Most Rikki-Tik

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Where do you think you are?”

  The question made Kirby uncomfortable, and he shifted on the hard cot assigned by the military, instead finding a plush mattress under him, his elbows digging deep when he tried to sit up. A shaft of pain spiked through the center of his head, centering just behind his eyes, but that wasn’t unfamiliar. He’d lived with that pain for a while now.

  No, that’s not right. Not if he was just back from Aleppo.

  He sat up slightly, wincing when his foot and ankle joined in on the fun, sending shooting waves of discomfort up his leg. “What the fuck?” That was new, and not something he expected. Looking down his body, he saw an elastic wrap covering his lower leg, toes looking like black and blue sausages poking out the end.

  “Oscar.” His cousin made a sound, and Kirby tipped his head slowly so he could see Oscar’s face. Flashes of things started sparking through his memories. He latched onto one of those and set a date to it, using methods therapists had taught him on how to remember.

  Nurse Donovan dealing cards to him for hours on end, sharply high-fiving Kirby when he put together a good hand to play. That had been a year after hitting home dirt.

  Tired bags bracketed the neurologist’s eyes as he explained to Kirby all the things his TBI had taken from him. He’d been deep into the second year, learning how to cook simple meals again.

  Kirby holding the salute until his commanding officer returned it, Kirby taking his time before reaching out to accept the folded flag from the CO’s hands. That had been the turning point, and he held on to that memory for a long moment, remembering how it had felt to fight his tears knowing his best friend had ridden a bullet home. Each of those triggering until he was drowning in a flood of scenes.

  “The club.”

  Oscar nodded, mouth staying closed. Kirby frowned.

  “In Mayhan.” Another nod. At least I’m getting closer.

  He lay back down on the mattress, no pillows in sight, which wasn’t right. He’d earned those back months ago. He had watched Dana lay her head on one in this very bed not two weeks ago. Dana. That vision in his head started the flashes coming faster.

  Dana gone when he woke, Kirby irrationally angry at himself for missing her leaving. Deciding to take a ride, planning on being gone before she came to work, he’d found himself outside when she saw him and called his name.

  “Dana.” The truck driver’s head bent down, eyes not seeing her darting out into the street. “Is she okay?” He scraped his hands on the covers, feeling the sting of abrasions along his arms. He remembered the starburst of pain when he’d hit the surface of the road, the wrenching pain in his leg from the truck striking him, his leap a split second too slow to clear the vehicle entirely. He’d read that possibility in the moment and had taken the chance anyway, praying he could save Dana. All other outcomes were acceptable, but not one where she was hurt. “Oscar, is she okay?”

  “Yeah, Kirby. She’s right as rain, man. Said she didn’t even see the truck coming. From what I can tell, he’d have hit her if you hadn’t knocked her out of the way, brother. You did good, man. You did good. She’s okay.” Oscar wasn’t mentioning the darkened room in which he lay or the abnormal silence all around.

  “I hit my head.” Oscar flinched, and that involuntary movement from his cousin told him so much. “Bad?” A slow nod. “Fuck.”

  “Yeah. That’s about it.”

  The docs had been clear about what another brain injury could do to him. They’d talked it to death, repeating themselves until every detail stuck in his head. Even if mild, another concussion could reverse all of the gains he’d seen since returning, stripping the advancements made through sweat-filled sessions in speech, physical, and occupational therapy. His brain hadn’t fully healed from what had happened to him overseas, but he’d proven to have the ability to remap things so he could learn new ways of doing. He might never remember things that should have been muscle memory, but he could find different ways to train his body.

  Memory remained a problem, as had his concentration, but he’d believed it would get better. Through time, persistence, and hard work, he could continue to improve his condition. Healing was in his hands, and he could make of it what he wanted.

  Another TBI? That could change all the rules.

  Even if it wasn’t blast-associated, something that carried its own special subset categories of damage, any closed head injury could result in greater long-term impairment, giving him more uphill battles to fight just to function. There was a syndrome associated with secondary injuries that encompassed many issues: swelling, tissue death, bleeding, lasting damage to the fibers that made up the neuron pathways were the beginning. That was just during the first thirty minutes through day one following the reinjury. Beyond that were memory failures, concentration issues, debilitating headache, nausea, uncontrolled anger, paranoia, insomnia, depression…and the ever-present specter of suicide.

