by Harley Stone
Monica
YOU’RE LUCKY TO be alive.
That’s what everyone kept telling me. I’d been hit by a twenty-thousand-pound delivery truck doing about sixty miles per hour down the highway. In my little car, I shouldn’t have survived. To hear the doctors and nurses talk about the accident, I’m a fucking miracle.
But I didn’t feel like a miracle.
Hell, I didn’t feel lucky at all.
It took four days of surgeries for doctors to undo the damage: fractured clavicle, broken humerus, internal bleeding, twenty-seven stitches up my neck to the center of my cheek, four shattered vertebrae, dislocated hip, something the doctor had described as “dashboard knee,” and a few other notable injuries in addition to dozens of cuts and bruises. It felt like I’d been in the hospital forever and judging by the machines I was still hooked to, my status wouldn’t be changing anytime soon.
And then, there was the big injury… the one that would never heal.
My left arm felt strangely light. Holding it up, I forced myself to finally take a good look at it.
It’s gone, Monica. No doctor can fix this.
My arm now ended in a bandage covered stump just below my elbow. My forearm and hand were gone. Only, they didn’t feel gone. Over the past week, they’d been itching, tingling, and genuinely driving me crazy. I needed to find a way to convince my brain that I couldn’t scratch what no longer existed.
My arm was shattered in the accident. I’d seen pictures, and the doctor explained that the damage had narrowed the arteries and restricted blood flow. If left alone, the tissue would eventually die off and become infected. There was nothing they could have done to save it.
But his explanation didn’t mean shit to me, because I needed both hands to fly.
There has never been a one-handed fighter pilot.
Until now. I’ll figure this out. I have to.
I couldn’t be grounded. I couldn’t exist in a world where I wasn’t a pilot. No God, no higher power, no universe or fate would do that to me. There had to be a way to fix this and get back in the cockpit. I just needed the rest of my mind and the rest of my body to heal so I could focus on researching options. Science was always advancing, and maybe I’d be the first pilot to fly with a prosthetic.
They’ll never even let you back in the hangar. Your career is over.
Reality and morphine were making me nauseous. Knowing I was about to blow chunks again, I reached for the bedpan and started heaving. Someone knocked on my door. Frustrated that I couldn’t even vomit in peace anymore, I looked at the clock and swore. Visiting hours had started.
I can’t do this.
But I had to. I wasn’t the only one hurting. The people who cared about me and knew about the accident had to be allowed to see me and reassure themselves I’d be okay. I had to put on a brave front and pretend for them.
The knock came again.
Everything itched. Chalking it up to the pain medicine, I took a deep breath and tried not to imagine how good it would feel to scratch. Especially my fucking non-existent arm. Skin still crawling, I bit back a curse and set the bedpan back on the roll cart before filling my mouth with water to swish around and spit.
Another knock.
My visitor was persistent as hell. Knowing they probably wouldn’t give up, I tried to wheel the cart with the vomit-filled bedpan away so nobody would notice, but only got it a couple of inches away before the pain from moving caused my vision to swim. Giving up, I made sure none of my business was peeking out through the thin gown and blankets and called out, “Come in.”
A tall man in his mid-forties stood in the doorway holding flowers and a balloon, just like he’d done every day that I’d been awake and able to receive visitors. Ken Rucksburg was his name, and he shouldn’t be here. I’m sure his employer’s attorney had advised him against it, but not even the threat of a lawsuit could drag him away. Bound and determined to somehow make amends, he just kept coming. And every time I had to look at him, I wanted to scream at him for what he’d done.
With red eyes and an apologetic smile, he inched his way into my room. “How you feelin’ today?”
“Better,” I replied, hitting the button to send more numbing morphine into my veins. Maybe it could dull the frustration caused by the necessity of this conversation. Ken wasn’t my enemy. He wasn’t ISIS or Al-Qaeda. He wasn’t a terrorist bomber or a bandit trying to get a lock on my bird so he could send missiles up my ass. I’d been trained to fight bad guys. But this hardworking husband and father who’d fallen asleep at the wheel during a double shift and almost killed me…. I didn’t know how to face him.
