Lieutenant

by Lesli Richardson

  At least Connie’s alive. I couldn’t help Mike, but at least I kept Connie alive.

  It’s…something.

  I drift in and out of consciousness. I’m even more certain I’m the worst of all of us from the way the two medics look concerned when they frequently check my vitals and study the portable monitor I’m now hooked to with leads that run under my shirt, which feels like it’s about twenty sizes too big, even though the tag said it’s a medium.

  Not a weight-loss diet I’d recommend to anyone. I wonder how long it’ll take me to regain weight, or what the hell I’ll be able to wear in the meantime. I’ll look like shit for the pressers, and—

  Jesusfuck, Susa. Can the politician please take a goddamned break?

  No.

  The ship takes a roll and I barely manage to get my head over the side of the bunk before I puke in the bucket they’ve thoughtfully provided for me.

  Hey, I’m not dry-heaving anymore, although the foul-tasting yellow liquid I puke up is almost worse.

  “Just kill me now,” I beg once I’ve been given some water to rinse my mouth out and one of the medics gently towels my face with a damp cloth. “Please?”

  The next bunk over, Connie weakly laughs where she’s sitting up. “I guess there are no cruises in your future?”

  “Fuck you, honey. I didn’t make you drink your own pee, and I discovered crabs, so don’t bust my balls.”

  “I will never eat another goddamned crab again in my life.”

  “A-fucking-men,” George says, with agreeing mumbles from Allen and Collin.

  Connie laughs again, and at least this one thing I can hold on to that I’ve done in my life.

  I’ve brought her home with me.

  Well, I’ve brought her to rescuers. What happens now is out of my hands, but at least I did this damn thing.

  George is on my other side and sits up, turns, and puts his feet on the floor so he can lean in and drop his voice. “Told you you weren’t dying, girl.”

  I think I stick my tongue out at him, but with my lips so bad off, and my tongue kind of swollen, it’s hard to tell.

  He laughs, so I guess I did.

  “Hey, Sir,” I say, then don’t know how to proceed from there. I waggle a finger at him. “No tell-all book before eighty,” I warn.

  He laughs. “What book?”

  Then he winks and reaches over to pat my shoulder.

  I guess we’re going to play it that way. Fine with me.

  I’m sure Susa the politician will be cringing later and beating herself up for what I admitted to him during our ordeal, but for now the politician is just fucking happy to be on her way back to civilization.

  One of the crewmen opens the door to talk to the captain, who’s stayed there to translate for us. He turns to us. “We are almost to port. We must wait for high tide. They will bring a tug to guide us in to the dock, and some of your families will meet us when we land.”

  My eyes are so swollen, my face sunburned, but I cry anyway. I hope Carter and Owen are there. I selfishly hope my parents aren’t, because as much as I want to see Momma and Daddy, I need my men.

  Desperately.

  I’m sure Carter’s done a great job pretending to be strong for Owen, but he’s going to need me as much as Owen does. That’s just how this works. We each rely on the others in different ways.

  At least, I hope he’s done a great job pretending to be strong for Owen.

  Then again, maybe they won’t be there. Maybe they’ll need to get to me from Florida. I honestly wouldn’t hold it against them if they aren’t here, because, hell, it’s been three fucking weeks. They probably thought I was dead.

  I thought I was dead.

  And I’m sure I look like shit.

  I definitely smell bad.

  I wouldn’t even hold it against them if they’ve already held memorial services for me. As long as they used decent pictures of me.

  If they used crappy pictures, I will fucking kill both of them.

  * * * *

  I think I should be excused for passing out again. When I awaken, the world is moving. I feel it and briefly freak out, panicked that I’m back on the goddamned life raft.

  I open my eyes long enough to see I’m being carried out of the sick bay on a stretcher before I close my eyes again. They’re taking me out first, apparently, but the movement and staring up at the ceiling makes me dizzy and makes my stomach roll.

