Beautiful Bad

by Annie Ward

  Little by little, figures emerged from the darkness, and eventually he could make out their faces. You’ve got to be kidding me, thought Ian. I wonder if these boys even have hair on their privates yet, for fuck’s sake. They made the American kid Ben look like a hoary old vet.

  “We’re ready to escort you out to the trucks,” said the breathless taller of the two. “They’re five hundred meters from here.”

  Ian picked up his bag and again scanned the crowd for Peter. He wanted to at least say goodbye. The boys began to lead them out into the field, and the passengers all scrambled to get their gear and follow. Ian did as well. They were approaching the 250-meter mark, almost directly between the hangar and the vehicles, when the fiery star came sailing in, landed and rocked the desert. When the sirens sounded, the civilians panicked and looked to the air force escorts for direction. Somewhere over behind the hangars, they saw a swelling red sphere, followed by a heart-stopping explosion. The sirens continued their frenzied wailing, and a couple of people from the group began crawling across the ground, no longer waiting for instructions from the boys who’d been leading the way. A flashlight played quickly over the group, and Ian could see their scared, clean-shaven baby faces.

  Bollocks, Ian thought. I’ve met many a sergeant in the British military who couldn’t arrange a piss-up in a brewery, but at least they were old enough to drink. These spotty American sergeants leading us across the desert don’t have a clue.

  He was on his own. At best this bombing was going to delay his transport, and at worst it was going to blow him to bits. One by one, the rest of the group were going down, lying on their stomachs.

  Off to his right, he saw a rectangular shadow. He crouched down and ran closer. It was an abandoned military jeep. He heard another explosion in the distance. Glancing again at the jeep, he thought, If I’m going to die, I’m having a smoke.

  He sprinted for it, sliding to a stop in the dust. He brushed himself off and rolled over. Hunkering down next to the jeep, he positioned himself with his back against a wheel and pulled out his cigarettes. In the grand scheme of things, taking cover next to the vehicle was stupid because it might get hit. On the other hand, if a bomb landed anywhere close by, it might be good, because he had some protection from the shrapnel. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. Fuck it.

  He lit his cigarette and cupped his hand to hide the speck of orange, just in case. The sirens continued the earsplitting falsetto performance, punctuated by explosive cymbal clashes in the distance. Soldiers from the base began to return fire to the southern hills, and their intermittent tracer rounds glowed like staccato lasers.

  Ian sat and smoked and listened. Now that the tracer fire had indicated which direction the assault was coming from, someone shot up a flare to locate the attackers. Suddenly, Ian was startled by a massive shadow loping toward him. It was Peter. What? He knew better. Ian sat up in shock. What was he doing?

  The flare spread, and Peter was illuminated as he ran.

  And just like that, Peter crashed to the ground.

  Hit by a sniper.

  “Pete!” Ian yelled frantically as he sprung into a crouch and bear-crawled to his friend. He grabbed Peter’s wrists and pulled him backward until they reached the jeep.

  Peter said, “What happened?”

  “Sniper,” Ian answered. “What were you doing?”

  “I saw you. I saw you’d found cover. I thought I could make it.”

  “You should have made it, mate. That bastard got lucky.”

  “How the hell...” He struggled with something in his throat. “Did that just happen?” He blinked rapidly and gasped. “Ashley’s having another...another...”

  “Baby?” Ian asked, sitting Peter up against the wheel. He grabbed him by the chin, and tried to get him to make eye contact. “Pete. You’re okay! I’ve got you, mate. I’ve got you. Remember the numbers. Fifteen percent instant kill, everything else can be fixed or replaced. If you aren’t already dead, you’re not going to be. Look at me. Pete.”

  Peter’s eyes couldn’t focus, and the lower part of his shirt around his waist was turning red. “Pete?” Ian asked. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Ian had a personal first-aid kit strapped to his thigh. He fumbled in his pouch and tore open a package containing a field dressing. He pressed the pad against Peter’s stomach and said, “I’ve got a field dressing right here. You’ll be good. This thing will stop the bleeding. Just lean forward so I can wrap it around you. You’ll be fine.”

  Peter did as Ian asked and leaned forward. Ian checked to make sure there was no exit wound. But when he lifted Peter’s shirt, it was apparent the bullet had tumbled inside his body and exited underneath his shoulder blade, leaving a hole the size of his fist.

  Ian’s field dressing could absorb up to a pint of blood. If the bullet was still in Peter’s body he would have had a chance. Not now.

  Peter tried to say something. It was incomprehensible.

  “Ashley’s having another baby?” Ian asked desperately, continuing to bandage Peter, though it was useless. “That’s great, mate. I’m so happy for you. Let’s get you fixed up.” The feeling of helplessness was unbearable. “You’ve got such a nice family. I always thought you were so lucky.”

  Peter’s hand was flapping like a fish at his side.

  “You’re going to be fine.”

  Ian flashed back to the night he met Maddie at that dorky fund-raiser and how Peter had actually been looking forward to the folk dance show. Ian and the other guys had teased him about it relentlessly. Ian wished he could go back in time. See Peter laugh again.