  “We’re at the clubhouse?” Not a hospital, which didn’t make sense.

  Oscar nodded. “Took you in. You and Dana both. She’s fine, but I wanted to be sure. Your leg’s bruised all to hell and gone, and swollen, but nothing’s broken. Your head—” Oscar paused and Kirby slit his eyes at him, willing him to continue. “Your head took a hard hit. They did a scan, and there weren’t any signs of diffuse swelling. No bleeding. And Kirby, you were with us. Talking, making sense, as if nothing had happened. You didn’t wake up until halfway to the hospital, but then you seemed fine. So when they released you, I didn’t think anything of it. Just glad you were okay. That lasted until we got home and you didn’t remember being here, didn’t remember your room, didn’t remember half the guys. I wanted to call an ambulance and take your ass right back, but you got upset. So I brought you up here.”

  “How long?” The way he felt, it was more than a few hours, and if the bruising of his foot was anything to go by, he had been out of it awhile.

  “A day. No more. You went to sleep last night but then wouldn’t wake up this morning. I’ve been sitting here waiting. Waiting and praying. Did I do right? I know you hate hospitals, but when I called the medic in, he took your vitals, said everything seemed okay enough to not panic. So I just waited, brother.”

  “Yeah, you did fine. I’m okay now, right?” He closed his eyes, feeling peace as darkness smothered the pain in his head. “Dana’s okay. That’s really all I ever cared about.”

  A short time later, he heard that same damned telltale in the hallway, the giving creak of wood under a foot. The door opened and he breathed deeper, pulling in her perfume. In a quiet murmur, she asked Oscar, “How is he?”

  Oscar’s answer was a subdued rumble of sound. “He was awake a bit ago. Took him a minute, but he was with me. Beyond that, it’s anyone’s guess.”

  Without opening his eyes, Kirby said, “He’s still awake, just enjoying the silence.” Dana’s inrushing breath sang of relief at hearing his voice, so he gave her a little more. “He’s also glad you’re okay, Dana. Worth it all, if you’re okay.”

  “I am, Kirby. You, what you did? You saved me.” Fabric rustling in the darkness, then her hand was on his shoulder squeezing gently. “You always were one for big gestures.”

  “The biggest,” he agreed, rolling his head slightly to trap her hand against his cheek, marveling at the coolness of her fingers.

  “Don’t do it again.” Her firm order made him smile. “That’s an order.”

  “No promises.”

  Chapter Six

  “God.” He was sitting on the edge of the bed, leg throbbing, fighting off another wave of nausea. It was day three and the headache was better, ironically, but his body was revolting at the idea of getting up and moving around. It was less than a week before the Christmas party, and he wanted to see how plans were shaping up. Oscar had been tightlipped all day about anything to do with the foundation, and Dana just grinned at him with a headshake when he’d asked. Rest, they’d told him. “I’ve had a bellyful of resting.”


  “An entire bellyful?” Laughter was rich in Dana’s voice as she pushed open the door with a hip, tray in her hands. “Get back in the bed, Kirby-cat. I brought you dinner.”

  He stared at her, waiting for his stomach to roll again. The scent from whatever she carried was thick with the smell of tomatoes and onions, a spicy whang of vinegar and brown sugar. The nausea settled, and irrational anger welled inside him at how it had given way to Dana. That’s the concussion talking, he reminded himself, as he’d had to do a dozen times that day. Anger was a byproduct of the injury, and he knew it, had tried to keep a lid on the rage so Oscar wouldn’t see, keep it so Dana wouldn’t know.

  “What’s on tap tonight?” He eased back onto the mattress, edging towards the side to give her room to place the tray. She surprised him by settling in beside him, her burden balanced on her lap instead. “You bring me anything good?”

  “Nathan made pulled pork, which is surprisingly tasty.” Fussing with a piece of folded fabric, she flipped it out and then efficiently covered his lap, belly to midthigh, with a towel. “I didn’t know if you’d want a sandwich, so I have the fixings, but you can just fork the meat from the bowl if that’s easier.”

  “Bonus for me? You don’t suck as a nurse.” He accepted the bowl and fork, trying a sample bite before he shoved in a larger one. “Damn, that’s good.”

