He helped her clean the spot, and for a while they talked about Grunt, steering clear of the subject of Martin for now. When they finished the session, Kate offered Grunt another treat, and walked them to the door.
“I know it’s a big step,” she said as Taggart put Grunt back on his lead and set him down outside the office door, “but I’d like you to take Grunt out in public. A park, or something. Nothing too social, if you don’t want to. It’ll be good for both of you.”
“We’ll see, Doc,” Taggart muttered.
“You could take someone with you if you’d be more comfortable,” Kate suggested. “Maybe your sister?”
Taggart nodded. “Sure. I’ll think about it. Thanks, Doc. Sorry about your carpet.”
She let him go, and Taggart ambled along behind Grunt. The park, huh? He imagined a place swarming with bodies, and eyes, and stares.
No, thanks. He shook his head, and tugged Grunt’s lead toward the grass when they got outside the VA hospital building.
While Grunt did his business and Taggart readied a baggie, he scanned the parking lot, the overhangs, the rooftops that he could see. Habits. He didn’t spot any potential snipers, predictably — but he did see Martin, maybe coming back from lunch. He almost called out, but his voice got caught in his chest.
Some other time, maybe.
“Come on, Grunt,” he sighed as he scooped up Grunt’s crap with the baggie. “Let’s get home while I still have some dignity left.”
But in the car, Taggart checked his phone, and found himself scrolling through his history to find Martin’s phone number. He stopped short of calling, but he saved it, deleted it, and finally saved it again and put the phone down.
He looked at Grunt in the passenger seat. “What the hell does Kate know, anyway, right?”
He pulled out of the parking lot, and found himself pondering that question incessantly. What worried him, he realized, was that she might know more than he really liked.
19
Hal didn’t show up on Wednesday, and didn’t answer his phone when Martin called. That was just about par for the course, Martin decided, but it did complicate things. Martin met with Janey anyway, and it was a nice visit. She seemed to be all there while he was around, but seemed sad when he told her that he couldn’t stay.
“I’ve got work early tomorrow,” he said as he left. “Otherwise I’d stay longer. But I’ll come back tomorrow after work.”
“I can take care of myself, Martin,” Janey assured him.
He wished that he could tell her that he knew that was true. Instead, he kissed her cheek, and checked in with Nina at the bakery before he left to make sure she was okay dropping by during the day. He got some coffee for the road, as well, and made the three hour drive back to Columbia.
He made good on his promise, though. It cost him sleep, but he wasn’t sleeping that well to begin with. After work on Thursday he made the drive out and back again.
On Friday, he saw Taggart again.
Martin had done a good job of forgetting what had happened on Monday. Sure, it had followed him around the rest of the day — but once he exhausted himself at work, and started going back and forth to Willow’s End, he’d gotten so stressed and weary that Taggart Coulson’s surprise erection hadn’t rated very highly on his list of mental priorities.
Once he walked into the PT room again, though, and saw Taggart sitting in one of the chairs, actually smiling as he waggled a treat in the air while Grunt tried a few times to balance on his one back leg to get to it, it was suddenly the only thing Martin could think about.
Taggart looked up when he came in. “You see this? Watch. Come on, Grunt — up. Up.”
He twitched, held the treat out again, and Grunt squatted, seemed to settle his weight, and put his front paws up, half standing, half hopping around on his back paw until Taggart gave him the treat.
“You believe that?” Taggart asked. “Little fucker can stand on one leg.”
Martin was taken aback. Had he seen Taggart actually smile since they’d started working together? Now that he was seeing it, he thought he’d probably have noticed.
“What’s up?” Taggart asked.
Martin shook his head. “It’s just impressive. Uh, so, how’s the leg doing?”
“Hurts,” Taggart said. “But . . .”
