by Hunter Rose
“Call me,” she says. “When we both get back to the States, we should get together.”
I take her hand in mine and give it a gentle squeeze. “I’d like that.”
“Me too.”
The air between us crackles with electricity, filled with the energy of words being left unsaid. The moment seems to call for – something. Some words or some expression of emotion both of us can feel, but something that neither of us seem to be able to articulate.
That moment passes without words being spoken, so I pull her to me and give her a long kiss. It lingers on my lips as I head down to the transport that’s waiting for me. As I step up on the rear step to climb into the back of the truck, I turn back and see Scarlet standing just outside the hospital’s front doors. There’s a sad smile on her face as she raises her hand.
With a feeling like I’m losing something important, I climb into the back of the truck and ready myself for the long, hot, uncomfortable trip to the airport at Damascus. As the truck jolts and bounces along the pitted and rutted road, I find myself staring at the selfie Scarlet left on my phone for me, smiling as the memories come rushing back, feeling a touch of melancholy knowing we probably won’t ever share those feelings again.
Life on the FOB in Afghanistan is a hell of a lot rougher than even the hospital in Syria. It’s hotter, the conditions are even more primitive – something I didn’t think possible – and the battle around us rages almost non-stop. There is either gunfire or the rumble of explosions damn near 24/7.
The FOB is surrounded by a tall fence topped with razor wire and has guard towers with gun emplacements every fifty feet or so, making it more than clear that we’re very much in hostile territory. The hospital, such as it is, is constructed out of some prefab buildings. Electricity is spotty at best out here, most of it being drawn off generators that run all day, every day. But even that doesn’t stop us from losing power from time to time. We do meatball surgery, trying to patch people up as best as we can, sometimes by nothing more than lanterns and flashlights.
Our job here is to stabilize the troops that come in, to the best of our ability anyway. We have regular transports that come in to ferry out the wounded – likely taking them to Landstuhl for more proper surgery – and a never-ending stream of fresh soldiers rotating in. Nobody has ever told me why this position the FOB sits on is so important, but the military obviously believes it’s worth spilling – and shedding – plenty of blood for.
The biggest difference between this place and the hospital in Syria is that the combatants don’t respect what we do here. We don’t treat hostile troops, devoting our time and resources to our soldiers alone, so we’re not afforded the same considerations. The hospital is every bit as much of a target as the guard towers and troops. It makes working rather difficult and challenging at times.
“Taliban troops just hit a convoy about thirty klicks from here,” says an officer, delivering messages from the base commander. “We’ve got wounded inbound.”
I nod absently. Of course we’ve got wounded inbound. We always have wounded inbound out here. The man leaves my tent, and I grab my phone, calling up the picture of Scarlet again. I’ve spent a lot of time looking at her photo and remembering everything that happened between us. The feelings she inspires as the memories come rushing back never fail to make me feel warm. Happy. And of course, wanting more. So much more.
It amazes me that in such a short period of time, she’s managed to make me feel things so deeply and so genuinely. The fact that what started as a quest to get her into bed has turned into this – something so real and so tangible – has left me dumbfounded. It’s not something I was looking for or even wanted. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt or had before. But here it is, all the same. And I’m determined to pursue this once I get home. I’m determined to pursue Scarlet and build something with her.
The sound of men shouting somewhere in the compound outside is quickly followed by the steady chattering of gunfire. This isn’t the incoming convoy of wounded – this is something else. I duck out of my tent and see the buzz of activity at the front gates. Men are running back and forth, taking positions on the catwalk that runs around the inside of the walls, and firing at something in the desert beyond. The ground shakes as an explosion shatters the air to my right. I feel the heat and force of the blast. A truck goes up in flames, a fireball rising into the air.
“Sir, they’ve got mortars,” shouts a man as he passes by. “Take cover. Now!”
I’m a doctor, not a soldier, and my training with weaponry is rudimentary at best. I’m a healer, not somebody who takes life. I know the best place I can possibly be is at the makeshift hospital, prepping for the wounded that will inevitably come pouring in. With mortar fire raining down on our heads, I know it’s not going to be the safest place to be though. But I know we’ll have men who will be relying on me to help. Men who will be relying on me to save their lives.
Blooms of fire rise up from the ground all around the interior of the camp, and the ground shakes beneath my feet. The air reverberates with the sound of gunfire and bombs going off. When I get into the hospital area, I see it’s already a hive of activity. Other doctors and nurses are rushing about, prepping for the onslaught of the wounded that are coming in – and it’s not long before we get our first customers.
The battle rages for the better part of the afternoon, but our troops are eventually able to repel the attackers. I’ve heard it’s the largest organized attack this FOB has ever sustained. Clearly, our military weren’t the only ones who think this is an important position to hold. More than a few of ours were killed in the fighting, and we took nearly a dozen major injuries. The losses of the attackers were significantly more.
