Finding Mikayla

by Samantha Christy

  I have categorized the women around base in one of two ways. The haves and the have-nots. The haves are those that have moved on and accepted the fact that their significant others may never return from overseas. Of my friends, this includes Holly and Pam. Amanda and I, on the other hand, belong to the have-nots. She is twenty-two years old with a small child—someone you might expect to move on quickly, but she hasn’t. In fact, she will tell you that she’s absolutely sure that her husband will find his way back to them. Although I belong to the latter group, I’m not sure I share Amanda’s unwavering optimism about our men ever returning. I mean, if they are as bad off as we are, surely they have fewer resources than we have here. Still, I know if there was any way Jeff could return to me, he would.

  “I’m sure everyone will be fine with moving it here. I’ll leave a note for Holly at home and track down Pam and the others.” She goes to leave and looks around for Rachel, who seems to have found her way into Mitch’s room where he is sitting on the floor with her, putting her hair into a ponytail.

  Amanda and I look at them and then at each other before we crack up into a fit of giggles. She says to me, “He’s a keeper . . . for someone anyway.” I nod my head in agreement, mildly aware, but trying to deny the little twinge of jealously that is working its way through my body at the thought of who that someone might be.

  We walk into the room and Rachel looks up at us with her adorable little cherub-like face. Her hair is now nicely secured in a ponytail that looks like it’s been done by a tried-and-true mom, not a combat medic. It makes me wonder what he’s been missing these past few years. Does he have a daughter? Surely not one old enough to have the length of hair to require a ponytail. He only lost two years. That’s not enough time to have had a pregnancy and child that he doesn’t remember. Step-daughter maybe? I run through scenarios in my head of how this manly-man would know how to interact with and do the hair of a one-year-old.

  He sees us staring at him in awe and wonder and says, “Nieces. Lots of them.” I release the breath I was holding and look over at Amanda who is shaking her head and smirking at me. Then I look back to Mitch and see him frowning. I can only imagine that he’s wondering about the fate of his nieces, and the rest of his family, much like we all are. That is something we all have in common with him even though we haven’t lost time like he has.

  His smile returns when Rachel squeals, “Mish, Mish!” as she climbs into his lap.

  Amanda’s jaw drops. “Wow, she never warms up to anyone this easily. You must have incredible uncle skills.”

  He smiles and continues to play with Rachel. Seeing him play with the toddler reminds me of the conversations Jeff and I would have. I wanted kids—want kids—but he always said it would be better to wait until I was done with my residency to get married and start a family. I look at Rachel and see the love and joy she brings to Amanda’s life and I wonder why anyone would want to wait to experience that. People did it all the time, had kids during residency. But we were so completely focused on our careers. Now, I wish I had a child. I wish I had a small piece of Jeff to remind me that life can still be filled with happiness. Rachel knows no other world, yet she is as happy and carefree as any child I had ever come across in the past. This isn’t the first time in the last year that I’ve regretted not having a child, but it’s the first time that I’ve had this desperate feeling of wanting and emptiness. I just wonder which of the two people on the floor could fill it.

  Chapter Three

  When the girls start showing up, I run home to get my stuff while they set up for the poker game on folding tables out in the main room of the clinic. Back at my apartment, I grab my poker backpack from my bedroom and look around to see what else I can add to it. We haven’t played in a few weeks so surely there is something I can find. On my way out the door, I pick up a copy of an old Nora Roberts book I’ve read a dozen times and stick it under my arm.

  Everyone is ready to play by the time I get back. Pam, Amanda and Holly are here. The four of us are the core players. We never miss a game. There are some other girls that show up when they can, and we usually end up with anywhere between our core group of four up to about eight players. Tonight, Nancy’s daughter, Susan, and Pam’s friend and fellow daycare worker, Michelle, have joined us. I smile, knowing that there’s sure to be new additions to the pot.

  Michelle has two young boys and is one of the lucky few who has an intact family. Her husband was home and living on base with her at the time of the blackout. I ask her, “Did your husband get babysitting duty?”

