by E. J. Noyes
“I do,” she said quietly. “Or not wrong rather, but why you’re feeling this way.” But she didn’t elaborate and I knew she wouldn’t. It was up to me to voice my feelings.
I took my time and eventually came up with a mumbled, “I just feel so inadequate at the moment, Bec. I’m trying so hard and just not getting anywhere. Like before, I was on top of the world because I rode a bus.” I snorted out a laugh. “Just a bus, like a normal person. And now, I feel like I just dug a great big hole and jumped into it. Nothing is steady, it’s always up and down.”
She came to me then, and the moment her arm came around my waist, I could move again. Bec ushered me into the house with her hand resting on the waistband of my jeans. “You’re used to being on top of everything, and when you’re not it really messes up your equilibrium.”
“I guess. I don’t know, maybe I’m just tired. I’m not sleeping very well.”
She tilted her head to study me. “What do you mean? Restless or nightmares?”
After a long pause I said, “Both.”
“You haven’t said anything.” Her voice was soft and without accusation. “How frequently?”
“I didn’t want you to worry and…I thought they’d settle. It’s happening maybe every few nights.”
“What about?” Bec unloaded her leather tote, laptop bag and coat onto the kitchen table.
I swallowed. Evasion is dishonesty. “The accident mostly. The stuff when I woke up intubated. You’re there, the way you were, but in the nightmares, you’re smothering me.” An unconscious shiver slid down my spine. “Sometimes it morphs into me holding you down and smothering you. And then I wake up, or the dream flips into something else.”
She blinked, and for a moment her mask slipped and I caught her horror before it disappeared again. “You’ve been talking to Andrew about it?”
I smiled my best smile. “Of course.”
Her eyebrow dipped ever so slightly. “What does he think?”
“He’s mentioned Prazosin.” Prazosin. Ugh. Blocks adrenaline and can help with PTSD, anxiety and associated nightmares. Side effects can include orthostatic hypotension, syncope and nasal congestion. So I’d be getting a head rush and fainting while my nose is blocked. Wouldn’t that be wonderful at work? Assuming I’d even be allowed to continue working, and hadn’t been declared medically unfit. Oh, of course then there’s the possible dreaming while awake or hallucinations of wakefulness. No, thank you very much.
“What do you think?”
I shrugged. “I think that’s a very last resort.” Carefully, I hooked my backpack over a kitchen chair.
She raised her chin, her gaze steady. “Why are you being so stubborn about this? You were taking medication, Sabine, and it helped.”
“I know!” I shot back defensively. Trying to rein back my temper, I added, “I have that prescription for Zoloft.” An as yet unfilled prescription. Baby steps.
Bec jumped on that right away. “A prescription is pointless unless you use it. You know, I wish you hadn’t just decided to take yourself off the medication in the first place,” she said, her anger sharp and unmistakable and totally unexpected.
It stopped me in my tracks. I’d never seen or heard her like this. During our very few arguments, Bec had never raised her voice. I’d be loud and ranting, and she’d be calm and quiet.
Even when emotional, Rebecca was usually composed. From the moment I’d met her, she’d always seemed so thoughtful and measured. It wasn’t that she bottled her emotions, quite the opposite, but she had an uncanny ability to put things away until she needed them. It was such a contrast to my brain which had free rein to think whatever it wanted and then shove it out of my mouth.
Right on schedule, as if determined to highlight the chasm between us, my mouth jumped ahead of my brain. “I fucking told you why I stopped!”
“Yes you did, and I’m sorry but I don’t agree with your reasoning,” she said, even calmer now. “I know it’s hard for you but utilizing everything that’s available to you is important. And you haven’t done that.”
My stomach dropped. I’m the problem. Of course. “Well, it’s done,” I managed to say. “Old news. Why are we arguing about this?” Again. Two arguments in less than a week about pretty much the same thing. Well done, Sabine. You’re doing great with keeping domestic harmony.
