“Yes, and more than ever, I’m convinced we should try to do as much for the mental wounds as for the physical ones.”
Gant sat forward, resting his forearms on the desk.
“Look,” Zanna said, “I know my theories probably aren’t scientific enough for you; they’re just observations on the fly really.”
“What kind of observations?”
“The way touch can help to heal. I see every day how massage helps these guys. But there are layers to it. Sometimes I can see, or maybe sense, that the man on the table is not in the right headspace for a deep tissue massage, so instead, I might use some light Shiatsu, where only the fingertips are used. They get a different kind of ‘release’ from that.” She hesitated. “To the extent that it sometimes makes them cry, but they try not to let me see it.”
Gant nodded. “That’s why, when possible, we like to get the family involved in the treatment and rehab of the patient. They offer exactly the kind of support you talk about. The human body has a basic need for contact and comfort. Family and friends can provide those in time of need, where we, as the medical staff, are not really intended to be there for them in that way.”
“That’s it. Contact and comfort.” You do get it!
“Have you wanted to hug any of your patients?”
“A couple of times.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“For the very reason you said; I wasn’t sure if it was against policy. Not only that, I can read the signs they give off, but I would really like to reach out if I feel it’s warranted.”
“You are intuitive enough to know in any given situation what would be appropriate, so you have my permission to use your own judgment on the issue.” He leaned on the arm of his chair. “I’ve watched you work with your patients. You, as you say, read the signs they give off. You’re sensitive to their moods and smoothly adapt your manner to match their different personalities. That’s why you achieve such good results with them.”
“Thank you. I think I’m pretty good at gauging someone’s character.”
“What do you perceive about Rivera?”
“Hah! Nothing. Nada. Zip. He never lets anything out. It’s as if there’s a wall—”
“Well, there’s your first perception. Don’t think about it, just tell me about him.”
She stared at a point above Gant’s head for a moment. “He’s quiet, but not introverted. He’s a watcher rather than a talker. He strikes me as a deep thinker. And sometimes he’s too proud for his own good.”
Gant encouraged her to go on.
“Although he’s an incredibly hard man, before and at the funeral itself, I saw that he has an emotional side. Why is he not too proud to cry at a funeral, yet won’t take a painkiller?”
He tilted his head. “Anything else?”
“I think he’s very intelligent, but he seems to downplay it. He’s all those things you said he was before I took him on.”
He nodded.
“I only know a little about his background and observation tells me there’s no wife or girlfriend because one—or both—hasn’t been to visit since he’s been here. Same for siblings and parents. And, to be honest, I’m not sure he even likes women.”
Gant raised an eyebrow.
“Well, he doesn’t like women telling him what to do.”
“He has to follow orders from women when given.”
“Doesn’t mean he has to like it.”
“He does what you tell him.”
“Because you made it clear from the outset that he had to.”
“I told you before the funeral if he felt the patient-physio dynamic not conducive to optimal rehabilitation he would have requested reassignment.”
Zanna’s face fell. Did I make such a mess of things there that he has asked to be assigned to someone else?
A slow smile developed on Gant’s face. “Actually, he would never request reassignment. That would be tantamount to quitting.”
She smiled back at him. “You’re right, he doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He would have driven—hah, tried to have driven me to quit.” Her smile died. But he didn’t. She shifted in her seat. “I have been meaning to ask about the funeral trip. When will I get the bill for the flight and hotel?”
“You won’t.”
“Didn’t the Navy or Marines pay for me to go.”
“Neither organization has charitable status. You may be lucky enough to get compassionate leave, but you want to go to a funeral, you pay.”
“You mean . . . he paid for me?”
“I didn’t authorize anything.”
“I’ll reimburse him.”
“He won’t be expecting it.”
“Why?”
“You agreed to accompany him when he couldn’t attend the funeral alone. It’s his way of saying, thank you.”
She laughed. “He is, as someone described him at the funeral, ‘a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.’”
Gant grunted. “I wouldn’t disagree.”
