Goodbye, Orchid

by Carol Van Den Hende

  Today, it was as if he wore Teflon. Hurt deflected right off him.

  “You and your stories of people who can do more with less. As if losing a limb makes them stronger.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure I can stand those people who think I’m a saint because I can live without an arm and a leg. It’s not like I have a choice. And if I did, I know what I’d choose.”

  “You say that now.” She looked up, holding the carbon fitting in place for him.

  His back to the wall of windows, Phoenix grasped the right side of the parallel bar and hauled himself upright. He eased weight onto his prosthetic leg.

  “It’s going to get better. You wait and see.”

  Standing, Phoenix’s view shifted from Nadine’s waist to over her head. His return to full stature lifted his mood, too. He limped a step towards the exit. “You know what, you might be right,” Phoenix said.

  CHAPTER 27

  SALUTE YOUR SOLUTION

  Phoenix

  FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 29

  Something was up. “Why are you pacing, Mom?” Phoenix asked, watching her wander around the ten-by-fifteen room he called home during rehab. She opened and shut drawers and doors, looking but not finding anything.

  “You sure you don’t want to bring your arm?” She waved a peach-hued and metal prosthesis, then peered into the bag she’d packed with clothes and toiletries.

  “You won’t tell me where I’m going, so how am I supposed to know if I’ll need an arm?” he goaded, not expecting an answer.

  “You want me to come with you?” She rearranged the items, seeking a way to make them more easily accessible for a one-handed guy.

  “You won’t tell me where I’m going, so how do I know if I’ll need you, Mom?”

  Caleb burst through the door. “Where we’re going Mom’s not needed,” he said, then strode over to kiss their mother.

  “You trained that soldier well,” Phoenix joked with his brother. “I couldn’t get even a hint out of her, much less a state secret.”

  “You’re closer than you think,” Caleb said, grabbing his twin’s suitcase and cane.

  “Hey, I can take that,” Phoenix complained, gesturing towards the bag.

  “No way.” Caleb stalked to the door, yanking it open without a backwards glance. “Bye, Mom.”

  Face lined with fatigue, Veronica leaned over Phoenix’s chair and wrapped both arms around him. “Have fun.”

  “You do the same. You deserve a rest.”

  Caleb poked his head back in through the doorway.

  “It’s just a weekend.”

  His mom let go, and he wheeled through the open door to follow his brother.

  Out on the street, Caleb’s red pickup sat idling.

  “You really weren’t expecting to stay long, were you?” Phoenix said. He rolled up to the side of the extended cab and pulled open the passenger door.

  “You need a hand?” Caleb asked, looking up from the driver’s side, where he’d slid the suitcase into the tiny back seat, next to an oversized duffel bag.

  “Literally, yes. But with getting into the car? No.”

  Phoenix stood, pivoted and sat on the leather bench seat, pulling his legs after him. He grabbed the cushion off the wheelchair and yanked the fabric handle straight up, folding the chair so that it would lie flat.

  Caleb came around to heft the chair into the bed of the truck, securing it to the ridged surface. He plopped into the driver’s seat and aimed the vehicle out of the city.

  They sped down the highway with heavy metal pulsing from the speakers, amiable in their silence for miles along the turnpike.

  “Heading south, I see,” Phoenix observed from the highway signs.

  “You sure are curious,” Caleb said, his face splitting into a rare grin.

  Phoenix smiled too. Beyond the mystery of their trip, trees radiated early fall glory against pale blue skies. An enormous maple tree bore orange-tipped leaves so warm he could taste the sun-kissed colors. A scarlet-tinged oak stood oblivious to the speeding cars.

  Caleb tapped the bottom of the steering wheel with one hand, in syncopation with the percussive music.

  Phoenix stretched, relaxing into the firm seat. “Bet you’re taking me wherever the unwanted get abandoned.”

  “That shit isn’t going to work with me,” Caleb said.

