Honor Courage Commitment
Page 26
Bailey grimaced and made another attempt. Although much of the weight was borne by his arms instead of the left leg, he made it all the way. On reaching the end, he was breathing heavily and Zanna handed him a towel to mop the sweat from his face.
“Well done, Nate. That’s great. And it’s so good to see you smile. It might sound corny, but smiling, and even better laughing, is a great healer.”
Bailey scowled. “You’re not gonna give me any of that crap about how it could have been so much worse, and I really should consider myself lucky, are you?”
Now, that did sound like Rivera . . . For God’s sake Zanna, are you ever going to let him go? She laughed. “No, not at all. But, if you can make it over to the tables, I’ll give that leg a good massage and I’ll do some work on your ankle. Then, what say we come back and give it another go?”
Using his elbow crutches, he hobbled over to the table where, after careful consideration, he worked out a way to get onto it by himself.
Shaking her head at his deliberations, Zanna followed him. Are all Marines so fiercely independent? She grinned. Though some might call it stubborn. The smile faded. Or are those that choose to become a Marine just cut from the same cloth?
Bailey lay back with a sigh and she ran her hands over his left thigh. It was solid. Not in the toned muscular way that Rivera’s had been, but because the muscles were locked in spasm.
Zanna went to work. Bailey didn’t fall asleep. He pulled faces, moaned, and complained at her every touch. She grabbed a pillow from the neighboring table and threatened him with it. “For heaven’s sake,” she said in a serious tone, “stop whining.”
Bailey looked at her in stunned disbelief, then pulled his own pillow from under his head. “I’m sorry.” He laughed. “I’m being a complete asshat, ain’t I?”
“Yes,” she replied. “And I will smack you up with this until I can beat some sense into you.”
He clouted her with his pillow and they fought hard for a couple of minutes. Bailey fell back exhausted, giggling like a child. “You’re right,” he said, “laughing has made me feel way better. Can we go try the walking again?”
“First, let me flex your ankle a bit.” Zanna gently rotated the joint this way and that. Bailey scrunched his eyes and hugged his pillow to his chest, but he voiced no more complaints.
They returned to the bars and this time, he walked the whole length, trusting himself to bear a little more weight than previously. There was also a genuine smile of accomplishment when he reached the end.
“How was that?” Zanna asked.
“I feel a whole lot more like I do right now than I did a while ago,” he replied.
Zanna laughed. “Great . . . I think. Let’s see how much more you feel like you tomorrow.” While Raul prepared for the wheelchair ride back to Bailey’s room, she said, “Hey, I hear some of the Marines talking about ‘The Ball’. Are you able to attend?”
Bailey rolled his lips. “Abadie’s former unit has extended an invitation to those of us stuck in here, but the commander will have to OK for me to go.”
* * *
During their next meeting, Commander Gant cleared Bailey to attend the Ball, on condition that he be accompanied, and asked Zanna if she’d reprise the role of chaperone.
So, on the night of November 10, which commemorates the founding of the USMC in 1775, Zanna accompanied Bailey to the Marine Corps Birthday Ball. Her heart went out to Amanda (who had yet to see Angel in his dress blues) when she found out his whole unit was involved in vital off-base training that week. Angel was awaiting the results of his MEB but had been cleared to travel in a supporting rather than an active role.
The proceedings began with a call to table where brief introductions were exchanged with their dining companions. They watched a short video message from the Commandant of the Marine Corps. This was followed by the band playing the national anthem. The Marine seated at Zanna’s left, who’d introduced himself as Dax, quietly explained the ensuing ceremony as an oversized cake was symbolically cut with a sword and the first piece was presented to the guest of honor. The oldest Marine in attendance received the second slice. He turned and handed it on to the youngest Marine, signifying the passing of experience and knowledge from one generation to the next.
Over dinner, Zanna chatted with the others around the table while Bailey—who picked at the food—didn’t speak unless spoken to.
With the meal concluded, the partying began and Dax asked Zanna for a dance. She was about to decline when one of the other Marines at their table offered to keep Bailey company.
Halfway through the first dance, Zanna apologized, excused herself and headed for the bar. At her approach, Bailey chugged the bottle of beer he’d been handed.
She took the empty bottle from him. “Nate, what on earth are you doing? You know alcohol is contraindicated by your meds.”