“We’re arguing because you keep thinking, despite everything I’ve said and done, that you have to take all this on yourself. It’s unfair, and after the other night—” She clamped her lips together as though to stop herself saying whatever it was she’d been about to say next. After a deep breath she said, “After all we’ve been through together, it really hurts to be excluded like this.”
Her words stuck a pin in my indignant outrage. I’d been puffed up and ready to rebut everything, but with the simple truth she’d deflated me. There was nothing I could do except offer yet another useless, “I’m sorry.”
Bec pulled her hair from the loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, the curls falling freely. “Look, I’ve had a long day and I want to shower and change out of my work clothes. We can finish this discussion later.”
“Sure. I’ll start dinner,” I said perfunctorily, watching her walk away.
I knew she was right. I’d handled myself poorly. I’d done the wrong thing. I’d been throwing her breadcrumbs and pretending it was enough. I had been excluding her from my decisions, keeping secrets about what I was doing and pushing her away while at the same time begging her to stick with me. It wasn’t working. You’re a piece of crap, Sabine.
Hey, Bec…you wanna marry me?
* * *
Rebecca drove while I sat in the backseat on the passenger side, leaning my head against the window and watching the landscape rush past—familiar city buildings growing out of dust and rocky rubble. It looked like home but in my gut I knew it wasn’t. She moved the radio dial back and forth until the tune settled on “Bohemian Rhapsody”.
Bile rose up my throat. “Bec, can you change the station please?” She should have known better than to leave it on this song. Had she forgotten, or did she just not care anymore? I’d had a freak-out a few months into my recovery when it had come on the radio. When I’d calmed down enough to stop shaking and puking, I’d told her that it was the song Richards had sung badly and hilariously on the second-last Humvee ride of his too-short life.
“Fleischer!” The brigadier general beside me spoke up, his voice as gruff as I remembered from my interview. “Maybe that’s why he died, why hajji got off the round that hit ya, why y’all got shot to shit. Because the specialist was fucking around singing goddamned songs instead of patrolling from the turret like he was supposed to.”
From the driver’s seat, Bec made a musing sound and slung her arm over the back of the passenger seat so she could turn and watch the exchange. My throat was dry, scratchy and when I coughed, dirt shot out of my mouth. So desperate for a drink of water but there was nothing in the vehicle. “I don’t know, General,” I croaked out. “I have no fucking idea if singing is or isn’t allowed on patrol. Sir!” I leaned forward again, and around the dry lump in my throat reminded Rebecca, “I’m a surgeon, Bec. Not a soldier.”
“No, Sabine, you’re both.” Her eyes found mine in the rearview mirror. “Are you dressed, Captain?”
I blinked. Please, Bec, no. Don’t ask me that. Always that question, every nightmare. One of the last things Richards said to me before the explosion that killed him. It was how I knew I was dreaming. Wake up, Sabine.
Offhandedly, I said, “I’m almost a major now. And of course I’m dressed.” I glanced down at myself. Scrubs. Blue, my favorite color. Where had my uniform gone? I patted my torso, trying to feel if I’d hidden a vest under my scrub top.
Bec turned around and smiled at me, with all the patience of a parent trying to explain something to a dense child. “No, darling. You’re not.” She wore full combat uniform and was trying to take her vest off. My hands moved over he
r torso, batting her hands away and making sure the vest was secure. I yanked it tight and double-checked that all the SAPI plates were in place to stop the rounds that would ping through the vehicle in less than a minute. Don’t unbuckle it, don’t loosen it because it’s uncomfortable. Keep it on. Please keep it on.
“What was that, sweetheart? You have to speak instead of just thinking.” Before I could answer out loud, Rebecca continued, “Could you maybe move or do something so you don’t get shot? I really can’t be bothered with your surgery.”
A disembodied voice came from behind me. “She thinks you’re worthless, Fleischer. Spends her whole life saving people that got blown and shot up but can’t be bothered with you.”
A nerve under my eye flickered. “Thank you for that information, sir.”
Bec tsked. “I’m just so disappointed in you, Sabine…”
“Why?” I choked out.
