Purple Hearts

by Tess Wakefield

“I quit,” I said, avoiding his eyes.

  “And I’m the only diabetic in this household,” Cassie said with a wry smile. The doctor ignored the joke.

  “Great. So. I wrote all this down, but I’ll just tell you now, too, because this is important. Your knee will naturally tend to slip out of place, but we have to keep these distinct parts as close together as possible while they heal. To prevent slipping, don’t experiment by putting more pressure on that leg than what the plan lays out here. Whenever you give more unexpected pressure, there will be more pain.” Dr. Rosen tapped the table. “And with that in mind, stay the course with OxyContin but don’t take more than prescribed.”

  I was quick to say “Of course.” Dr. Rosen looked at me through his bifocals. My gut clenched. Maybe my answer was too quick.

  “Not only because it’s addictive, but because you need to know what your pain limit is. Pain is the alert system for slippage.”

  More like pain was the alert system for everything. Wake up: Hey, this sucks. Move: Hey, this sucks, too. Think: Hey, did I mention how much this sucks? “Got it. Thank you, sir.”

  He shook our hands and wished us luck. We turned to Yarvis and the woman, Fern, beside us, who were muttering together over another stack of paper.

  Yarvis nodded and Fern began to speak. Very fast.

  “So, a little about us. After a family completes a brief enrollment process which includes signing a few forms, providing contact information for their appropriate VA case manager—”

  “Is that you?” Cassie interrupted, looking at Yarvis.

  “No, I just work for the hospital. You gotta register down at the VA for one of their caseworkers.”

  “Right,” Fern continued. “Anyway, we’d get a rundown on your financial situation. Then we assign a support coordinator. The SC then contacts the family caregiver and begins to develop an understanding of the family’s unique situation.”

  “Do you have a caregiver lined up?” Yarvis asked.

  Cassie and I looked at each other. “You mean, like a nurse?” Cassie asked.

  “No,” I answered. “We don’t.”

  “Not yet,” Cassie added.

  “But all that sounds great.” I swallowed, hoping that was the right thing to say.

  Fern nodded. “Then we leverage available resources from government, nonprofit, and community organizations. The SC reaches out to the resource, describes the family’s situation, ensures a solution is available, and then serves as an ongoing advocate until the solution is delivered.”

  Whoa, I wanted to say. Slow down.

  Cassie spoke. “You say ‘ongoing advocate.’ How long does this process usually take?”

  “It depends on how quickly the government resources respond. But we’re pretty good about it in San Antonio. A month at best.”

  A month? Would I even need in-home help by then?

  “Oh. We’ll be in Austin,” Cassie said. “Is that a problem?”

  Fern looked at Yarvis. “Not at all. I’ll print off a list of organizations in Austin.”

  Fern went across the hall to the small bank of computers and printers available for patient use. I took a deep breath, and gave Cassie a look that I hoped was reassuring. She pressed her lips into a small smile in return. Maybe Fern was overestimating the time it all took, just to be safe. Maybe all of this would be quick and easy. Fern returned with a big smile, holding a few papers before saying her good-byes.

  “I’ll be in my office until I have a home visit at two,” Yarvis said. “Holler when you need me, and I’ll help you—you know—navigate.”

  He stood, took another sip of coffee, and limped away.

  Cassie pulled the list of options toward her, and then, after a moment, slid them toward me. I noticed she had painted her nails a vivid red, and they looked longer. Except for the thumbnail. It was still bitten down to a stub and the damage looked recent. Made sense.

  “A month. And until then we just . . . deal?”

  I shrugged.

  “Well?” she said, gesturing to the stack.

  I began to read:

  A Million Thanks

  Able Forces—Executive Level Jobs

  African American Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Association

  After Deployment

  Aggie Veterans—Texas A & M University

  Air Compassion for Veterans

  Air Force Sergeants Association South Central Divisions

  Airlift Hope

  I scanned the Bs, the Cs, all the way through the end of the list.

  “Most of these don’t even apply to me,” I said.

