Trauma (9 page)

Carrie's voice caught, and came out a bit shaky. Contradicting her father had never come easily. “Dad, you don't know how badly Leon is hurt. Honestly, just the thought of operating makes me anxious. I was never this way before.”

Howard nodded. His eyes brimmed with empathy. “I know,” he said. “You've said that many times. But there's something I never told you that I think you should hear.” He shifted in his chair. “When I was an intern, I accidentally overdosed a young man suffering from a seizure.”

Carrie said nothing. In the silence, the revelation became its own uncomfortable presence.

“I gave him too much phenobarbital. I'll never forget it. He stopped breathing and his blood pressure collapsed. We had to call a code, and the poor guy almost died. Because of me. Because of my mistake. I saw him every day in the ICU for the next week, and each time I was racked with terrible, terrible guilt.

“Even today, I always double-check myself when I administer drugs,” her father said. “Especially that drug.”

Carrie could relate. The last she heard, Beth Stillwell had recovered and returned to work, but Leon had been transferred to a long-term nursing care facility. Not all of Leon's deficits were attributed to Carrie's mistake, but she'd owned all the guilt regardless.

“Unlike Leon, my patient was going to get entirely better before I made him worse,” her father continued. “For weeks I couldn't sleep. Barely could eat. Thankfully he did recover, but I think you get my point. My mistake almost cost this man his life. But that's a part of the job. We're expected to be perfect, but no human being is infallible. Not you. Not me. Not Dr. Metcalf. Mistakes happen. But it's how we deal with the adversity that defines our character. You can make peace with this and find a way to move forward. I did. Now, I've a suggestion.”

Carrie could guess where he was going with all this, but—it was too soon. Too soon. She could not pick up another scalpel. Not now, and despite what he said, maybe not ever.

“You're a grown woman, and these are ultimately your decisions. But I have some years and some perspective, so I ask only that you hear me out. A couple of weeks ago I went to a dinner on Parkinson's disease sponsored by a pharmaceutical company. I sat next to a man who was taking their drug, a patient. Turns out he had deep brain stimulation to help his treatment and now, with the combination of DBS and his meds, he's doing better. He was able to attend meetings like this one.”

Carrie knew all about DBS, a surgical treatment involving the implantation of a brain pacemaker and wires that delivered electrical impulses to targeted areas of the brain. It was used to treat movement disorders such as Parkinson's, but researchers and clinicians were exploring other applications, including treatments for OCD, major depression, and chronic pain.

“This man was very pleased with his results,” Howard said. “He talked at great length about his treatment at the VA under Dr. Alistair Finley, whom I know from way back when I did my internship. I haven't seen him since, but why don't you go talk with him? He's right in town. Use my name. We weren't especially close, but I'm sure he'd remember me.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Carrie said. “I'll give it some thought.” She turned her coffee cup in her hands. “I'm not particularly interested in Parkinson's. I mean, that's not what we really do in neurosurgery.”

Howard conceded with a nod. “I understand it may seem less glamorous. But maybe, given your … your reluctance to get back in the saddle, it could be just what the doctor ordered.”

Carrie smiled. She was about to tease him about dads being doctors when the doorbell rang.

Howard got up to see who was there. A moment later, Carrie heard him exclaim, “Oh my gosh!”

Howard returned to the kitchen with a tall, lanky man who was bleeding profusely from the nose. The oily rag he was using to stanch the flow had smeared a good portion of his face with engine grease.

“Adam apparently took offense to something.” Howard spoke without emotion. He'd long since realized it didn't help to get upset about his son's new hair-trigger temper. “Could you please get this gentleman some ice? I'm going to go look for your mother and my boy.”

Carrie took the stranger by the arm and led him to a chair at the kitchen table. “Tilt your head back,” she said once he was seated. He looked like a boxer ready to concede the fight.

“I'm David. I'm from the
Lowell Observer
.” Between the rag and the injury, his voice was especially high and nasal.

