The Asset

by Anna del Mar

  He flashed me an ornery glance. “You said you wanted me out of your house.”

  “Not like this.”

  “I’m not going back to the hospital,” he said. “I’m not.”

  Neil uttered a pitiful groan.

  “Ash, be reasonable.” I stood up from the floor. “You’re going to break your neck.”

  “I don’t get you,” he said. “One minute you’re throwing me out, the next minute you’re trying to talk me out of leaving.”

  I didn’t get me either, but I supposed schizophrenic behavior happened when one’s survival instinct clashed with one’s human decency.

  “Please, Ash, go downstairs,” I said. “Surely you can reason with that lady.”

  “Reason with Gunny Watkins?” He scoffed. “Impossible. She’s the most obstinate, stubborn, pig-headed jarhead I’ve ever met.”

  “I beg to disagree,” a voice announced at the door.

  Ash and I turned in unison. Gunny Watkins stood at the threshold. Neither he nor I had heard her come up the stairs. She held her tablet in one hand and Ash’s bag in the other, the same duffel he’d lowered out the window only a few minutes before. She marched into the bedroom and dropped the duffel at Ash’s feet.

  “You’re the most obstinate, stubborn, pig-headed jarhead I’ve ever met,” she said. “And you’re not going anywhere, sir.”

  Ash glanced at the window. There was a good chance he could make it and, by God, he longed to try. Neil circled around him, pressing his body to his legs. Taking my cues from the dog, I inched closer to Ash, wound my arm through his elbow and squeezed his arm.

  “Easy now,” I muttered. “Don’t do anything rash.”

  He gave me the strangest look.

  “Gunny,” I said, “Major Hunter doesn’t want to go back to the hospital.”

  “Then perhaps he’ll agree to go to the nursing home.”

  “No fucking way,” Ash said.

  “Sir, are you set on giving me hell?” The gunny plopped her hefty frame in the chair. “Please, sir, sit down.”

  My knees bent automatically and my bum hit the mattress, but Ash didn’t budge. He stood his ground and locked stares with Gunny Watson.

  “Sir, with all due respect, what part of sit your ass down don’t you understand?”

  I tugged on Ash’s arm. “Please?”

  He let out a sigh and, wincing, lowered himself next to me. His fingers clamped around the edge of the mattress. Neil settled his paw on Ash’s lap. I worried.

  Sure, Ash had extraordinary stamina, but he’d gotten out of bed prematurely, he hadn’t eaten anything substantial in days and he wasn’t getting his antibiotics at the moment. Plus, he probably hurt a lot, not to mention that he was under a lot of stress

  “Excuse me?” I lifted a finger in the air and pointed to the desk. “May I?”

  “Proceed,” the gunny said.

  I got up, retrieved the next dose of pills, poured a glass of water and handed it to Ash. For the first time, he didn’t argue with me. He downed the pills and the water in a gulp. I unknotted the plastic hose on the IV stand and connected it to the needle in his arm as Jordan had taught me.

  “If it’ll get you off my back,” Ash said, “I’ll resign my commission.” The way he just sat there with his shoulders bunched up reminded me of a cornered animal waiting for a chance to strike.

  “You can resign your commission all you want, sir,” the gunny said, “but I don’t see the Marine Corps accepting your resignation just yet. You’re a highly trained asset, a big-ticket investment. Besides, paperwork takes time. Even if someone were to approve your request—which I doubt it—it would take months before it took effect, sir.”

  Ash’s knuckles whitened around the mattress. “You enjoy this exercise in petty power, don’t you?”

  “Is that how you see it, sir?” Gunny Watkins scoffed. “I thought I was doing my job.”

  “To keep me trapped in that hospital?”

  “My mission is to ensure that you heal, sir, and that hospital, along with the doctors and nurses in it, provide the best possible setting for you to do that.”

  “They wanted to chop off my leg.”

  “Amputation was only one of a number of options,” the gunny said. “You need to go back so they can decide what the best course of treatment is for you.”

  “I’m not going back.”

  “Sir, I’ve got orders and so do you,” the gunny said. “You will follow those orders or I’ll take you into custody for insubordination. You’re a war hero, sir. The Purple Heart, the Navy Cross, so many awards, so many commendations. Your superiors are recommending you for the Medal of Honor. Did you know that?”

  Ash grumbled. “I don’t want any more medals.”

  “With all due respect, sir, the Marine Corps doesn’t take orders from you.”

  “Medals should be given to those who really deserve it,” Ash said. “And that’s not me, since I’m alive and my friends are dead.”

  Survivor’s guilt. I carried it deep inside. So many people had died instead of me. I stared at Ash. I understood how he felt. How had he earned all those medals? What did Gunny Watkins mean when she said he was a war hero and a high investment asset?

  Whatever it was, I could almost hear Wynona’s voice in the back of my head, urging me to help her grandson.

  “Um, Gunny?” I said. “Surely you wouldn’t throw a wounded war hero in the brig?”

  “We’d prefer that the major come with us voluntarily,” the gunny admitted. “But if I have to take him into custody for his own safety, I’ll do it.”

