* * *
Amanda stood off to the side while Tchibowsky spoke with Angel and made notes. He closed his file and stood. Rivera, who was sitting next to him, got to his feet too.
“Thank you for translating, Gunnery Sergeant,” Tchibowsky said. “I’ll try again tomorrow.” He nodded at Amanda and left.
Rivera mumbled something in Spanish and sat in the chair Tchibowsky had vacated. “Tell me your name, ’mano. What is your name? What are you called? What is your name?”
Angel stared back at him with a blank expression. Rivera slammed his palm on the bed.
“Tchibo says—” Amanda said.
Rivera waved her away. “What is your name?” he repeated slowly.
“Tchibo says it could be a psychological block or maybe damage to the language cortex,” Amanda said.
A week on, Angel was now lucid and awake—but still only conversing in Spanish. “Me llamo Ángel,” he said.
“That’s great, ’mano. Now, tell me in English. What is your name? How old are you? How-old-are-you?” Rivera emphasized the individual words.
“Tengo treinta y tres años.”
“In English, dammit!”
“Wait—”
Rivera tried to wave Amanda away again, but she fleetingly brushed his forearm with her fingertips. He glanced down at her touch. “No, listen,” she said. “You’re on to something. You’re asking him the question in English and he’s answering it correctly in Spanish, so—”
He grinned. “So, he understands what I’m saying to him?”
“Yes. Push him again. Maybe hearing it from you—a voice he knows—has triggered something.”
“Hey, brah.” He spoke slowly. “What is your name?”
Angel rolled his eyes and let out a pained sigh.
“C’mon buddy, you’re almost there. What is your name?”
Angel rubbed the heel of his hand between his eyes.
“Your name?”
“My name is Ángel Torres.”
Rivera and Amanda grinned at each other. She encouraged him to continue.
“Age?”
Angel wrinkled his brow. “Thirty-three.”
“Daughter’s name?”
“Noa Lana.”
Rivera pointed at Amanda “This person?”
Angel smiled at her. “Amanda Wilks.”
“Me?”
Angel replied with a wry smile. “Some fricking annoying asshat keeping me from my afternoon nap.
“Welcome back, hermano.” Rivera delivered a soft punch to Angel’s arm. “But, I gotta go now. Gotta see Gant about my MEB.”
“Suerte.” Angel bunched his fist and bumped knuckles with Rivera. “You’ll breeze it, ’mano.”
Amanda told Angel she’d come visit him again later and followed Rivera out. He was standing with his back to her. Further down the hallway, she spotted Zanna chatting with Lieutenant Commander James Myler, a vascular surgeon and Gant’s Executive Officer. Myler said something and tapped her arm. She responded by playfully poking him in the chest.
Amanda took a step to go tell Myler the good news about Angel at the same instant Rivera turned on his heel, deftly side-stepped Amanda, and strode in the opposite direction.
26
Amanda blocked the door. “Are you sure Commander Gant is OK with this?”
Rivera was a man of few words and this—combined with his general demeanor—sometimes left her feeling more than a little unnerved. “Yeah, we’re good to go,” he said, helping Angel into a green t-shirt.
“Hand me that blouse,” Angel said to Rivera.
Amanda froze mid-giggle when the two men glared at her. “What?”
“In the Corps, we call this a blouse and what I wear on my legs, trousers,” Angel said. He held out the garment to Rivera. “Wanna put some Gunny Rolls on these, Ding?” Each word was spoken with deliberation.
Rivera grinned. “Sun’s out, guns out.”
Amanda held up her palms to Raul. “Paging Petty Officer Garcia. Urgent translation needed in Room Seven.”
Raul flexed an arm and pointed to his own rolled sleeves. “The sun is out so the guns—biceps—come out. They change into the desert pattern in March and the sleeves go up. Come November, they’ll go back into the woodland pattern and the sleeves come down again.” He chuckled. “They’re called ‘Gunny Rolls’ cos you gotta have a lotta rank”—he lowered his voice—“to get away with looking that sloppy.”
Amanda clutched her forehead. “Do Marines always have to be so different?”
The men exchanged a glance.
Amanda resumed her fussing. “How long will you be?”
“Why don’t you come with us?” Angel asked, shrugging himself into the blouse. “You’d like to see the guys again, wouldn’t you?”
Mace and O’Malley. Amanda’s lips twitched. “I’m due on my lunch break soon . . . maybe I could stretch it a bit.”
“I’ll cover for you,” Raul said. “Unless the shit hits the fan with an emergency.” He cracked his knuckles. “If that happens, chu iz on your own, chica.” He flicked his wrist at her.