Carrie got a clean roll of paper towel from the pantry, then filled a plastic bag with ice from the freezer. Applied to the bridge of the nose, the bag of ice reduced the swelling and the pressure, and the bleeding stopped after a minute or two.

“What the heck happened?”

David smiled sheepishly and shook his head. “It was my fault,” he said. “Really. I'm to blame here, not Adam.”

Carrie gave David a fresh paper towel and refilled his plastic bag with ice. She studied her patient. Probably around her age, he had attractively messy hair and a kind face. She suspected he was something of a charmer.

“Go on,” Carrie said. “I'm all ears.”

“I came here to interview Adam for a story I'm writing about PTSD, but your mother showed up and Adam had a change of heart. No longer wanted to talk.”

Carrie grimaced. “You didn't take no for an answer, did you?”

David laughed, and Carrie thought the sound was warm and inviting. He was obviously embarrassed, but he had enough humility to see a little humor in it.

“No's not my style,” he said. “I didn't think I was being pushy, but I don't back down so easily.”

Carrie thought of her conversation with her dad.
Neither do I,
she realized.

 

CHAPTER 12

After prying his eyes open, Steve Abington could not make sense of what he saw. He knew this place intimately, but for the life of him could not figure out how he had returned. The last thing he remembered was—was what? Nothing came to mind. He felt as if he had been living in absolute darkness, the blackest infinity, until this very moment, until light flooded his eyes and he saw again the desolate farm field where it all began.

Abington tried to stand, but he felt weighed down. It took a moment to realize he was wearing an ILBE pack, one so fully packed he had to hunch over while getting to his feet.

He also held a rifle, an M4 rifle fitted with an M68 red-dot optic. Where had that come from? And what else did he have on? Cautiously, Abington reached up and felt the Kevlar of an advanced combat helmet. He wore a MultiCam pattern uniform, too. How did that get on him? Why was he here? He thought he was through with all this.

“Steve. Steve, can you hear me?”

Abington spun in a tight circle, but saw no one. The voice, one he did not recognize, came out of the ether. He circled once more, and this time noticed foxholes, several of them. Nearby stood a makeshift structure, like a tree stand but on the ground. It was covered in green camo netting, and he thought he remembered putting it together. It was a command operation center, which meant this place must be the security outpost for Forward Operating Base Darwin. Yes, of course it was. There was the tree line, a hundred meters out. Beyond those trees, the snowcapped Hindu Kush mountain range cut a jagged tear across an endless azure horizon. If he walked west about two klicks, Abington was sure he'd find the remote roadway his squad had been patrolling. The Taliban were setting IEDs along the MSR—main supply route—and his unit used that road to make a quick exit.

“Steve!”

That voice again. Bodiless. Everywhere and nowhere. Where was it coming from?

Lightning bolts erupted behind his eyes, making Abington's head throb. He trotted over to the nearest foxhole. The sunglasses tinted the world, but shielded his eyes against a steady wind's peppering of sand and dirt. Inside the spray of dust, thousands of chiggers and sand fleas took flight in search of soft targets.

“Steve.”

The voice. Was it in his head? Had he gone crazy? Had he never actually left this godforsaken place?

“Hello!” Abington called. His voice had the grit of sandpaper, and his throat felt as dry as the ground.
So dry. So thirsty
. “Is anybody here?”

The wind swallowed Abington's words. He crouched and dug his hands into the hard earth. It felt real. He managed to rake up a small pile of dirt using the tips of his fingers. This was how he described the country to anyone who asked: dirt, piles of dirt, dirt everywhere you looked. The soil carried fungus that blew deep into blast wounds to fester and take away limbs that otherwise could have been saved. How was he back in this hellhole? Back guarding FOB Darwin. Had he ever even left?

Abington remembered. He remembered everything about living here, including his squad. But where was everybody?

His gaze fell back to the parched earth, and Abington saw a scorpion crawling by his feet. He crushed it beneath the heel of his well-worn military boot with a satisfying crunch. But what he really wanted to crush was the Taliban. A familiar burning hatred boiled up, warming Abington like Kentucky's best bourbon. There was no better feeling than sending coordinates up the satellite link and watching the ground evaporate where the hardware dropped.

