, not Lila too. She wants a baby so badly. She needs a baby. Please, please don’t take that chance from her. I’m not sure who I’m praying to, but I pray with everything in me that she’s still able to conceive.
An hour later, a petite blond nurse with pink streaks in her hair comes to get Tucker. “Mr. Maxwell? I can bring you back to your wife now.”
We all stand. Tucker hugs Mark first, then holds onto me for a long time. His voice is hoarse. “You guys go home. I need to be with her.”
“Of course,” I say quickly. “If you need us – if Lila needs me – for anything at all, call me.”
He nods. “I will.” Then he swallows hard. “Thank you for being here. I –” He breaks off, and I hug him again.
“Take care of each other,” I whisper, and he nods.
They need to be together, to grieve together.
My soul aches for them.
With them.
I drive home, silently crying for the losses that never stop coming as Mark stares wordlessly into the darkness.
Charlie’s absolutely devastated by Lila’s loss. It dredges up her sorrow over her own infertility.
It’s something Charlie rarely talks about because it can’t be fixed, a pain without relief, a wound that can't be healed. After the initial period after the doctors told her she’d never be able to conceive, she’s only talked about it twice, and both times, she cried silent tears.
The shit those goddamned bastards did to my Charlie sickens and enrages me every time I think about it, and her torment at their hands has been in the back of my mind ever since her flashback in the shower.
She healed from their burns and mutilations and torture, though she bears the scars. She’s still healing from their psychological torment, from her nightmares and panic attacks and flashbacks, but she’s come such a long way.
But there’s no fixing her infertility. The damage they rendered was too severe.
Now Lila’s potentially facing the same diagnosis. Charlie feels Lila’s pain because they’re like sisters, and Lila’s situation reinvigorates Charlie’s own pain. It reminds her of the losses forced upon her, the things she wanted that will forever be beyond her reach.
She has a difficult weekend.
We both do.
I know Charlie deserves better than I can give her, and I ought to distance myself from her, but seeing her despondence, I can’t. In the end, I sit with her and pull her onto my lap, holding her while she cries off and on for most of the day. Neither of us says anything.
Neither of us has to.
It’s an awful weekend. Lila’s loss reminds me of my own infertility, and my pain is compounded by the increasing distance between me and Mark. I spend most of the weekend in tears, staring into the gas fireplace that I’ve turned on despite the warm weather. When he sits beside me and pulls me into his arms, it’s both agony and a relief. I need him, and I’m comforted by his touch and the fact that he sought me out, but even as he holds me, I feel the chasm between us.
The next crushing blow comes Monday morning. Lila’s going to be out for a few weeks, and Tara and I are covering the clinic. I’m scrambling to rearrange appointments when a police officer steps inside our lobby. When I hang up the phone, I turn to him. “Can I help you?”
His steady gaze and neutral expression give nothing away. “I’d like to talk with you about one of your patients. Kip Kramer.”
“We actually refer to them as clients to empower them. Most of them have been patients far too long for their liking. I’m afraid I can’t give you any information without Kip’s permission.”
He observes me carefully. “Kip’s dead, ma’am.”
My mind immediately fills with images of bright blue-green eyes and a boyish grin, of a kid who was dealt a shitty hand but was trying to make lemonade from lemons. I grip the edge of the counter as my vision blurs with tears. “What happened?”
He hesitates. “He shot himself.”
“No. Kip wouldn’t do that. Are you sure? There must be a mistake.” I hear the shrillness of my tone, but I can’t stop it, and my chest tightens. I fight to slow my breathing.
Please no. Not Kip. He was just a kid.
Tom appears, hearing my agitation, coming instantly to my side. “What’s wrong, Charlie?”
All I can do is shake my head. I can’t speak. Tom looks at the officer, his expression angry, as though the officer has done something to upset me.
Tom guides me into a chair and keeps his hands on my shoulders. At some point Tara comes out, and her face drains of color. The officer’s words hang like poisonous gas in the air. Gunshot wound. Inside his mouth, so there wouldn’t be any mistake. Gunpowder residue on his hands, his thick index finger caught in the trigger. A suicide note, and a note addressed to Jennifer. They believe it happened Friday night. His roommate and best friend, Kyle, had gone out of town for the weekend and found him when he came home last night.
