by M. S. Parker
Grandfather had made his first million by buying and producing one of the largest radio stations in LA. We hadn't seen him much growing up, but there had been a couple of weeks one summer when Ian and I had both been young, when we'd stayed with Grandfather. That had been when, between phone calls, he'd filled Ian's head with the magic of radio waves reaching out to remote places and faraway people.
Then he'd given Ian a ham radio to play with. I'd wanted Ian to tune in pop music so I could dance, but he'd been relentless, trying to talk to someone as far from LA as he could. It only had a range of two hundred miles, but Ian had eventually reached a camper out in a remote corner of Joshua Tree. It could have been the moon from the way the camper had described it. The short contact had held Ian like a magic spell, and his face had glowed with happiness until the camper had said 'out.'
And even that word had fascinated him.
“'Over' means it's the other person's turn to talk,” Ian had told me, those green eyes shining with excitement. “'Out' means you're turning off your radio so you never say 'over and out.'”
I wished I could radio my brother, reach him wherever he was, but Grandfather had never taught me how to do it.
Ian, I love you. Come home. Over, I thought.
Despite my better judgment, I stayed at the house that night, and the next, and the one after that, unable to convince myself that it'd be just as easy for Grandfather to reach me by phone as it would be if I were at the house. It was relatively easy to hide from him anyway, diving into the pool, taking off on a run, or faking a phone call whenever he appeared. Except for dinner. Just like we had when Ian and I had first moved in, Grandfather and I ate dinner together each night. Dinners where he held one-sided conversations about my purpose, drive, and work ethic. Or, more specifically, my lack of all three.
When the phone call finally came saying that Ian was on his way back to the States, I felt free enough to be able to leave. I was smart enough to do it while Grandfather was making his phone calls, though. I might not have had much drive, but I had common sense. Grandfather was busy making sure Ian would have a private room at Cedar Sinai when he arrived. The army had wanted to put him in a hospital at the base where he'd been stationed, but Grandfather was already calling every politician who'd ever owed him a favor to make sure that didn't happen. I was actually glad about that. It meant we'd get to see Ian sooner rather than later.
Still, I needed to get out of the house, so I went, knowing Grandfather would call me when he had more information about when we could see Ian. When I escaped to Ricky's beach house, ready for some distraction, I found that my boyfriend had gone to Barbados.
Without even telling me.
“I get it, babe, you need family time,” Ricky said when I'd finally got ahold of him.
Three hours later.
“No. I'm at the beach house now. I need fun. I need distraction.” I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose.
“Come join me!” He wasn’t slurring his words, but I knew he was drunk.
“Ian's going to be home soon. I have to stay in LA and see him, but I can't just stay at the house. I'll go fucking nuts.”
Before he managed to respond, he was called away by a jumble of giggles and shouts. The call disconnected a few seconds later and I didn’t bother to try him again. Four years with Ricky had taught me better. Chances were, he didn't even notice that the call had ended.
Instead of wasting my time being annoyed, I paid his underworked maid to buy dozens of paint samples and spent the rest of the day splattering the beach house's dining room wall with as much color as possible. Later that evening, Paris found me covered with paint and hungover from having drunk all of Ricky's champagne. She ordered a spa treatment and then we rounded out the night by heading to some up-and-comer's launch party.
The phone woke me the next morning, the shrill ringtone drilling into my head. I would've ignored it, except that the caller ID said it was Grandfather. As soon as I picked it up, I was glad I had. We could go see Ian. I wasn't completely able to hold back the wince as I peeked outside, but I told Grandfather that I was on my way and he didn't comment on anything else. I scrawled a note to Paris, who was still sleeping on Ricky's bed, and then headed out.
I arrived at the hospital with an aching head and two phone numbers written on my arm in red marker. I tugged down the sleeve of my white cardigan and hoped my Grandfather would be out hunting up a cup of coffee when I reached Ian's room. He was never without a mug of black sludge, the strongest coffee he could find, and it would be my only chance to see Ian alone.