  In the distance, I hear a man screaming.

  Sounds sort of like a familiar man screaming.

  “Motherfucker, let me on this goddamned boat right fucking now!”

  Oh, hey, that’s my husband.

  I force my eyes open, but staring up still makes me dizzy, so I close them again. “Hope you grabbed my bucket,” I say. “I think I might need it. And I’d let the screaming guy on board, if I were you. As long as he’s my husband. Because if he is my husband, he gets mean and bitey.” Then I remember the crew can’t speak English, but I hear a chuckle and see the captain walking with us. He translates, and the crewmen laugh.

  The captain calls out to someone.

  They’re still carrying me when I hear more screaming, definitely what sounds like Carter-ish swearing, and then something that makes my eyes snap open.

  “Pet!”

  I hold up the arm without the IV as I start crying. I try to lift my head, but that makes me dizzy, too.

  The men carrying my stretcher stop at the sound of footsteps pounding down the deck.

  He’s there.

  RIGHT THERE!

  Carter’s leaning in, cradling my face in his hands, kissing me…

  Crying. His tears fall on my face as he sobs.

  If I’m dead, maybe I hit Heaven after all.

  Except…

  “Owen?” I croak.

  “Florida. I’ll get him coming here.”

  “Here, where?”

  He’s laughing and crying at the same time. “Fucking goddamned, beautiful, motherfucking Borneo!”

  “No shit?”

  He’s still doing the laugh-cry thing. “No, shit, pet. You ended up in fucking Borneo.”

  “Please tell me Daddy’s not here.”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” My fingers curl around his. “Sir?”

  “Yeah, pet?”

  I’m so choked up I can barely talk now, so I squeeze his hand as hard as I can, which probably isn’t much. “I tried to stay safe. I’m sorry.”

  He’s sobbing. “My beautiful, perfect pet. I love you so fucking much, you have no idea. You came back to me, that’s all I care about.”

  “Technically,” I sniffle, “you’ve come to me.”

  He tearfully laughs. “Yeah, well, nobody’s perfect.”

  * * * *

  The transfer to the hospital is sort of blurry, in my mind. Carter rides in the ambulance with me, holding my hand the whole way, on the phone with Owen.

  That’s when…

  Well, let’s just say I wasn’t making sense, and I think I said “I love you” about a thousand times.

  Then he called Daddy and Momma for me, and more babbling from me.

  Yeah.

  So much for my polished image.

  Ask me if I give a fuck.

  #noIdgaf

  Carter refuses to leave my side during my evaluation, my treatment, and it’s hours before they have me in a bed in ICU. Carter rolled up his sleeves and helped two very nice nurses give me a sponge bath and wash my hair with real fucking water and a wash basin, but no shower, no shaving for me yet.

  I can’t even walk.

  In fact, they’ve put a catheter in me for now, so they can monitor my urine output.

  I…sleep.

  * * * *

  I drift in and out. It’s about twelve hours or so later when I finally feel like I’m actually awake.

  Carter’s sprawled in a recliner next to my bed. As if he senses I’m awake, his eyes snap open and he sits up.

  “Hey, sweethea
rt.” He leans in to kiss me.

  “Owen.”

  “He’s in Florida, baby. Flying out in the morning. He wrapped up a couple of things and packed. He’s going to bring you clothes and stuff.”

  “Did I talk to him already?”

  He smiles. “You did.”

  I nod. “Daddy?”

  “You talked to them, too.”

  “Coming?”

  “Your mom’s passport’s expired. They’ll meet us when we fly in, wherever that is.”

  I nod and lick my lips. Everything fucking hurts now.

  Oh, hey, I’m not dying.

  “You were right,” I say.

  His brow furrows. “About what?”

  I sigh. “Dying’s easy.” I think about the sounds Lisa made as she guzzled sea water. That will probably haunt me until my dying day. “Surviving’s hard.”