  Cassie sighed.

  “Wha—” I began, and stopped. I was about to ask, What should we do? but I looked at Cassie’s eyes, reading the list with confusion, her leg twitching under the table. When we’d agreed to this arrangement, she hadn’t signed up for playing nurse, or providing transportation to and from a hospital in Austin where I could do PT. “What do you think I should do?”

  She shrugged, biting her thumbnail. “You’re the veteran in question.”

  “Yeah, but it’s your house.”

  “Apartment,” she corrected.

  “Right.” God, I hoped there was enough room for a wheelchair to move around. I wanted to ask her, but it wouldn’t make a difference either way. We’d still be living there.

  She scanned the list, and looked back at me. “I don’t think you’re going to like my answer.”

  “What?”

  She scooted her chair closer to me. I could smell her cucumber shampoo. She got quiet. “I say we avoid all this paperwork as much as possible.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  She looked over her shoulder and turned back to me, continuing. “I mean, if you’re okay with it, I could just do the stuff you need until you’re able to move around on your own. We have the exercises in your file.”

  I started to play with the idea. “We go off the grid.”

  “Exactly.” Her gaze was intent on me. “That way we don’t have a paper trail to deal with when we want to divorce. Like all these forms that she was talking about? I’m going to be registered as your spouse.”

  She waved her hand, dismissing that part, but my stomach still jumped whenever anyone, including Cassie herself, referred to us as husband and wife. Her face had gotten a little red, too.

  “And if it all goes through, someone will be in the house with us. A lot. That’s another person to fool. Then when we split, they’re going to need a whole new round of paperwork, right?” She held up the list. “And then there might be some programs you might not even be eligible for anymore, et cetera, et cetera.”

  I voiced what I had thought earlier. “Plus I might be walking again by the time we even get enrolled.”

  “True!” she said. “So I say we say fuck it. Get through the next month or so until your discharge, we part ways, and then, if you still need help, you can apply for it then.”

  I nodded, considering. I was glad I hadn’t taken another pill. This plan would have gone over my head, and I would have been happy to let it. “Yeah, why bring in more people and institutions that we have to lie to?”

  “Bingo.” Cassie leaned back, a contented smile on her face. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.” Her smile then turned into a quizzical look. “You’re good at listening. When you want to be.”

  I tried not to let a smile take over my face, giving away the punch line. “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “Well, maybe because you weren’t as good at listen—” Cassie began, then she got the joke. She bumped my arm with her fist.

  As she stood, my muscles twitched on instinct to stand with her. For a minute, I had almost forgotten I was injured.

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Whatever you say, honey,” I teased.

  She hated that nickname, above all nicknames we threw at each other. But this time she just smiled at me. “ ‘Honey’ doesn’t make me feel awkward anymore. Nothing can make me feel awkwa
rd anymore. I mean, come on, I’ve seen your tibia.”

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  Cassie

  Luke and I left the cafeteria. He had one last physical therapy appointment before his discharge, which was all the way across the hospital and on the third floor. He began to struggle a few minutes in, after we stopped joking. It wasn’t until he was out of breath that he gave up trying to manipulate his wheels himself. I silently eased behind him and helped him push forward.

  He was quiet when we reached the elevator. He had seemed fine minutes before. Another mood swing. This was becoming a pattern. When the doors opened, he muttered, “You don’t have to come.”

  “I should, though,” I replied. “To see what your exercises look like if I need to help you.”

  He didn’t respond. He was a runner, I reminded myself. He must hate not being able to move in the ways he used to.

  I wanted to remind him that he wasn’t as helpless as he felt. Before he’d gotten tired, he’d been steering with a certain expertise, turning quickly around corners and moving at least as fast as anyone could walk. And he sat tall in his chair, still browned by the Afghanistan sun, face a little hollow but as handsome as ever.

  Jake was waiting on the third floor for us; he’d wanted to come help see Luke off.