  “Told you,” she teased, rearranging the items on the tray. He glimpsed a sliced bun and was glad she’d thought of the bowl because it was a fair sight easier to handle. There was a small plate with a piece of pie and a glass of what looked like tea.

  “That sweet tea?” He was reaching for it before she could answer. The chill glass slipped through his uncoordinated fingers for a frightening instant, then he clamped tight on it. Two sips later, he returned it to the tray, angry all over again at how his hand shook, nearly spilling over the rim. “Every goddamned fuckin’ thing is so hard.” He held the bowl tightly in hand, scrubbing at his jaw with his other palm. After a few moments, he got himself back under control, swallowing the fury that had rolled over him at his body’s betrayal. “Sorry, Dana.”

  “Do not apologize to me.” Shocked at the depth of anger in her tone, he angled his head to look into her face. “Do not ever apologize to me, Kirby. You’ve given so much. Done more than your share. It’s not fair.”

  “Oscar told you.” He didn’t elaborate, but wasn’t surprised when she nodded. “It’s not a death sentence, Dana. Just a thing to watch. Long-term means just that, and I’m alive today. What a day, huh? I’m alive and a beautiful woman brought me dinner in bed, taking care of me in a way that shows she cares.” She didn’t respond, just leaned against him, and he took her weight, eyes slipping closed when she rested her head on his shoulder. They sat there for a time, and Kirby dozed as the food and quiet worked their precious magic to push back the pain. He woke briefly when she retrieved the bowl from his grasp, sliding to lie down when she quietly urged rest.

  He woke again when she returned to the room and joined him, head on a pillow she’d produced out of thin air, perfume scenting the air and making his sleep sweet. Gone when he woke, but instead of castigating himself over missing her departure, he let his mind wander to the possibility of the night, smiling as dreams of her beside him soothed his soul.

  ***

  “You’re using them wrong.” Nathan offered his pithy assessment of Kirby’s skill with the crutches from his position on the couch. He’d removed his prosthesis and had his amputated leg propped up on a pillow, compression sock still in place. “I can see the marks in your pits from here. You keep that up and you’ll bruise, and then where’ll you be? A body can lean on the crutches while at rest, sure, but movement is hand and arm only. They’re adjusted like shit, too. Gimme.” He held out a hand, and Kirby gladly surrendered the devices, seating himself in a nearby recliner.

  “Anything you can do, brother. I didn’t want to bother any of the regular help on the weekend, and Oscar is shit at this.” It was day five post-accident, and Kirby couldn’t stand to stay in his room another minute, crawling to the hallway where Oscar had stored the crutches. “I count it a win I didn’t take another header tryin’ to wrestle my way down the stairs.” He yawned, turning to watch the TV screen for a moment. The volume was low, thankfully, but the captioning moved too fast for him to keep up. Frustrated, he jerked his head the other direction too quickly, setting off a pulse of pain. “I’m not goin’ anywhere for a bit, you can take your time.”

  “Already done.” Nathan laughed, placing the crutches on the floor next to Kirby’s chair. “How you doin’, boss?”

  “Better than expected.” He listened to the sounds in the house, finding it quiet for a Sunday afternoon. “Where is everybody?”

  “It’s surprisingly warm out, so a bunch of the guys took a run. Gettin’ some wind therapy, then heading to the range to blow off some steam.” Nathan shifted his position, leaning up to adjust the pillow under his leg. “Stubbie’s hurting today, so I didn’t want to spend a lot of time in the socket. Told Oscar I’d babysit you.”

  “Go to hell.” A swell of red covered his vision. “I don’t need babysitting.” Kirby pushed upright, hissing when his injured foot thumped solidly against the hard floor, pounding pain blasting through him. “Fuck.”

  “Jesus, Prez. Get your panties out of your ass. You fucked up your leg. It’s not a big deal. But you need someone with you right now. What if you’d fallen on your ass during that piss-poor attempt at navigating the stairs with the sticks? Don’t be an asshole.” Nathan glared at him. “You know what? You can go to hell yourself. Concussion brain sucks balls, man. But I’m not lettin’ you take whatever it is inside you out on me. Fuck that noise.”