“Jennifer’s his ex-girlfriend,” Tom says soberly. “She broke up with him because of his injuries. Or at least, that’s what Kip believed.”
“His poor mother,” Tara murmurs, her hand over her mouth.
Dear God. His mother.
The woman who still looked at him and saw the little boy who cried when she dropped him off at kindergarten. The woman who’d tried to persuade him to move in with her so she could take care of him. My chest tightens further at the anguish she must be feeling.
The officer shakes his head. “Her brother came as soon as he heard. He’s taking care of her. She’s… struggling.”
My heart breaks a little more.
Tara calls our clients without giving details, and we close the clinic for the day. We’re all too shattered by the news to function, and among veterans who already struggle with depression, suicide can be contagious. Tom reaches out to the VA, and they agree to send a counselor for a couple of days to discuss Kip’s death with our other clients and help them. He calls Tucker, too, giving him the godawful task of breaking the news to an already-devastated Lila.
I sit alone in my office, staring at the lamp Kip brought me just this past Friday before his PT appointment. He made it for me himself, he’d announced, his beautiful eyes shining with pride. It’s industrial-style in its design, with a raw-edged reclaimed oak base. The body of the lamp is constructed from a straight section of cast-iron pipe with two ninety-degree elbows branching from it, both facing down. Edison-style bulbs attach to sockets emerging from both elbows and the vertical shaft, casting a soft orange glow. The pipes conceal the inner wiring from view.
“The outer bulbs take a full one-eighty turn from the main pipe, see? Like life. I thought my life would go this way, and so did you,” Kip had explained, tracing a long finger up the straight central piece of cast iron. “But life had other plans.” He’d pointed to the elbows branching off the main pipe. “Doesn’t mean we can’t still shine, though.” I’d hugged him impulsively, something I could never have done a few months ago.
A lump forms in my throat. I wonder if Kip knew he was going to kill himself that night when he gave me the lamp. I wonder if I could have said or done anything to make a difference.
I replay our conversation on the couch just a few days ago, when I showed him my scars.
When I thought I’d helped him.
Tears stream down my face. I’m no help to anyone anymore, not Kip, not Mark, not Lila.
Tom comes down the hall, and I quickly dry my eyes. I thought he’d left when Tara did. I’m sitting with my socks and shoes off, curled up on the couch, when he comes in.
He looks awful. He’s pale, with shadows beneath his haunted eyes. I pat the spot on the couch beside me. But instead of sitting, Tom lays down on the sofa, resting his head on my leg.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
I reach down and run my fingers through his soft hair. “Yeah.”
He’s silent for a long time, and I finally notice my lap is damp from his tears.
Tom’s baby sister Dana committed suicide when she was in high school, and he’s always blamed himself for not being able to help her when she needed it most. Now we’ve lost someone else who was struggling. I lay one hand on his softly-stubbled cheek and stroke his hair with the other.
My tears fall again, and I don’t bother hiding them this time.
I’m not sure how many more hits our makeshift little family can survive.
When Charlie comes home early Monday with swollen red eyes, I think she’s still struggling with the reminder of her infertility. I’m on the couch, getting ready to head over for my rehab appointment. She sits beside me and lays her head on my shoulder.
I stiffen when I smell Tom’s cologne on her.
Why has Tom been holding Charlie?
“We closed the office today, but if you want to take the keys and go work out alone, you can.” Her voice is small, tinged with pain.
Closed the office? They almost never close the office, aside from major holidays. Our group camping trip was a rare exception. Charlie spent three months in Texas with me, and Lila never closed the office. “Because Lila’s out for a while?”
She shakes her head. “Kip –” She breaks off, unable to speak for a minute, and I wait for her to explain. Maybe the kid got hurt on their equipment or something.
Her voice breaks when she speaks again. “Kip killed himself, Mark.”
I hear her words, but they don’t make sense. “What?”
“Kip committed suicide over the weekend.”
“What?” I repeat myself as ice settles in the pit of my stomach.
“An officer came by this morning to interview us. Kip shot himself. Left a suicide note and a letter for his ex.”
“When?”
She swallows hard. “Friday night, after his roommate left to go out of town.”
Friday night.
After I had my fucking outburst in rehab.
After I told him the surgery he was all excited about wouldn’t make him any less of a freak.
That night, he went home and killed himself.
It can’t be a coincidence.
