Hell Bent (17 page)

“
O
h my god
oh my god oh my god
,” I repeat to myself as I hurry towards the nurses’ station.

“Linda,” I call when I get near enough for her to hear me, “Watson is awake. Page Dr. Jeffers.”

Linda stands and gives me an odd look. I realize I’m slightly hyperventilating and will myself to calm down as she reaches for the phone to page the doctor on duty.

This is just another patient,
I tell myself.
There is no need to get worked up! Act normal!

But I know that isn’t true. Cameron hadn’t been “just another patient” for a while—the mere fact that I mentally referred to him as
Cameron
proves that point, as much as I don’t want to admit it to myself.

Yes, at first he’d just been another patient, albeit an incredibly handsome one.

I talk to most of my patients, even if they’s on a ventilator. I’d been doing this since nursing school. My first rotation was in a long-term care ward where the other nurses often talked to their comatose patients, so I got used to it too.

Cameron, however, was different from the beginning. I felt drawn to him, compelled to talk to him in a way that I didn’t speak to other patients. Over the last week, he’d become almost like a diary, of sorts. I told him things I’d never actually told another living human being. I talked about my idiotic mistake with Nick, I admitted my own fears and insecurities about my new job. I’d even spoken about my mother. And I’d said all of this under the assumption that he was in a coma.

But now he is awake, days earlier than expected. And I have no idea how much he’d heard or understood. Pushing aside the panic, I turn back towards his room, satisfied that Linda is paging the doctor.

Upon re-entering, however, I find Cameron’s eyes closed—he is asleep once again.

“Hmm,” comes a voice behind me, and I flinch as Nick walks up to the bed. As unobtrusively as possible, I move away from Cameron, allowing Nick some room to examine the patient.

“Are you sure he was awake?” he asks snidely. “We’ve been steadily giving him less sedatives, but he wasn’t expected to wake up for at least another day or so.”

“I know,” I reply tersely, “but he
was
awake. He squeezed my hand.”

My mind focuses on the memory of Cameron’s beautiful, soft green eyes, speckled with warm amber. They were the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen—way more entrancing than what I was expecting. There is no way I imagined them.

Nick just hums again, making even that little “Hmm” sound condescending. I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying anything, glad that I do as Dr. Jeffers is suddenly in the room as well. He’s in casual clothes, and I realize that he must have been paged during his off hours. Cameron…
Watson
, I remind myself… is a high-profile patient, after all.

“You’re here fast,” Nick notes as Dr. Jeffers approaches him, shifting his sneer into a fake smile.

“I was in the complex. Never a day off, you know,” Jeffers replies with a laugh.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Nick says, and I want to slap the false smile off his face. He’s always trying to impress his superiors, though he treats the rest of us like crap.

If only I’d realized that sooner,
I think to myself.

“So he woke up, did he?” Dr. Jeffers asks.

“That’s what the nurse says,” Nick replies, the word
nurse
in the most demeaning way possible. “He was asleep when I got here, however. And he isn’t expected to wake up for a day or two.”

Dr. Jeffers looks at his chart, then pulls up the data from the monitors over the last hour.

“Well, he’s being slowly weaned off the sedatives and muscle relaxants, so waking up is a definite possibility. And it looks like there was a bump in his heart rate and EEG waveforms about ten minutes ago, so he very well may have woken up for a brief period of time.”

As if on cue, Cameron blinks his eyes. They are less lucid than they’d been the first time, but he is definitely awake. Nick purses his lips, and I offer him a self-satisfied smirk behind Dr. Jeffers back.

“Cameron?” Dr. Jeffers says, leaning over the patient. “No, don’t try to speak yet. You still have a breathing tube in. We’ll get that taken care of soon. But for now, just relax. You’re at the Washington, D.C. National Military Medical Center. Someone is calling your dad as we speak. Everything will be okay.”

T
he next few
days pass in a flurry of activity in our unit. Cameron stays awake for longer periods of time and becomes more and more lucid during his periods of wakefulness. He’s extubated the next day after he wakes up, no longer dependent on the ventilator to breathe. As much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I find him even more attractive now that he’s conscious. I do miss our long therapeutic talks—even if they were completely one-sided and therapeutic only to me. But the sound of his voice, as choked and raspy as it is the first few times he tries to speak, makes it all worth it.

I can no longer validate spending large portions of my shift in his room, either. He has too many people in and out now—doctors as well as visitors. His father comes, an imposing man always surrounded by an entourage, a few evenings a week.