“Someone else said, ‘He is what he is.’ At first, I was unsure what she meant by that, but having thought about it, I decided it’s a person for whom no excuses need to be made.” She ran her fingers along the edge of the desk. “It applies to you too . . . as does the first phrase.”
“Is that so?”
She’d never seen Gant look bemused before. “Neither of you ever talk about yourself and it doesn’t stem from any kind of shyness or lack of self-esteem.”
He sat back, steepling his fingers.
“I’ve gleaned some facts about you from the photos on the wall and the few mentions about your work I found on the internet. And an online search for Navy insignia told me the gold trident above your name badge is your Command Ashore insignia. It tells everyone you’re in charge. The badge under your ribbons”—she nodded toward the antique brass deep sea diving helmet flanked by two seahorses on his Service Khaki uniform—“is a Diving Medical Officer.” She circled a forefinger at the gold insignia of two heraldic dolphins either side of a silver acorn. “And to earn that prestigious insignia—your Dolphins—above your ribbons, you’ve spent time as a Submarine Medical Officer.” She held his gaze. “Talk about there being more to Rivera than meets the eye.”
A muscle twitched at the side of Gant’s mouth. “Is it important that you know what someone’s insignia represent?”
“They tell me a lot about the person wearing them.” She smiled. “But I’m not talking about the bare facts, I’m speaking of your genuine bedside manner . . . and also the way you communicate with your staff.” She inclined her head “Do you mind if I continue with my observations?”
Gant spread his palms then interlaced his fingers over his chest. “Go ahead.”
She inhaled. What have I got myself into here? “OK. You’re bloody good at your job and that brings a self-assurance that some might mistake for arrogance.” She swallowed. Gant remained impassive. “You’re authoritative but fair; you don’t abuse the power that rank gives you.” She took another steadying breath. “You come from a stable middle class, educated background.”
“Appearances can be deceptive.”
“I’m wrong?”
“I’m just saying.”
Zanna continued, gaining confidence from his reception to her assessment. “You get on extremely well with the enlisted men. I think you’ve spent a lot of time with them; you understand them and how they think.” Gant raised his eyebrows at that comment, but she plowed on. “You don’t smoke.”
“Based on? There’s a no smoking policy inside the building.”
“Because there’s none of that lingering trace on your clothes . . . but you’re not averse to a little tipple.”
“Alcohol is severely restricted here.”
“Severely restricted does not mean forbidden. I know you drink spirits because I came to check something with you one evening, ages ago, and you were writing up your reports.”
“And?”
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p; “When I entered your office, there was a glass of whiskey on your desk. When I turned around after closing the door, it was gone. I think that despite being a respected Navy Commander, you’re still a bit of a rebel at heart.” She tapped the side of her nose. “I heard about the water in Afghanistan.”
Gant ran his fingers over his scalp.
“Oh, yes.” She laughed. “And you do that when you’re mulling something over.”
“Do what?”
“That thing with your hands through your hair.”
“You ever think about moving over to psych? You have the capability to become a great asset in dealing with the psychological injuries.”
“I don’t know about that, but thank you for the commendation.” She chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re a psychiatrist as well as a surgeon.”
Gant stood to refill his coffee. “Not a psychiatrist. A Navy psychologist.”
Her mind raced. Agh, no badge or online mention of that! But it now makes sense of why you told Rivera you’d conduct his psych eval.
“Incidentally, I’m moving Rivera out of acute care. He’s going into the Rehab Wing where he can look after himself while still under medical supervision. If it wasn’t for the fact he lives off-base and I don’t want him driving yet, I’d probably release him next week.”
Zanna stiffened.
“You’ll still be working with him, but it won’t be long before he leaves our care.” He sat back at his desk and buzzed Cooper to show Amanda in. He entered with her, closed the door, and stood there at parade rest.
“Take a seat, Amanda,” Gant said. “Coffee?”
She declined.
“I want to thank you both,” he said, “for the hard work and dedication you have shown during your placement.”
Zanna and Amanda exchanged glances and stifled grins.
“But your contracts were only for a six-month period.”
The women looked at each other again.
Gant continued. “However, you have become highly valued members of the team here, and as such, I have some potentially good news.”