I killed that kid as surely as if I’d pulled the trigger myself.
I hold her again all evening, ordering pizza from my phone. She doesn’t eat. At bedtime, she cries herself to sleep on my shoulder.
When she leaves for work the next morning, I find the police officer’s card she left on the table yesterday. Officer Richards is at the precinct when I call, and I arrange an Uber to go speak with him in person.
I check in with an officer at the front desk, who sends me to a bench to wait. Officer Richards comes to find me, leading me back to his corner desk.
“What can I do for you, Mr. –?”
I shake his hand, noting his firm grip and squared shoulders. I’d bet money he served, just based on his posture, attitude, and presence. “Mark Chandler. Call me Mark.”
He nods and motions for me to have a seat. “How can I help you, Mark?”
I clear my throat, trying to figure out the best way to begin. “You were there at Kip’s house, weren’t you? Kip Kramer? The suicide?”
He nods. “Were you a friend of Kip’s?”
I shake my head. “More of an acquaintance. He was my workout partner at the rehab clinic.” I gesture down to my prosthetic leg. “We had similar injuries.”
He nods again, waiting for me to go on.
“The thing is, I – I think maybe I made him do it.”
He leans back in his chair, studying me. “How so?”
I launch into my story, giving far more detail than I’d intended, explaining how I myself had been excited about having the surgery and how I’d believed I’d be normal afterwards. I detail how having the surgery had done exactly the opposite, making me into a freak, and how now I wasn’t good enough for the woman I love. I describe my outburst during PT and how I’d stormed off, leaving Kip staring at me, his mouth hanging open, just a few hours before he went home and ended his life.
“I was in a bad place,” I admit, meeting his eyes. “I still am. But I was speaking of myself and my situation. I never meant to push Kip into giving up. God, he was just a kid.” My eyes burn, and I swipe at them, embarrassed at my sudden flood of emotion for a boy I didn’t even bother to get to know.
Officer Richards leans forward. “Don’t blame yourself. Kip had been planning this for a while.”
That surprises me. He’d always seemed so upbeat. Annoyingly so, in fact.
“We looked into his daily habits. He’d only been home six weeks, but every single day, he’d purchased a bottle of over-the-counter sleeping pills. He’d hit a different place each day, sometimes grocery stores, sometimes pharmacies, sometimes convenience stores. He’d emptied all the pills into one large container. He had over two thousand sleeping pills. We also found several versions of the suicide note on his laptop. He’d started writing them while he was in the hospital. Even the letter to his ex had several drafts started two weeks ago.”
I stare at him. “Sleeping pills? I thought he shot himself.”
“He did. But he’d attempted suicide already, and both previous attempts were with pills. He didn’t take enough to be fatal either time.” His expression is grim. “He’d decided he wasn’t going to make that mistake a third time and shot himself through the roof of the mouth. Even if you were in a bad place on Friday, this isn’t on you. Kip had planned to end his life for a long time. He was just waiting for an opportunity, and when his roommate left town, he took it.”
The officer may say it’s not my fault, but I disagree. Taking pills gives you a brief window to reconsider, to call for help and get your stomach pumped. A gunshot to the head leaves no room to change your mind. Kip’s death is one more unforgivable sin on my ledger.
I’ve screwed up so many lives, poisoned so many with my presence.
Everyone on the medical mission I sent Charlie and Lila on, the one that got six of my team killed and the two women who mean the most to me tortured and raped by a bunch of savages.
Everyone on my team when we got hit by the IED, when more than half the guys didn’t make it back, either dead or critically injured.
Charlie’s life, in more ways than I can count, from being at fault for her trauma to dragging her into this relationship to knowing I have to let her go.
And Kip, who ended his life the same day that I told him he’d never be normal, that he’d still be a freak.
My ledger of sins is ready to burst.
Charlie’s subdued the rest of the week, and I find her crying daily. I hold her and console her, and although I know I need to pull back, I can’t, not when she’s in so much pain.
Being close to her, knowing I have to let her go, is ripping me apart, but Charlie’s hurting more than I am, and she needs me. I selfishly steal every second of physical contact I can, hoping one day, when I’m alone and missing her, I’ll have this memory to draw on, her soft body curled against my chest, her arms around my neck.
Maybe it’ll be enough to pull me through.
Or maybe it’ll be what destroys me.