He waited for my reaction. Nice kid. His hope was coming back. I was happy for him but had nothing to add. Maybe selfishly, my own situation weighed on me.
"What happened to your family, Freddie?" he said, as if he'd read my mind.
"All gone."
"All of them?"
"I . . . think so."
"But you don't know? Did you forget some of them, like me?"
What could I say? He had problems of his own. No need to burden him with mine. But the question nagged at me. If I could forget what happened to Humvee three, what else was hidden in my brain? I vividly remembered three funerals, standing at the graveside at each and saying my last goodbyes. Mom and Dad and Joey were gone. But when I thought of Richie, a different memory played in my mind. Styrofoam snow skittering across a deserted parking lot in winter. A dumpster. Three days riding on the T with little sleep. Was that a memory I could trust?
"I may still have a brother," I said.
"You don't know?"
"Afraid not."
"If I were you, Freddie, and one brother might be all I had left, I'd need to find out. Maybe Dr. B. has an exercise that will help you remember. Like with my beautiful Evie. Reprogramming the pathways."
A picture of Dr. B. popped into my head, his jowls shaking as he advised me. But another quickly replaced it-the physical therapist with eyes that could drag me back from the pit of hell.
***
Becky had smuggled a bottle of wine into PT in anticipation of a breakthrough. My knee was approaching ninety degrees. For three weeks, she'd had me on the exercise bike, trying to pedal. I'd rock the pedals forward and back until my knee screamed, but was unable to spin them all the way around. She'd promised at ninety degrees, I'd succeed.
"Today's the day," she said. "I can feel it."
"That's because it's not your knee."
"Come on, Lieutenant. Tough it out. On the bike."
I wanted to make her happy. I tried. But every time I reached the top of the pedal, my knee would lock and refuse to go any further.
Becky encouraged. "You can do it."
Becky cajoled. "A little bit more."
Becky explained. "Your mind's telling you the pain will get worse if you keep going, but it's lying. Once you're over the top, the pain will stop."
I gave a push, winced, and backed off.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Freddie. I'm going to give it a shove."
She rushed toward me and reached out to push, but never touched my leg. The pedal spun around as if on its own.
Becky clapped. "You did it. All by yourself. Now again."
Once I got over the fear, spinning the pedal around was easier. I did ten loops for her and then stopped.
"Enough," I said.
"Ten more."
"No."
"Okay," she said as I staggered over to the treatment table. "We'll do more tomorrow. How about an ice pack?"
"No."
She glared at me, then opened the bottle of wine and poured some into two plastic cups. I accepted a cup from her and watched the wine swirl and settle to stillness.
"Toast?" she said.
When I didn't respond, she tapped her cup to mine and took a sip. I set mine down without drinking.
"What's wrong now, Freddie?"
"Nothing."
"You're over the hump. Ninety degrees. With more hard work and some luck, you'll hardly have a limp. Why are you still brooding?" When I stayed silent, slumped on the table, she came over and sat next to me, so near our shoulders touched. "Talk to me."
I'd been thinking about it for days, but it came out now, like the pedal spinning over the top.
"If I could block out the ambush, what else am I hiding in my brain?"
She folded her hands and studied her fingertips. "I shouldn't tell you this. I hope you won't be mad at me."
"Tell me what?"
"I pulled your 201 file to see if anything else had happened-just in case there was more. You had a rough tour, but there was nothing as bad as the ambush or the IED attack. I checked on the rest of your squad. They're all alive and, as of last week, have been redeployed stateside."
I digested her words, grabbed the cup, and took a gulp of wine-a reason to celebrate. But I still couldn't face her.
"You're not mad at me, Freddie, are you?"
I shook my head, flattered she'd made the effort.
"Mad? No. Good to know. Thank you." Another sip, another swallow. "But it's not just the war."
"Then what?"
"I was trained to leave no man behind, but how can I be sure? What if I abandoned Richie?"