All their attention was now on Gant.
“Your performance has been so outstanding that the Navy is offering a twelve-month contract in order for one of you to extend your stay.”
The women looked at each other for a long time and then Zanna spoke. “I think Amanda should take it. She has so much to offer in the way of her critical care skills. And I know she’d really love to get some more experience on those MEDEVAC flights with you.” Not to mention being able to get closer to Angel when he returns.
Gant leaned back in his chair, locked his fingers behind his head, and grinned over the girls’ shoulders at Cooper, who then left the room. Gant unlocked his hands and placed them on the arms of his chair. “I bet Coop you would say Amanda should be the one to stay. Would you like to Amanda?”
She considered for a moment. “Yes, I would like that very much. Thank you.” She squeezed Zanna’s hand.
“What about you, Zanna?” Gant asked in a benign voice.
You bastard! I’d give my eyeteeth. “You know I’d love to stay.” She gave Gant a tight-lipped smile. “But, since the offer is only for one of us, I feel—”
“The Michael J. Kahn Foundation contacted me after reading the report of your activities, which frankly have been above and beyond the call of duty many times—and I’m not just talking Rivera, here. Though you probably deserve a citation for him alone. You treat every patient with the same respect. You pay the same attention to detail. You put the same amount of passion into their recovery. The Foundation feels you are too valuable an asset to lose back to the CivDiv, and as such is offering a grant to cover your salary . . . should you really wish to stay, that is.”
“If these chairs had cushions, I’d be throwing them at you, right now.” Zanna laughed. “Of course, I’d like to stay, but can we clarify a few points? Are we talking full salary and benefits commensurate with our job descriptions back home?”
“No. We’re talking commensurate with your job description here.”
“Navy or civilian rates?”
“Navy equivalent.”
Amanda’s bewildered gaze switched between Zanna and Gant as they discussed terms.
He handed Zanna a folded piece of paper. “As you have a degree in Sports Science, they agreed to this.”
She flipped it open and stared at it for a moment.“Is this some kind of joke?”
His eyes narrowed. “This isn’t private industry, Zanna. It’s not open to negotiation, but you will get free healthcare.”
“Will, I didn’t mean this isn’t enough; I meant it’s more than I could ever have expected. Is it the same for Amanda?”
He handed Amanda a slip. On reading the figure, her eyes widened.
Amanda shot a look at Zanna. “Well, it’s a definite aye-aye, sir, from me,” Amanda said.
Zanna didn’t trust herself to speak so just nodded.
Gant came out from behind his desk to shake their hands. “We look forward to the talent and experience you will add. Welcome aboard!” He showed them to the door. “Amanda, I’m due out in Afghanistan in three weeks, if you’re interested.”
21
Zanna breezed into the Staff Lounge, humming a happy tune.
“¡Ay! You look mighty pleased with yourself,” Raul said.
“Rivera suggested we go on a training run tomorrow.”
“Is that how he put it? A ‘training run’?”
“Yessss,” Zanna replied. What have I let myself in for now?
“Are you physically fit?”
“Fairly.”
“Fairly ain’t gonna cut it, chula. This guy runs endurance distances.”
“He’s not capable of that yet.”
“If he thinks he’s ready for a training run, girl”—he yawned and stretched lazily—“I’m glad it’s you, not me.”
“You really ought to get to bed earlier.” She winked at him. “Or tell your woman to cut you some slack.”
* * *
Zanna turned up in shorts, running shoes, and a t-shirt at the agreed rendezvous point with Rivera. Apart from his dress blues, this was the only time she’d seen him in uniform. He was wearing what the Marines referred to as boots ’n’ utes: cammie trousers, a green t-shirt, and combat boots. The close-fitting shirt served to emphasize his muscular torso and Zanna had trouble tearing her gaze from his chest. She pointed to his boots.
“Are you seriously going to run in that footwear?”
“We don’t tend to go into combat in PT gear, so I don’t tend to train in it.”
She laughed. Yikes, he’s not joking. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
He performed quad stretches. “Are you?”
She jogged in place. “How far are we going?”
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