  “Yup,” she says, spreading out her stash that has some of the others going bug-eyed.

  We set an oil lamp on the table in the room that is quickly darkening due to the setting sun. I glance over in Mitch’s direction and see that he’s been given a lamp of his own and is reading a book in the low, glimmering flicker of light. He looks up and catches me watching him. I see a smile creep up his face, and he tips his chin up at me before I quickly look away.

  Thirty minutes later, I’ve won a couple of hands, and have just been dealt another decent hand. But I know how badly some of the other girls want to win this round so I fold almost immediately.

  “Kay?” Holly looks at me like I’m crazy. “Don’t you even want to draw a card?”

  I shake my head at her. “Nope. My cards suck,” I lie. “I’m not going to waste anything else on this hand. What the hell would I do with three condoms anyway?”

  Simultaneously, we all look over to see Mitch choking on a drink of water he just took while standing in the doorway to his room, trying to silently watch us. “Uh . . .” He looks at me in confusion as he takes a closer look at the poker table. “Just what kind of poker are you playing anyway?”

  The girls and I look at the table then at each other, and when it hits us, we all laugh. And by laugh, I’m talking big belly-laugh, like hope-your-bladder-is-empty laugh. When the laughter dies down, we look back at Mitch and it starts all over again. I watch his eyes peruse the table and gaze from seat to seat to take in what we have placed before us. There are piles of tampons, a razor, a few travel-sized bottles of conditioner, some shaving cream, condoms, cigarettes, books, and some partially used makeup and deodorant.

  When I stop laughing enough to speak, I say to him, “I told you, girls only.”

  When he manages to wipe the surprised look off his face and turn around to march back into his room, the table falls into another fit of laughter. I suddenly realize how good it feels to be happy, even if it’s just for this moment, even though it’s a fleeting feeling. I haven’t laughed this hard in . . . well, since before it happened. I look back into Mitch’s room and see him trying to read again, but the large smile on his face tells me that he’s doing anything but. He looks up and, dammit, he catches me watching him again which does nothing to stifle his silly grin. I roll my eyes at him and go back to playing poker. Holly kicks me under the table and gives me a knowing smirk. I shoot her my ‘WTF’ look to wipe it clean off her face.

  Mitch wisely stays put in his room for the next few hours. Then, the front door opens and in walks Austin. I smile at him as he walks up and greets all the women at the table. He comes over behind me, puts his hands on my shoulders, and reaches down to kiss my cheek. I almost instinctively look over at Mitch to see him eyeing Austin with a solicitous stare, and I don’t exactly know why, but I wiggle out of Austin’s grasp as I feign an itch on my leg.

  Austin is most definitely my best guy friend. He too, is missing someone overseas. His wife, Shannon, is an army nurse who was deployed for the first time just weeks before everything happened. Austin and I have established somewhat of a sibling relationship, and although he is three years my junior, he has taken on the role of big brother and protector—and given that he’s about twice my size that’s not hard for him to do. I’m actually surprised it has taken him three days to get over here. The rumor mill usually spreads quickly around this camp. I’m guessing he hasn’t talked to Holly.
>
  “Where’s the fresh meat?” he asks me, knowing good and well that Mitch is in the next room listening and watching everything that is going on out here.

  I stand up and walk towards Mitch’s room. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  Mitch puts down the book he was pretending to read when we walk in. I have to press my lips together to keep myself from giggling when Mitch visibly puffs out his chest as Austin follows me through the door. Mitch looks like one of those birds I remember seeing on some nature channel that makes itself bigger to become more attractive to the opposite sex, or stave off the enemy, I forget which. He might as well give up. Even as tall and built as Mitch is, there aren’t many men that are as big and buff as Austin’s six-foot-six, two-hundred-fifty-pound frame of pure muscle. I have to say that sometimes he comes in handy as my personal bodyguard. No man in his right mind would cross him in order to get to me. Of course, by now, everyone here knows that Austin is really a softy-at-heart. Everyone but Mitch, that is.