I’m at the nurses’ station one evening, completing paperwork on a patient about to be transferred to the regular floor, when I hear the sharp, crisp voice of my mother.
What the hell?

“Hello, Milly,” she says, and I immediately sit up straighter, glancing up into the perfectly put-together face of Sabrina Hamilton, West Virginia State Senator. “Are you not going to come give your mother a hug?”

“My scrubs are gross, mother,” I tell her, though I do come out from behind the station to speak with her. “I’ve been working for hours, and you’re wearing a designer suit. I really doubt you want me pressed up against you in these dirty scrubs.”

“You’re right,” she says, pursing her lips. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” I reply sarcastically. “Busy shift, I guess.”

“Busy life, for us all,” she answers smoothly, offering me a cold smile.

“Yeah, well, we have very different jobs,” I remind her. I really don’t want to get into this with her right now.

“Well, if you became a lawyer, like Madison, you would have nice clean clothes too. Or at least you could’ve been a doctor, since you wanted to be in the medical field.”

I hate how she’s always bringing up my older sister, but I refuse to allow her to get a rise out of me. Not here—not in my place of work. That being a doctor is not any less messy than being a nurse, doesn’t even enter my mother’s mind. Arguing with her is pointless.

“What do you want?” I ask instead.

“Can’t a mother just stop in to check on her daughter?” she counters innocently.

“Not when that mother is you,” I reply.

“Don’t be like that,” she says icily. “I was here at the medical complex on business. I thought I would come say hi. Are you free? Do you want to do dinner? Is there anywhere worth eating around here?”

“Not anything good,” I admit, though I really am a bit touched that she’s stopped by. I know my mother has never approved of my vocation. If I’d gone to medical school—if I had become a doctor—
that
would have been different, and she never fails to mention it. But nursing, in my mother’s opinion, is a vocation unworthy of the Hamilton name. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, however, so I offer her a bone. “I do have a break scheduled in half an hour. We can make something work.”

“Wonderful,” she replies, looking down at her phone. “Now, tell me about your patient Cameron Watson. How is he doing? Is he awake?”

I feel instantly sick. How does she know about Cameron? No one knows how I feel about him, except for maybe Linda, who doesn’t miss anything. But not my cold, removed mother. Why is she here now, asking about him?

“What? Why?” I ask. “You know I can’t talk about patients.”

“You don’t have to tell me any specifics. I know his father, so I just wanted to know how he is doing.”

“Oh. He’s doing well,” I answer, relieved that she’s not a mind reader after all. “Better than expected, actually.”

“Fabulous,” she says, though her attention is suddenly caught elsewhere. “If you’ll excuse me…” With that, she turns away and walks towards a man I recognize as Cameron Watson’s father.

“General Watson,” she calls out, extending her hand. “Senator Sabrina Hamilton. I’m so glad to learn that your son is doing well.”

So she exaggerated, as always. She would
like
to know Cameron’s father, but doesn’t
know
him yet. I watch my mother introduce herself to Mr. Watson.
General Watson,
I correct myself bitterly. I can’t help but feel lied to as I watch the two of them converse.

I head back into the circle of desks that make up the nurses’ station to continue with my paperwork. The next time I look up, both my mother and the General are gone.

Half an hour later, I reach for my phone to call her. Hopefully, she’s still on the grounds as I only have half an hour for dinner. There is already a text message from her, however.

I take a deep breath, willing away the tears that threaten to fall. I don’t know why I’m hurt—or even surprised. This is her normal mode of operation. She’d spent my childhood constantly canceling plans or having her assistant show up in her stead.

I type out something scathing in reply, but don’t hit send. It’s not worth it. It was my own fault for believing her in the first place. I know she doesn’t just pop into her children’s workplaces to say “hello.”

In need of a pick-me-up, I find myself walking towards Cameron’s room. It’s a little early to be checking in on him again, but I figure I’ll do it anyway. Perhaps, I’ll even coax a few words out of him.

If nothing else, I’ll get to gaze into those gorgeous eyes,
I think with a hopeful smile.

E
verything fucking sucks
.

I’ve always been active. I’m a doer. I play sports. I run. I work out. I graduated at the top of my high school class and was accepted to US Naval Academy. I had gone straight into the Marines, where I’d worked my way up to First Lieutenant so far.

I had known I would be going into the Marines before the age of ten—my father would never have allowed me to do anything else. I excelled at everything I did because failure was never an option in my family.