She slipped off the treatment table, grabbed me by the arms, and leaned in so close our foreheads nearly touched.
"You carry a lot on these shoulders, don't you, Lieutenant?"
Being so close to her, my mood lightened. She had that effect on me. But then I had a new thought. She'd performed miracles with my leg. What if . . .?
"You dug up my war record. Any chance you could find out what happened to Richie?"
"I'd be glad to try. But you'd need to give me someplace to start."
Styrofoam snow swirled in my head, skittering across a parking lot on a cold winter night. A dumpster. A voice behind me. I waited, letting the images mingle and merge before telling her.
"After Richie ran off, I looked for three days. I rode the subway and searched for him in the stations. I checked beneath park benches, in the lobbies of tenements, and under loading docks in alleyways. I showed his picture to anyone who wasn't too scared of me to stop-I was getting pretty scruffy after three nights without sleep."
"And then?"
"I was poking around a dumpster behind one of those high-end restaurants on Tremont Street. I'd left him with barely enough cash to pay for the bus ticket to Boston. He'd be cold and hungry after three days, and I thought he might be scavenging for food. I didn't find anything and after three nights without sleep, I decided to give up. I'd had it with my family. Time to look out for myself."
"And?"
"There was a voice behind me. A policeman. I thought I was in trouble for rummaging through the dumpster, but he'd been looking for me."
"What did he want?"
"'Are you the one,' he said, 'who's been looking for the missing boy?'"
She held her breath. When I had nothing more to say, she had to ask.
"Oh, Freddie, did you find-"
I dropped my chin to my chest. "I don't know, Becky. That's the thing. I can't remember."
She emptied her cup of wine and tossed it into the trash. When she turned back, I expected sympathy, but instead her features had hardened into resolve.
"If you're right about the policeman, I might have something to work with."
I waited open-mouthed. She gaped at me like I was too dense to understand. Finally I gave in and asked.
"How?"
"There'd be an incident report, Freddie. The police might have one on file."
Chapter Twenty-Six
A Pretty Flower
Day twenty-five. As the end of anointment approached, the people prepared for a celebration. Food was piled high in the courtyard and casks of wine were stacked in pyramids. Servants planted poles with torches on top and stretched brightly colored ribbons between them to line the pavilion. Young girls weaved wreaths of flowers as children played among the ribbons, enjoying their first anointment. They had no doubt. Stormwind would be saved for another generation. The dauphin would be crowned king.
But none of them knew what I'd witnessed in the watchtower.
Their parents had flocked to the castle not for celebration, but for protection. The courtyard teemed with people clutching hopeful totems along with their earthly possessions packed in canvas sacks. Bewildered livestock wandered amongst them. Confused chickens searched for their coops, and roosters crowed at noon.
Beneath the archways and in the shadows, out of sight of the revelers, dried meat and water skins were loaded onto carts, ready for flig
ht. From the walls of the battlement, I watched the scene before me and shook my head. It was all self-deceit. If I failed, none of their preparations would matter.
The day before, I'd exhausted myself seeking magic to reveal the face of the boy. I rummaged through books in the royal library, hoping to find a spell. I searched for the archangel's chamber. I limped down the stairs to the watershed. But no ramps or doorways emerged, no demons or spirits appeared.
In desperation, I went looking for the gardener. Her fake rose had led me to the archangel's chamber. And the drawing she'd rescued from the assassin's flame had revealed the names of the heroes. What other charms might she have?
But when I arrived in the gardens, she was nowhere to be found. Had my foul mood finally driven her away? Or had she succumbed at last to some evil?
Then I heard a rustling behind me. I turned, expecting Rebecca. But instead, on the wrought iron bench that once we had shared sat the simpleton.
His head was cocked to one side, and his gaze flitted everywhere as if searching for a flower. On the ground, he clutched his soiled, leather pouch between his knees.
I stepped toward him, making no effort to be stealthy, but my approach brought no response.