Bailey signaled the bartender for another beer.
“I’m sorry,” the Marine who’d offered to stay with him said. “He didn’t tell me.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not your fault,” Zanna said. She wheeled Bailey toward the exit. “That’s it for you. We’re going back to The Hacienda.”
Dax intercepted them at the doorway. “Everything OK here?”
“Everything’s fine, buddy,” Bailey said. He propelled his wheelchair into the lobby. “I need to pee.”
“OK,” Zanna said. “But then we’re leaving.”
“You’re not coming back to finish that dance?” Dax placed his hand in the small of her back and ushered her out of the path of the foot traffic heading to and from the restrooms.
“I’m sorry, Dax. I have to go.”
“You’re kidding, right? It’s not even close to midnight yet, Cinderella.”
Zanna laughed. But you’re so not my Prince Charming. “My glass slippers are killing me. And I’m at work early tomorrow.”
“Looks like you’ve already upset one of the ugly step-sisters.” He thumbed in the direction of the restroom. “Your date?”
“We’re not dating. He’s a patient at the hospital where I work.”
Dax’s face lit up and he offered her his arm. “Then may I be permitted to resume that dance?”
She struggled to keep a straight face because she didn’t want him thinking he was in with a chance. “I’m sorry, but I’m sort of at work now and I really need to get him back.” She checked her watch and nodded toward the restroom. “Would you mind checking to see if he’s OK?”
“Sure, but only if you give me your number.”
She looked him in the eye. “Someone else has my number.”
“Looks to me like that number’s sending out the busy signal, right now.”
Zanna plugged a finger in her ear. “What? You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you.”
He shrugged and walked backward to the men’s room. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” He returned saying Bailey wasn’t there and he’d go check the bar.
Zanna ran outside. Bailey was leaning against a tree, his overturned wheelchair nearby. Did he fall out of it? A man in a hoodie stood next to him.
“Hey!” Dax shouted from behind Zanna.
The hooded man sprinted away.
A spicy, earthy fragrance surrounded Bailey. Zanna cupped his shoulders. “What are you doing, Nate?”
He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “It dulls the pain,” he mumbled, drawing on a hand-rolled cigarette.
“You have medications for that. If they’re not strong enough, you can ask for something that is.” She held out her palm.
Dax shook his head. “Don’t blow your career over five minutes of madness.”
Bailey took a long slow toke before giving up the joint. “It’s not for the physical pain.”
Zanna crumbled it between her fingers and scattered the debris in a bush. She righted the wheelchair. “You can always talk to someone—even me—about it. You know that, don’t you?”
Dax helped him into the chair.
Zanna’s heart lurched. Rivera said exactly the same thing. Had he not been talking about the physical injuries either?
“I understand, brah,” Dax said, placing his hand on Bailey’s shoulder. “And there are other people who do too.”
Bailey grunted and shrugged him off. “Forget about it. Take me home, Zanna, I’m tired.”
“I didn’t see any of this,” Dax said quietly to Zanna. “Unless you want me to.”
She squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Sergeant . . ?”
“Dachton. Paul Dachton. Weapons Company. The Magnificent Bastards.” He placed his hand over hers. “Look me up if that line ever gets permanently disconnected.”
* * *
Back at The Hacienda, Zanna handed Bailey’s care over to the night staff. She told them about the beer in case of complications with his medications but left out the couple of drags on the joint.
The next morning, she stopped by Bailey’s room to find out if he was up for a PT session. A nurse sat at the table and Bailey’s mother, her eyes swollen from crying, sat at his bedside.
“What’s happened!” Zanna asked.
The nurse looked over the top of her glasses. “Suicide watch. He attempted to slit his wrists in the night.”
“He’s such a good boy,” Mrs. Bailey said. “I don’t understand why he’d do something like that.”
Zanna picked up Bailey’s limp left hand and held it in both of hers. “Hang in there, Nate,” she whispered.
Bailey half-opened his eyes, but his unfocused gaze peered somewhere into the middle distance over Zanna’s shoulder. His hand remained flaccid in her grip.
“Can he hear me . . . understand what I say?”
“He’s under light sedation, but yes, he can,” the nurse replied. “Commander Gant is transferring him to the Psych Ward aboard the Naval Hospital at San Diego this afternoon.”