As Martin waited, Taggart put his hands on the seat of the chair to either side and leaned forward, before he eased himself up on his whole leg. That, Martin had seen. What he hadn’t seen was Taggart taking a careful step forward, onto the prosthesis. The next step was quicker — but he did it without his cane.
Martin was genuinely impressed. “Wow. Tag, that’s — that’s great!”
Taggart nodded, and took the other step to the work table where he let out a long breath and braced himself on the side of it, and before he turned carefully to sit.
“It’s just a few steps,” Taggart said. “No big deal.”
“Are you kidding?” Martin put his chart down and moved to help Taggart slide up onto the work table. Taggart took the help, gripping Martin’s hand tightly with his.
There was a second — just a brief pause, really — before Taggart let go of Martin’s hand.
“Taking steps without the cane is huge,” Martin said. He was suddenly unsure what to do with his hand, as if Taggart’s odd little pause had confused him about its purpose. He folded his arms until he could figure it out. “We can move on to a more concentrated effort on that front if you think you’re ready.”
“The sooner I can walk on this thing, the better,” Taggart said. He rubbed his thigh, wincing a little. “It’d be great if it didn’t hurt so damn much.”
“It’ll take time,” Martin said. “It always hurts at first. But I’ll clear the timeline with Scott, and we can still go slow at first. I’ll have to get the room with the right equipment, so that might change the schedule a little.”
“It’s not like I’m busy,” Taggart sighed. He seemed to chew something for a moment, and then scratched the back of his head. “I wanted to see if you might, well, my therapist, she wants me to go out more. And, I don’t really know anyone except my sister, but she’s got a kid and a life and . . . I figured you wouldn’t want to, but, I don’t really have anyone to ask.”
“Ask?” Martin frowned, entirely confused. His eyebrows pinched together. “I’m sorry — what are you asking?”
“If you’d go out with me sometime,” Taggart said.
Martin’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? Tag, I’m your physical therapist, I can’t —”
“Oh, no,” Taggart said quickly, both hands flailing briefly. “No — fuck, I didn’t mean like — no, just . . . like leaving the house and going out in public. Shit, forget I asked. I’m a fucking dumbass right now.”
A confusing mix of pity, amusement and maybe disappointment made Martin’s brain stop processing words properly for a second. His jaw worked uselessly until he rubbed his face. Out of nowhere, laughter bubbled up.
Taggart glowered at him at first, but he snorted and chuckled as well.
When it passed, Martin blew out a long breath and shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t know why I thought,” he waved a hand. “Never mind. I guess I could maybe manage something. I’m off on Sundays. I need to get back to Willow’s End for a bit, but other than that? Maybe before I go?”
“You don’t have to,” Taggart sighed. “I don’t even know why I asked. You already helped me out with Grunt and, you know, all this.” He waved at the room.
Martin weighed the possibility, trying to decide what the right decision was. In the course of that process, it occurred to him how much of a shut-in Taggart probably was if his therapist had suggested something as simple as going out in public. And the only other person he knew was his sister? How lonely must that be?
There were other things to consider, but they made Martin nervous to think about, so he set them aside for the moment.
“I’ll go with you,” he said. “It’ll
be good to see you out in a more natural environment, anyway. I can see how you do with your leg, and it might help to see you outside the PT room.”
Taggart gave him a suspicious look, but it quickly softened. “Okay. Yeah. I guess that might be good. So, we gonna get any work done, or what?”
Martin rolled his eyes, and pointed at the table. “Yeah. Lay down, let’s do some stretching first.”
“I wore briefs this time,” Taggart said. “Just so you know.”
Martin cleared his throat, distracted by where his mind took him and how quickly it had done so. “Good,” he said.
But after Taggart doffed his prosthesis and cuff, and Martin started the stretching sequence, he had a hard time looking at Taggart in the eyes, as if Taggart might read what Martin was trying not to think about from a stray expression.
Because the fact was, Martin was a little disappointed Taggart had taken his advice.
20
Taggart looked in the mirror.
