The Flight Path Less Traveled

by Leigh Dreyer

  The text finally came through, the vibration sounding across his desk.

  Brandon says it’s a go

  “Captain Darcy.” Lieutenant Anderson’s curly brown hair popped around the edge of the cubicle and Darcy groaned audibly. “Sir?”

  “What Anderson?” Darcy only minimally attempted to keep his annoyance out of his tone as he put the phone into his desk drawer and pulled up his syllabus and grade sheet on the computer.

  “I was on the schedule for ten, correct?”

  “I don’t know, Anderson. Do I look like I work in scheduling?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Great. Now that we’ve covered what I don’t do, would you like to get started on your brief?”

  “Yes, sir.” Anderson sat down, looking arrogant, pulled out his flight plans, and began. Darcy quickly donned his mask of indifference despite wanting desperately to ditch Anderson, call Richard, and fly to Pemberley with Elizabeth. Darcy struggled to pay attention while he corrected Anderson’s briefing in what seemed like thirty second increments. Today would be a long day, and he would not be able to speak to Richard for the next several hours, and then somehow he would have to tell Elizabeth.

  3

  “I need two more reps, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth glared at the woman in the navy-blue scrubs. She felt her leg muscles contract and relax as she performed the exercise as well as she could. She thought she had hated Darcy a few months ago, but that was only because she had yet to meet this physical therapist.

  “One more, Elizabeth.”

  “Fortunately, the crash did nothing for my ability to count.”

  The therapist laughed like a horse. She also looked like a horse, provided, of course, that the horse put its ratty black mane in a ponytail and wore the same ugly navy-blue scrubs every single day. Hetty Bates, PT was incredible at her job but obviously did not comprehend Elizabeth’s dry and increasingly dark humor.

  The last repetition took all of Elizabeth’s concentration as she pushed through shooting pain and finished the exercise. She let out her breath slowly and gritted her teeth as she lay back against the covered medical table, the paper crinkling noisily as her head touched.

  “Okay, honey. That’s it for today.” The therapist began to clean up weights and other accoutrements and continued. “You’re coming when? Next Friday? I always thought Friday was a nice day for therapy. You have the whole week to relax and, of course, you can go out to eat or something after—”

  “Thursday.” Elizabeth cut her off and held back a wince as she sat up and positioned her feet to one side of the table, ready to reach for her crutches.

  “Excellent. So, I’ll need you to remember to do your homework. You’ve got your handouts of all the exercises, right? I wouldn’t want you to forget and leave them here. Heavens above! Would you remember the techniques?”

  Elizabeth waved the small stack of papers on leg surgery recovery, hand exercises, back and core strengthening, and a long list of movement restrictions. Placing the paperwork in her bag, she stood, ignoring the pain, and turned around to pass a grimace off as a smile at the therapist.

  “You can say ‘ow’, you know.”

  “I don’t have time for ‘ow’.”

  A flash of pity crossed the therapist’s face before her equine features turned into empathy. Obviously she learned patient counseling in her classes on “How to Effectively Torture Women and Children.”

  “Well, just don’t push yourself too hard or it will just take longer to heal. You were an honest-to-god rocket that was blasted out of a plane and then, as if that wasn’t enough, you plummeted to Earth. Have you heard the one about the bad skydiver incidentally?”

  Elizabeth gave her a death glare and stood a little taller as if daring the ejection seat to come try to blast her out of a plane again.

  The therapist sighed. “Look, just remember that it’s okay to take a few years to recover. Just last month you were flat on your back, barely able to move, certainly not able to walk, and look how far you’ve come. In fact, the reality of it, honey, is that recovery may take a lifetime.”

  “Yeah.” Elizabeth turned back around and rolled her eyes. She did not have years. She barely had a few minutes. If she wanted to get back into pilot training, she needed to be up and running as soon as possible, and that was months at the most. She had heard stories of Captain McGuire at Laughlin who had required his leg to be amputated after a boating accident. He was able to get a prosthetic and recover to the point of completing pilot training, but he had done that within two years. He only had one leg! She had two. They were completely useless right now, but if he could do it, so could she.