I should've known better.
He was waiting at the door.
“There you are, Leighton.” Grandfather sounded annoyed, but not angry, so I supposed that was a plus.
I didn't say anything as I stepped around him. This wasn't about him and me. This was about Ian, and all of the anxiety I'd been pushing down since the first call came rushing back.
I needed to see my brother.
And there he was. His auburn hair buzzed army-short, his eyes tired, but they lit up when he saw me. He started to push himself into a sitting position and winced.
The look of pain on his face broke my paralysis, and I hurried toward him. “What did you do?” I asked as I leaned down to hug him, careful not to squeeze him too tight. “What did you do, you idiot?”
He grinned at me as I pulled back, and I knew he'd heard only love in my insult.
“Fire fight.”
I could see he was trying to be casual about it, and I glared at him.
He gave me the same little kid smile that had always gotten him out of trouble with me and just about everyone else. “It was a routine run, Leighton, I swear. My unit ended up getting hit by some guerrillas.”
A shadow crossed his face, and I could see that a part of my baby brother hadn't made it back. I doubted it ever would.
“My commanding officer was killed, another soldier wounded.” He looked away from me, like he couldn't say what he had to say while looking at me. “This guy came out of nowhere, got the others out of harm's way, and then it was just me and him. We got caught off guard, and I got shot.”
My hands tightened on his.
“A flesh wound on my calf and a shot through the shoulder.” He looked down at his left shoulder. “Doctors said it went clean through, but I lost a lot of blood, which is why I was critical. They said I'll make a full recovery.”
“I'm sure there will be extensive physical therapy required for your shoulder,” Grandfather said. His expression was hard, but I could see a hint of panic in his eyes.
I understood it all too well. I wanted my brother to get better, but I also knew what it would mean for him to make a full recovery. I didn't want to talk about that now though, and I certainly didn't want Grandfather bringing it up. I knew he'd already been looking into trying to get Ian honorably discharged, even if the doctors cleared him to return. I couldn't do anything about that, but I could delay it a while.
I sat on the edge of the bed and kept Ian's hand in mine. “Tell me more.”
“I don't know any more than what I picked up over the last week,” Ian said, giving me a grateful look. “We were delivering supplies to a remote village and stumbled into some sort of Special Forces operation. They were there following a group of militants who were stockpiling munitions.”
“And ended up getting shot,” I said.
He gave me another patented Ian grin. “And blown up.”
“Fuck,” I breathed the word, then winced, waiting for Grandfather to scold me. It never came.
“Hey, I made it out alive.” Ian's face sobered. “You should've seen the guy who saved me. I wouldn't have if it hadn't been for him.”
“Special Forces?” Grandfather asked.
Ian nodded. “He came out of nowhere like a tank.”
“Guns blazing?” I asked, trying to picture it.
“No. The guerrilla who shot me, guy took him out with one shot. Lifted m
e like a duffel bag. I blacked out,” Ian said. “The report says he saved me from the explosion that killed two more men in my unit.”
“One guy did all that?” I tried to keep my tone light. “Are you sure you didn't just dream it? I swear I saw a preview for that movie last night.”
Ian laughed, but there wasn't a lot of humor in the sound. “If anyone could've been an action hero, it would've been this guy. The rest of his unit was just as good, but he saved my life.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
Ian scowled. “I can't find out anything. They don't tell enlisted men shit.”
“Did you get a name?” Grandfather asked.
“Welch,” Ian said. “That's all they'd tell me.”
Grandfather didn't say anything else as he turned and walked out of the room.
“Bet you'll hear something soon,” I said as I watched him go.
“I just hope we hear he's alive.” Ian's voice was soft.
“I'm glad you are,” I said, turning back to him. “And I'm glad you're home. You have no idea what it's been like around here.”