This was a backward country: no real infrastructure. No proper roads. Nothing here except for dirt, and caves, and Taliban. The only thing the Taliban respected was battle. They trained their young children to kill, and in their downtime played polo with dead animals. Pure savagery. Neanderthals with guns.

Abington searched the horizon for any signs of life. This was a Tier 1 area, no civilians allowed. Any person with a full beard and loose-fitting robes could be legitimately engaged. But the landscape was as barren as the surface of Mars. He was alone. All alone.

“Do you see it, Steve? Do you see what's happening?”

Abington readied his rifle and trained the weapon in all directions. His eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth like cobra fangs. He could see nothing but dirt, trees, and the mountains in the distance.

“He must be seeing it,” the voice said.

“I … I don't see it.” Abington's voice came out as a whisper.

“It's there, Steve. You can see it. You can see everything.”

Abington glanced at the foxholes and caught a flash of movement from inside one of them. Was it just his shadow? How could that be? The sun was in front of him. Could he have imagined it? Abington moved cautiously toward that foxhole, his weapon at the ready.

“Is anybody in there?” Abington called out. “Hello!”

Abington took another step forward, then another. He could see a shape now. The silhouette of a figure, but it shimmered like a mirage. Abington advanced a couple more feet.

From out of nowhere, a tracer whizzed above his head. In an instant the air erupted with the sounds of gunfire snapping all around him. Bursts from a Russian PKM machine gun crackled in Abington's ears, rattling his teeth. Bullets pocked the earth, and shattered rock sprayed in all directions. Abington heard a whistle above him, like a screech from a bird of prey, followed by a loud thud somewhere to his back. An ear-splitting boom came next, causing the ground to shake beneath his feet.

Abington turned and saw two billowing dust clouds no more than twenty yards away. This was Afghanistan. One moment all was quiet, and the next it was chaos.

From the foxhole somebody shouted. “RPGs! RPGs!”

Abington broke into a sprint. The foxhole was safety. As he neared, a different shadowy figure lurched up from another hole, and flashes exploded from his rifle. A second later several mortars landed close by and Abington heard shrapnel bounce off the heavy armor of some parked trucks. Wait, had those trucks been there before? Not now. Questions for another time.

Abington dove headfirst into the closest foxhole. He hit the hard ground and felt the breath leave his body. Shockwaves from gunfire and erupting mortar punctured the air and echoed across the bleak landscape. The foxhole had room for two, and the man Abington had joined returned fire with his M16.

“Steve! Start shooting! Unless you're hit, put that gun to use,
hombre
!”

Hombre
. Only one person called him that. Abington squinted and his eyes strained. He could not see the man's face clearly, but he recognized the thin build and knew that reedy voice anywhere. PFC Rich Phillips—Roach—who, like the bug, couldn't seem to be killed. Eventually the man came into clear focus, and the specter with the M16 was his best friend, all right. The same guy whose guts Abington had stuffed back into his blown-open stomach right after an RPG struck their foxhole.

“Steve? What is it? What are you seeing?” The disembodied voice again.

“Look at his face,” another voice said. “He's right there.”

 

CHAPTER 13

Carrie could not shake the smile off her face. The occasional glint of sunlight slipping through a persistent cloud cover seemed intended just for her, and buoyed her spirits. Her footsteps on her walk to the VA parking lot came quick and purposeful.

She no longer felt directionless or adrift. After two hours with Dr. Alistair Finley, she could visualize some kind of future. It wasn't a fully realized vision, but a sprig of hope had sprung from her despair. Carrie could not help but think of the final line from
Casablanca,
which she had watched with her dad the previous night.
“Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

It was funny that David Hoffman's bloody nose was partially responsible. His passion for his work, undaunted by a violent subject, had reminded her of herself.

I don't back down so easily.

She'd been in no mood to socialize, but after Carrie cleaned David up, it was easy to say yes to an invitation to have coffee later. She was under no illusions about his motives: He wanted information about Adam and their family for his story. But he'd made her laugh.