Nodding, he marched to the shelf that held the collection of gifts I’d received over the past week and squeezed in his latest offering. A few balloons had deflated and were now dangling from their weights. Rolling hills of fallen petals along the shelf testified to the fact I’d been in this room for far too long.
Ken’s gaze darted around the space, not quite looking at me. At least they were dry this time. The first time they let him see me, he dropped to his knees at the foot of my bed and sobbed until I called the nurse in to remove him. I appreciated the fact he was sorry, but his guilt was stifling. His tears had nearly suffocated me. Unlike my other visitors, he couldn’t pretend not to see the scar on my face, the bandages, the fact he’d cost me the life I’d loved.
I wanted him to leave and never come back, but knew that he was just as broken as I was and I didn’t have the heart to shatter what was left of him.
His nose wrinkled. “What’s that smell.” Gaze darting to the bed pan on my roll cart, he stepped forward as his eyes widened. “Here, I’ll take care of that for you.”
This was my life now. A week ago, I was racing through the weeds like I owned the fucking sky, and now I was bedridden and the man who’d almost killed me wanted to clean up my vomit. If he offered to change out my catheter, I’d lose my shit. Probably literally. “No. Leave it. The nurse will be back any minute.”
“I got it. This is the least I can do to help.”
Since I physically couldn’t stop him, I was forced to watch as he carried the bedpan into the bathroom and flushed the contents—trying not to gag the entire time. If I could have gotten up, I would have crawled under my bed and died. I’d never felt so helpless and humiliated in my life. Everything hurt, I wanted to cry, and I wished visiting hours had never been invented.
“All better,” Ken said, returning the now clean bedpan. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
You can leave. Please.
“No. I’m good. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry.” The words frequently flew out of his mouth like they were trapped and needed to be set free. Apologizing was his painkiller, numbing his guilt so he could breathe. “I mean it. You’ll never know how truly sorry I am. My wife said to let you know the church has been praying for you every day. They’re all posting about the incident and people all over the country are prayin’ for you now. We’re trusting God for a full recovery.”
I fought the desire to raise my stub of an arm. Unless I was bit by a radioactive starfish or Mexican axolotl and gained their regeneration ability, there’d be no full recovery. This man—as sorry as he was—had altered my life and my body forever. It was just a stupid accident, but the good Lord couldn’t do shit about my situation.
“You should stop making the drive to see me,” I said. He lived in Amarillo, which was about an hour and a half away. Judging by the bags under his eyes, he wasn’t sleeping, and the idea of him repeating his transgression and wrecking someone else’s life made my stomach churn with anxiety. “There’s nothing more you can do for me.”
Tears flooded his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry—” His gaze dropped to my stump of an arm.
I couldn’t do this anymore. Adding as much steel to my voice as I could muster, I said, “I know you are, but you look like hell. You’re exhausted and you shouldn’t be on the road. I will n
ot be responsible for you doing this to someone else.”
As my words sunk in, he finally met my gaze. Anguish called to me from behind his eyes, breaking my heart. Knowing I had to end this for good, I held his painful gaze and put us both out of our misery. “Leave, Ken. Don’t come back. I mean it. I know you’re sorry, but I don’t want to see you again.”
Instead of responding, he stood in silence. Just as I was about to reach for my call button and get security to escort him out, he nodded. “My wife said my presence probably only makes it harder for you. I’m sorry, Captain Johnson.” A sob broke his voice. “I… I… I’ll keep praying for you, and if you ever need anything—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to call me.”
“Thank you.”
Finally, he turned and walked out.
Hoping I’d never have to see him again, I released a breath and tried to pull myself together. My reprieve was short-lived because Jagger was the next visitor to knock on my door. He brought a fluffy brown teddy bear wearing a red and white striped bow tie.
