by K. L Randis
“No, Jackson! It was complicated—”
“It’s not complicated at all! You say ‘Jackson, we actually do know each other. We didn’t meet racing on the beach, I was one of your nurses and I let you fall for me because I felt bad for you.’ It must have been exhilarating to see if your hard work paid off as you followed up on me. All this time I was just an intriguing patient you wanted to check up on.”
“That is NOT what happened Jackson and you know it!”
“Now who’s being too loud?” he shouted at me.
I opened my mouth then looked at Meg. I sat back in my chair, smoothing my sweatshirt. “You’re right, Jackson. I know I should have told you sooner.”
“Me putting that vial on your tray before Susan brought it out to you was just fate. Then I met you, and everything in my life felt lighter somehow. You were inadvertently the one who gave me the idea to keep bringing vials of sand to your mom, don’t you remember that? You said you wished there was a way you could bring the beach to her, so after I gave her my one from Iraq and, after I knew who she was, I kept bringing them. She was the one encouraging me to keep doing it, to keep giving people something to feel happy about.”
I swallowed hard, feeling like we were ending a relationship I was never a part of. “I knew it was you when we raced on the beach that day,” I admitted. “You didn’t remember me, though, so I didn’t want to scare or embarrass you. I knew memory lapses were possible from the medications and episodes you had from your PTSD. I didn’t know how to bring it up without ruining our chances of getting to know each other.”
“That’s why you didn’t tell me? You didn’t know how to tell me you thought I was crazy?”
I could sense a hint of sarcasm in his voice but I didn’t want to risk it. “I knew you weren’t crazy, Jackson. I had feelings for you when I knew I shouldn’t.”
Meg’s monitors beeped in response. She groaned and lifted her pointer finger on her left hand.
“I think she’s waking up,” I said, scanning the monitors.
“Are you sure? Should I go get the doctor?”
“Not yet,” I said studying the screens some more before returning to our conversation.
“I think I heard enough anyway,” Jackson said, pushing his chair against the wall and standing.
“You don’t need to,” I said, not wanting him to leave.
He put his hands in his pockets and looked at Meg. His fingers lifted the edges of his pocket from the inside, and I wondered how many times a day he searched for the vial of sand he had given my mother before reminding himself he no longer needed it. “Text me when she’s awake, okay?”
The door slammed with heaviness only my chest understood in that moment, and I felt pieces of me floating away as I watched him walk down the hall. I craned my neck until I couldn’t see him anymore.
“Proud of you, friend. You finally told him,” Meg whispered.
I whipped around, smiling and clutching my chest. “Oh Meg, you’re awake.” I ran to her side and gingerly turned her chin in my direction when she tried to turn away from me.
“I’m an idiot,” she said finally.
“I won’t disagree with you on that, but we don’t have to talk about that right now,” I insisted. “I just want to sit here and hold your hand and think about ways to get you back for practically making my heart stop.”
“Fair enough.”
“In pain?” I asked.
“I’ve felt worse.”
“I know,” I said gently.
We sat there holding hands in silence, clenching until our knuckles were white. I looked at the bandage wrapped around her opposite wrist, wondering if her initial plan had been to cut both of them.
“What’s worse, losing him just now or losing yourself if you didn’t say anything?” Meg said finally.
I let the first tear slide down my cheek as I considered her question. We clenched hands harder, and Meg shifted so I could lay in the hospital bed with her. “What’s worse for you, losing Cheryl or almost losing yourself last night because you did say something?”
Tipping our heads together, both of us let tears fall in silence.
“Meg? You know you did everything right. There’s not one person you didn’t try warning and no lengths you didn’t go to. You fought harder for her than anyone should have had to. So can I tell you something?” I said, remembering the advice she had given me at the gym.
“Sure, Pip.”
“You need to keep fucking going.”
Chapter Eighteen
“I wasn’t expecting to see you after our last session, so I’m glad you called,” April said, closing the door behind me as I entered her office. She smiled and opened her palm to the room, inviting me to sit down in whatever chair I wanted.
“I know we left on a bad note last time, I’m sorry,” I said.
April held up a hand, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “Never apologize for the way you feel about something. It’s out of our control, the emotions we have when we’re hurting or upset. No apology needed. We just need to work on how they’re expressed.”
“I’m not sure where to start.”
“That’s usually the hardest part, so why don’t we talk about where not to start for this session instead?”
“Sure,” I said, plopping down into a purple armchair in the corner. “I think we can stay away from any topics about my mom, considering last time.”
“That’s fair,” April said nodding. “I can respect that. Besides, I think it has been quite a while since we talked about a much more important topic.”
“What’s that?”
“You.”
I nodded. “Also a touchy subject.”
“It usually is, for most people. You’ve only been in here a few times this past year. Once just after you visited your mom when she was lucid—er, I mean—after that one visit with that person we’re not talking about today, and a handful of times after the bombing.”