He didn’t do it very often. There wasn’t normally any point. He kept his hair regulation buzzed, shaved his face without the benefit of a mirror, and washed it in the shower.
Now, though, he looked in the mirror, and he wasn’t entirely sure why.
No, that wasn’t true. He wondered what Martin saw when he looked at Taggart. Did he see the hint of dark circles under Taggart’s eyes? Or the way his eyes sometimes unfocused? Or the thin, pale scar across his jaw where a piece of shrapnel had come this close to nicking an artery? Did he see a marine? A soldier? A killer?
That’s what a lot of people saw, Taggart thought. Anyone who knew he was — he had been — a marine, anyway. That was usually the first question: “Did you kill anyone?”
Grunt didn’t see any of that. The puppy looked up at him in the bathroom, from the mat that he’d decided was the place to pee, if he couldn’t get outside in time or forgot to get Taggart’s attention. On the upside, it was looking whiter than it had in months, given that he’d washed it six times since he brought Grunt home.
Grunt just saw Taggart — giver of treats, provider of warmth at night, that he opened the door to the place where Grunt pooped, the source of all food and water.
Dogs were uncomplicated creatures.
“What’re you looking at, Boy?” Taggart asked.
Grunt sniffed at the metallic facsimile of a left foot, and toppled sideways onto the bathroom rug and sighed.
Taggart smiled, and looked back at the mirror.
He wasn’t entirely sure he knew what he saw.
When Martin eventually showed up, he was wearing regular clothes. Just a tee shirt, a sleeveless hoodie, and pants. He looked different, too — like he’d maybe recently showered and done his hair and shaved.
“Huh,” Taggart said when he opened the door and saw his PT out of scrubs.
Martin frowned. “What?”
“Nothing,” Taggart said. “I guess I had this idea that you always wore scrubs and a black tee shirt.”
“You know that I don’t live at the VA, right?” Martin asked.
Taggart rolled his eyes, and led Grunt out of the house on his lead.
“Want me to take him?” Martin asked, when Taggart had to shift his weight to his right leg and balance in order to close the door and lock it.
“Nah,” Taggart said. “I got him. I got practice.”
“I don’t mind,” Martin insisted.
Taggart locked the door and picked his cane back up. “I said I got him.”
Martin nodded, and walked ahead.
Great start, Taggart chided himself.
The park wasn’t far away, but by the time they were about halfway there, Taggart’s left leg was aching already, and lifting it became an effort. He slowed gradually, and Martin eventually noticed.
“You okay to keep going?” Martin asked.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Taggart said.
Martin stopped, and watched Taggart until he did as well. “You don’t have to push yourself like this. Maybe we should go back.”
“During boot camp,” Taggart said, “I ran twelve miles with a sixty pound pack on my back and an M16 over my head.”
Martin furrowed his brow. “M16 — your rifle?”
“Yeah,” Taggart sighed. “Point is, this is nothing.”
“My point,” Martin said, “is that you did that with two legs.”
“And about a hundred more pounds,” Taggart countered.
Martin closed the space between them, his hands in his pockets. He looked down at Taggart’s jeans, where they covered his prosthesis — though, the way they fell was wrong. “Why is it so hard for you to just admit that you need to rest? Anyone in the world would be in exactly the same condition if they had to deal with this. You’re not going to be running marathons overnight, Tag. No one would.”
“I’m not anyone,” Taggart said. “I’m a marine.”
“Former marine,” Martin said. His jaw muscles bulged slightly, and he looked like he might regret having said it, but he didn’t budge.
Taggart stared him down. Or, tried to. Martin didn’t look away.
Taggart wanted to kiss him.
Instead, he swallowed, and waved up the road. “There’s a few benches coming up.”
Martin turned and walked ahead of him.
Getting that far was a monumental effort. After a certain point, Taggart’s quad stopped responding much. Lifting his leg to get the fake part to swing forward required him to bring his hips into it.