“Hey. I saw this and thought of you.”
I eyed the bear. “I don’t know whether you’re calling me fat or saying I have the skin tone of a bear.”
He choked on a laugh and looked away. When he turned back to me, his eyes were bright with unshed tears. “The guys were all scared you’d kick our asses, so we never told you this, but we wanted to change your call sign.”
This was the first I’d heard of such nonsense, which surprised me since they were all horrible at keeping secrets. “To what?”
“Mama Bear.” He sat the stuffed animal beside me. “The way you were always looking out for us…” He looked away again.
My heart squeezed tight. He said “were,” as in past-tense. Looking out for these assholes had been an honor. An honor that would no longer be mine. “Someone had to be the adult in the group.”
Chuckling, he wiped away a tear before turning back to face me. “I’m sorry. It should be me in that bed. Or you should have let me get an Uber or something.”
“Hindsight’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
“Sure the fuck is.” He shook himself. “You need anything?”
“I need people to stop asking me that damn question. I’m kinda laid up right now, so it’s not like I can do a lot.”
“Noted. If that changes, call me. I mean it, Mama Bear, night or day, I’m here for you.”
He’d given me a new call sign.
Too bad I’ll never get to use it.
My stomach clenched and I hit the morphine again.
“You okay?” Jagger asked, concern etched in the lines across his forehead. “Need me to call the nurse or anything?”
“No. I’ll be fine once that kicks in.”
“Ah. They got you on the good stuff. Good. Fuckin’ shame what happened to you. I can’t… I… I should go. There’s a whole line of people out there waiting to see you.”
The pity in his eyes made me want to scream. “I’ll be out of here in no time, Jagger. I always bounce back.”
I can’t do this.
Yet, I did. A steady stream of visitors followed Jagger. Every one of them brought a gift. They were all sorry. They each made a valiant effort not to look at my stump of an arm or talk about the fact I’d never fly again.
Just as I couldn’t handle one more fake smile or get well soon wish, my parents arrived. I’d talked to them over the phone every day since I woke up. They’d wanted to come immediately, but were looking after two dogs and my borderline senile grandmother. They had to wait for my little brother, Damien, to come home from Berkeley and take over their duties so they could fly down.
Mom’s gaze took me in as she stifled a gasp. “Sweet Jesus.” Her eyes filled with tears that she rapidly blinked away. It was the closest she’d ever come to crying in front of me, and it tugged painfully at my heartstrings.
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m gonna be okay,” I lied, betraying every fear and worry bubbling up inside me.
She nodded and a combination of pride and sorrow pursed her lips and hardened her eyes. “Of course you will, baby. You’re a survivor.”
“No, she’s a fighter,” Dad said, hurrying to my bedside and grabbing my good hand. “We came as soon as we could.”
“You didn’t have to come at all,” I said. “I’m fine and the hospital will be releasing me to go home in a couple of days.”
Mom and Dad shared a look.
“Right,” Dad said. “Fill us in on everything. How long are they planning to keep you and what will you be able to do after you go home?”
This is what I loved about my parents: they were problem solvers. They didn’t bother with regrets or emotions, and wouldn’t waste time telling me they were sorry for something they hadn’t done and couldn’t change. Instead, they’d focus on the next steps, which was exactly what I needed. “As long as there are no more complications, I should be able to go home Friday. I’ll have to limit walking for a while to keep my hip from dislocating again, but they’ll set me up with a wheelchair.”
Dad leaned closer. “Is your house wheelchair accessible?”
I thought about the narrow doorways and small bathroom. “No, but I’m sure I can manage.”
“And what do you plan to do after you get home?”
“It’ll probably be a couple of weeks before I can walk. I’ll use that downtime to research my options. I’m sure there are prosthetic limbs out there that can restore most functionality and make my life normal again.”
My parents shared another look.
They could have filled the room with all the shit they weren’t saying, and it was making me nervous. “What?” I asked.