I winced. The word ‘bombing’ brought immediate visuals to the forefront of my mind. Panicked people running around screaming, the humming in my ears I couldn’t turn off, and the blood. All the blood.
“I’ve worked at a hospital for such a long time, and things that never bothered me before suddenly do.”
“Can you tell me which things?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes little things, like blood or the atmosphere of the emergency room. If a patient is having an episode and screaming or can’t settle it makes me anxious, it never used to before. The blood still reminds me of Meg, sometimes.”
April nodded, leaning back in her chair, eyes intense. “That’s not unusual considering what you’ve been through. Post-traumatic stress disorder isn’t a blanketed diagnosis, it can be triggered by so many different things depending on the person or circumstances.”
“What do I do if I’m triggered but working at a hospital then? I work in the mental health unit. I can’t just disappear or take a break every time I see something that’s triggering, I’d be in the break room most of the day.”
“Have you considered a career change, Pippa?”
“Never.”
“Because you love what you do?”
“Every day.”
“Or do you feel you owe something to Meg, that you have to keep fighting the good fight for veterans and save them to make up for Cheryl? To prove to Meg that you’re a good friend by committing your life to the cause because other doctors overlooked her as a veteran who was suffering and only saw a drug addict?”
“That’s ridiculous, I don’t have to prove anything to Meg she knows how much I love her, she’s my best friend,” I said, my voice hardening.
“So what advice do you think Meg would give to you about your career, knowing your triggers and loving you like she does…as a best friend?”
I opened my mouth. I closed it when I knew where April was trying to go with the conversation but I wasn’t willing to admit it out loud.
“You’re al
lowed to make changes in your own life that benefit you and only you, Pippa. You don’t need permission from anyone and you don’t need to prove your strength every day by continuing to stay somewhere you have to fight so hard. Staying at the hospital—now that we know what your triggers are in chaotic, unpredictable environments—would be like living in a beehive when you’re deathly allergic to bee stings. Does that make sense?”
“It’s like a constant attack,” I said, agreeing. “I get it. I just don’t know what else I would do. I worked so hard to be in the department I’m in. They’ve been wonderful with giving me light duty and time off whenever I needed it, I don’t know anywhere else I would be treated so delicately.”
April smiled, choosing her words carefully. “You’re touching your bad ear again, which tells me you’re self conscious about making a big change. Remind me, who was the one who created the volunteer program that goes to your mom’s nursing home?”
“I thought we weren’t talking about her,” I said squinting, trying to figure out her angle.
“We’re not, we’re talking about the volunteer program through your hospital.”
“Okay…I mean technically it was my idea but it’s not run by the hospital per say.”
“So what if that program expanded? You seem to know how to get things up off the ground and running, you have a passion for working with veterans and there’s certainly a need for the services they’re giving. Seems like a win-win to me.”
“There’s not a whole lot of funding for programs like that. The only reason why that one worked is because the hospital was backing it financially and I knew Valor House would be a benefit to our discharged patients who were veterans.”
“Mmmmhmmm…” April said.
“So, it’s not so simple. I’d have to develop relationships with every hospital and nursing home in the area, collect data on the patients and veterans to prove the program works. Then I’d have to proposition the board at each of the hospitals to allocate funds to build up the program and keep it running, funds for figuring out transportation for veterans who get discharged if they don’t have it and running background checks on the volunteers. They’d probably have to have a whole department to cover all the work that would be involved.”
“I wonder who could make the decision at your hospital to create a dedicated department?”
“Well, that would be Mike for sure. I mean, Henry is technically the program director for those kinds of things but ultimately Mike is the one to get things moving. He’s the one who gave me the green light to start the program and get Valor House to work with us by accepting referrals. He’s also on the board so it made it easier when it came up to vote on.”
“Sounds like you got things pretty figured out then,” April said.
“No, I—” I crossed my legs, moving my one leg up and down in frustration. “Yeah, I see what you did there.”
“Not a bad idea, huh?”
I stared at my knee as I answered. “I guess it’s not too bad of an idea, no. The hospital doesn’t run the program though, other than us handing out a pamphlet and referring them to Valor House it was out of our hands, the hospital never even knew what patients followed up with the services.”
“See a need fill a need, I guess?” Lisa responded. “Probably wouldn’t be hard to get a program running internally for something like that considering all of the good that has come of it so far, no?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re smiling.”
“Am I not allowed to do that while therapy is in session?” I said, teasing.
“I encourage it, very much actually.”
“It’s a good idea,” I said, agreeing. “I’ll consider it.”
“Good. I knew you would. How is Meg now? She has been home for a few weeks, right?”
“I would say she’s good but I had no idea she wasn’t good before, until she wasn’t. I’d like to think she’s getting stronger every day. She’s staying busy with work and volunteering at the nursing home to read to patients. She’s drinking a lot less which I’m personally not a fan of but if it’s better for her then…” I shrugged and April laughed at my sarcasm. “I’m drinking a lot less too, so there’s that. It’s all working out.”