  “Good point. Save the pity card for Mom,” Phoenix countered, unperturbed. “With you, let me guess . . . pole dancing.”

  “Hah, we could do that. Although I don’t know why we’d go to DC for strippers when we could just stay in New York.”

  “Washington, as I suspected,” Phoenix said, proud of himself.

  Caleb frowned over the unintended reveal, and merged the truck onto Interstate 95. “Technically, we’re going to Maryland.”

  The sun shone directly overhead. They rode in silence for miles of highway, falling into the easy rhythm of the speeding traffic.

  Phoenix’s thoughts wandered. He sometimes wondered what his father would say about his accident. Dad had always tried to justify circumstances. How would he find justice in this situation? The masterful son for whom he had high expectations was now rendered powerless. The rambunctious son over whom he and Mom had fretted through countless nights was now in charge. Dad wouldn’t be focused on the flip of power. More likely, he’d be the only one to see clearly how much this accident had taken away. He’d see my position.

  Dad excelled at divining intentions. He’d understand that the nurses and therapists had an inherent motivation to exude optimism. That was their job, to get him up and functioning. They couldn’t afford to let him give up. Their job was to make him try, even when he resisted.

  Dad would see through his sarcastic shield. He’d know that snug against his son’s sharpness was a world of hurt and disbelief. He’d know that if Phoenix’s shield of toughness slipped, he’d feel the full weight of his pain. He would not be able to survive. He’d howl until the force of the sound exploded through his body, blowing him up into more bits than the train had.

  He pictured that look on Dad’s face when tragedy couldn’t be justified. His dad would be devastated over his son’s wasted potential.

  “You know, I was thinking about Dad,” Phoenix said.

  “God, I miss him,” Caleb responded, as if feeling the same sentiments as his twin. They were south of Baltimore and crossed over tributaries of the Chesapeake Bay.

  Phoenix shook away the lingering image of his father’s disappointment. He stared out the window, his thoughts turning to the other devastated parent.

  “How do you think Mom’s holding up?” he asked.

  “She’s strong. She’s doing okay,” Caleb replied.

  “I think she misses her friends.”

  This had been on his mind for weeks. Mom had little to do, so she was generating activity where none was needed, folding and unfolding his clothes, organizing his things, and who knew what her productivity had done to his apartment over these months. Phoenix was working on convincing her to head home once he’d been discharged to outpatient rehab.

  “You’ve got to let go of that Catholic guilt. I think she’s where she wants to be. Her Bunco group can wait.”

  “I’m going to encourage her to go back home soon.”

  “After your incident in the bathroom? Good luck with that.”

  “That’s ancient history,” Phoenix grumbled, but honestly, there were still days where not existing seemed preferable to his daily struggles.

  They finally exited the interstate to a wide avenue that cut through neighborhoods in the suburbs of Bethesda. “You hungry?” Caleb asked, looking around as they slowed from highway velocity to city speed limits.

  “Nope. You?”

  “No, but Mom made me promise we’d eat regular meals.”


  “If you don’t tell, I won’t tell.”

  Caleb slowed through the secondary roads, checking his phone’s map for directions.

  “Want me to navigate?” Phoenix offered, holding out his hand.

  “No need. We’re here.” Caleb turned into a long drive leading to a complex of white buildings. He headed for a massive guard shack manned by men built like oaks.

  “IDs?” asked the first military policeman, and checked his clipboard. Another MP craned a neck thick with muscles to assess the contents of the truck bed, then bent with a flashlight to check the underside of the vehicle.

  “Walter Reed National Military Medical Center,” Phoenix read the overhead sign aloud. “Like they need more wounded?”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Caleb pulled past the guard shack, following directions to parking. “Open the glove compartment, would you?”

  Phoenix pushed the button and peered into a jumble of envelopes, a flashlight and a box of bandages.

  Caleb reached in and grabbed a blue and white tag off the top of the pile.

  “Great, you’re taking me along because you want better parking?”

