Little did I know, my life was headed downhill and picking up speed.
***
That afternoon, Ralph loaded me into the wheelchair, and we trundled off to PT. He didn't say much until we were in the elevator and had begun our descent to the fourth floor.
"Looks like you won the lottery, sport."
"What does that mean?"
"You got Becky. She's the best. Just don't give her no lip, because she won't put up with it. And do everything she says."
"Sounds like basic training."
"No. Much worse."
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. In less than a minute, I found myself in physical therapy. Like the rest of the hospital, the room was green-tile sterile, but someone had made an effort to cheer it up. Porcelain clowns lined the windowsill. Stuffed circus animals-lions and elephants and a family of monkeys-surrounded the rack that held the free weights. And a variety of fresh-cut flowers had been set in mugs in the cup holder for each exercise bicycle and treadmill. Later, I'd learn from Ralph that Becky kept them fresh, paying for them out of her own pocket. He said she'd deny it, but he'd seen her sneak in on more than one Monday morning with an armful.
Fresh-cut flowers. Mom used to get them every Monday as well, to brighten up the gingerbread house. But after Dad died, she started leaving them too long, not replacing them until they'd decayed so badly they smelled. After Joey died, she stopped buying them altogether.
The girl I met in the courtyard stood over a rolling aluminum table, organizing things I didn't much like the look of. She was sufficiently absorbed that she didn't notice us until Ralph called out.
"Afternoon, Becky. Brought you some fresh meat."
She turned and grinned. "Always love a new victim."
"Great. I'll leave you two alone. Sounds like you need some privacy."
After he left, she went back to finishing her preparations, making me wait. Finally, she came over and extended a hand.
"We already met, but let's make it official. You're Lt. Williams, but I can call you Freddie. I'm your worst nightmare, but you can call me Becky."
I reached out and shook her hand. She didn't seem scary.
"Ralph says you're the best, that if anybody can bring me back, you can."
"Ralph's wrong. I'm just the guide. You're going to do most of the work."
"But are you the best?"
"Let's say I haven't lost one yet."
"So I'll be back on the basketball court in no time."
Her grin vanished. She grabbed a chair, dragged it over and sat next to me.
"We're going to be spending a lot of time together, Freddie, so we need to be straight with each other, right from the outset. My goal is to get you back to as normal a life as possible. If you work hard, I'll have you out of that wheelchair and on crutches in a month. A month after that, maybe a cane. Beyond that, we'll see. I make no promises other than to work as hard as you will."
She stared at me. I stared back, captivated by my reflection in her gray-green eyes. She blinked first and went back to the rolling table.
"Let's get started. We'll do some exercises you've probably done before to strengthen your arms and your good leg, but we'll start light. Your muscles have atrophied in the past few weeks. But first, let's do a little e-stim on that injured leg."
"E-stim?"
"Physical therapist talk. Short for electronic muscle stimulation. We won't be able to do much with that leg until the surgeries have healed. The e-stim will keep the muscles alive until we get to work on them."
She sat down again and undid the Velcro from my brace.
I winced. I hadn't looked at my leg much since my peek the week before. The incision was less angry and the oozing had stopped. But what shocked me were the muscles. Where once I had bulges, now there were hollows. Not the leg of an athlete or soldier. Not the leg of a guy who might someday dunk. The leg of an invalid. Becky's words rattled around in my brain. Crutches, then a cane. After that, we'll see.
"It may not be pretty," she said, as if she'd read my mind, "but it's yours. Take a good look. Let it motivate you when you start making progress. And trust me, you will make progress."
She squeezed some ointment from a tube onto her hands and rubbed them together.
"This will feel a little cold."
She spread the ointment, swirling her fingertips over what had once been my quad. When she started the e-stim treatment, I felt the muscle spasm and contract involuntarily, a strange but not entirely unpleasant feeling. As she slid the wand around, humming along to its buzz, I noticed her touch more than the current.
She spoke out of nowhere. "I read the report. Says you have no family."
I kept staring at her making figure-eights on my leg.
"Is that right?" she said.
I nodded.
"What happened?"
"I was born an orphan."
She turned off the e-stim and looked up at me.
"Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Ralph said you don't talk much."
"I talk when I want to. I don't want to talk now."
"Fine with me." She resumed the treatment, hummed a few more bars, and then spoke without looking up. "Ralph was right about another thing."
"What's that?"
"You are a hard case."
She was quiet after that, going about her job while I focused on the clowns at the windowsill. Every now and then, I'd sneak a look at her. A beautiful, happy optimist. But she'd never lived my life.
Crutches and a cane. After that, we'll see. I was different from her-a realist. I knew what "we'll see" meant. I'd need more than physical therapy to bring me back. I'd need a miracle.
Chapter Nine
Gardeners and Goddesses
Four more sunrises, four more sunsets. Eight more encounters with the spinning wheels. Though I recalled nothing of what I'd seen, my strength was evaporating like moisture in the Tanaris Desert. My eyes darted everywhere as I wandered the castle, suspicious of everyone. Loneliness smothered me like the shroud that had covered my father's face.