  “Sergeant Austin Begley, meet Sergeant Mitch Matheson,” I say.

  Austin steps over to the bed. Mitch sits up as tall as he possibly can and extends a hand to him.

  “Nice to meet you, Mitch,” Austin says, shaking Mitch’s hand. I have to hold in my giggle when this big lug grimaces at Mitch’s grip. “I thought I’d better come rescue you when I heard the Tupperware party was moved to the clinic. I wouldn’t want you to grow a vagina or anything.” The two of them laugh when I swat Austin in the back of the head.

  They start talking army so I bow out. “Okay then, I’ll just leave you two to your testosterone and go back to my game.” Austin dismisses me with his hand like he can’t be bothered to acknowledge me properly. See—brother. Mitch, however, follows me with his eyes as I walk all the way back to the table. I know this because Holly doesn’t hesitate to tell me as soon as I sit down next to her.

  “He can’t take his eyes off you, you know,” she says.

  “It’s nothing. Florence Nightingale syndrome, Hol,” I whisper to keep our conversation private. “You should know that as well as anyone. You’ve probably had hundreds of patients fall for you.” With her incredible looks and her compassionate bedside manner I’m surprised Holly’s real name isn’t Florence.

  “Just hundreds? What, have I lost my touch?” she teases.

  An hour later, the troops disband and Austin walks some of the girls home. Not that they need an escort around here. But it’s nice to know chivalry isn’t dead along with the rest of the world.

  “Are you going to show me your winnings?” Mitch says from the doorway of his room.

  “Only if you get back into bed. You are still my patient until tomorrow.” I point at his bed through the flickering light of his oil lamp. “In fact, you are still my patient until I can confidently say you haven’t sustained any lasting injuries, and who knows how long that will take.” I silently wonder how long I can get away with finding excuses to take his vitals and shine my pen light into those alluring eyes.

  “Yes ma’am,” he says as he salutes me.

  “Oh, God.” I roll my eyes. “Don’t ever call me ma’am unless you really want to turn me off.” Then, realizing what I said, my eyes go wide and I think I turn two shades of red. I’m glad he, more than likely, can’t see my embarrassment in the relative darkness. “And Colonel Andrews will court-martial you if you joke around about saluting,” I tease.

  “Duly noted . . . Mikayla.” My name rolls off his tongue like an ice-cream cone melts over your fingers on a hot day. I contemplate for about two seconds asking him to call me Dr. Kay like everyone else. But I don’t, and that sends a tiny splinter of guilt right into my heart.

  I pour the contents of my bag onto his hospital bed, spilling out my winnings as well as the stash I brought with me. I did pretty well tonight. I’m up about twenty cigarettes. I also got a small sample bottle of perfume, a new razor, and a couple of books I haven’t yet read. I quickly gather up all the tampons and push them back into my bag.

  “Cigarettes? You don’t smoke, do you? I mean you smell so good.”

  I try not to notice that my skin prickles a little at his comment. “No, I don’t smoke, but a lot of soldiers do, and cigarettes are like gold around here. They will trade just about anything for them. Well, except liquor, that’s pretty much like gold, too.”

  “So, how do you decide who gets what around camp?”

  “Our basic needs are all free and taken care of. Food, water, shelter, basic clothing, and medication if we have it, are all provided. But the so-called luxury items are all ‘for sale’ at the PX. The scouts that go on supply runs bring back not only necessities, but they find lots of other stuff that makes life seem a little more normal. Each resident is allotted a certain number of credits per week to spend at the PX. You’ll see when I give you the grand tour tomorrow—if you’re up for it.”

  He snaps his eyes away from my stash and up to mine. “Hell, yes! I hate sitting in this damn bed. I’m useless here, and if I have to stay much longer I’ll go plain crazy. Then Dr. Jacobs would really have to help me.” We laugh and I get that he already understands that Dr. Jacobs is more of a figure head than anything else around here.

