“So, let’s see what your movement looks like. Come and sit down.” She sat him down in a chair and had the strange feeling of being suddenly taller than he was. He looked up at her and she could see the glimmer of a smirk on his face, but she was determined to ignore it.
“Lift your arm up,” she said, and he complied. She put her hand on his forearm as he lifted it up. She pressed against his elbow and shoulder, feeling for any protrusions or bumps. “Press down on my hands,” she instructed. His left arm was strong, but his right was noticeably weaker and he was right handed.
“So, what are you doing tonight?” he asked.
“Reading through thick, boring medical textbooks. Push my hands apart,” she said, and he put his hands between hers and pushed out. Again, she could feel how weak his right arm was. “Push up,” she said, placing her hand over his.
He winced, trying to hide it, but she saw the pain. “Does that hurt?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Lying to me isn’t going to make you get better any faster,” she chided.
“You know what would make me feel better?” he asked. “If I could sleep with my head on that fantastic chest of yours.” Because he was sitting and she was standing, her chest was right at his eye level. He licked his lips as he stared.
Cecily refused to blush or hide herself. “So it does hurt?” she said. “I’m glad you said something, because that can be fixed with some targeted exercises.”
“You know what else is a good exercise?” he asked.
“Sex?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“No,” he answered, standing up so that he was looking down her. “That’s inappropriate, Dr. Williams. I was going to suggest swimming.”
“Why don’t you tell me how you got the shoulder injury,” she said. “The more you tell me, the more I can help.”
He took a step back and his entire demeanor changed. It was as if he had turned to ice in front of her eyes.
“It was an attack,” he said. “When an attack happens it’s fast and loud.” He spoke quietly, his mouth set in a grimace. He advanced on her and, without meaning to, Cecily took a step back. “It’s loud,” he said, and they were only inches apart. “Nothing prepares you for how loud it is. One moment you’re straining your ears to hear anything and then suddenly your eardrums are exploding. The explosion kicks up the dust and you can’t see or hear anything. Then the bombs start, and the guns, and you're looking for your brothers.” He was practically on top of her, staring down into her eyes. “I don’t remember how I got the injury. I just remember the dust and my ears ringing, calling for backup, calling for my brothers and hearing only silence.”
“That sounds horrible,” she said, but she stared into his eyes as she said it. “But I’m here to help you. I’m not the enemy.”
“I don’t need your help,” he said. “I just need you to approve my paperwork so I can get back to the fight. Let’s get one thing straight. This entire thing,” he waved at the room, taking in the other vets and all the machinery, “is pointless paper-pushing. It’s a waste of time and I’ll only be better when it’s over and I’m back on the front.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “My appointment was only for an hour. I was here for an hour, so I’m done. Unless you want another quickie in the parking lot, I’m out of here.”
She shook her head, and he scoffed and grabbing his bag. He swept out of the room, slamming the door behind him as he left.
Chapter Five
Andy would have appreciated that. Actually, Andy would never have let him live that down.
“Only you, man. Only you could have a one night stand with your own doctor.”
Beckett was starting to wonder if it was troublesome how easily he could hear his dead friend’s voice. It was like Andy was right there next to him, standing in the elevator, walking towards Beckett’s bike. Andy was always there.
Three times a week. That was all. He had to go to therapy three times a week for six months and then he could go back to the fight. One visit down, only about eighty more to go. He hopped on his bike but found he didn't want to go back to his empty apartment. He wanted to shoot something.
He was at the range twenty minutes later, pounding bullets into his target. He hated that it hurt, but it did. His shoulder ached from the butt of the gun, but he wasn’t going to quit. He had to push himself. He would work night and day until they finally let him back out on the field.
He was at the gun range for three hours and then finally left. He still didn’t want to go home. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that he wanted to be with Cecily. He wanted her in his arms, his hands in her hair, but she had been clear enough about that. No doctor-patient fun times. It was a shame. He wasn’t sure if he would ever find a woman like that again.
Stopping at a gas station, he began to fill up his motorcycle when he heard a shout behind him.
“Hey! Stop it. That’s mine.”
“No! It’s mine. Mommy said I could have it!”
“Mommmmyyy!”
It was like nails on a chalkboard. A bunch of kids were all screaming at the same time. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore them, but they were too loud for that. There was a series of bangs and then a cry howled out over the gas station.
He turned around and saw a girl who looked to be about ten, and a boy a few years younger. The girl had managed to climb on top of a pile of tires and was sitting there like a queen while her brother screamed that it was his turn to climb to the top of the tires. The girl stuck her tongue out and the boy went screaming for his mother.
“Sara! Get down from there. All three of you need to calm down.” His jaw fell open when he saw the mother, and Beckett quickly turned around, praying that she hadn’t seen him. “I want to go,” one of the kids whined.
“We can leave in half an hour, once the tires are replaced.”
“Why do the tires have to be replaced?”
Beckett refused to turn around, but he could hear them clearly enough. There was only a moment of silence before the mother was yelling at them again to sit down, please, and just be quiet.