“Thanks, Doc,” Angel said.
Amanda screwed up her nose at Raul.
Angel was only capable of covering short distances with the aid of a walking frame so Rivera wheeled Angel down the corridor and out through a side door where to Amanda what looked like a souped-up golf cart was parked. They got Angel comfortable and stashed the wheelchair on the back of the vehicle. She got the distinct impression Rivera was being considerate of Angel’s condition but thought he drove a little too fast along the road for her liking. However, he slowed down once the pavement turned to dirt track. She had misgivings about Angel being shaken up over the bumpy surface, but his smile told her he was enjoying himself.
“Here they come!” Rivera pointed to an approaching helicopter. He pulled up alongside some other waiting vehicles. They helped Angel back into the wheelchair and Rivera shielded him from the storm of grit and dust stirred up by the aircraft’s twin rotors.
Once alighted, the back opened and a column of heavily laden men trudged down the ramp. One of the men quickened his pace. A second man soon followed suit. The first man dropped the gear he was carrying and broke into a run. His load was picked up by a couple of the other guys. Same with the second man.
As they drew near, Amanda recognized the first man as Mason. He hugged and slapped Rivera, held him at arm’s length, then hugged him once more. Releasing Rivera, he bent down to Angel. “You OK, Gunny?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” Angel had to use his left hand to shake with Mason as O’Malley, who’d gone down on one knee, held Angel’s right hand in both of his.
“How you doing really, Angel?” he asked.
“Better for seeing all you guys again.” Angel’s response was quiet, but he was smiling broadly.
Mason signaled O’Malley to move aside at Captain Venneford’s approach. Angel struggled to get out of the chair. O’Malley stood to help him, but Rivera placed his hand on O’Malley’s chest to prevent him rendering assistance.
Amanda’s eyes pricked at the emotion of the moment and then she let her tears fall unashamedly at what happened next.
Angel stood shakily at attention. Venneford came to attention in front of him and Angel slowly raised his hand to salute him. Venneford executed a solemn, crisp acknowledgment, about-faced and made as if to continue on his way. He stopped turned around, with a broad grin now lighting up his face. They shook hands and performed a gentle shoulder-bump. The rest of the men crowded around Angel and Rivera, all talking at once; wishing them well, shaking hands, and slapping them.
Angel put an arm around Lowell’s shoulder. “How you doing, kiddo?”
“Glad to be home,” he replied without expression.
Angel drew him closer for a moment and said something that was lost in the hubbub.
Lowell nodded and broke away with a grin.
Snake held Rivera at arm’s length. “I can see Angel’s pr
etty beat up, but I reckon you musta only spent a couple of weeks Sick in Quarters. I bet the rest of the time, you’ve been out partying with all the nurses, knowing you!”
Amanda’s phone rang. It was Gant. Uh-Oh.
“Where are you, Wilks?”
Not a happy bunny.
“And is Torres with you?”
She frantically looked around for some identifier as to where she was; she had never been this way before. “I don’t know. I think, about fifteen minutes away. And yes, he is.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Meeting his unit off a helicopter.”
There was a moment’s silence and when he spoke again Gant’s tone had softened a little. “Angel was due in Radiology for an MRI twelve minutes ago.”
“Oh, my.” Having got caught up in the exhilaration of the reunion, Angel’s appointment had completely slipped Amanda’s mind. She checked her watch. “Can he still have it, if we come back right away?”
“I’ll have to reassess him. The excitement may have taken too much out of him.”
She rolled her lips at the displeasure in Gant’s voice. “Actually, sir, I think it’s given him a new lease on life.”
* * *
Zanna sat on the padded table watching Angel, in his wheelchair, and Raul toss a volleyball back and forth. The results of Angel’s—slightly delayed—MRI showed no issues and Gant was happy for Angel to begin his physical rehabilitation with Zanna at the helm.
In terms of appearance, Angel’s injury was nowhere near as horrific as Rivera’s. The pattern of clean scars along the side of his head already had fuzz sprouting around the wound where his head had been shaved, but his recovery program couldn’t have been more different. Rivera had retained his physical strength apart from the injury to his leg. Angel should have been equally strong, but the injury to his brain left him incredibly weak. Rivera’s mind was always as sharp as a tack. He never failed to respond with a dry one-liner, a caustic remark, or a withering look. Angel often communicated in friendly smiles and short sentences. Rivera had smiles too, of course; his impish crooked smile, when he was amused. His sarcastic smile for the dumb questions, or if it was exceptionally stupid, the blank stare. And the oh-so-rarely seen hundred-watt smile when he was genuinely happy about something. Angel sometimes had to think about what he was doing, but in Zanna’s eyes, he wasn’t mentally disabled despite Tchibowsky’s report stating he found Angel to be impaired. The glint in Angel’s eyes told her he was in there somewhere.