  “So,” he says, looking at me expectantly, “is it going to be . . . what was it, Little Women?”

  I thought he was kidding, but it looks like he really wants me to read to him. I bet, and lost, the Nora Roberts book I was going to read so I pick up the same old Stephen King novel that I swear weighs as much as little Rachel and I sit down in the chair next to the bed.

  Not fifteen minutes later, I realize that Mitch is asleep. He must still be getting over his injuries. I hope there isn’t anything I’ve missed, but without the proper equipment, I just can’t be sure. I stare at him in the dancing light of the lamp and notice things that I didn’t before. Or maybe I notice things that I didn’t want to before. He has very distinct cheekbones, a square jaw and a narrow face that boasts an incredibly sexy almost-beard that is evidence of his lack of shaving for a week or so. He has long, dark eyelashes that most women would kill for and his complexion is flawless. I look down at his hands, resting comfortably at his sides and suddenly I feel empty not holding one in mine as I sit next to him.

  I shake my head as if the motion of it will remove the unbefitting thoughts from my mind. I turn the lamp down to the lowest flame and get out a piece of paper to pen a new letter.

  Dear Jeff,

  A combat medic showed up a few days ago. In some strange way, he makes me feel closer to you. Unfortunately, he has retrograde amnesia and there is absolutely nothing I can do for him. I’m sure you would know of some spectacular new-fangled theory that we could try on him. I’ll bet not even the apocalypse can hold you back from advancing the face of medicine.

  I think that’s why you would hate it here. Everything is calm, laid back . . . slow. Holly hates it here. She is an army nurse who did two tours, so like you, she was always on the go. I think you’d like her. She’d try to suck all the knowledge out of your head.

  We played poker tonight. It’s hard to believe that I never used to take the time for such trivial activities, yet now these are the things I look forward to the most. I hope you have found something to enhance your life and keep you busy until you can make your way back to me.

  Until next time. All my love,

  Kay

  Chapter Four

  I wake up in an unfamiliar bed. I look around the room and realize I’m still in the clinic. But I don’t remember ever walking into the other patient room. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and get out of bed only to see Mitch standing in the doorway, fully dressed in the same clothes that he was wearing the day he was brought in. We laundered them of course, and as my eyes wander over him, I take in the dark jeans that fit his body so well along with the snug blue t-shirt that brings out the blue in his eyes even from across the room. He runs a hand through his unruly dark hair and says, “It’s about time. I’ve been waiting fo
r you to wake up.”

  I look around the room again. “How did I get here? The last I remember, I was dozing off in your room.”

  “I woke up and saw you asleep in the chair. It couldn’t have been very comfortable so I carried you in here.”

  “Carried me in here? Mitch, you shouldn’t be doing things like that right now.” As I say the words, I also feel the slight disappointment of not being able to remember his hands picking me up and carrying me across the clinic. I try to push the thought from my mind, just as I try to un-remember the dream that is flashing back to me right now about a dark-haired stranger. Jeff—he is the man I dream about. He is the brilliant surgeon that has taught me so much. I don’t dream about anything or anyone else. Not ever—or at least not in the 455 days since I’ve seen him. There are plenty of men around base. Attractive men. Available men. Why is this one man affecting me in ways that I don’t understand?

  “Are you kidding? You’re as light as a feather,” he says. “I wasn’t about to let you sleep in that chair all night. You would have awakened with a very sore neck.” He looks down at his wrist as if a watch were on it. “Now, how long do I have to wait to blow this popsicle stand?”

  I laugh. I imagine that after four days here, he wants to get going, especially since he has no idea what awaits him outside those doors.

  “Shower first,” I say.

  “Okay, but I draw the line at washing your feet.”

  A blush comes over me as he raises a suggestive eyebrow. “Were you always like this,” I ask, “or has your accident caused you to turn into a wiseass?”

  “I like to think of it as charm. And yes, it’s one of my endearing qualities.”

  “One of them?” I ask. I mentally smack my forehead because I really don’t want him to run down a list for me.