“We should have driven,” Martin said when Taggart finally caught up and lowered himself carefully onto the bench to keep from landing too hard on the plastic covered metal.
“I like this better,” Taggart said. “Sorry I’m such a hard head. But the pain’s good for me.”
“It’s just weakness leaving the body, right?” Martin asked.
Taggart smirked. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Keith,” Martin said. “He’d get in touch on Skype once a week with me and our aunt after he deployed, and tell us all the weird army culture stuff he was picking up.”
Taggart nodded, remembering his first few months on deployment. He did the same thing, for a while.
“He looked worse and worse each time,” Martin said quietly.
“Combat wears you down,” Taggart said. “I’m sure he still loved you, though. I never stopped loving my sister, or her kid.”
“You’re an uncle?” Martin glanced at Taggart, the corner of his lip tugged up.
“Barely,” Taggart said. “She’s eight now. I left for basic when she was three and haven’t really seen her much since I got back.”
“You should see her more,” Martin said.
“Yeah,” Taggart agreed. “I should.”
Grunt had curled up between their feet. He was probably tired as well; this was just about the most walking they’d done at once since Taggart picked him up.
“He probably never thinks about the fact that he’s missing a leg,” Martin mused. “Funny, isn’t it? Dogs. They just work with what they have. Probably doesn’t worry about what other dogs think, either. And they probably don’t even notice.”
“Must be nice to be a dog,” Taggart said.
Martin looked at him. Really looked.
Taggart wondered what he saw, but didn’t want to risk asking and finding out.
People walked by. Not many. They did look. Whether they saw a knee that wasn’t shaped quite right, or a dog with three legs, or two men sitting maybe a little too close on a public bench, Taggart couldn’t have known.
He scanned each one for a sidearm, looked for telltale signs of tension or aggression. Each time one of them glanced his direction, he tensed a little. At the intersection down the road, some asshole in a muscle car with a spoiler gunned his engine. It roared, and Taggart flinched.
“You okay?” Martin asked.
Taggart pulled his focus back to just Martin.
“My leg hurts,” Taggart said. “And this guy’s worn out. M
aybe we should go back.”
Martin nodded and stood. He offered his hand to help Taggart up.
Taggart sighed, took the offer, and let Martin hand him his cane. “Thanks.”
Martin looked up at him, and smiled slightly. “No problem.”
Again, Taggart felt that urge, and again he turned away. Not here. Not in public.
If ever.
He shook his leg out a little, the fake knee clicking when he did, and took off toward home with Martin in tow and Grunt leading the way.
21
Something was on Taggart’s mind, but Martin couldn’t have said what. Maybe being out in public was hard on him. There was a subtle tension that was just always in the set of his shoulders, in his jaw, in the way his eyes constantly seemed to be looking at everything at once.
Part of the way back, Taggart finally handed over Grunt’s lead. It was obvious how much work it was taking for him to walk, even with the cane. Taggart’s gait had shortened, he was barely lifting his thigh, and his cane hit the ground harder as they went. Taggart was sweating from the effort.
It worried Martin. Overworking the leg too early could lead to contractures, to strain on the relatively recent reattached ligaments and muscle, or even just to muscle. Pain that was going to slow down Taggart’s progress.
There was no point bringing it up now, though. It wasn’t like Martin was strong enough to carry Taggart back to his house.
It was a sight, though. Martin had other patients who fought hard to regain the use of a limb, either a whole one or with a prosthesis, but who still cracked from time to time and wanted to give up. Even Arnold had occasionally talked about how he was too old anyway, and getting back to full mobility just wasn’t worth it.
Taggart sometimes admitted that something hurt — but that wasn’t the same thing to him as needing to stop, or give up. He just powered through it, even when his body wanted to slow down. Even when it was about to fail entirely. No matter how much piled up on it, it just kept going because Taggart wanted it to.
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