  His face…he crumples as he leans in, kissing me. “Oh, pet.” He’s crying again, and it breaks my heart. When he can finally speak again, his voice sounds so choked and full of emotion he can barely talk. “I’m so proud of you, baby. You have no idea how proud. I love you so fucking much. I’ve got you now. You can sleep and rest. I’m not leaving you. I’ll take care of you, I swear.”

  I feel him swipe lip balm over my lips. “Can you take a few sips of stuff for me?” he asks.

  I make fish lips at him—or, I try—and he tearfully laughs. But I manage a couple of pulls off the straw.

  “Take me home, Sir.”

  “We will. You need at least a week here before they’ll release you, bare minimum. Probably more. I had Dray working on that. We got a nutrition doctor from FSU on the phone to talk with the doctors here, and he did a consult. You’re stable. It’s better we keep you here and then just take you back to the US, rather than shuffling you around while you’re still so fragile.”

  I nod. “Flying sucks.”

  I think he’s laughing at first, but it sounds wrong. It’s only when he leans in, his forehead against mind and his hands cupping my face, that I realize he’s crying once more.

  Sobbing.

  With my fingers wrapped around his hand, I go back to sleep.

  * * * *

  I guess it’s only an hour or so this time. I startle awake at the sound of people talking.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’re moving you to a private room,” Carter says. “You’re stable enough to be out of ICU, but we’re worried about the press and stuff. I want you protected.”

  “Okay. Connie?”

  “She’s okay. Better off than you.”

  “I have a confession.”

  He frowns and leans in. “What?”

  “I told George about you and Owen. I thought I was dying.”

  That time when he laughs, it sounds sweet and deep and easy. “I’ve already talked to Governor Forrester. He warned me that, for a woman who was convinced she was dying, you loved to quote Monty Python and talk a lot.”

  “Oh. So he did get a promotion. Good for him.”

  I mean, not good why he did, but…

  #shutupImnotatmybest

  Carter sadly nods. “Yeah. A lot of people did, pet. A lot of people. The hard way.”

  They settle me in my new room and I sip more of the crappy shit.

  But hey, not puking!

  Owen calls a little while later to talk to us before boarding his flight to California, and then Carter climbs in bed with me, where I cry myself to sleep.

  * * * *

  Apparently, starvation is a bitch and a half on a body. When I awaken again, I’ve missed Owen’s call before he boards the flight in LAX by fifteen minutes.

  Carter tries calling him for me, but it goes to voice mail.

  But…he’s on his way.

  He’s coming.

  And, apparently, Connie, George, Allen, Collin, and I are the center of a world-wide media storm.

  A good one, but a crazy one.

  Carter, thankfully, has already crafted a statement for me and issued it through the communications department.

  Daddy, of course, gave a presser.

  Yeah, okay, I’ll give him that one.

  Based on my blood work, they up how much of the nasty electrolyte shit I can drink. It’s supposed to be cherry-flavored, I think, but it just tastes like sort of sweet ass.

  Not even good ass.

  But my mind feels really clear for the first time in days. I’m…

  “Carter.”

  He cocks his head. “Yes, pet?” The eyebrow goes up.

  I give him eyebrow right back, and he finally folds first with a sigh. “Yes, Suse?”

  “He can’t pull out.”

  I know damn fucking well he knows what I mean, yet I can also see from the look on his face that he considers pretending that he doesn’t. Finally, “We can talk about that later.”

  “No, we talk about it now. I’ll be back to work in a couple of weeks.”

  “Like hell you will.”

  “Carter.” I fumble and finally get my finger on the button to raise the head of my bed. “We’re not pulling out.”

  He stares at me, long and hard, before his shoulders slump. “Okay, pet,” he softly says. “I won’t let him pull out.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  He leans in and gently nuzzles my nose. “You sooooo owe me a fucking spanking when you’re back in shape, you know that?”