She jumped down from the table and headed for the parallel bars. “Shall we go for a walk, Angel?”
His face lit up. Raul wheeled him to one end of the bars and locked the wheels.
Zanna stood inside the bars facing Angel and offered him her hands. “OK, c’mon then.”
He grinned and shook his head.
“Don’t you want to?” She spoke to him as she would any other person. It irked her that some people addressed him, whether by accident or design, as though he were feeble-minded—or deaf.
“You’re in my way.”
He didn’t sound ‘impaired’ to Zanna. She stepped back. He used his feet to lift the wheelchair footrests out of the way. Good coordination there. He grasped the parallel bars that were about head height when he was sitting. Zanna held her breath and swallowed hard. Angel pulled himself to his feet—unaided. She clapped her hands like a performing sea lion and he beamed at her. Slowly, she walked backward, beckoning him to come with her. He let go and followed her unsteadily down the track, touching the bar a couple of times to catch his balance. Zanna stopped and waited for him just beyond the end of the bars. He hesitated then stepped out toward her with nothing to hold on to, a radiant smile on his face.
He reached her and they hugged. She slapped him on his back and he even managed to lift her a little. Not pick her up exactly, just lift her onto the balls of her feet.
What an improvement since yesterday! His balance was improving each day—and tomorrow would bring another milestone. Impaired, my arse.
* * *
“Please, Will, I’m asking if you can at least have a session with Angel yourself?” Zanna forced herself to remain calm. “You should hear the patronizing tone Tchibo uses with him. Heaven knows, you were right about Angel not being like Rivera. He would never have responded to that kind of treatment.”
Gant rested an elbow on his desk and propped his chin on his thumb with his forefinger over his lips. “He’s a good psychiatrist, despite your reservations in this case.”
She grunted. “Then would you mind telling me how he reads Angel?”
He cast a brief glance at the folder lying open in front of him. “He says he is withdrawn.”
“He’s not.”
“His hand-eye coordination isn’t good.”
“No way. It’s improving all the time.”
“He has trouble holding a conversation that requires him to maintain a train of thought beyond the last sentence spoken.”
Zanna’s irritation rose with each of Tchibowsky’s assessments. It began with a finger tapping the arm of the chair. It ended, at his last conclusion, with her leaping to her feet. “Will, that is just not true!” She paced around in front of Gant’s desk. “There must be a personality clash or something going on there because I find Angel to be forthcoming; in his own quiet way, I admit, but chatty.” She stood opposite Gant with her balled fists on her hips. “His hand-eye is great. He plays catch with Raul and me every day. He’s catching a volleyball now. Last week, it was a basketball; next week, it’ll be a baseball. And, he can so hold a fricking conversation requiring a train of thought.”
“I understand the passion you hold for your patients but don’t forget you are no longer a guest here, Zanna. I believe Lieutenant Commander Tchibowsky when he reports to me, and I believe you when you do.” He ran a hand over the top of his hair. “I’ll look in next time Tchibo has a session with Angel.”
“Thanks. And I apologize for swearing.”
27
Zanna’s first 4th of July celebration stuck in her memory but it had nothing to do with thirteen American colonies severing their political connections to Great Britain in 1776.
The second she walked through the door, Amanda pounced with the news that Gant and Myler were crashed out in the Staff Lounge. Zanna went to investigate.
The sight of a disheveled Gant sprawled in one of the easy chairs threw her for a moment. Dark circles emphasized his sunken eyes and there was at least a day’s growth of black stubble. His arms dangled over the sides; one foot on the table, the other on the floor. Myler’s legs were draped over one arm of his chair and an unopened auto magazine lay on his chest. His head lolled on his shoulder and a rattling sound came from his half-open mouth. Two untouched mugs of coffee stood on the low table between them. Both men wore scrub pants and sweat-stained t-shirts.
It must have been a hell of a surgical stint if they couldn’t make it up one floor to their own office couches. Zanna tapped a fingernail against her teeth. Amanda said Gant arrived with a patient around ten last night on a flight from Germany and went straight into surgery. He’d just come out when she clocked in at eight thirty. It was now a little after ten am.
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