“And Jackson?”
I stared, the smile fading from my face.
“What about him, Pippa? What’s his story?”
A week after Meg was discharged from the hospital I deleted Jackson’s number from my phone. I got tired of watching the three gray dots pop up just to disappear and it was driving making me insane wondering what he thought of me now that he knew the truth about how we really met.
I owed him an apology, a real one, but I also owed him space and the chance to move on from all of the internal heaviness our relationship discovered that we both weren’t ready to find.
I looked at the clock above April’s desk, thankful that our session was almost over. “I’m not sure,” I said. “I think he’s still writing it.”
Chapter Nineteen
JACKSON
Parris Island, S.C.
“What’s your story, running away from your parents?” said a pimple-faced nobody, who was also fresh out of high school. He had higher cheekbones than the empire state building and his fresh high and tight haircut made it obvious he had man-bun length locks previously. A lighter shade of skin where his scalp resided under his hairline glistened, even in the dim light of the barracks.
I had shaved my head within a few hours of graduating high school. The next morning I woke up and went to the nearest Marine recruitment office, waltzing through the door like I owned the damn place, and put my hands on top of the nearest desk.
“Sign me up for Infantry,” I said. “Send me out as soon as you can.”
The beefy man behind the desk snickered and chewed on the end of his pen, looking me up and down. “Your parents know you’re here?”
“I’m eighteen, I don’t need their permission.”
“So you’re a man now, huh? Did you graduate high school?”
“With honors.”
“Any convictions?”
“I have an addiction to sweet tea, if that counts.”
“Ah, so you’re a smart ass, eh?”
“Sign me up for Infantry,” I said again, crossing my arms in front of my chest and stepping away from the desk.
“Do you have any idea what you’re getting into here, kid? Have you done any research into the Marine Corps at all? Or are you trying to run away from a broken heart like every other high school graduate who runs in here without their mommy and daddy?”
“There’s a girl, yes, but she didn’t break my heart. I’m breaking hers by being here to do this. So are you going to give me the paperwork or what?”
“You have a family member killed in 9/11?”
“An uncle, sir. His greatest achievements were being a firefighter and an alcoholic. Never at the same time, of course.”
The recruiter looked me over, tapping the pen on the edge of his knee. “I have a better idea. You’re too quick-minded to be Infantry. Why don’t we discuss some other positions I think your talents would be better suited for?”
I smirked. “I think I saw an Army recruitment office a few blocks from here, I’m sure they’ll have no problem signing me up for Infantry. Have a great day.” I pivoted, heading to the door.
“Take your hand off the doorknob, smartass.”
I wiped the smile from my face before turning around. “So you need my I.D. then?”
He hesitated, looking me over one last time trying to figure me out. He motioned with his hand. “Let’s see that I.D. then.”
The act of signing on the dotted line was easy, along with the testing and physical fitness requirements. After being sworn in, I pushed them to put me on the fastest bus out of town, and a few short weeks later I was riding on the bus to Parris Island with memories of my girlfriend screaming and clawing at my shirt to stay repeating over and over. I didn’t regret a thing.
Until they got us off the bus.
I had voluntarily, but unknowingly, signed up to live in a make-shift North Korean prison for thirteen weeks that the United States Marine Corps lovingly called ‘boot camp’. Within twelve minutes of being off the bus, I started daydreaming about how my circumstances might be different if I had just taken my girlfriend’s hand and ran in the other direction when she told me to.
Two men were crying within the first two hours of getting off the bus, and one more had thrown up on their shoes from anxiety.
We were stripped down, shaved, and had to fill out endless stacks of paperwork. It felt like we marched the length of the island over twenty times, dragging our gear with us from place to place, with our assigned sea bags heavier than the regret of our failure to grasp what we had signed up for.
After a solid forty-eight hours, they finally led us back to the barracks to get a lackluster resemblance of sleep. They were exactly how I pictured them: gray, hot as balls with humidity, and with the smell of fear defecating from the pores of every recruit in there.
“So, did you run away from your parents or what?” asked the pimple-faced guy again. He had thrown his stuff into the locker at the foot of our bunk beds.
I jumped into the lower bunk, putting my hands behind my head, not even bothering to look at him. “My parents are dead, Freddy.”
“Oh shit man, sorry. I didn’t mean to—wait, my name’s not Freddy.”
“No shit, it’s not? You sure?”
“Yeah man, I think I’d know my own name. What’s yours?”
“Not Freddy,” I said, jumping into my bed and rolling onto my side. “You sure your name isn’t Freddy? Last name Kruger?”
“No, my name isn’t—hey!” he called out, instinctively bringing his hand to his face. “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”
I was on my feet in two seconds, standing inches from his face. A few recruits standing near us stopped what they were doing to watch. “Don’t I? I mean, I thought maybe that’s exactly the way I need to be about it, and if you plan on making it through this place you better get used to it.”