Patricia. If anything, it was a miracle he had gone this long without seeing her. Guilt gnawed at his stomach as he mentally urged the gas pump to go faster. He had promised Andy that he would visit Patricia and the kids. He had promised Andy that he would look after them, make sure they were OK.
He couldn't do it. He couldn’t look into Patricia’s eyes. He couldn't stand to see her. He glanced once over his shoulders and wished that he hadn’t. The youngest boy, Sam was his name, was the spitting image of Andy, same sandy blond hair, same button nose.
Andy hadn’t been perfect, but he had loved his family. He had always been faithful to Patricia. He would Skype with the kids, help them with their homework from the other side of the planet. They were all Andy thought about. Patricia and the kids, that was what kept him going. In the end, it hadn't been enough.
Finally, the gas tank was filled, and Beckett got on gratefully. Keeping his engine quiet he drove away, leaving Andy’s family behind.
Not my problem, he thought to himself. They aren’t my family; I don’t have a family. I only need to look out for me.
But the memories of the shouting children followed him all the way home. It seemed like there were kids on every corner, barefoot and playing in the spray of hoses, riding their bikes, eating ice cream. He got home, rushed up the stairs and slammed the door behind him.
He was shaking from head to toe and he didn’t know why. He ripped off his helmet and jacket as he stumbled towards the kitchen. He grabbed a glass and a bottle of bourbon and wondered when he would stop bothering with the glass all together. But he wasn’t there yet. He poured himself a heavy glass and chugged it before filling it again.
His nerves finally calmed, but tiredness had snuck up on him. He peeled off his clothes, leaving a trail from the kitchen to the bathroom. He ran a bath, filling the tub with hot steaming water. Baths, showers
, water was another thing he missed in Afghanistan. Glass in hand, he sank down into the hot bath and felt his muscles slacken and relax.
He hadn’t eaten all day and the alcohol went straight to his head. The steam from the bath rose up all around him, filling his small bathroom. His head was spinning a little bit, but he felt pleasantly numb and far away. It was as if all of his problems had been lifted with the first gulp of his drink.
He looked at the amber liquid sitting on the edge of the tub. He would be lost without it. That was bad, it was a bad sign. But he was being careful. He knew how to walk on the knife’s edge and not get cut, he had done it every day in Afghanistan. He could keep the drinking under control. He would have to.
“Fuck this war.” Where had they been when Andy had said that? It was early December, the worst possible time for soldiers. Back home everything was festooned in red. Santa Claus laughed and smiled. There were candy canes and snow. Children were excited. But the Muslim nation of Afghanistan didn’t really go for Christmas. They certainly didn’t go all out like Americans did.
“Easy, man,” Beckett said. They were playing College Hoops on the PlayStation, and he turned his head around to make sure there were no commanding officers in the room with them.
“What?” Andy yelled, throwing his controller down. “Patricia’s stuck at home trying to wrangle our pennies together to buy Christmas gifts for three kids and I’m just supposed to sit here playing video games? They ask us to put down our lives for our country, but they don’t care about us or our family. All they care about is the fucking oil sitting under all this sand. I hate this place. I’m wasting my life in the desert.”
Beckett shut the game off and stood up. “Come on, man. Let’s get some air, you’ll feel better.”
“Yeah, that's exactly what I need. More sand in my lungs. What’s the point of going outside? There’s an oil fire ten miles out: like I really wanna go and breathe that.” Andy shook his head, stood up and started pacing around the room. They had decorated for Christmas with charity donations from back home. But in the military base, the glittery snowflakes and lines of thin garland looked especially sad.
Andy ripped a stretch of garland off the wall and shredded it, leaving a trail of small pieces of silver thread behind him. He got angry that December and stayed angry until he died.
Beckett had made a habit of going through these memories, searching for a time or a place where he should have intervened. Dozens of times Beckett had said nothing, just shook his head and walked away to give his friend some space. It had been the wrong call and he had made it over and over again.
If only he could go back. If only his memories were a road that could take him back to the past. He would do everything differently. He would get help for Andy. He would talk to him, help calm him down. The thoughts of what could have been haunted him day and night. If only, he thought to himself, if only everything had been different.
Chapter Six
Cecily sat down at her desk and looked at the mountain of files next to her. She had been at the hospital for just under a month but she already had more than a full caseload. For all the government’s talk of taking care of veterans, there still weren’t enough doctors, nurses or materials. Soldiers were asked to sacrifice everything and then were treated as an annoyance when they came home injured.
Cecily knew this all too well. She had watched it happen in her own family. She had been raised in the military. Europe, Africa, Vietnam: she had lived all over the world. No matter where she was, military barracks were always the same. The language and cuisine might be different, but the layout of the small bungalows the soldiers’ families lived in never changed.
How often had her father fought for his soldiers? They weren’t paid enough; their paltry medical care wasn’t enough. It broke her father’s heart to hear that one of his men was living on the streets. More often than not it meant that the soldier would end up living on their couch until her father could find them some sort of job.
Her mother was a saint, cooking and cleaning for the soldiers, mending their clothes, helping them prepare for their jobs.