  Elizabeth had always been the best, brightest, fastest, highest achieving woman of her acquaintance. In high school, she had been the lead in the school musical, first chair trumpet in band, first chair soprano while she was in choir, all with minimal effort. School came easily and, with little to no studying, she aced every class. Instead of resting on her laurels, she knew that to reach her dreams she would need to be better than the rest. So, instead of going out with friends or attending parties, she practiced and studied, joined student government, and took college tours. She volunteered in old folks’ homes and read to kids. She was forced to leave mediocrity behind and push through to her hard-won success.

  In college, she arranged a rigorous schedule, precariously balanced course work with a twenty-hour a week job and additional duties in the ROTC program. She did allow herself a few extracurriculars, however. She chose ballroom dance and quickly medaled her way on to the higher courses, unlike many of her counterparts who were required to take the lower courses repeatedly.

  In short, Elizabeth was good at what she put her mind to, and she had chosen to put her mind to healing. She wanted to be a pilot. She had dreamed about it since she was a child. And come hell or high water, a pilot was exactly what she was going to become.

  She pushed on her crutches to stand, balanced herself purposefully, and limped to the chair a few feet away. She suppressed the urge to collapse into it and focused on deliberately sitting and placing her feet, one and then the other, below her. She realized she had forgotten her bag still resting on the crinkly paper-covered table until Miss Bates placed it on her lap. Elizabeth thanked her and then texted Jane that she was finished. The calendar on her phone beeped, alerting her it was time to drive to her appointment with flight medicine. Elizabeth closed the notification and put her head back against the cool wall.

  The last meeting with her flight doctor had been a disappointment. Colonel Frye had not even considered discussing going back into training, immediately warning her that she should prepare herself for the transition to the civilian world. He had even given her a card for a woman who worked with wounded warriors, assisting them with their resumes. She had waited until she was home alone before crying that day. She had sobbed for hours, condemning Colonel Frye to a special circle of hell, before calling the clinic to arrange for a new primary care manager. This appointment was with the new arrival, a Captain Willoughby. Elizabeth strategized talking points to convince this new doctor to discuss a return to pilot training.

  She needed to go to the base hospital, which was just another dreary brown-brick building on the base while physical therapy was held at a clinic in Longbourn City. Darcy was flying (typical these days due to low manning1) so Jane would be driving. Elizabeth stood with her crutches and got herself to the first floor. She silently cursed the jerk who did not hold the door, causing her immense difficulty getting out of the building, and made her way to the car waiting at the curb.

  “Lizzy, next time let me come up and help you! I didn’t even get time to park,” Jane admonished, rushing to the other side of the car to open the door and taking Elizabeth’s crutches, while an exhausted Elizabeth slumped into the passenger seat.

  “I don’t need any help,” Elizabeth said, almost under her breath. Jane smiled at her sister. Elizabeth smiled uneasily back at her. I h
ave been fighting too hard for too long to allow someone else to come in and make my life a little easier. Besides, I don’t need anyone to rescue me.

  “How was your appointment?” Jane asked, after turning off the radio.

  “Painful mostly.”

  “I’m sure Miss Bates is doing her best.”

  “Jane, you are much too kind.” Elizabeth relaxed as she turned her frustrations into a light exasperation for her sister’s goodness. “If she is not stretching a muscle, she’s gabbing about some inane celebrity or other. It’s hard to concentrate when someone keeps jumping from topic to topic.”

  “Well, she is trying. She comes highly recommended, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Anyway, not to change the topic, because I do want to know how therapy was, but before I forget…Darcy asked me if we knew anyone named Phillip.”

  “Is he talking about Uncle John and Aunt Evelyn?”

  “That’s all I could think of too, but he said it wasn’t them.”

  Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. “No idea. Why?”

