Havoc

by Angie Merriam

  Looking in her eyes, I lean my forehead against hers, “I'm not going another day without doing that.”

  “Promise?”

  Pleased the kiss was something she actually wanted, that the signals I was picking up were the right ones, I whisper back, “Promise.”

  “Glad to see you're awake,” a nurse announces, forcing me to back up, but not drop my hand. She moves objects around, fiddles with things, and I take another long, deep breath. She's really here. She's still with me. With a few more rattling sounds and muffled comments to herself, it appears the nurse is done. “Dr. Striker will be in momentarily.”

  She gives us a nod and excuses herself.

  “Dr. Striker? Striker is the ER doc?” Haven asks.

  I don't respond. My eyes drop down to see her fingertips move against mine.

  “Clint.” I can't afford to look at her. I can't. I can't tell her what I did. She repeats this time with a sterner tone, “Clint.”

  My resistance crumbles. I meet eyes to meet hers again.

  “Why was I brought to see Striker?”

  “The night of the concert–”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Three nights ago, Haven.” My eyes shift to the wall clock that reads it's a little after two a.m. “I had my phone on me. Checked it round the clock. There was no word from you, so I assumed you were safe. After the show, Leighyani begged me to go to a bar with her to see a few old friends from high school. It was late, so when I sent you the text asking if you minded and I didn't get one back, I figured you were asleep.” The guilt is swimming through my veins, with each word drowning further in it.

  She tries to pipe in, “I really wouldn't have minded, Clint.”

  I nod. I knew she wouldn't have minded. She's always trying to get me to hang with Glove and Lordy, to spend time with my friends because she doesn't want them lost to me because of her. She doesn't want the world to think that she is keeping me from them. How could I not love her?

  “We weren't supposed to be there that long. I got caught up talking to one of the guys who happened to be in the Navy, brothers of different arms, you know, but still one to respect. When I finally noticed the time, it was almost one, and I forced Leighyani to leave. She bitched the entire car ride home, but as soon as I pulled into the drive way, something felt wrong. Sir's car was missing. No lights on in the house. Every light on in Mindy's . . .” Our woven-together fingers slip apart, and I wipe my fingers down my face, desperate to scrub away the dishonor. The disgrace. The shame. “The next part felt like a slow-motion blur. I ran in the house, panicked, searched for you . . . for Sir. Tried to call him. His cell was off. Tried to call you. Your cell was on our bed. I remember brushing past Leighyani, who was yelling something at me. I ran to Mrs. Callaghan's—er—Mindy's. Banged on the door. Banged so hard I almost knocked it down. She was in hysterics. Said you left in an ambulance. I asked why no one called me, why no one left me a message. All she could say was Sir didn't have time, and she was about to when I came banging on her door.”

  I hear an actual knock, and Striker's shiny bald head leads him through the door. His expression is warming and upbeat, though he has a chart clutched tightly against his chest. I hate seeing him in his official gear—a white coat, khaki dress pants, a salmon button down. It's like the icing on the reality of the situation.

  “Hello there, Miss Haven,” he exclaims, shutting the door behind him. She waves and folds her hands across her blanket-covered tummy. “You gave us quite a scare. You know that?”

  In a whimper, she whispers, “I didn't mean to.”

  “This gentleman has not left your side except to pee.” Striker waves a hand in the air and stops at the foot of her bed. “Just in case you were wondering what that smell is.”

  “Thanks, Striker,” I mumble.

  “Doctor Striker.” He shuffles his name badge that's clipped at his hip. “While in the hospital.”

  “Sorry.” I scrub my fingers through my stubble. “I know better than that, sir.”

  “Your mind must be slipping a little from the lack of sleep.”

  “That's not an excuse, sir.”

  “Mistakes happen, Slugger.”

  “Mistakes cost people their lives, sir.” The doctor not getting the reality of my mom's brain malfunctioning. Glove not covering his own ass and getting me stabbed, barely missing vital organs. Me not staying with Haven the night of that fucking concert. Mistakes are not acceptable. My mistake could have killed Haven.