Late one afternoon, I headed down the tunnel to the armory, thinking I might add a second weapon to my sword. The heat had continued to build since my father's death and had become rooted in the very stones of the castle. Everywhere was hot, but at least the tunnel offered shade.
It was then I saw the butterfly.
The tunnel was difficult to reach from the outside, requiring passage up and down three stairwells and through a maze of corridors. Yet here was a white butterfly flying with a purpose. It came straight at me and began circling my head, no matter how hard I tried to evade it. Finally, I came to a halt. Without hesitation, it lit on my forearm.
I gaped foolishly. Could such a beautiful creature be a demon? It stayed there, its wings slowly fluttering so I could feel their brush on my skin. And its tiny eyes were staring at me.
I raised my arm and gently blew. It took off, flew ten yards ahead and hovered, waiting for me. I followed. If I stopped, it stopped as well. Before I was aware of it, I'd been led out of the tunnel, across the courtyard, and through the main gate of the royal garden. At the center of the garden was a sunken terrace, a circle of stones surrounded by flowers and shaded by the branches of a sprawling elm. There, beneath its canopy, the butterfly came to a stop.
With the weather so hot, the gardens were deserted. Or so I thought until I heard a song like water tumbling over rocks. I moved closer, wary of another assassin, and caught movement behind a hydrangea bush. There, hidden among the sky-blue blossoms, was a girl. She was humming to herself, so absorbed that she failed to notice my approach.
The white butterfly fluttered before her face. When she saw it, she reached out a hand and at once it landed on the curve of her wrist.
"Now there's a fine omen for you," she said. "Light knows we need one these days." She whispered some words and the butterfly flew off across the courtyard and out over the castle wall.
/> A fine omen? Perhaps. But I'd learned to be wary. I stepped forward, scuffling my boots to make noise. She ignored my presence. Not until I was a pace away did she turn.
It was hard to say if she was beautiful or even pretty. Soil from the garden had splattered her cheeks and marked her forehead with a splotch that looked like a raven. A muddied apron hid her shape. But I took note of a glint in her gray-green eyes, as if the flowers had conspired to lend their color. And her mouth was a crescent moon upturned on its side.
The corners of the crescent twitched when she saw me but only for an instant. Then she went back to her work as if I were invisible. Her hands cradled each bloom as she sliced off the heads with a small knife.
"Are you spirit or demon?" I demanded.
She made no answer.
I drew my sword, relieved it slipped so easily from its scabbard, and stretched it in her direction. She watched the point from the corner of her eye but kept her head down and continued to work. Finally, I nudged her with the tip.
She let out a yelp. Only then did I realize I'd thrust too hard, and the blade had slit her garment. I backed off at once, ready to apologize, but then recalled my encounter with the assassin. I poked again, more gently this time.
"Why do you keep doing that?" she said.
"To see if you're real."
She stood and faced me, feet set wide and planted squarely on the ground.
"Why shouldn't I be real?"
She was tall for a girl, her head rising above my chin, and had a bearing unlike a servant. When I continued to challenge her, she reached out and eased the point of my sword to one side.
"Would you put that silly thing away?"
I began to back off, then remembered the circumstance and held firm. "Why didn't you say anything when I first approached you?"
"Because we servants aren't supposed to talk to you royals." She lowered her gaze and turned back to the flowers. "I'm sorry . . . Milord."
"What's your name?"
"Rebecca."
"Rebecca. My name is Frederick."
She paled and then bent in a deep curtsy, her brashness collapsing into two whispered words. "The dauphin."
"Tell me," I said as she composed herself, "what were you saying to the butterfly?"
"SMOG."
"What is SMOG?"
"You don't know?"
"No."
She eyed my sword. "Put that away, and I'll tell you."
"Answer first."
She took a step toward me until her breast was an inch from the tip of my blade.
"How do you expect me to answer a question-one that any child in my village knows-when you're frightening the life out of me?"
I blushed, then slid the sword back into its scabbard but stayed at the ready.
She sighed and wiped her hands on her apron.
"It's short for Save Me Oh Goddess. I wanted to give the butterfly a message, just in case it had been sent from a spirit. You've never heard of SMOG? My people say it all the time to ward off evil."
"Why don't you say it out full?"
"Because poor folks like me don't have time like you royals. We're always in a rush and it's quicker to use the initials."
"What were you doing with that knife?"
"Cutting off the heads of hydrangeas."
"Why?"
"To hang them upside down from a nail in my cottage."
My jaw tightened, and I edged closed. "Some demonic ritual?"
Despite her bravado, she fell back a step.
"No, Milord. To let them dry so they'll stay beautiful in the winter when the shrubs have stopped blooming. It's something gardeners do, not demons." She fingered the rip in the apron where I'd poked her, then took it off, revealing a summery dress underneath. She waggled a finger at me through the hole. "Now look what you've done. You've gone and torn my gardening apron. I have only one, you know."
"I'm sorry."
I wandered in a circle, hands folded behind my back, and inspected the flowers, unsure of what else to say. Then a thought occurred to me.
"Do you have roses in this garden?"