  I smile. “I’ll even let Owen spank me, if he wants to.”

  * * * *

  A few hours later, there’s a knock on the room door, and Carter speaks up. “Come in.”

  It’s one of my doctors. Fuck if I can even remember his name, but his English sounds British, and he’s kind of hot, although I’ll never admit that to Carter.

  #notstupid

  I mean, Carter would probably think he’s hot, too, but helllooo, just almost died.

  The least I can do is not perv on hunky guys for a few weeks.

  The doctor closes the door behind him, and he wears a…weird expression.

  Carter’s hand tenses around mine, but he doesn’t squeeze. He’s terrified to hurt me, and I get it, but I just survived a fucking ordeal and I need his strength right now.

  So I squeeze Carter’s hand, until he looks at me. I mean, I guess he’s looking at me. I’m still squinting and everything’s blurry. They said it’ll probably be a few days before the swelling goes down in my face. Then they can evaluate my eyesight to see if there was any permanent damage.

  Even if I end up with glasses after this, totally worth it, if that’s the only remaining issue I have after what I endured.

  “What’s wrong?” Carter asks without waiting for him to speak.

  I forget, Carter has his own past experience with doctors and hospitals, even though that was years ago, before we met.

  “I have gone through your wife’s test results, and I have some news for you that I am not sure how you will receive.”

  “Just tell us.”

  “Mrs. Evans is pregnant. We need to do further testing to tell how far along. I am surmising that, since neither you nor she revealed this to our medical team, that it is a surprise to you as well?”

  I’m…stunned.

  “Say that again?” Carter whispers. “What did you say?”

  “Your wife is pregnant.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I ordered the test be repeated just to be certain.”

  Now Carter’s squeezing my hand.

  “We’re going to be parents!” I’m not sure if he’s saying that to me or the doctor or if he says it while simply trying to drive the point home inside his own brain.

  “Do you wish us to run further tests now, or wait and have them done later after she is released? I would prefer now, because we may need to modify her treatment protocols, and—”

  “Now,” he says. “Absolutely, now. But this says secret.”

  “Of course. Our patients’ privacy is one of our top concerns.”

  The
bastard extraordinaire is back. He jabs a finger at the guy. “No, I mean not a single word of this gets out. Change her name in the system or something, or create a new fictitious patient profile. Anything. This news cannot get out.”

  “I will talk to the hospital administrator and see what we can do.”

  “You do that.” I hear it in his tone—the bastard extraordinaire is back.

  Thank god.

  The doctor nods. “I will make a referral so that they send an obstetrician to evaluate her. They will likely order more tests.”

  “Sure. Yeah, of course. Whatever she needs.”

  When the doctor leaves, Carter stands and turns. He’s wearing a grin. “A baby!”

  I’m a realist. “Carter,” I gently say, but he rolls right over me.

  “Owen will be here in…” He calculates. “Fifteen hours.” He’s pacing, already planning how to break it to him.

  “Carter.”

  “We’ve got to keep it secret for at least that long.”

  “Carter.”

  “Man, I cannot wait to see the look—”

  “Carter.” He finally stops and stares at me, his face still filled with joy. “Please don’t get your hopes up, or his,” I gently warn. “After what I’ve been through, and my age…”

  Fierce determination fills his face. “Fuck that, pet. I refuse to think anything other than we’re having a baby.”

  I reach for him, and when he takes mine I tug on his hand to bring him closer. “Let’s let the doctors tell us it’s okay before we get our hopes up. Please?” I must be at least five weeks or so along. Owen sent me off to the airport with a load of cum in me after bending me over his desk while Carter guarded the door.

  Then it was, what, a week before that, the night of my meltdown. So possibly six weeks. A week before that, maybe? I can’t remember for sure past that. So possibly seven weeks.

  That’s still…that’s early.

  I guess it explains my vomiting, though. Maybe I wasn’t as seasick as I thought I was.