“Because you’re not going to do anything. You’re just going to let yourself get hurt and won’t even shoot back. Highest rank in the vehicle and you’re going to lie there like an idiot.”
“I’m not a soldier,” I whispered. Something pressed down on my tongue and I choked. I tried to get a grasp on the thing in my mouth but I couldn’t. Couldn’t breathe.
“Leave it alone, Sabine. Stop trying to breathe over the ventilation tube,” Bec snapped. She reached over, touched my lips and when she drew her hand back, the sensation of something sliding up my trachea had me gagging. My girlfriend sighed. “Look, can you…just hide or something then? Get your weapon.”
Panic rising, I cast my gaze around the interior. It was just her and me, and stacked everywhere were medkits and cooler bags of vaccines. “There’s nowhere I can go,” I whispered. “I can’t see my weapon.”
Bec began to unfasten the chin strap on her helmet. “Here, then you should take this. You’re going to hit your head, remember?”
I reached up to refasten the strap. “Leave it on—you need it.” My hands were making sure the helmet was secure under her chin. I had to keep her safe. I placed my hands on the helmet at her temples and stared into her eyes. They were the wrong color, like that strange azure blue in the crack of an iceberg instead of the usual deep blue I loved.
Rebecca shrugged. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” In my peripheral vision, a shadow moved. Something flashed. “…because we’re going to be blown up. You should get out of the Humvee.”
But she didn’t move, didn’t speak, just kept smiling her dimpled smile at me. The projectile was almost on us but I couldn’t move my head to look at it. I could only look at her, knowing exactly what was about to happen. Desperately I shoved at her. “Bec! Please get out!”
Chapter Sixteen
Rebecca
My glasses had slipped to the end of my nose, the frames about to slide off completely. I pushed them back up and glanced at the clock on my bedside table, noting with displeasure that the display read 2:14 a.m. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour or two. Following our terse conversation after work, Sabine and I had eaten dinner and watched TV. She’d pushed herself up from the couch a little before ten and murmured that she was going up. I’d followed, because I didn’t want her to go to bed alone after we’d had an argument. Or rather, after we’d had another argument.
They were more frequent lately, always about the same thing—her reluctance to do all that was possible to get better, to embrace a prescribed therapeutic plan, to take the recommended drugs—and I was disappointed in myself for the way I’d been handling it all. But it was growing ever more difficult to know what to do, when every attempt I made to help was met by her emotional brick wall. I couldn’t keep acting like it wasn’t affecting me.
We’d kissed good night as always, then she’d rolled onto her side facing away from me. After ten minutes or so, she’d turned over and wrapped a loose arm around my waist as I sat up against the pillows, reading. I’d stroked her hair lightly as I read and despite our truce, the tension in her body had been obvious.
Her feet had moved rhythmically back and forth under the sheets the way she always did as she drifted off. It was like she couldn’t even be still while falling asleep. Eventually the movement slowed, her legs relaxed and arms went slack until she’d finally let herself go. And I’d kept reading, kept my fingers tangled loosely in her hair, kept trying to figure out what the hell we were going to do.
Now she lay still, facing me with an arm slung under the pillow, and for a moment I considered staying in bed and curling up to her, trying to forget we’d argued. But I needed the bathroom. When I pulled my legs from under the duvet, my book dropped to the floor with a loud thud. I froze, waiting to see if Sabine shifted, but she didn’t stir, soundly asleep at last. Leaning down, I picked up my book and the now broken clip-on reading light from the floor, and placed both on the bedside table.
There was a sliver of moonlight stealing through the curtains, just enough for me to see her. I loved watching her sleep—slumber seemed to give her permission to finally let go. Sabine is a constantly moving thing, frenetic and electric. But I see a change in her sometimes. When we make love. The change comes over quickly, like a shutter being yanked down, and she slows and steadies to a meandering river instead of her usual set of rapids.