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” Caleb shook his head. He looped the laminated permit onto his rearview mirror. Phoenix couldn’t identify with the wheelchair stick figure that was supposed to represent someone like him.

  They followed a curved path to the car garage. Caleb pulled into an accessible space with a matching blue and white logo.

  His brother jumped out and messed around the back of the truck for what seemed like forever. As Phoenix waited, he recalled stories of this place from his military client. Impatient, he finally turned, grabbed his cane and pushed himself out of the car. Leaning against the door, he nudged it shut. As the heavy panel thunked closed, Caleb looked up. He was having trouble untying the wheelchair.

  “I just need another minute.”

  “Never mind. Nadine says it’s too early for me to be up and around on my own, but if you don’t tell, I won’t. Let’s go in.”

  Caleb nodded, catching up with his twin. “MAT-C,” he said, gesturing to the building ahead of them.

  “Military Advanced Training Center.” Phoenix remembered the acronym from his client. “This place is famous. It’s one of the best amputee rehab centers in the country,” he said, falling behind his brother’s pace. Every divot and crack in the pavement required his concentration.

  Caleb pulled on the metal handle of the door and held it open for Phoenix to hobble through.

  The place smelled like a mix of sweat and disinfectant. There was a hum of activity in the corridor that stretched before them.

  Caleb shrugged off his leather jacket to reveal a Harley T-shirt and muscular arms.

  A woman approached them, swooping in on feet that seemed to glide. Dressed in beige scrubs and white tennis shoes, she reminded him of an amped up version of one of his therapists. She looked like she could bench press an Army jeep.

  “Caleb Walker?” she boomed. She didn’t shirk from the tough handshake his brother offered her. “I thought that was you driving up.”

  “Don’t they call from the guard shack?” Caleb asked,

  “Smart man. You’ve got our security figured out.”

  She turned to Phoenix and stuck out a hand. “Tara.” He tucked his cane under his left arm to meet her grasp. She sported the eager grin of a therapist checking out fresh meat. He’d seen that look before. She was assessing the level of his injuries, his physical capability, how far she could push him, how motivated he would be.

  “Below the knee.” He answered her unspoken question, letting go of her hand and hiking up a pants leg. Not that the two inches of visible plastic and metal could verify the presence of a real knee.

  “Oh, yeah? The guys are going to be jealous.” Odd concept. Someone jealous of me. “Actually, I was just going to ask your name.”

  “Sorry, Tara. I’m Phoenix.”

  “Phoenix, your brother is persuasive. Not just anyone gets a tour of MAT-C,” her eyes sparkled at his twin as if she found humor in some private joke.

  “He is persuasive. Tightlipped, too. Unfortunately, I didn’t know we were coming here. This was a surprise.”

  Tara straightened and pointed down the corridor. “Well then, let’s show you.”

  She started down the hall, with no doubt they’d follow the command in her voice.

  Phoenix looked around, curious. They passed a stocky guy in shorts and forest green T-shirt, speeding along in the opposite direction. Full-length prostheses stood on the empty footrests of his wheelchair. Phoenix realized he’d never met another amputee his age. At home, the rehab center housed mostly older residents. Many were diabetics who’d lost a lower extremity to the disease. Or, in one case, a young child born without tibias, the bones below the knee. He felt a rush of camaraderie that inspired him to try to catch the guy’s eye, but the soldier was already gone.

  The narrow dark hallway soon opened up to an enormous gymnasium. They looked into a gigantic matted area filled with tables and parallel bars, like the ones where he and Nadine worked, but amplified to arena size. Everywhere, wounded military worked out with or without prostheses. He’d never seen so many people missing limbs.

  “We used to have twice the number of amputees when we had more troops in Iraq and Afghanistan,” Tara said, as she watched him take in the sight of dozens of injured soldiers. “Once our military gear got better at protecting torsos, and medics got better at stabilizing patients, our guys were surviving their injuries. Even with the bad guys getting better at making bombs. IEDs started out as a joke, a soda can that would just pop. Now, they’re blowing up Humvees, but still, more guys are coming home.”