  Striker clears his throat and readjusts his attention on Haven, “Do you know why you're here, Haven?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Three nights ago, you ingested an unusual combination of compounds that could be considered a poison into your system.”

  “Poison?” Her tone and reaction cause my stomach to churn. I cannot believe it happened.

  “Not enough to kill most people but enough to make them uncomfortably ill. However, your body seems to have had a reaction to it, more severe than most. It caused you to violently vomit—” my stomach gurgles again, “until you hit a high level of dehydration, causing you to pass out. In passing out, you hit your head, resulting in an unconscious state, which you've been in until now.”

  My chest starts to tighten, cramping in blind rage, the Incredible Hulk-like strength inside desperate to break out and take over.

  Barely being able to remain calm, she cries out, “How could I have taken poison and not known?”

  He flips through the clipboard in his hand, “That’s what we’d like to find out. Most likely in a liquid or a food, masking its bitter flavor. Do you remember eating anything different Saturday . . . taking something?”

  Her silence is chilling. Has she not been through enough already? She's lived through being raped and molested. She’s probably seen the death of her parents in her dreams. And now, now we're pushing her to try recall what could have potentially killed her had she hit her head a little harder. Or been left alone a little longer. Angst crawls up my throat again. The more I'm with Haven, the more I realize the worst part of feeling emotions is moments like this.

  “Nothing crazy. I remember having lunch with Mindy and Anna at their favorite sandwich place. I had my usual, though it had a little extra mustard, and then for dinner, I had some homemade tomato soup Leighyani brought me. It was a little extra tangy, but I've never been the biggest fan of tomatoes.”

  Leighyani? What was she thinking? Did she really think without Haven that we would ever get back together? Has she completely lost her shit? You're pissed a girl has taken what you claim as your spot, you key her car, you spill something on her favorite top. You don't try to fucking poison her. And how easy it would be for her with all the medical knowledge her father has taught her. She was probably inspired by some fucking Greek tragedy her mother had her read. Well, I hope she enjoyed it because she's about to experience one herself.

  I lean down and whisper so only Haven can hear, “Alpha.” Honestly, if I were Haven, I would rip me to shreds. I would scream and shout at me that I have a lot of nerve for saying everything is safe when one of the neighbors tried to cause her bodily harm, the same neighbors she's spent all her free time with, the same neighbors who are supposed to protect her when I can't. I prepare for her negative reaction, but instead, she squeezes my tags tighter.

  Striker transitions with a clearing of his throat and a shift in his body weight. He fidgets when he's not at ease. Typical. He usually does it when Lexi brings up something that has to do with his facial hair, tofu, or his own daughter.

  “So we ran tests, figured out it what it was, and flushed your system while also rehydrating it. Since you were here, and we all know you haven't been to the doctor in a bit of time, I went ahead and had blood tests run on you just to make sure everything’s in working order.” The sentence trails off as he looks down at the paperwork in his hand. He opens his mouth to continue when he looks at me. Immediately, he shifts his words back to her, “If you would like
Mr. Walker to excuse himself for the next part of the conversation, I can have him do so.”

  “I'm not going anywhere.”

  “It's not a choice, Slugger. Patient confidentiality trumps–”

  “We don't keep secrets.”

  “Clint.”

  “What's the next part of the conversation?” she interrupts us, her voice calmer than either of ours. “And where is Whiskey?”

  “Work,” I respond quickly. “He's come to check on you after his shifts. Calls every couple of hours to see if there's been progress.”

  A faint smile appears on her face. She looks relieved.

  Haven nods at Striker. “He can hear. It's OK. Really.”