  “He just said Mom mentioned him after the accident. It probably doesn’t even matter, but I’ll ask Dad when I see him later. Okay, tell me about therapy.”

  The trip from the clinic to the hospital only took a few minutes and Elizabeth told Jane of the several exercises she needed to do daily, complete with hand motions and illustrations from the therapist’s handouts. At the entrance gate, Jane and Elizabeth handed their IDs to the security force personnel and quickly pulled up to the clinic.

  While Jane parked, Elizabeth made her way into the reception area through the automatic door. She handed her ID to the airman at the flight medicine desk and waited to be called. After three dull articles in a five-year-old edition of Better Homes & Gardens, Elizabeth was seated once more on white butcher paper covering another uncomfortable bed in another bland, white office with nary an informational poster in sight. Just as she was considering nosing through the drawers and cabinets, tired of waiting for what seemed like an eternity, there was a knock at the door and in walked a very attractive man.

  Poor, handsome Dr. John Willoughby. You probably joined the Air Force to chase skirts and have an adventure. Unfortunately for you, you have been sent to the most boring base in the smallest location on the planet. Not that Longbourn wasn’t a quaint little town or that Meryton was significantly different from any other base, but it was no Hawaii or Japan. The serious lack of single females surely deteriorated the base in his esteem, and he was probably bitter that the Air Force was throwing away his best single years in this wasteland.

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant”—he paused and looked down at his notes—“Bennet.”

  “Hi.” His brilliant blue eyes seemed to bore into her and something in her shifted uncomfortably. For the first time since commissioning she felt…well, she felt…consciously not pretty. Not only was she not in a flight suit, which offered her a modicum of protection as everyone had to wear the uniform, she was in overly large sweats and an old t-shirt, the only things she could find that allowed her to dress around her casts and braces. Further, her curls slicked back in a bun at the base of her neck and her distinct lack of any make-up due to laziness did not help the situation. She felt heat climb up her chest and face, and she cleared her throat, tearing her eyes away from his.

  Dr. Willoughby looked at the crutches leaning against the table and smiled. “Let me guess. You are DNIF2 and want to get off, huh?” Of course, Dr. Willoughby had already seen the large “Duties Not to Include Flying” across the top of her files, but she appreciated his effort at lightening the situation.

  Elizabeth chuckled gratefully. She moved her foot in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, her cast nudging one of her crutches. They clanked together and slid from their place. He grabbed for her crutches just as she did, their hands brushing briefly. Elizabeth caught the crutches and leaned them once more carefully against the wall. She smiled at him, blushing further for her clumsiness. “It is a little more complicated than that, but you have the basic idea.”

  “According to this, it looks like you had a lower spinal fracture, broken femur surgically repaired, a few broken fingers, and a dislocated elbow. Everything else doesn’t appear to apply to you now, just by looking at you.” Dr. Willoughby’s eyes grazed her figure, and Elizabeth felt heat in her cheeks. “I don’t see any bruising or swelling unless you have a new symptom to report.”

  Elizabeth let out a giggle which sounded more like Lydia than herself, and she covered her mouth. She retrained her composure. “Um, no. I, uh, don’t have anything new.”

  “Well, tell me what’s gone on since your last appointment?” Willoughby sat down coolly on the swivel stool, crossed his feet in front of him, and propped his elbow on the desk. He presented quite the picture of self-assured vanity, but Elizabeth was so flustered that she hardly noticed anything but his striking blue eyes. She swallowed the lump that had grown in her throat, threatening to strangle her, and attempted to regain composure.

  “My occupational therapist says I should only have a few months left before I can just continue my homework at home. She said my hand looks like it is doing significantly better. My physical therapist says I’m doing well, and that she would fax over her notes so you could see what was going on with my legs and with my back and core. Neurology says the spinal damage is fairly minimal, and from the pain I’m experiencing, especially in my legs, that hopefully there is some repairing of nerves. I’m still on pain medication, especially at night. They just started me on five hundred milligrams of gabapentin to see if that will address some of it as well.”