  Caleb surveyed the sight of patients and therapists hard at work with pride as if he’d invented the place.

  It struck Phoenix how much his brother must care to go to all this trouble. “How did you get us in here?” Phoenix asked his twin with newfound respect for his abilities.

  Caleb shrugged. “Your business partner, Dex, helped. He said you guys have some military account. Plus, I signed away our firstborn kids.”

  “You’re not having children,” Phoenix reminded him. “And me, either,” he added, upon further reflection of his sorry state.

  “You signed a liability form,” Tara explained to Caleb, leading the way onto the main floor. “It just says you won’t sue us if you get hurt.”

  Phoenix navigated between clients and their therapists stretching hip flexors, working out with weights and running on one or two prostheses.

  “Watch it!” called a man catching a medicine ball, nearly stumbling into Phoenix.

  “Sorry,” he said, swerving out of the way with a sidestep that made him stumble. Phoenix’s cane prevented him from falling.

  As they traversed the aisle between padded tables, they passed young guy after young guy, one with a metal frame around a bare leg, squatting with a heavy ball, another solid on a real leg and a prosthetic one, shooting hoops. The sight of men and women missing an arm, with bandaged residual limbs, wheelchairs and prostheses took on a new sense of ordinary.

  Here he fit right in. He grinned at nothing in particular.

  “I have someone I want to introduce you to,” Tara said.

  She led the way to a soldier on a mat. The blond-haired guy, fair in complexion, repeatedly sat up to count each repetition for the therapist holding his prosthetic legs. When he noticed the approaching visitors, he stopped and pushed up to a standing position.

  “I’m Aaron. Welcome to Walter Reed,” he said, offering his only hand, his left one, to Phoenix, then Caleb.

  “Thanks,” Phoenix said, managing the right-hand-to-left-hand greeting.

  Another guy nearby, practicing lunges, stopped and introduced himself to Caleb. “Hey, man, those tats are sick,” he said, mopping s
weat off a ginger-hued crew cut.

  “Thanks, yours too,” Caleb said and turned to admire the flame-licked dragon down one calf and matching design on his prosthesis. They became engrossed comparing tattoos.

  “First time here?” Aaron asked Phoenix.

  “Yup, looks like an amazing place,” Phoenix said, surveying the equipment, therapists and rock-climbing wall which hulked conspicuously in the center. “How long you been here?”

  “Nine months.”

  Phoenix exploded with disbelief. “Nine months! I’m complaining after just two.”

  “In the military, we get great benefits,” he replied.

  Tara explained. “These guys come in with shrapnel, burns, traumatic brain injuries and all kinds of complications. Some of them have been through dozens of surgeries. That’s part of why it takes longer.”

  “I stepped on an IED. I saw my legs get blown right off. I didn’t know about my arm until later. My guys got tourniquets on me and saved my life.”

  He looked at Phoenix expectantly. “What happened to you?” Apparently, sharing injury stories was a de rigueur form of greeting.

  “Mine’s not really patriotic. I got run over by a train.”

  “Ouch. How’d you end up under a train?”

  “I saved a guy who was trying to jump onto the tracks.”

  “You rock,” Aaron said.

  Stoic Tara winced. “But you ended up there instead?”

  “Yup.”

  “That succkks.”

  “The important thing is you lived to tell about it.” The blond warrior whistled.

  There was perspective. Yep, Phoenix lived to tell about it.

  “At least the train gave you a good-looking stump.” He pointed at Phoenix’s bare arm, visible beneath the pushed-up sleeves of his shirt.

  “Good-looking stump? Is there such a thing?” Phoenix asked.

  “Yeah, instead of an ugly stump,” he explained, lifting his elbow to show the bumpy, misshapen flesh and angry purple scars running up the back of his humerus. “They put metal and junk in IEDs. Does a number on you.”