  There was a spark of presence in Peter’s eyes. “Ashley,” he managed.

  “Yes, Pete. I’ll tell her, mate. Don’t worry. She’ll know.”

  Peter’s flapping fingers made it to his pocket and pulled out the cigarette. He folded his hand over Ian’s and passed it to him, securing the handoff just before his body convulsed.

  Ian struggled to light it, but as he finally slipped it between Peter’s lips, he was gone.

  Ian sat there, arms wrapped protectively around his dead friend and listening to the exchange of fire. Peter was not going home to his pregnant wife. Hit with grief so hard it took his breath away, Ian couldn’t help but picture Maddie.

  And think, I’ll probably never see that girl again.

  MADDIE

  Three weeks before

  My mom and dad tell me to take my time. “Go,” they say, shooing me toward the front door with a chirpiness that strikes me as fake. Through the kitchen window I can see Skopie and Sophie trotting toward the back of the property on the trail of some poor doomed rodent. Charlie has already seated himself at the kitchen table for a snack. He is playing with that horrible squeezy cheese that comes out of the can in little yellow worms on the cracker. I used to love it when I was a kid, too. My mom has never been a gourmet. Grandmother Audrey used to turn her nose up at anything my mom ever tried to serve to her.

  “Goodbye, Charlie.” I wave.

  He doesn’t look up but he says, “Bye bye, Mommy. I hope you don’t get shot.”

  I’m startled and for a second, suddenly and senselessly picturing Ian’s pistol. Why would Charlie say such a thing? And then I realize. He must be remembering his last vaccination and the dreadful sight of that long needle.

  We all start laughing. “Are you afraid your mom is going to have to get a shot?” my dad asks.

  “Well, she is going to the doctor. Doctors give shots.”

  My mom grabs my hand and folds a wad of cash into it. “Go shopping, okay? You’re driving all the way to the Plaza. You need something new and cute to cheer you up,” she says, fussing with the buttons on my shirt because she doesn’t like to look at my eye. “And maybe this new doctor will have some ideas. You know, about how to get back to normal. Fix things.”

  Back to norm
al. What an amazing, beautiful and inconceivable dream. “Mom, you don’t have to do that. I have money.”

  “I know. I like to. Take it. You should have some fun. Treat yourself. I used to shop at the Talbots down there. They used to have a very nice petite section.”

  “Don’t hurry back,” my dad says. “Charlie and I are going to do some fishing later on, right, kiddo?”

  “No, don’t hurry back. Find a nice outdoor café and sit and get a glass of wine. Live a little,” my mom says, touching the ends of my hair. The portion by my shoulders, not by my face. I’m sorry for my mom. I think this is harder for her than it is for me.

  * * *

  I get in my car to drive the forty-five minutes it will take me to get to the downtown St. Luke’s Neurological Consultants office, which was Cami J’s suggestion. They have a clinic closer to me, but I would have had to wait six weeks to be seen there, and I am obviously very eager to have this over with before Ian returns from Africa.

  The office is close to the hospital, which, as my mom pointed out, is just a few minutes away from the Plaza. This luxurious little hamlet of Kansas City is where my grandmother Audrey squandered her husband’s natural gas inheritance on charities and private clubs while presiding over phony lackeys and admirers. Driving slowly past the boutiques, fountains, flowers and cafés, I realize how long it’s been since I have been anywhere more adult or cosmopolitan than Applebee’s. I decide that maybe I will walk around after my appointment. Window shop. Get a bite to eat. Never remove my hat and sunglasses.

  * * *

  As instructed, I arrive thirty minutes early for my appointment with neurologist Dr. Stephen Roberts, and fill out my paperwork surrounded by a handful of other patients, none of whom appear to be younger than seventy-five. I am reminded of my days spent at Trakia Bar back in New York, where the crowd I hung out with had looked only marginally less depraved than these poor, slack-jawed and vacant-eyed patients. I am suddenly tremendously relieved. I do not have Parkinson’s. I have not suffered a stroke. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I feel sure that whatever it is, everything is going to be fine.

  Dr. Roberts turns out to be a very thin, beautiful and gentle African man in loose taupe trousers with an accent. He wears expensive-looking eyeglasses and leather shoes. When he shakes my hand, I make the bizarre observation that he has the longest and softest fingers I have ever seen in my life. I like his gummy smile right away. He has chocolatey eyes like Charlie, but not the amazing lashes.

  “Please have a seat on the end of the exam table, Madeline,” he says. I rustle as I walk, wearing my paper patient polka-dot dress.

  He pulls up a chair and folds his hands together. “This may seem a little odd, but I usually start my examinations by asking you if you know what day today is.”

  “Tuesday.”

  “And what did you have for breakfast this morning?”

  This one throws me for a second. “Coffee. A couple bites of waffle and two of my son’s string-cheese thingies.”

  He laughs. “A busy-mom meal. My wife eats horrible stuff like that, too. Okay. If you’ll just give me a minute here.” He flips through my paperwork for a long time. “So,” he says finally, looking up. He gestures vaguely toward my scar. “You’ve suffered a head injury recently.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see there is very little illness in your past. Your only hospitalizations are an appendectomy at eighteen and a boating accident when you were ten?”