  “Very well.” He pushes the paperwork back down. “CAT scan came back fine. Bone development is stifled but not an excruciating amount. Your blood type is rare, so we need to be aware of that for further cases. Also, you're a little underweight. Given your previous circumstances, this is understandable. While examining all reports for diseases we tested for, everything came back negative even for STDs. However, we did do an examination, and you have some vaginal tearing. It's an alarming amount, but with some time, it should heal quite well. Also, I'm going on a limb here, but you probably do not menstruate regularly, do you?”

  Her face flushes and looks down, “No.”

  “Due to the stress of your previous situation and adjusting to your current situation, I ordered you a birth control shot. It's a simple shot that will need to be taken every three months. You should begin to get a cycle that way as well. I do not know if you’re sexually active.” I clear my throat, uncomfortable discussing that with him. It's none of his business. That and of course I kissed her for the first time just five minutes ago. “But in case you are or plan to be, it will help. I have it scheduled for later this afternoon. Do you consent to that?”

  “If it's what's best. You're the doc.”

  He smiles, “I am the doc. Also, we are going to schedule a few immunization shots to help boost them to the levels they should be at. After having some additional time to study your charts, I realize that, while I can do my best work helping your body heal, it might be a wise decision to start seeking help with a counselor. Sometimes talking to an objective third party can do wonders. If you think that's something you're up for, let me know, and I'll make arrangements with the best therapist I know.” Striker relaxes visibly, “Now from the point of a friend, not a doc, are you OK?”

  “Yeah.” She squeezes my hand again. “Just a little fuzzy.”

  “Well, rest,” he taps her feet gently. “I'll alert the cavalry. Inform them they can come visit this afternoon. We're gonna keep you here probably another day just to monitor everything.”

  “I appreciate that,” she whispers as I place a kiss on the back of her hand in a bit of awe. This woman can survive anything. A day hasn't gone by that she's failed to amaze me. A fighter. Just like me. “Thank you. And I swear, as soon as I get a job–”

  Striker waves her off. “This has been taken of. Do not mention anything about a bill again. Are we clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rest up.” He gives her toes a squeeze in a fatherly way. I appreciate the way all the older men in the neighborhood have taken it upon themselves to step into the role of her father. “My shift is basically over, and I've got to get some rest myself.” His eyes flick over to me, “And so should you, Slugger. I told you she would be all right.”

  “I know, sir.” My face hardens, afraid for him to see the emotions I'm choking back, but my strength is wavering. “Just had to see for myself.”

  “Stubborn,” he grumbles. “Just like your father. See you two in the afternoon.”

  And with that, he's gone. The door shuts quietly, the air-conditioning being the only sound in the room besides our heartbeats. I move my body back to the chair I was nestled in beside her bed, hand still gripping hers, mouth clutching in the several words I'm dying to say but not sure how.

  I bring her hand to my lips and place a very soft kiss on the back of it. “I'm so glad you're OK. I remember when Mom got the flu. She was too stubborn to believe it until she could hardly move. Dehydration. Exhaustion. It was on the verge of killing her from the inside out. She was rushed to the ER.”

  “Striker?”

  “We hadn't lived here that long. He was on call. Saved her life. I missed three days of school. I stayed by her bedside until she woke up.”

  “Where was Whiskey?”

  “Sir.” I nod slowly the words, bitter to this day. “Sir was on active duty. Couldn't even reach him to let him know she was in the hospital. He had no idea until we returned home that she had even been sick. His wife almost died, and he was clueless. I told myself while I was at the hospital with her I would never join the military.”

  Not realizing my head was lowered, I feel Haven use her free hand to lift my face back to hers. I get wrapped up in the comfort she's trying to provide in her time of weakness. God, how selfish am I? It’s her time of need, and I'm running in circles in my own head about ancient history.

  “What changed your mind?”

  A flash of my mom dropping to the floor, Sir throwing her favorite glass vase, his stone-cold face at her burial run through my brain. Stiffening, I look at her, feeling more of my wall demolished, “Death.”