It was a long day of patching up wounds – thankfully, most were relatively superficial. We have five soldiers we have to evac out to Landstuhl as soon as the heat dies down. By the time I stagger out of the hospital, ready for a shower and some time in the rack, I’m exhausted, and my body is aching everywhere.
I stop just outside the doorway to the hospital though and groan as I run a hand through my hair.
“Fuck,” I growl.
I shake my head when I see the smoke and flames rising out of the deep crater where my tent once stood. I walk to the edge of the hole and see that all my things have been reduced to rubble and ash – including my phone.
My only thought is not for the dead. Not for the hurt. No, my only thought is that without my phone, I have no way to contact Scarlet, and I don’t even have her picture anymore. As I stare at that ragged, smoking hole in the ground, the pain of that loss hits me hard enough that it nearly drives the breath from my lungs.
“That’s just fucking great.”
9
Scarlet
Three Months Later…
I finish up my rounds for the day and drop into a seat in the lounge. I slip my phone out of my pocket and call up my text messages. Nothing. I then pull up my email. Nothing again. It’s the same routine I’ve followed several times a day over the last few months. Every single time, I hope to hear something from Roman. And every single time, I’ve been disappointed.
You’d think after a month; I would have come to expect it and move on. After two, you’d probably call me crazy for even holding onto the slightest scrap of hope that I’d hear from him – and just move on. But after three months? At that point, you’d probably just assume I was either obsessed with the man or just an idiot.
I keep looking just because I felt like we’d really connected. I really felt like there was something between us that was solid. Tangible. Real. I’m positive I’m not the only one who felt that way. Whenever I looked into Roman’s eyes – especially on the morning he rotated out of our hospital – I saw something real and something deeper there. I saw the emotion he felt for me in his eyes and knew it was every bit as solid as what I felt for him.
Yeah okay, maybe I really am an idiot.
“What’s up, girl?”
I look up and see Andrea dropping down into the seat across from me. She sips from a bottle of soda, a smile on her face. She’s been my rock through all of this. She’s been there to help me manage the ups and downs – and there have been many – as I deal with being totally ghosted by Roman.
“Hey,” I respond, trying to sound cheerier than I actually feel.
She purses her lips as she looks at me. Andrea knows me better than anybody else at this hospital. She can see right through me. And she knows exactly how full of crap I am.
“So Calan, that hot new doctor from Scotland wants me to introduce him to you,” she grins. “I think he called you – and I’m quoting here – that ‘beautiful fire-haired lass’.”
I give her a small smile and shake my head. “That’s sweet. But no thanks,” I tell her. “I’m not really looking to get involved with somebody. Not again.”
She reaches across the table and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. There’s a look of pure compassion on her face that melts my heart. I know she’s trying to help, but I can’t do it. She thinks throwing myself headlong into somebody else is going to help me get over Roman, but it won’t. I know it won’t. The sting of rejection is still too fresh, too raw, and far too painful.
It seems ridiculous that I’d feel so attached and so emotionally devastated by a guy I spent less than a month with. But I can’t deny my feelings. They’re real. They’re all too real. And the pain I feel is cutting me deep. I look at Andrea and give her a weak smile.
“He’s really so different than I thought,” I tell her. “He’s a good guy. He’s got a good heart.”
She purses her lips but doesn’t say anything. I don’t know why it seems so important for me to make Andrea believe that Roman isn’t the asshole he makes himself out to be. It’s like I’m trying to convince her of it. But then, as I think about it, maybe it’s me I’m trying to convince. Not her. Maybe I need to believe he’s a good guy and not the sort of callous, unfeeling asshole who would manipulate me. Not the sort of creep who’d play on my feelings just to get me into bed only to vanish on me once he got what he wanted.
I know he’s alive. I’ve pushed both Zeke and Lyvers to press their sources and find out if he’s okay. I’ve had them check multiple times. I’ve heard that he’s been in some scary situations, but he’s come through them all okay. I know that he’s due to rotate home any day now. And yet, he still hasn’t tried to contact me. Not once.
It’s a reality I hate to admit. Because admitting it makes it all too real, which makes it all the more painful. But I know I can’t keep denying it. If I do, I know the pain will only linger. I know it will fester, and that pain will only get worse. I look up at Andrea and feel the sting of tears burning my eyes.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, angrily scrubbing away the tears that are spilling down my cheeks. “I hate crying.”
“You need to let it out, babe,” she says gently. “It sucks, but you need to let it out.”
Andrea comes around the table and sits down, pulling me into a tight embrace. I bury my face in her shoulder and sob uncontrollably. She strokes my hair softly and just lets me cry it out. I hate crying. I’ve never been much of a crier. But something about Roman ghosting me broke something loose inside of me, and once the first trickle of tears spilled out, it unleashed a flood.
Eventually, I manage to regain control of myself and step back. She hands me a paper napkin I use to dry my face off and she takes my hands again, squeezing them tight.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says. “I promise you.”
I nod. “Yeah. I know,” I respond. “I just can’t believe he’d do this to me.”
“He’s an asshole,” she says simply. “I know you don’t think he is, but only an asshole would ghost you the way he did.”