"Why have you come to the garden?" I said.
"The flowers. They're lovely, aren't they?"
"Where is the gardener who's usually here? Have you seen her?"
"Nope. Just me." His deep blue eyes took on a hint of laughter. "Is she pretty?"
Despite my misgivings, I smiled. "Like a flower newly blossomed on a spring day."
"Oh, I should like to meet her sometime. How did you like my map?"
"It was of great value to me. But now I need your help again." I eyed the leather bag. "Do you have any more magic in that satchel?"
"How would I know what's magic?"
"You gave me the map."
"A stroke of luck. A bit of trash I found in a barrel."
He lifted the bag, removed the tie from its neck, and peered inside. I waited, shifting from foot to foot and fingering the hilt of my sword. Finally, he looked up.
"One thing left."
I was growing impatient. "But is it magic?"
"Perhaps if you believe it is. It's a child's toy, so it might be magic only for a child. Can you see with the eyes of a child?"
I nodded, resisting the urge to grab it away.
He reached into the bag and pulled out a globe, unlike any I'd seen before. Its pedestal was clear, exposing a jumble of prongs and gears. And oddly, within the globe floated two dancing angels.
He held it up to the light.
"Watch."
He shook it so hard, I feared the angels would crash into each other. But instead, golden glimmers began to fall all around them, glistening in the light.
I extended a hand. "May I see it?"
"Of course you may. After all, it belongs to you."
I cradled the globe in my palm. It felt too delicate to be a weapon. But the dreaded days were strange indeed. I rotated it, studying the faces of the angels and finally turned it upside down. Sticking out from the bottom were a lever and a key. My finger twitched and I went to touch it.
"Oh no," he shouted, in a commanding voice that belied his appearance. "You mustn't touch the key of remembrance until the time is right."
"But when will that time be?"
"How would I know?" he said. "I'm only a simpleton."
He picked up the empty satchel and began to walk away. I called after him.
"Is there a way I can repay you?"
A smirk curled across his lips, an expression somewhere between madness and malice.
"May I pick a flower," he said, "from your royal garden?"
I watched the glitter rain down upon the angels and waved my hand across the gardens.
"As you wish. Take whatever you choose."
Without hesitation, he headed straight for the monkshood, took out a small knife from his pocket, and snipped off a blossom.
"A pretty flower," he said, "like your gardener on a spring day."
A flash of panic as I recalled the gardener's words. Monkshood is lovely, but not for princes on whom our lives depend.
"Not that flower." I cried.
His smirk transformed into a wry grin. "But you said I could take whichever flower I liked."
"But that one's dangerous."
"I know," he said.
And without waiting for my response, he dropped the purple blossom into his bag and sauntered off.
I held the toy up to the light and watched him through the glitter still swirling in the globe. Then I glanced at the monkshood. From the gash where he'd sliced off the blossom, the stem was oozing sap.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dead Ends
A few days later, the Veteran's Administration was finished with me. I was well enough to go outpatient and free up a bed for the next poor son of a bitch being flown in from Ramstein. So I packed up my few possessions into the military-issue box and headed off to an advanced rehabilitation facility-army-speak for a barracks outfitted with handrails in the showers and bathroom stalls. A place where they could warehouse guys like me until we were ready to resume active duty or be discharged to civilian life.
I didn't mind. I'd still be on the grounds of the hospital and a short walk to the services I needed. The idea of being more independent appealed to me-a transition to the real world I'd have to make sooner or later. And though we were at the start of a New England winter, I was unfazed. I had my eagle cane, and Becky would still be near.
But one day she came to me.
I was leading a trash detail, one of the mindless tasks the recovering vets were assigned as they assumed their own care. When Becky appeared in the doorway, I needed a second to assimilate her presence in the barracks.
"I've brought someone to see you," she said.
My heart pounded. "Richie?"