  Kirby stared at him a moment, vibrating with anger. Then he took a breath, wedging free his tight grip on the emotion, and let himself deflate, leaning back in the chair. “Fuck,” he repeated, but with a totally different intonation this time.

  “Yeah. Sucks.” Nathan cleared his throat. “Upside? Least you still got two legs.”

  Kirby snorted at his attempt at gallows humor. “Yeah, there’s that.” He pushed with his good foot, the recliner doing its thing until he was laid back and staring up at the ceiling. “Indoor range?”

  Nathan gave him the subject change with a laugh. “Outdoor. They’re gonna blow stuff up, too. Texas, man. Don’t know why I wasn’t born here. It’s the patron state of shootin’ shit, and I do love to shoot shit. I shoulda been a native Texan.”

  “No doubt.” Kirby’s chuckles trailed off. “Supper was good last night.”

  “Only thing I can cook worth a damn. You hit it on a good night, brother.” Silence, then, “How’s the head, really?”

  “Could be worse.” Kirby blinked, then gave Nathan the truth. “Could be better. I’m hopin’ I’m not fucked with this latest, you know? I see all the things I’m doing, and it’s like I know it’s the head but can’t stop it right away. Scary as fuck.”

  “Yeah. I had six different LOC blast-related events. LTP isn’t great for guys like us.” Kirby didn’t try to hide his intake of breath.

  “I didn’t know it was so many.” LOC, or loss of consciousness, was a good marker for a concussion, and for Nathan to have had six of those meant his long-term prognosis was far more dire than Kirby’s. “Is it better now than when you hit home dirt?”

  “Oh, fuck yeah. I was one angry pigeon when I flew home.” Nathan’s laugh held no humor. “I count these days a win, brother.”

  “Do you worry about it?” This might be a better topic to take to Dom, but Kirby trusted his gut, asking this man who’d become a brother. “What could happen?”

  “Only every fuckin’ day.” The TV clicked, turning off, and Kirby swung his head to look at Nathan, who was staring at his mutilated leg, jaw tense and tight, rage suffusing his features. “Every fuckin’ day. When my big toe itches, but it can’t, because it isn’t there anymore, which means I can’t scratch it, can’t g
et no relief. Deep in the night, after everything’s quiet, alla y’all sleeping the sleep of warriors returned home, rest earned by the deeds done and honor won—that’s when I think about it. When I catch a call from a friend to hear a brother’s gone ahead to Valhalla, I think about it. When I remember my little girl’s face in the base hospital, and her not remembering me as her daddy, asking my ex-wife who the mad man was. Oh, yeah. I fuckin’ think about it.”

  “Brother.” Kirby choked out the word, grief for his brother’s pain holding his breath hostage, backs of his eyes burning.

  “I sometimes wonder who drew the fuckin’ long straw so I got the short one. Then I remember one of those men at the VA, chair-bound because he lost both legs, or that other one who lost a leg and an arm, and I realize there isn’t no single short straw. Every one of us who took up the mantle our country laid on us and went over there to serve and protect, we all held short straws in our fists.” Nathan’s head swung until he stared at Kirby, expression fierce. “Do it again, brother. Like I know you would. It was an honor to serve this goddamned country, and I’d do it all over again in a fuckin’ heartbeat.”

  “Same, brother.” Kirby sniffed. “Same.”

  “Do not fuckin’ cry for me, you fucking asshole.” Nathan blinked away the wetness in his eyes, and Kirby watched as a single tear tracked down his cheek. “I’d do it again.”

  “Dust in the air, brother. Not cryin’.” Kirby shook his head, reaching out, holding tight when Nathan clasped hold of his wrist. “Oscar’s shit at cleaning.”

  “You know it.” Nathan sniffed and laughed, this more a true sound, small at first, then growing in volume. “Fuckin’ dust.”

  Chapter Seven

  He woke in the dark, Dana’s scent drifting on the air. There was a difference tonight, though, the blankets not drawn tight around him by her resting on top. He reached out and encountered flesh, covered by a thin shirt, her body stretched out between the sheets with him. Kirby didn’t waste a single second rethinking his instincts. The instant he realized where she was, he curved an arm around her waist, fingers splayed across her belly as he pulled her tight against him. Curled at her back, he spooned her, face buried in her hair as he breathed deeply, wanting to draw her as far inside him as he could.