  “Evening, Private,” he said, hands on the hips of his oil-splattered jeans and Bruce Springsteen T-shirt. They looked like brothers in small ways—in the joints, in the eyebrows—but Jake was softer everywhere, from his rounder cheeks to his thick thighs and middle, to his curly hair.

  I put my hand on Luke’s shoulder. I felt him relax. The friendlier Jake was to him, I’d noticed, the happier he was.

  “Hiya, Juke,” Luke said.

  Jake snorted, giving me an embarrassed look. “Haven’t heard that nickname in a while,” he said. “Hailey’s getting something from the car, she’ll be here in a few.”

  We continued down the hall past the row of windows behind which patients of varying mobility sat on exercise balls, balanced on beams, stretched bands with their shoulders.

  “Well, maybe because you haven’t juked in a while,” Luke shot back.

  “What’s juking?” I asked.

  “It’s a fake-out move in sports that Jake used to be good at,” Luke said over his shoulder. “Honey,” he added, loud enough for Jake to hear.

  Luke was greeted by a therapist in scrubs with a pixie cut and New Balances, who ushered him inside to show him some stretches. His left leg was two centimeters shorter than his right, the doctor had told us, but he would regain full mobility if he stuck to his routine. Jake and I watched from the windows.

  “Y’all get everything sorted out with the social worker?” Jake asked.

  The woman had Luke sitting on the floor, bending and straightening his leg. I had to look away every time his face contorted with pain. He could barely get his knee past 180 degrees.

  “For the most part,” I answered evasively.

  “I’d love to say Hailey and I will help out, but”—he paused, sighing—“I’m just not ready to take that on. We got our little JJ at home. And Luke’s got more problems than being in a wheelchair, as you know.”

  He gave me a look of camaraderie, like, Am I right?

  I froze. He may have been right, but I didn’t know what he was talking about. But it was probably something I was supposed to know. And it wasn’t like Luke and I had the excuse of knowing each other only a week this time. We were five months into marriage now, almost six. So I gave him the same look back, raising my eyebrows, like, Whew, you’re telling me.

  “He wasn’t always like this, though.”

  I offered the trait about Luke I was most sure about. “Moody?”

  “Ah, no, he was always moody, just like our dad. But the good moods used to be bigger, more frequent. But then he took on a lot of responsibility right away after our mama passed. Our dad all but checked out. He practically raised me.”

  “He didn’t mention that.” At his words, some hard part of me melted, the stored annoyance dissolving with images of Luke as a boy holding his brother’s hand as he crossed the street. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

  “You two are just in a whirlwind of—” Jake was at a loss for words, spinning his hands around. “Just going for it? Aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, and composed an adoring gaze as the nurse helped Luke prop himself up on a bar to stand, his face clenched with effort.

  “He seems happy with you,” Jake said, following my eyes.

  “Does he?” I realized the tone of surprise in my voice a little too late. Luckily Jake didn’t seem to notice.

  “I mean, look.” Jake nodded toward Luke, who was now raising his chin at us, lifting his hand with a relaxed smile, signaling five minutes. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

  “Hey, it’s my job,” I said, shrugging. “And my pleasure, of course,” I added quickly. My heart started pounding. I thought of our plan to eke out the next few months on our own.

  Being a bartender is practically half nurse, I figured. All that throw up? I’m used to long hours and demanding people with weird needs.

  But looking at Luke, his face twisted in agony, his leg a spider web of red flesh and scar tissue, I wondered what the hell we were in for.

  Luke

  After Cassie left, Jake and Hailey got ready to wheel me to freedom. I’d shoved the bottle into my bag just in time when I’d heard their voices down the hall from my room. Now, thank the-whoever-above, my evening pill was cushioning every moment in a hand-spun cloud.

  “I packed my stuff in there,” I said, reaching for my army bag. “If you could just hand it to me, I’ll hook it on my chair.”

  “I’ll grab it!” Hailey offered, hoisting it on her shoulder.

  “Oh, okay. Thank you,” I said, trying to be casual.