"No roses, Milord. I have asters and hydrangeas. Some fall crocus. And climbing the wall to the watchtower, sweet autumn clematis. A bit of monkshood underneath and tulips in the spring. But no roses."
I must have looked disappointed. She came closer and reached out, but not enough to touch me.
"It must be lonely, Milord, a terrible burden. Every morning as I walk from my village to the gardens, I see the darkening clouds and wonder where my strength will come from. Then I remember. The dauphin will protect us. Save Him Oh Goddess, I pray. If only I could do something to help."
I mumbled a thank you and turned to go, but stopped when I saw her examining her damaged apron.
"Are you here every day?"
"No, Milord, I have other gardens as well."
"Come tomorrow, and I'll bring you a new apron to replace the one I tore."
She curtsied more deeply this time.
"I'd be so grateful, Milord, but I have nothing to give in return."
"No need."
"Ah, wait." She took her small knife and clipped off a bulging blossom at the stem and handed it to me. "Now place it in water the first chance you get."
I accepted the gift and admired her through its petals.
"Thank you," I said. "Tomorrow at noon."
As I walked away, I glanced over my shoulder to get one last look at the gardener. She was back at her work, resuming her song and snipping away, so light of hand and foot. As she blew away a curl that had drifted across her face, the summer dress rustled against her skin. I inhaled the scent of the flower and thought I caught the sun peeking through the clouds over Golgoreth.
And for the first time since my father died, goddesses seemed possible.
Chapter Ten
The Ruins of War
Ralph dragged me down to see Becky every afternoon. After a few days, my arms and good leg felt stronger. I learned to transfer to the wheelchair on my own, and maneuvering became easier. But the e-stim treatments had little effect on my injured limb. Becky assured me that was normal, that the purpose of the e-stim was to keep the muscles alive while the surgery healed. The hard stuff-the real fun, as she called it-would come later.
On the eighth day, I was dozing after lunch, waiting for Ralph to take me to PT, when Becky appeared in the doorway carrying a drab, military-issue box. She seemed subdued.
"Good afternoon," she said, more formal than usual.
"No Ralph today?"
"He's here, but I wanted an excuse to visit you."
I responded with a weak smile. "What's in the box?"
She became flustered and shuffled her feet, half turning to leave. But someone out of sight in the hallway was egging her on.
"Okay if I come in?"
My guard went up as if I were on patrol in Al Anbar, about to enter a blind alley. "It's your hospital."
She came forward and set the box down on the bed.
"They're your personal possessions, Freddie. You know the army. They need a month of paperwork before they ship your stuff back to you."
I eyed the box and struggled to breathe. My old life before-
"I don't want any of it. Throw it away."
She placed a hand on my arm and tried to turn me.
"Look at me, Freddie."
I gave her a look that made her flinch. "Is that an order? How'd you get stuck with this detail?"
"It's not easy for any of the guys. So much has changed for them. Ralph and Dinah thought I should be the one to bring it to you."
"Why? You draw the short straw?"
"They figured I'd make it easier." I caught an uncharacteristic flush in her cheeks. "They claim you're less gloomy after PT."
My anger subsided. I reached out and ran a finger along the top of the box. "Did you look inside?"
"I wouldn't do that without your permission. But I'd be glad to sit with you and go through it
. We can skip PT today. This is part of your rehab too."
I knew what was in the box, my odd collection of memories and totems that I'd brought with me to Iraq. Remnants of a life that was already shattered before my body joined it. She'd think I was a weirdo when she saw the contents, but I didn't want to face them alone. I lifted the cover.
On top of the pile was my spiral gaming log with the all-weather army pen stuck through its spine. World of Warcraft was complex. As the leader of our guild, I was the one to plot strategy. I carried the log with me in case an idea popped into my head. I had it in the Humvee that day on patrol, folded open to the plans for that night's raid.
But the plans were unreadable, splattered with the archangel's blood. I tossed it aside.
I fumbled through the rest. A bunch of junk-keys, the dog tag the medics cut off my boot. My wallet. Inside the wallet was a plastic sheath. I slid it out. On top, a picture of the five of us in front of the gingerbread house. Dad and Mom, Richie and Joey and me. The dog-eared picture I'd salvaged from Dad's hip pocket before they took him away.
I looked up to find Becky watching me.
"So you weren't really born an orphan?"
I shook my head and went back to the box. I pulled out the diamond ring on the gold chain and held it up, letting it sparkle in the fluorescent light.
Becky's brows turned to question marks.
"You were married?"
"No."
"Engaged?"
"It was my mom's. I wore it around my neck for luck-a wonder it wasn't stolen."
Next, I found the metal bracelet I used to wear in high school, an old joke I could never decide whether to scrap or keep. I smirked at the date engraved on it and threw it back in the box.
Becky laughed at my reaction. "And that was . . .?"
"A story from long ago and far away."
When I refused to elaborate, she reached into the box and retrieved two larger objects wrapped in newspaper. Some well-intentioned clerk must have figured they were fragile and tried to protect them. I knew at once what they were.
"Can I open them?" Becky said, like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Just a couple of keepsakes from people who are gone."
She held the first one up and ruffled the paper, trying to guess what was inside.
Along The Watchtower Page 5