“The minefield of LA, and its armies of the socially elite? I imagine it's still hell on earth.” Ian grinned, the shadow almost leaving his eyes completely.
“Welcome home, little brother,” I said and hugged him again.
Chapter 4
Haze
The helicopter had to have been a dream, right? Because it didn't make sense any other way. Especially not with everything else I was seeing. Flapping canvas from a mobile hospital. Jagged foothills. An arid stretch of land. Tall canyon walls. A choppy ocean. A squeaking sound.
I searched the dim interior of my eyelids, hoping some memory would appear to explain it, but nothing did. I remembered the mess hall. Handley telling us that we had an assignment. But that was it. Then the shadows grew darker, and I went under again.
A ringing tone drilled in my ear, pulling me from the darkness again. This time, I fought to stay. I needed to know what had happened.
A woman's voice came through the ringing. “Dr. Bouton, he's awake. No, Doctor. Yes, Doctor. Yes.”
I forced my eyelids open, but they closed again almost immediately. I tried again, catching glimpses of my surroundings. A woman was talking on a wall phone. Judging by the scrubs and what she was saying, she was a nurse. She watched me from the corner of her eye, then looked over me and checked the beeping monitors. My eyes closed, and she hung up the phone. I forced my eyelids up again, seeing her grab a chart.
“Don't try to talk,” she said as my eyes closed again. “Just nod if you can hear me.”
I nodded as I opened my eyes. It came as a surprise that I had a tube in my mouth.
What the hell happened?
“Let's get that taken care of.” A man's voice spoke from just outside my peripheral vision.
The doctor appeared a moment later, and the scraping pull from my throat made me gag. The nurse gave me a few drops of water from a long straw and settled my head back on the pillows. Everything was fuzzy, but I was still shocked at how weak I felt.
“You should feel more aware in a moment,” the doctor said. “Then we can talk. Well, I'll talk and you'll probably just want to listen. Those ventilator tubes can be uncomfortable.”
I swallowed around the swollen fire in my throat and pried my eyes open again. This time I felt strong enough to keep them that way. I turned my head slightly, my stomach lurching at the dizziness that roiled over me.
After a moment, the doctor came into focus as he sat down next to my bed. He was somewhere in his middle forties with a severely receded hairline. What was left of his black hair sat far back on his head, but showed no signs of gray. He pushed round wire-rimmed glasses up his nose and gave me a tight-lipped smile.
“Sergeant Welch,” he said. “I'm Dr. Bouton, the chief of Neurology. First, I'd like to thank you for your service.”
I nodded, then asked the first question I needed answered. “How long?” The fire in my throat made my eyes water.
“Two weeks.”
I shook my head and the doctor peered over his glasses at me.
“You mean how long until you can get back out there.” It was a statement, not a question. He must've worked with soldiers before.
The nurse lowered the chart for a moment, and I felt her dark eyes brush across my face. My stomach suddenly clenched. All my limbs were intact, I could see that. I wiggled my fingers and toes. There was nothing I could see that should've caused her reaction.
Dr. Bouton's face was frighteningly blank. “I think we'd better go over a few things before you ask any more questions.”
I shifted impatiently and another wave of dizziness made me feel sick. The nurse carefully adjusted my pillows, and then gave me a few more drops of water from the straw.
“Do you remember how you got injured?” Dr. Bouton asked. “Let's keep this simple. Go ahead and blink once for 'yes,' twice for 'no.'”
I blinked once. I remembered a bit more now. The soldiers who'd walked into the middle of our assignment. The one I hadn't been able to save. And the one with the green eyes. For a moment, I could feel his blood soaking into my uniform. I wondered if he'd made it. He'd been alive when everything had gone black.
“By a mix of miracle and your peak physical condition, you were able to get far enough from the blast radius to only have minor injuries. Some scrapes and bruises, a couple of pieces of shrapnel we had to dig out of your back and legs, but those are all surface injuries that are mostly healed,” Dr. Bouton said. His mouth tightened for a moment before he continued, “Unfortunately, the shock wave from the blast caused a brain injury, and that's what put you into a coma for the past two weeks.”