Dad’s expression softened and he squeezed my hand. “Do you plan to try and stay on with the Air Force, baby girl?”
His question cut like a dagger straight through my heart. Dad had always pushed me, always believed in me, but now, when I needed his unwavering faith… He was doubting me? “How can you even ask me that?”
His brow furrowed and he looked at my stump of an arm. “Monica, you have to be realistic about the situation.”
“Don’t.” I replied, unable to withstand the emotion in his voice. “I’m not ready to give up. I’ll research. I’ll find out what I need to do. I’ve beaten the odds before, Daddy. This is just another hurdle I’ll have to jump. I’m determined and stubborn as hell, remember? If I want to be a pilot, nobody in this world can stop me, but me.” The words felt like lies coming out of my mouth, but I clung to them, needing them to be true. “You taught me that.”
Dad tried to say something, but choked up and looked away.
Mom’s eyes glistened as she stepped closer and laid her hands on Dad’s shoulders. “Whatever happens, we’ll be here to help you.”
It wasn’t the promise everything would be okay I wanted, but my parents had never lied to me before, so I didn’t expect them to start now. They knew the same truth I did, no matter how much I didn’t want to admit it.
“Thank you.” I squeezed Dad’s hand, willing him to look at me, but the slight shaking of his shoulders told me he couldn’t. For the first time in my life, my drive, goals, dreams, and ambition wouldn’t be enough.
My career was over.
Stocks
I APPLIED FOR every job I could. Security guard, dishwasher, dog walker, delivery driver, I wasn’t picky. Unfortunately, employers were. Every application I completed asked about prior convictions. Refusing to lie, I gave minimal information and hoped for the best. More than a week of dropping resumes passed before I finally got called in for an interview at a six-store strip mall. Dressing in a dark pair of slacks and a button up, long-sleeved shirt, I arrived fifteen minutes early to sit in the waiting room until ten minutes after the scheduled time. Either someone was busy, or they were trying to make a point about how little they valued my time.
“Mr. Sinclaire, Mr. Rhodes will see you now,” the receptionist finally said, gesturing for me to stand and follow her. She
led me down a gray hall and into a dated office full of well-used furniture. A portly man with a receding hairline sat behind the desk. He wore an off-the rack department store suit with a red tie. Standing, he shook my hand before waving me toward the uncomfortable folding chair in front of his desk.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Sinclaire,” he said as I sat.
“Gage, please,” I corrected, using my given name since my road name would probably be frowned upon. “Thank you, sir. Nice to meet you, too.”
With pleasantries out of the way, he picked up my printed resume and got right down to business. “You were in the Marines?” he asked.
“Yes sir.”
“I have a nephew in the Marines. Riley Rhodes. Stationed out of Camp Pendleton. I can’t remember his rank… some sort of sergeant. You know him?”
I shook my head. “No sir. I was stationed out of Quantico.”
“You sure you don’t know him?” Mr. Rhodes asked, eyeing me suspiciously. “Doesn’t sound familiar at all?”
There were about 186,000 active duty Marines stationed out of twenty-one bases, and this wasn’t the first time someone couldn’t believe I didn’t know their serving relative. I didn’t understand that thought process at all, but wasn’t about to tell a potential employer he was an idiot. “No sir.”
Finally letting it go, he fired off a few more service related questions at me, asking what sort of work I’d done and the types of jobs I’d enjoyed most. Finally, he leaned back and steepled his fingers. “You wanted to be a lifer? Why’d you get out?”
This was the part of the interview I’d been dreading. “Injury.”
He perked up. “What sort of injury?”
“Lost my right leg from the knee down. It’s a prosthetic now.”
Leaning forward so he could see my legs, he said, “You’re kiddin’ me.”
Did he really expect me to show it to him? “No, sir.”
Yep. He wanted to ask to see it. I could practically see the question sitting on his tongue as he barely restrained himself and leaned back. “Oh. Right. I noticed you limped a little when you came in. Makes sense now.”