  69 Days Till Deployment

  With the hospital scare just a few days behind us, I can tell Haven is beginning to feel smothered. I wasn't comfortable leaving her in the beginning. After all, she was most likely poisoned by Leighyani. I don’t care what Striker thinks. There’s no telling what that girl will do if given the chance. But I could see that Haven needed some space. That's why I'm sitting here with a beer in my hands instead of her hands in mine. Because I'm trying to do the right thing. Honestly, it's getting harder to know what the right thing is. I thought sending Leighyani to jail for attempted murder would be the right thing, but I talked myself off that ledge of extreme. All I can say regarding her right now is that she's lucky she's not a male because jail would feel like paradise compared to the state I would put her in.

  “Stranger,” Glove mocks my presence as I relax in the outdoor patio chair on the first-floor apartment balcony.

  “Seriously,” Lordy hops up on the edge of the railing. “We should start calling you ghost instead.”

  I don't argue. They're right. It's like my brain has two modes, Haven Offense and Haven Defense. They've been calling. And calling. Texting. Voice mails. I've been ignoring most. Texting only so they know I'm alive. The last time I saw them was that day in the gym. Completely out of character for me.

  “Life's been a bit busy.”

  “No lay is that good that you can't climb out occasionally to hang with your brothers,” Glove's description of Haven is repulsive, and I fight the desire to strike him down off the balcony railing.

  “Aside from the colorful way Glove put it, I agree,” Lordy nods.

  “That's not the case.”

  Glove looks displeased, “You mean you haven't been fucking like a porn star?”

  “No.”

  “Like a porn novel?” Lordy tries to offer backup.

  “No. No sex. Sex has not been what's got me busy.”

  Confused, Glove takes a long drink of his beer and then shrugs. “Then we're listening. And if sex is involved at all, start there.”

  I roll my eyes. If anything, I owe them part of the story. Maybe I'll keep out the details of how my ex-girlfriend tried to kill my new girlfriend. I don't think I can handle any of Glove's sick, twisted threesome jokes or Lordy's WE channel ones.

  “Truth?” Placing my beer down, I start, “My girl, she was in the hospital.”

  “You knocked her up?” Glove points suspiciously at me.

  “Not always about sex, Glove,” I shake my head at him again. I swear, walking stereotype.

  “What happened?” Lordy gets back on topic.

  “She, um, had a severe food allergy and food poisoning. S
he was out cold for three days.”

  “Holy shit!” they say in unison.

  Lordy takes a sip of his beer before asking, “She OK?”

  “Yeah. I mean, she is now.”

  “What the fuck did she eat?” Glove's inability to show grown-up emotions can be as relieving as it is obnoxious.

  “Soup.” I divert the conversation, “After three days in the hospital, I've just been trying to keep any eye on her, ya know?”

  “That's crazy,” Lordy's voice has more concern in it than before. He knows that this scare was huge. The girl I'm madly in love with almost died while I watched. While he's as annoying as his counterpart quite often, he gets the idea of love more than I do. “Are you OK?”

  Leaning forward, elbows on my knees, I shrug. “More or less.” Am I OK? Yeah, I'm OK. Am I happy? Sometimes. The idea of me nearly losing my future, watching it slip from life, letting death take someone else I love away still creeps into my mind, playing tricks with it. I'm sure I'll get through it. Every time I see Haven smile, everything else melts away, those fears and insecurities included.

  “I guess that's a valid reason,” Glove shrugs. “I'll let you play the 'My girlfriend could've died' card. Just this one time.”

  Confused and irritated at the way he’s making light of a very terrifying situation, I shrug, “Thanks?”

  “Wanna shoot with us after we report to base?” Check-in is a couple days away. I'll already be out. Plus, it'll keep them from nagging at me about not spending enough time with them. I don't necessarily care that they don't have adequate time with me, but they are my brothers in arms, and I know Haven is going to get sick of my face being in hers soon if I don't attempt to return to normality. Normality is what she needs, even if that means shoving down the unimaginable horror that her near-death experience brought to me, to the pit of my stomach.