  “Have they already given you a cortisone shot? It seems like your radiating leg pain would qualify you for that course of treatment.”

  “Not yet. We were trying to avoid it if we could and let my leg heal and get some physical therapy behind me before we addressed it.”

  He nodded. “Well, let’s keep it in mind, shall we?”

  “That would be great. Psych should have me released hopefully any time. They say I seem to be handling my trauma with—and these are their words, not mine—'aplomb.’ My medical review board is coming up and I want to know what will be said by flight medicine so I can find more assistance to get back into training. If I need to change flight docs, I’m more than willing to find someone willing to help me get what I need. I’m working as hard as I can, day and night. I do all of my exercises; I eat healthy; I follow orders. I want to go back to pilot training. I’ve already been washed back three classes. These delays in my board are only pushing me further back, and soon, no amount of studying on the ground is going to help me get in the air.”

  During this impassioned speech, Dr. Willoughby nodded, jotted occasional notes, and stifled a yawn. When she finished, he spoke. “We’ll have to do a new complete physical before your board. Of course, we don’t have time today to complete it so I can get a whole picture, but I know that this is important to you so I will personally see to it we make you sound as healthy and positive as possible when we send your paperwork up to the board. I’ve read some great new research, and I’ll just jot down some notes for possible therapy referrals so we can get you set up for those when you come back. So, let’s get that scheduled, and I’ll see you back in a few weeks.”

  They both stood and he held the door open for her. She crutched out but, as she crossed the threshold, she felt a hand touch her elbow. She turned to the doctor who held her gaze and held out a card.

  “Listen, I don’t ever do this.” Dr. Willoughby smiled and looked down at the card. “I want you to have my email and personal number. I know how Tricare works, and I know it is typically just a frustrating mess to deal with. If you have any questions or any concerns or even if you just need someone to complain to, please, call me. I’m here for you.”

  Elizabeth took the proffered card and looked down at the nine digits quickly scratched underneath “Captain John Willoughby, M.D.” A strange t
winge shuddered as Darcy’s face briefly flashed across her mind’s eye. She pocketed the card and her eyes met his.

  “Thanks,” she said, trying to shake the odd feeling. It was not until later, walking slowly with her crutches down the hall, that she finally named the clench in her chest: guilt.

  4

  When Elizabeth reached flight medicine’s waiting area, Jane fell quickly in place, helping Elizabeth with her bags. She asked how the appointment had gone, her voice showing deep concern. Elizabeth answered her questions, failing to keep the excitement out of her voice. She remembered those piercing blue eyes and felt mixed with emotions: intense embarrassment and giddy, girlish laughter. Elizabeth was not ready to tell Jane about her attractive, new doctor who seemed to actually care. She changed the subject.

  “I don’t know why they make me use these stupid crutches. I can walk without them. I do it in PT all the time,” Elizabeth said, looking glumly at the pilots and airmen moving out of her path, avoiding eye contact with her. “And the wheelchair is absolutely unnecessary!”

  “I think the clinic has rules about patients fainting.”

  “I don’t faint.”

  “Lizzy, I know you can walk. You don’t have to prove it.”

  “This is stupid, Jane. I feel like an invalid.”

  “You are an invalid.”

  “Do I have to go?”

  “To therapy? Yes. Why? Do you need a drink or to go to the bathroom before you whine and I push you down the hall anyway?”

  “Ouch. When did you get so sassy?”

  “It’s probably the extended exposure to Caroline.”

  “That might be the most unforgiving thing you’ve ever said.”

  “It’s been a long few weeks.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not your fault, after all. I know we grew up helping at the inn, and Charles’s family didn’t have the same upbringing. I’m starting to think she is willfully leaving tasks for me. I have you and Charles to care for, and Darcy does what he can, but I feel like Caroline hasn’t been pulling her weight. I just need to have a short discussion with her to clarify some task distribution. I’m sure she’ll be understanding, and I’m sure that I’m just feeling pressure between work and being newly married and everything.”