“There’s no such thing as a lost cause,” her father would say. She believed him when he said that. Soldiers came back from war broken, with PSTD, alcoholism and injuries that led to opioid addictions. These were all problems that could be cured with hard work and dedication.
Cecily was older now, and she knew that it didn’t always work. Some people were never able to pull themselves back from the brink, but that didn’t mean you gave up on them. You helped as best you could and you kept helping them no matter what. They had lost everything protecting and serving their country and they deserved to be helped. They had earned it.
Beckett Mitchel’s folder was at the bottom of the stack. He had been her first appointment of the day. But now she slid that folder out from all the rest and opened it. The nurses had added more information, details from his psych evaluation and details from the accident that had given him his injury.
Distinguished Cross, Medal of Honor, three Silver Stars: decorated didn’t even begin to describe Beckett Mitchell. He had completed six tours and seen hundreds of hours of combat. His superior officers had nothing but good things to say about him. Smart, loyal, dedicated, the other men looked to him for guidance. Beckett was a leader. No wonder he was unhappy back here. He was built for war.
She flipped to the page that detailed the attack that had killed everyone else in his platoon. Except, of course, half the page was blacked out. It was confidential material that not even his doctor was allowed to see.
The platoon entered an abandoned house on the northern edge of....at... three men entered from the northern door. Approximately five minutes later a detonation was released presumably by...one officer and three soldiers inside at time of explosion. They came under heavy fire...reinforcements sent...Three US casualties inside...combatants dead...snipers on roof...Sergeant Beckett Mitchell refused to tell details at the scene. His later testimony has been countered by multiple witnesses at the scene. Investigation still in progress. Please note that this case is still pending and all information should be considered highly confidential.
If only she could see the information hidden under those little black lines. Something had happened in that shell of a building. Something bad. Something Beckett didn’t want to talk about. His psych evaluations were just as vague.
“Subject is eager to return to the field; however, he still has unresolved issues regarding his last tour of duty. He was childhood friends with one of the soldiers killed in the building that day, Andy Clarke, and is still very upset at the death of his friend. I have noticed slight inconsistencies in his story of the attack and it is my professional opinion that he has not told me the entire truth of the matter. More counseling is recommended.”
Should she include her sexual relationship with Beckett in the file? She hadn’t technically done anything wrong. Their relationship had taken place before she became his doctor and it wasn’t going to continue as long as he was her patient. Legally and ethically she was fine, but her conscience was still troubled.
He had been so confident and assured that night at the bar and here again at the hospital. But there was a darkness lurking underneath all that confidence, a sadness under the cocky exterior. He was pushing it farther and farther down, hoping if he pushed hard enough it would go away. Cecily knew better. The harder you pushed emotions down, the stronger they came back up.
She put his file down, but couldn't bring herself to reach for another one. There’s no such thing as a lost cause, her father had said. She still believed that. Beckett had seen awful things, but she knew she could bring him back from the edge. She just had to be careful. He was big and strong on the outside, but just like everyone else he was soft on the inside.
No more hook-ups with him, though. That was a tragedy. A small part of her wished she wasn’t his doctor. She wanted to go back to a time when he was just a hot soldier on leave
looking for some action. She could go back to O’Neils and run into him without any of this new knowledge she had. They could hook up and it would be simple and quick and fun.
But she did know, and there was no way to un-know something. She could never look at him as just a good time ever again. He was complicated now. He had been through hell and back and Cecily knew what waited for Beckett if he wasn’t very careful.
He would be angry and confused, and he would take it out on the wrong people. He would be dishonorably discharged, which meant finding a job in the civilian world would be near impossible. He would fall into debt, then alcoholism and homelessness. She could see the map to his ruin laid out, a step by step set of instructions for destroying a life.
She was told over and over again that even though she was a doctor, she could never save everyone. People needed to want to be saved. They needed to do the heavy lifting themselves. Doctors could only do so much.
What had happened the day of Beckett’s injury? Why didn’t his testimony match that of the witnesses? He was hiding something, that much had been clear. He had refused to give her a single detail of what had happened. Could it really have been that bad?
His body was broken, but his mind was worse. Beckett had managed to shake off his therapist, but Cecily was stronger than that. Beckett needed to tell someone what had really happened that day. He needed to heal, and telling the truth was the only way to do that. He could tell her. She could be a silent, non-judgmental listener to his truth. She wouldn’t add it to his file or tell anyone, and she knew that when he told her everything he would finally start to feel better. Now she just needed to get him to talk.
Chapter Seven
Beckett arrived for his physical therapy right on time. He hadn’t expected to see Cecily there again. He figured physical therapy would be like every other visit to the doctor: the nurses did all the work and the doc would blow in, nod a few times, approve the nurses’ diagnoses and then blow out. But no, Cecily was waiting for him by a row of weights.
ROMANCE: Older Man Younger Woman Romance: Daddy’s Business Friend (First Time Virgin Pregnancy Taboo Romance) (Alpha Male Contemporary Romance Short Stories) Page 17