  What if they found them and thought I was abusing again? Taking pills for pain wasn’t abuse. But Hailey and Jake were counting on me to stay sober, all the way sober. I mean, we hadn’t talked about it explicitly, but I assumed that they assumed I was. Based on the fact that they were talking to me at all.

  But if I stayed completely sober, no pills, no anything, I couldn’t talk or think or move without feeling my leg wrung out like a sponge, my face twisting involuntarily, and the looks on their faces, the pitying, sad-eyed looks I’d seen them make while I did PT. I couldn’t take those. With Oxy it was as if the knives were made of plastic, the memory hooks made for fish. And even Yarvis had said it was a good idea to take the pills.

  One thing at a time, he’d always tell me when I left the PT room covered in sweat. Without Oxy, it was everything at once. Johnno’s gonna kill me, Cassie’s gonna hate me, Dad already hates me, Frankie’s dead. Oxy made everything simple. One thing.

  Get a haircut.

  Get in the van.

  Find some space in Cassie’s house.

  Make myself walk. Make myself run. Be someone new.

  One thing at a time.

  I called it “cloud head.” My cloud head was carefree, dumb, sweet, like a kid. Cloud head didn’t want too many details. Cloud head knew that everything was going to be okay. My regular head couldn’t do that. My regular head would get caught up in everything that could go wrong, and lash out. I needed cloud head for tough times, so that they looked more simple and nice than they actually were, so I could get through them without worrying so much. And then when I didn’t worry so much, people liked me more.

  “So when are you expected to walk again?” Jake asked.

  Regular head didn’t like this question, because I didn’t know. It depended on how well the home PT exercises worked. But cloud head stepped in. “Soon, I hope. They gave me a cane, too, for when I’m ready to move out of the chair.”

  “That’s good to hear, man,” Jake said.

  “Who knows,” I said. “Maybe I’ll be better enough to shoot some hoops soon.”

  “We’ll see,” Jake said.

&
nbsp; Hailey had brought clippers from home and started to give my hair a buzz. I let myself enjoy her fingers on my scalp. Jake’s answer wasn’t a no, and here I was, getting a haircut, just like I’d wanted. Cloud head was working.

  See, that was my mistake before. That’s why I had gotten addicted. Because I wanted only cloud head. That’s no way to live. You couldn’t be too carefree, because then you’d stop caring completely, and you sure couldn’t care for the people you loved. I loved my brother and sister-in-law. I loved my nephew, JJ. I even loved my dad. I still needed cloud head to be happy, but this time I wouldn’t let it take over.

  When we were little, Jake and I used to dribble our basketballs down to the air-conditioned gym at the high school and shoot baskets. I was never very good, but he was great, so I signed him up for all the camps. We’d shoot hoops until it got cool enough to go back outside, where we’d hit ground balls to each other. We could escape and be content in our own little town and no one expected anything of us, except to be on time for hamburgers at six. That’s kind of what cloud head reminded me of. That and running. Nowhere particular to be, just moving through the world. One foot in front of the other. Simple. Not great, not bad, just okay.

  “Are you excited to start nesting with your bride?” Hailey asked.

  Regular head would have gotten nervous at the very mention of Cassie, knowing that she was better at faking it than I was. Regular head wouldn’t know what to say.

  “Yeah, she’s great,” cloud head said. “She’s a musician.”

  “Oh, my! I didn’t know that. She always seems so shy.”

  “She’s very creative,” cloud head said.

  Jake pushed me through the automatic doors toward the transport van, where a nurse would drive me to Cassie’s house.

  Regular head started to panic. “I’ll see you in a couple weeks?” I asked. Jake was leaving again, and we hadn’t really gotten a chance to talk, for me to explain what my new plan for life was once I healed. Or rather, to explain that I needed to come up with a new plan, because I didn’t really have a plan yet. I guess I had been counting on the inspiration of nine months in the desert.

  “Maybe pick me up for a Bears game once the season starts up again?” I continued. The Bears were our high school team; they played where Jake and I used to practice.