“Dizzy?” I asked.
“I was afraid of that. The blast damaged your inner ear. That's the cause of the dizziness you're feeling.”
My chest tightened and suddenly, I couldn't breathe.
His voice softened. “The vertigo may go away, or it may be something that effects you for the rest of your life. As for your hearing...we don't know anything for certain, but from what I've seen, the damage is irreversible.”
I blinked my eyes twice and then twice again. No. He couldn't be right.
Dr. Bouton took the chart from the nurse and reviewed it carefully. “Why don't we concentrate on today? How is your pain? Think about it overall and show me a number: one is barely noticeable and five is unbearable.”
I held up one finger. I was uncomfortable, but I'd felt worse after other missions.
“Hungry?”
I nodded and was struck with a wave of nausea. Shit. I screwed my eyes shut and willed it to pass. This couldn't be happening. When it did, I looked at the doctor and blinked once.
“We're going to have to start you with the soft stuff,” Dr. Bouton said. “You've been on a feeding tube for a while. I'm not sure how well you'd do with solid food right now. Just think of it as a smoothie. I'm sure you've had worse rations.”
I blinked once again.
“Your throat should be fine soon, and if the food settles, I see no reason you can't be eating solid food come morning,” Dr. Bouton said. “Then we'll run some tests and see where we're at. Try not to think too much about it.”
The doctor popped his pen back in his pocket and gave me a tight smile before leaving. The nurse followed and I knew she'd be back soon with my smoothie. As hungry as I was, I had something I had to do first.
I ripped back the covers and realized the doctor was right. A few abrasions were already scabbed over and nearly healed. The only problem was that every time I tipped my head to the right the room spun.
Shit.
“First things first. I'm going to open the curtains,” Dr. Bouton said the next morning. He cautiously peeled back the curtains and watched me, but I was too busy trying to figure out the skyline to comment.
“No sensitivity to light?” he asked.
“Los Angeles?” I asked, sure I had to be dreaming. What
the hell was I doing in LA? I hadn't even thought to ask before.
“Cedar-Sinai,” Dr. Bouton said.
Why was I at Cedar-Sinai? Okay, yeah, coma, but still. If they'd wanted to transfer me to a non-military hospital, wouldn't it have made more sense to have one nearer to my home base, or my actual home? LA was neither of those things. In fact, the only time I'd been to the city had been with a buddy, a little over three and a half years ago. A buddy who'd dragged me to a party and then ditched me for some woman whose name he hadn't remembered the next day. I, on the other hand, hadn't been able to forget the woman I'd slept with that night.
Now, the memory of her hit me so hard that I almost missed that Dr. Bouton was talking again.
“I'm going to be honest. This next part might not go well.”
“Sitting up?” I asked.
I didn’t care. I needed to do something, anything, to get her out of my mind. I needed to focus on getting better so I could get back to my unit.
Without waiting for an answer, I pulled back the covers and started to shift my weight. The two orderlies standing by the door immediately rushed to my side, moving to take my arms like I was some sort of invalid. I bit back a snarl. They were just doing their job.
“To the left,” Dr. Bouton said.
They leaned me toward the left so I could push off that way. I put my feet on the floor and forced myself to be steady. Dr. Bouton came up close with a penlight and peered into my eyes and then into my ears. Whatever it took for him to get these two to let me go so I could show him that I was fine.
“I'm sure you can take a few steps, but before you do that, I'd like you to tip your head to the right, slowly.”
The orderlies tensed and I snorted before tipping my head to the right. About twenty degrees later, a wave of dizziness nearly dropped me to the floor. The orderlies lifted me back onto the bed and pressed me against the pillows. The feeling passed, and I shook them off, careful not to move my head as my face flamed.