  “Yes.”

  “Six days in the ICU, it says.”

  “I nearly died.”

  “But you made a full recovery.”

  “I did.”

  “Did you have a head injury then as well?”

  “No.”

  “And these episodes of panic, what you are experiencing now, these are brand-new?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about the cause of your injury.”

  “I fell. From what I understand I fell very hard, umm, at an angle, over a rock and into more rocks. I was kind of high up, because I was walking from our tent toward the road and there was, probably, like a three-foot drop-off. It was dark and I tripped.”

  “Okay. And then what?”

  “I think I blacked out for a while. Not passed out, but blacked out, because I was walking around. I didn’t even know I was hurt. I had been going to the bathroom, but I guess I got confused and eventually I found my way back to the campsite and my husband. And he looked up and saw me coming, and my head was covered in blood.”

  “But you don’t remember any of this?”

  “To be honest I don’t even remember falling. I don’t remember anything clearly until the ambulance arrived. You should know—it’s not amnesia. I hit my head very hard, but I’d also just had too much wine. I’d probably had a bottle, but I can’t say for sure because it was in a box.”

  “What was in a box?”

  “The wine.”

  “You know, I’ve heard of that. Wine in a box. Very funny.” He pauses. “I’m not much of a drinker.”

  I shrug and smile.

  “Okay. Now we start the examination, mmm?”

  He begins to examine me in a way that I can only describe as tender. He holds my hands and tells me to squeeze. He tickles my arms one at a time and asks if I can feel it. We make funny faces at each other, and he watches me walk around the room. When he turns out the lights and leans in to look in my eyes I can smell his aftershave. It reminds me of the clove-poked orange I made in Girl Scouts and hung in my closet to make my clothes smell nice. My thirty-minute physical exam is more tactile and emotionally pleasing than several of the relationships I’d had in my twenties.

  When he is done, he crosses his arms over his chest and looks at me with a stern expression. “I want to make sure I understand completely. You went to Dr. Jones because of a sudden onset of severe anxiety following your head injury.”

  “Right.”

  “And while working with you she observed something she believed to be a partial seizure.”

  “To be honest, I don’t know what she saw. I began repeating myself, I guess. I just thought maybe it was the beginning of a panic attack.”

  “But you didn’t go to the emergency room?”

  “No.”

  “You should have.”

  “That’s what Cami J said.”

  “Cami J?”

  “Dr. Jones. She wanted to take me. But I just panicked and left. I wanted to go pick up my son. She chased after me, but I just wanted to go.”

  “Interesting. Suggests some impulsive behavior as well as anxiety.”

  “You have to understand, I didn’t think I’d even had a seizure. To be honest, I still don’t. To me it seemed, you know, that I was dizzy for a second like when I get really nervous.”

  “You did not lose consciousness, even for a second?”

  “No.”

  “So not a complex seizure. Did you smell anything unusual while this was happening?”

  “Smell something?”

  “Like a chemical. Or something burning. Maybe perfume or flowers?”

  I think about saying sewage and blood, but I answer, “No.”

  “And you didn’t experience any profound feelings at that moment? Euphoria? Anger?”

  “Panic. Just panic and fear and wanting to leave.”

  “Okay.” He looks at me for a long time, thinking. “I suppose it could be an absence seizure,” he says finally.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Absence seizure. But they are more common in children.” His forehead furrows. “There are dozens of types of partial seizures. I will order a full blood screen, of course, okay? Rule things out. And we can do some tests on your brain, yes?”

  “Now?”

  “No. no. There is quite a queue for these procedures, I’m
afraid. There are some good options, Madeline. There is more than one way to look for problems, if you will, in the brain. I would suggest we schedule an MRI, which will tell me about the structure of your brain. In addition, I suggest we schedule an EEG, which will tell me about the way your brain is functioning by looking at its electrical activity. The MRI is perhaps better when looking for damage from injuries. I must tell you, though, we often end up doing both exams without a definitive answer.”

  “Can I think about it? My husband is a private contractor, and I’m not working right now. I’m staying at home with my little son at the moment, so we have a huge insurance deductible. I’ll probably have to pay the full cost of whatever I choose, and with no guarantee...”

  “I completely understand, Madeline.” He offers me his willowy handshake again. “Before you go?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m always interested in how certain areas of damage affect behavior.” He reaches out and softly lays his hand along the side of my cheek, just beside the scar, and squints down at me with fascination. “It would not surprise me if we find you have suffered a frontal lobe injury.”

  “Is that really bad?”

  “Not always. But it can be. Especially in the case of repetitive injury, which is fortunately not the situation with you. In rare instances, people have woken up from a brain injury with a new ability. One man in New Jersey hit his head diving into a pool and when he emerged from his coma he could suddenly play the piano.”

  “Wow,” I say loudly, impressed.

  Dr. Roberts is so thrilled by my reaction that he claps his hands together and says, “It’s true. But that is the exception, not the rule. More often we find that traumatic brain injuries result in more common everyday ailments and problems. Aggression, negativity, intolerance. And like with you, anxiety.”