  Ash rumbled. “That’s a load of crap and you know it.”

  “Would you prefer to be declared unfit for service, sir?”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh, yes, I would, if it’s in your best interest. Respectfully, sir, your state of mind is questionable at best.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “In addition, if you refuse to cooperate, I’ll have to remove the dog from your custody.”

  Ash’s hands curled into fists. “You will not take my dog.”

  “Sir, the dog was given to you by the Wounded Warrior Animal Companion Program. The policies of that program state that you must be capable of caring for him—”

  “I take excellent care of my dog.”

  “How can you take care of your dog if you can barely manage to take care of yourself?” the gunny said. “One call to the program director and he’s gone.”

  “You just want to fuck with my head.”

  Ash was too proud and upset to help himself, and Gunny Watkins would’ve been better suited to lead a charge or a firing squad than to reason with someone as stubborn as Ash. But maybe if I put my wits to it, I could somehow maneuver the woman into a compromise.

  “Let’s be logical about this,” I said. “You don’t want to take this man’s service dog any more than you want to throw him in the brig. There’s got to be an alternative to returning Major Hunter to the hospital. Surely a marine should be allowed to convalesce closer to home?”

  “Ah, now, an intelligent question.” The gunny let out a blustery breath. “That’s true for a marine who has been medically released from the hospital—not the case for Major Hunter.”

  The gunny perched a pair of reading glasses on her nose and, punching the screen with a stout finger, brought up a file and scrolled down the document.

  “Let’s see,” she said. “The major’s leg and foot require additional medical treatment. According to the records, they’ve suffered several staph infections. The ruptured eardrum was healing, but needed to be evaluated for recurrent infections and hearing loss. Same with the collapsed lung. There’s also the issue of Major Hunter’s kidney function, which requires regular follow-up to ensure t
hat the remaining kidney stabilizes.”

  I looked to Ash. “You’re missing a kidney?”

  “You only need one,” he said defensively.

  “The major’s TBI also requires long-term monitoring and regular evaluations.”

  “TBI?” I asked.

  “Traumatic brain injury,” the gunny said.

  I opened my mouth and closed it. “You suffered a traumatic brain injury?”

  “My head got banged up in the explosion,” Ash said. “That’s all.”

  “Explosion?”

  “Major Hunter was in a coma for three weeks.”

  Holy Mother. That’s why he hadn’t come back to Copperhill for the funeral, because he’d been in a coma on the day we buried Wynona.

  “I’m not nuts, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Ash turned to me. “I swear I’m not fucking nuts.”

  “I know that,” I said. “You’re just naturally profane, stubborn and irritating.”

  “Sounds about right,” Gunny Watkins said. “I didn’t say that you were nuts, sir, but you’ve got unresolved medical issues. You refused to talk to the therapist and you haven’t undergone your premedical release evaluation. As far as the doctors are concerned, you’re not safe to be on your own recognizance.”

  “What now?” Ash shook his head. “Do you think I’m going to turn into a mass murderer?”

  “No, sir, I do not,” she said in her exacting tone. “But you haven’t followed the standard protocols and you refuse to follow orders. You may have tricked the hospital staff into letting you go, but you’re not officially discharged. You’re not even supposed to be driving. Even if you were able to straighten the hospital situation, according to regulations, you’d need a caregiver. We can’t have you running around without supervision, sir.”

  “That’s a really long way of saying that I’m fucked.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “What’s the Corps’s definition of a caregiver?”

  “A caregiver is a person who provides direct care, protection and supervision for a marine who’s injured or ill,” the gunny explained. “Given Major Hunter’s conditions and stage of treatment—not to mention his recent history of insubordination and noncompliance—he requires a full-time caregiver.”

  Ash swore under his breath. “That’s the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard.”

  “What about a home health care agency?” I asked.

  “He needs ongoing observation,” the gunny said.

  “So what you’re saying is not that I need a caregiver,” Ash said, “but rather a caretaker, someone to watch over me, as if I were a useless, decrepit, dilapidated old building, a nonoperating military installation waiting to be decommissioned and demolished.”

  “That’s not what I said, sir.”

  “That’s exactly what you implied.”

  “Caregiver, caretaker, call it what you will.”

  “I don’t need a fucking caretaker!”

  These two were about to come to blows.

  “Gunny,” I said. “Couldn’t you designate a caregiver for Major Hunter and let him be?”

  “Therein lies the problem,” the gunny said. “In his case, there are no family members to provide ongoing care, so the Corps must assume responsibility.”

  Life was throwing some hard pitches at me and I couldn’t dodge them all. My thoughts wavered from one extreme to the other. A few days ago I’d taken in Ash Hunter. Thirty minutes ago I’d asked him to leave my house for some very valid reasons. What the heck was I thinking now?

  As if sensing my unease, Neil padded over to me and settled his head on my lap. I petted him between the ears. Part of me understood exactly how Ash felt—trapped, isolated and without recourse—confused, desperate and afraid. He was as alone in the world as I was. He’d come here to heal but couldn’t, because his home had burned down and his grandmother was dead. The other part of me wanted to throttle my empathic version.