Zanna sat on the bed. “Nate, I know you feel everything isn’t worth it, right now, but talk to the people at San Diego. They can help you. They do understand. They have been there, OK?”
Bailey still would not meet her gaze, but Zanna did feel his hand move in hers. Not a squeeze exactly—but she took it as a signal that he heard her. She caressed his hand. “When they’ve . . . when you’re better, I want you to come back here and visit me. I want to see the Marine that I know you are, Nathaniel Bailey. Show me that you’re still one of The Few. The Proud.” She stroked his hand. “Will you do that for me, Nate?”
Bailey’s fingers twitched.
* * *
Zanna shifted in her chair. “I should have seen it coming.”
“I don’t see why,” Gant replied, “Bailey received a standard psych eval when he was admitted and there were no red flags.” He tapped the open file on his desk. “Can you tell me what happened at The Ball?”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I let him drink alcohol.”
“You didn’t let him.”
“I was responsible for him. I should have prevented it.”
“He was responsible for his own actions . . . no one is apportioning blame.”
Zanna squared her shoulders and in a quiet voice said, “I am. I should have mentioned the joint when I handed him over on his return. I still think I should have seen the signs. Like his overturned wheelchair. I assumed it toppled when he got out of it, but now I’m thinking he might have flipped it out of anger or frustration—or both.” She refilled her mug from Gant’s coffee pot. “Will he get busted for the marijuana?”
Gant waggled his mug at her, so she topped it up too. “He’s not tested positive for substance abuse before. I have not made an official note, but did give Saj’s department an unofficial heads up about it.”
Zanna settled herself back in her chair and blew on her coffee before taking a sip. “Do you think Rivera suffered from such demons too, Will?”
His pale blue eyes held her gaze. “What do you think?”
Her shoulders sagged. “That if I didn’t spend so much time thinking about him, Bailey wouldn’t be where he is.” She squinted at Gant. “Did you give me Bailey because . . .?”
Gant paused his mug halfway to his mouth. “Because what?” He took a sip. “Where’s this tangent taking us now?”
“I don’t know, Will. I’m just trying to rationalize things in my mind. I was going to say something like because he’s so different from Rivera, but everyone is very different from Rivera.”
He stroked his lips. “What do you put those differences down to?”
Zanna considered for a moment. “Age? No, I don’t think it’s just that, though experiences shape one’s outlook.” She scratched the bridge of her nose. “Conditioning? Training?”
“No,” Gant said, “repeated exposure to extreme pain only increases the synapses response to pain. That’s why, where possible, early administration of morphine or ketamine is always indicated in the field. For one, it prevents the body becoming over-sensitized to future pain . . . and there is some indication that pre-op application means less is needed post-op.”
Even though Zanna had given up her nursing career to take up physiotherapy, she appreciated Gant talking to her about medical matters as though she were on his surgical team.
“So what was the added component that led to Rivera’s seemingly smooth recovery? Genetics?”
He dipped his head sideways. “Now you’re getting there. They do play a part . . . but go deeper.”
Zanna’s face creased as she racked her brains. The lines opened out when she looked up at Gant and said. “Emotional state?”
He nodded his approval at her suggestion. “Said to play a large part. Along with physical fitness, positive thoughts, and low stress. Controlling the heart rate and breathing are factors too.”
“OK, I get that all those things were in Rivera’s favor.” She tapped her lips. “But are you saying that he wasn’t in the same kind of pain that Bailey’s in?”
“If we’re talking ‘emotional pain’, yes. Rivera knows how to deal with it . . . how to manage it.”
Zanna splayed her fingers. “You mean Bailey doesn’t. Aren’t they offered any coping strategies?”
Gant rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, they are given coping skills, which are often very effective. But they are not a panacea. As a medical professional, you’re right to ask the hard questions but you know there are no easy answers. The motivations for attempting suicide can never be summed up in a neat package. If we knew why some people see it as a solution then we could put an end to it.”
“Hearing you say that gives me a clearer insight as to why Rivera’s rehab was so different from Bailey’s. Even with Villarreal’s funeral, Rivera never lost sight of the goal. He never lost his desire, his drive to RTFD. Bailey doesn’t appear to have a goal. For him, everything stopped when he was injured.”