I nod but don’t respond. My feelings are – complicated. To say the least. I glance at my watch and sigh.
“I have to meet with Lyvers ,” I say.
“Going to re-up?”
I nod. “Signing the papers today.”
I’d been holding off on signing the papers for a little while now. I’d been hoping to hear from Roman before I made any decision, since I’d been hoping that we’d get together back in the States. But the longer he went without trying to contact me, the more that hope dimmed and then faded out altogether. Though I’d continued trying to deny it to myself, the fact that I’d told Lyvers I was ready to sign the papers a couple of weeks ago only confirmed in my heart what my head already knew – that I wasn’t going to hear from Roman, and whatever it was we’d shared here was over.
My eyes are probably red and puffy. I’m sure my face is blotchy as hell. This is not how I want to walk into Lyvers’s office, but it’s not like I have much of a choice. It’s probably better to just go in and rip that bandage off and let the healing begin. Knowing I’m not going anywhere for the next couple of years is going to make me get over it faster. At least, that’s the hope.
“The next time I even think about getting involved with somebody, please slap me,” I tell Andrea. “Or just remind me of how I feel right now.”
“I’ll do my best,” she replies, a wry smile on her lips. “But you don’t usually listen to me all that well.”
I give her hands a squeeze and then head out of the lounge and make my way down to Lyvers’s office. His door is open when I get there, and although he’s on the phone, he waves me in. I drop down into the chair in front of his desk and wait for him to finish his call, amazed that somehow, the piles and piles of paperwork stacked just about everywhere haven’t toppled over. Mike Lyvers’s office is the definition of organized chaos.
“Scarlet, how are you doing?” he asks as he hangs up the phone.
I give him a smile I’m sure looks as phony as it feels. “I’m good.”
He nods. If he notices my swollen eyes and blotchy skin, he’s kind enough to not say anything about it. He already has a file open in front of him. I assume it’s my contract. I just want to sign it and get out of here. What I want is to have a few drinks then go back to my room and spend the rest of the night crying my eyes out. Alone.
Lyvers is looking at me with a strange look on his face I can’t seem to interpret. It’s like he has something important to say but doesn’t know how to begin.
“What is it?” I ask.
He purses his lips and looks down at his file again. I can see him fighting with something in his mind, and it fills me with a sense of unease. My very first thought is that something happened to Roman and he’s trying to figure out how to tell me. I try to control my reaction and keep my emotions in check, but it’s a thought that makes my heart race and my mouth grow dry.
“What’s wrong, Mike?” I press. “What happened?”
I grit my teeth and try to steel myself as I prepare to hear what he has to say, already thinking – and fearing – the worst.
“You know how much I love having you here, right?” he starts. “And you know what a fantastic job I think you’re doing?”
I sit back in my seat and tilt my head as I stare at him, not quite sure where he’s going with this. It’s almost like he’s preparing to fire me or something.
“Ummm… sure,” I say. “I know that. And you know I love being here.”
He frowns and doesn’t take his eyes off the file in front of him. Mike sighs and closes the file, obviously finding no help in the papers he’s looking at.
“I really don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to spit it out,” he says.
“Please do. You’re freaking me out here, Mike.”
He finally looks up at me, and I can see the reticence in his eyes. He sighs again and looks genuinely pained as he starts to speak.
“We got the results of your physical back and – you’re pregnant, Scarlet.”
I feel my eyes widen and my mouth fall open. The feeling of absolute shock shoots through me like a bolt of electricity that sears my every nerve ending. The knots in
my stomach constrict painfully. I can taste the bile in the back of my throat as I try to stuff down the wave of nausea that’s enveloping me.
“A – are you sure?” I ask.
He nods. “Unfortunately so.”
I sit back in my seat and pull on the ends of my hair as I try to fight off the waves of absolute terror washing over me. Pregnant? Me? It just doesn’t track.
“There has to be a mistake,” I tell him. “Somebody obviously mixed up the blood samples –”
“Scarlet, there’s no mistake,” he tells me. “I’m sorry.”
Stunned isn’t even close to being adequate to describing how I’m feeling right now. This is most definitely not how I expected my day to play out when I woke up this morning. And once again, I find myself on the verge of tears – though truthfully, it feels more like I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I know my periods are sporadic at best but surely I should feel different… feel something.
“You know what this means,” Mike states, rather than asks.
Slowly, I nod my head. “Yeah, it means I’m going home.”
International Physicians has a longstanding rule that if you’re pregnant, you can’t remain in an active warzone – which are essentially the only places IP operates.
“I’m so sorry, Scarlet,” he says. “I wish I could do something to help.”
“It’s not your fault,” I assure him. “It’s mine. It’s all my fault.”
The fear raging inside of me is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. And I’ve been out in the middle of a desert, tending to wounded people while bullets were flying around and bombs were exploding all around us.
The realization that I’m going home, alone and pregnant, is like a lead weight inside of me. My God, I have screwed up my life in the worst way possible.