  I fingered the obsidian pendant hanging around my neck. If the dead could speak from their graves, Wynona Hunter would be shouting my ear off just about now. I’d already set aside my safety to help out her grandson once. But this...this could be even more dangerous.

  “I’m Major Hunter’s landlord,” I said tentatively. “Couldn’t I care for him?”

  Ash stared at me. “Why the hell would you do that?”

  Gunny Watkins adjusted her glasses and tapped on her tablet. “I’m afraid that under the current rules, landlords don’t qualify as viable caregivers.”

  Ash shook his head. “So it’s back to I’m fucked all over again.”

  “Watch your temper, will you?” I said. “So, Gunny, the caregiver has to be a family member?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I see.” Don’t ask. It won’t work. Bad idea. “Is a girlfriend considered a family member?”

  Both Ash and Gunny Watkins stared at me as if I’d lost my mind, which I probably had. Ash started to say something.

  “Hush.” I looked to Gunny. “Well?”

  “I believe so.” She scrolled down her screen. “Yes, here it is. Girlfriends can become official caregivers.”

  “Well, then, that settles it,” I said. “I’m Ash’s girlfriend and I’m willing to be his caretaker—I mean, caregiver.”

  The silence in the room was deafening. Ash stared at me as if frogs and snakes had just leaped out of my mouth. Gunny Watkins eyed me as if she’d never seen me until this second. The internal throttling had already started. Such a freaking fool.

  The gunny shook her head. “I don’t know about this...”

  “Yeah, me neither,” Ash muttered.

  “Wait.” The gunny consulted her file. “Didn’t I read something about a girlfriend in the record? Yes, here it is. There was a girlfriend. She declined our approach.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Ash flinch. He’d had a girlfriend, but she’d wanted nothing to do with him after he got wounded. That had to hurt.

  “Um...well... I’m not that girlfriend,” I said. “I came after.”

  Ash rumbled. “Lia...”

  “Hard to believe that you two are in any kind of relationship.” Gunny’s shrewd little eyes shifted between Ash and me. “You don’t seem to like each other much.”

  “We quarrel sometimes.” I groped for Ash’s hand. “But every couple does. Isn’t that true, honey?”

  “Honey?” Ash’s hand went rigid in my hold. For a moment I feared the idiot would ruin my good work. He stared at me long and hard, bewildered blue eyes dark like the roiling sea. He was about to say something, when the gunny’s cell rang.

  She looked at the number on the screen and got up. “Excuse me. I’ve got brass on the line. I’ll be right back.” She put her cell to her ear and stepped out of the room.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ash demanded as soon as the gunny was out of earshot.

  “I’m trying to keep your ass out of that hospital you hate so much.”

  “No way,” he said. “I don’t need your help.”

  “You might be wrong about that.”

  “If it wasn’t for you, I would’ve gotten away.”

  “Excuse me for sparing your neck, not to mention your leg and Neil,” I whispered testily. “I’m sorry if you find the idea of me being your girlfriend insulting.”

  “Insulting?” he said. “More like infuriating.”

  “Well,” I said, “I couldn’t think of anything else and I didn’t hear a single, helpful, original thought coming from you.”

  He let out an exasperated breath.

  “It’s your choice,” I said, “If the idea rankles you so much, you can go back the hospital.”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

>   He hesitated. “I don’t want a pity girlfriend.”

  “A what?”

  “A pity girlfriend, you know, the girl that hangs out with the crippled grunt ’cause she feels sorry for him.”

  I raised my hands to the sky and dropped them to my lap in frustration. “I can’t be your pity girlfriend,” I said. “It’s impossible.”

  He frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because a, I’m not your real girlfriend and b, I don’t pity you.”

  “Then why the hell are you trying to help me?”

  “I told you, because your grandmother was very kind to me.”

  “If that’s true, why did you throw me out?”

  I groaned. “Because of this!”

  “What?”

  “This,” I said. “You ask too many questions.”

  “Lady, I can’t keep up,” he said. “This conversation is giving me whiplash.”

  “Hush.” I gestured toward the landing, where the gunny spoke on the phone. “Do you want to make this even harder than it is?”

  “Look, Lia.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t want your charity. I’m not that kind of a guy.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Here’s the deal. I’m willing to rent you a room and I’ll sign on to be your caretaker—sorry, caregiver—until you’re able to be on your own. But I’ve got a couple of conditions and you’ve got to swear you’ll abide by them.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Here we go again.”

  “First, if we pull this off, you’ll go see the doctors and you’ll work hard to get better. This is a temporary arrangement, a limited-time engagement. Understand? The objective is for you to get well as fast as possible so that you can be on your own.”

  “And out of your hair, I get that,” he said. “Here’s the trouble with all of this: I don’t believe in one-way tickets. What’s in it for you?”

  “I get my rent, which I need in order to make ends meet. I also get the benefit of having you and Neil around to protect my rescued animals when I’m at work.”

  He looked mildly encouraged. “You want me to shoot that mountain lion?”

  “No, I don’t want you to shoot anything or anyone,” I said pointedly. “I just need you to protect my animals and keep the danger away, at least until Fish and Wildlife show up.”