I knew before I said the name that it was a stupid thought. Miracles were for children and fools.
Becky's face didn't give anything away.
"Not Richie, but maybe someone who can help find him. He wouldn't tell me much. Said he wanted to speak to you directly."
I handed off the detail to a staff sergeant who was getting used to hobbling around on a prosthetic leg. When Becky and I were halfway down the dingy corridor that was the main thoroughfare through the barracks, she stopped me and placed a hand on my arm.
"I did my best, Freddie." Her voice took on an edge. "Don't expect too much."
An easy request. I'd stopped expecting much long ago.
She led me to the common room, a place with a pool table, a TV, and a bank of computers for email and gaming, where the guys could gather to relax. But it was midmorning and everyone was either at treatment or on details. The only person in the room was a distinguished-looking man with silver hair who was aimlessly spinning a cue ball on the pool table. He turned as soon as we came in and stepped smartly toward me with his chin pulled in and his back straight. The classic posture of a military man. But his uniform wasn't military. I stared at his face and then at the blue jacket with the brass buttons parading down his chest and the gold badge over his heart. The machine in my mind whirred and settled.
A police officer. A man I'd seen before.
He took a moment, looked me over, and then turned to Becky.
"Yes, Ms. Marshall, this is him, the young man I saw that day."
Becky touched the small of my back and eased me forward, knowing how afraid I'd be to hear the news.
"He didn't want to tell me what happened," she whispered, "until he was sure it was you."
The officer nodded a greeting to me and extended a hand. "It's good to see you again, Lieutenant. This is a very different occasion than the last time we met."
I shook his hand, trying my best to be polite despite the blood thudding in my temples. "Thank you for coming. Yes, I recognize you. And I hope you can tell me what happened that day."
"I
t'd be hard to forget. You looked so desperate behind that restaurant, rummaging through the dumpster. I'd have mistaken you for a homeless person, except you left a wake in your tracks. I'd heard about you from several concerned citizens. So when I took you to the morgue, I was afraid-"
My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. "The morgue?"
"Yes. We had an unidentified body. Same time frame, same age. I brought you to see if it was your brother."
My mind darted in and out of shadows, trying to find daylight. He must have noticed my panic.
"You don't remember, do you? Not a surprise. I recall my own war so many years ago. It can play games with your mind."
An image flashed through my mind. A boy in a casket, his face hidden in fog. Me turning sideways, inching closer, terrified of what I might find. In a few short years, I'd viewed the lifeless bodies of my father and mother and brother. I wasn't sure I could handle one more. But the face in the morgue stayed hidden beyond the rim of my memory, in a place where hope taunts and teases.
"Was it him?" I said.
He probably answered at once, but I was sluggish to comprehend. Time slowed and his words reached my ears as if filtered through mud.
"No," I heard at last. "You didn't recognize the body in the morgue. It wasn't your brother."
***
Following the policeman's visit, my mindset began to change. What if my luck had turned? What if the string of misfortunes that had plagued my young life were the result of happenstance and not some dark and forbidding plan? What if I could dare to believe in the future again?
For some reason, my nature had always tended toward optimism until it had been beaten down by events. Now that optimism was returning. I could have lost my life or my leg in the IED attack, but I didn't. I may never be able to dunk, but I could see a day when at worst, I'd walk with a barely noticeable limp, using the most stylish cane around. I started thinking about what I wanted inscribed on the cane. Mom and Dad and Joey for sure. The archangel too, and the others who were lost. But no memorial for Richie. Not yet.
The advanced rehab facility had a modest exercise room, a treadmill, elliptical, a few Nautilus machines, and a rack of free weights. I became a gym rat. In the evenings, instead of brooding on my bunk and staring at the somber squares on the army-issue ceiling, I hit the weights. What I was unable to do with my injured leg I made up for with my upper body. Bench presses, abs, lats, curls. I'd been in great shape before the attack. No reason I couldn't get close to where I'd been.
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