In these unguarded moments, it’s as if she turns inward, eyes semi-focused. I can imagine the back and forth inside her head as though she’s debating if she should allow herself this fleeting peace. I watch it happen, the way her eyebrows rise and fall in minute degrees, then the relaxation of her shoulders as though she’s just thrown off a cumbersome load. But those moments had been infrequent since her return home and without any respite, the weariness that had been creeping up seemed to be suffocating her. Suffocating both of us.
I had to blink hard to stop crying. It was time to accept that this had gone beyond me. I needed help—help with Sabine and help for myself—because nothing I’d done was working. But I had to be careful. Contacting her commanding officer because I had concerns about her mental health would have serious professional ramifications. I could call Andrew, but that had its own issues given our work history. Amy and Mitch were the obvious, and probably best, starting point.
Sighing, I admitted that no matter what I did, Sabine would probably think of it as a betrayal, or that I thought her incompetent. At this point, I almost didn’t care. This thing had grown too big for me to hold all on my own and now it was crushing me. I’d start with the softest touch first then escalate as necessary. Amy and Mitch, then Andrew, and as a last resort Henry Collings. A plan. But I wouldn’t do it in secret. I would tell her and bear her upset if it came to that.
I grabbed my pajamas from the chair in the corner of the bedroom and padded across the cool floor to the bathroom. My toothbrush had been moved. When I picked it up to place it back in the right spot, the damp handle and bristles increased my confusion. I ran my thumb over the bristles and concluded Sabine must have used mine instead of hers. How bizarre. I brushed my teeth, turned out the light and closed the door partway.
And was face-to-face with Sabine. Aiming my gun at me.
Unconsciously, my hands went up to shoulder height. “Sabine…what are you doing?” Shadows from the moonlight cast a strange glow over her face, giving her features an even darker, macabre tint. Her eyes were wide, unfocused pools. She didn’t answer me. Mentally I raced through possible reasons for what was happening. Was she sleepwalking? Lucid dreaming? Was she actually taking prescription meds I didn’t know about, and having hallucinatory side effects?
The strangest thing, aside from the unreal situation, was that the pistol was in her left hand. Sabine was left-handed, but she shot both pistol and rifle with her right, because as a teenager she’d been taught with her father’s right-handed guns. Her hands shook erratically, the pistol wavering with each jerk. Sabine’s hands never trembled.
I glanced at her hands, unable to tell if the Beretta was on safe o
r not. But I could see that her forefinger rested against the trigger guard, not on the trigger. A fragment of the fear I had for myself let go. The fear I had for her remained, sharp and dangerous. Desperately, I shoved it down. I couldn’t be afraid. If I was afraid then I couldn’t think, and I needed to think. I needed to process and help her.
“Sabine?” The tightness in my gut made the word come out breathy and soft. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?” I asked again.
The voice that replied was flat, dark and completely unlike hers. “Something’s wrong. You’re not supposed to be here. Why are you here?”
Despite my panic, words slid from my mouth like silk. “What do you mean?”
“You got out of the Army and left me here.” She didn’t lower the gun. “You should be back home in the States. Why are you at the FOB?”
I drew on every ounce of willpower I had to stay calm. “Sabine, we’re both in the States, remember? You finished your deployment about six weeks ago. This afternoon you caught the bus to surprise me after work, then we came home, you made my favorite pasta dish for dinner, we watched television and went to bed. Sabine, you’re home.”
She stared at me, her mouth moving but no sound escaping. Her expression was unlike anything I’d ever seen before—blank, eyes glazed. She was looking at me but she wasn’t looking at me.
I covered the remainder of my fear with a mask, willing my voice to remain steady. “Darling, can you put down the gun please? You’re frightening me.”
She didn’t. “Rebecca…” The word stretched, as though she was tasting it, testing it.
“Yes.” I kept my hands up and took a small step toward her. My eyes found hers, but they were still unfocused. “It’s just me. It’s Rebecca. I’m meant to be here.” Choking back a sob, I repeated myself. “I’m meant to be here.”
“No…”
“Yes, sweetheart.” I was close, but not close enough to grab the gun and I couldn’t risk startling her.