And yet, here I am, a failure on the grandest scale possible. I’d failed at my job as a Marine, and, as a result, both my mind and my body are failing me now as well.

“Quit whining,” my father replies when I tell him this. “You’re lucky to be alive. No one else in your unit is.”

I flinch. I hadn’t expected my father to pull any punches—he never had before. But that was harsh, even for him. I squeeze my eyes closed, as if that can block out the horrible images that are in my head. I can see them, engulfed in flames. I can hear their cries for help. I long for the fog that covered my memory in the earlier stages of my recovery. But it won’t come back. That fog forever has now been replaced with clear, detailed memories of all that happened.

I can feel the bile rising in my throat. Unable to stop it, I lean over the rail of my hospital bed and vomit all over the floor.

“That’s disgusting,” father replies in a flat voice. Without another word, he gets out of his chair and leaves the room. A moment later, Milly is in front of me. She is looking concerned, and I feel even more humiliated.

“Sorry,” I croak, unable to meet her eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says softly. “I sent for an orderly. How do you feel now? What happened?”

“He just needs to man up,” my father answers from the doorway. Turning to me, he says, “I have to go, son. I have dinner plans. I’ll visit later in the week.”

I nod, still unable to look him or Milly in the eye.

“What happened?” Milly asks again once my father is gone, handing me a cup of water.

“It’s nothing,” I reply before taking a sip. “I’m really sorry.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” she says.

Milly places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. I’m reminded of the way she used to hold my hand as she talked to me for what seemed like hours—before I squeezed her hand back and she realized that I could hear her. I miss that.

I finally raise my eyes to meet hers. They’re big and blue and so filled with concern that it’s overwhelming. I’m rewarded with the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen and am reminded of my initial impression of her, when I’d thought she was an angel. That impression wasn’t too far off—she is the one bright spot in my life at the moment, though she’s no longer around as much as she was in the beginning.

I miss her voice.

I think about asking her to talk to me like she used to, but I don’t. I haven’t let on that I remember any of it. I’m not sure how she’ll react if I do. Instead, I simply assure her that I’m fine and try to keep down the water she gave me to sip on.

M
illy’s
bright smile is gone the following day. She’s quiet and seems a little sad as she goes about checking my vitals and making notes in my chart.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She’s still not talking to me much—not like she used to—but I’d like to think that we’re at least friendly.

“Nothing,” she replies, offering me a forced smile.

“Liar,” I say with a grin of my own. “Come on, tell me what’s wrong. I can be a good listener. God knows I have nothing else to do.”

Milly bites her lip, deliberating. I honestly don’t know why she’s being so reticent. She’s told me so much already.

“It’s nothing really,” she says finally. “At least, nothing new. My mom just canceled our dinner plans for the second time this week. I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s been doing it my entire life.”

“Yeah,” I reply, offering her an sympathetic smile. “I understand.”

“I bet you do,” she says. “I’ve met your father,” she explains when I raise my eyebrows questioningly. “I haven’t met him formally, but I’ve seen how he is.”

“Oh yeah. He’s a joy to be around, isn’t he?”

“Almost as pleasant as my mother,” she says, though her smile is slightly more genuine now.

“What about your father?” I ask, then immediately regret it as the smile slips from her face.

“He died when I was young,” she says, her eyes downcast.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I want to change the topic of conversation—make her smile again—but I don’t know how. Instead, I just say what comes to mind. “My mom died when I was born. I never knew her.”

“That’s terrible,” she says, her bright blue eyes growing wide. “At least I got to spend some time with my father—I was eight when he passed. Car accident.”

“I wasn’t trying to imply that I had it worse off,” I say, feeling stupid now for my revelation. “I just meant… I understand.”

I am rewarded with another genuine smile.

“It seems we have a lot in common,” she replies.

E
verything still sucks
.

My head hurts constantly. I still can’t get out of bed, even to urinate. My memory and motor skills are not as sharp as they should be. It’s hard for me to focus long enough to read or watch television, and my head hurts tremendously if I try. And so I spend most of my time thinking—going over what happened in Baghdad again and again. The memories no longer cause immediate nausea. Instead, all I feel is numbness when I think about the death of my men.

However, something shifted between Milly and me after the initial conversation about our parents. Since then, she’s been talking to me more—and not just while she’s making her rounds. She’ll come in and sit with me during her breaks or when it’s slow on the floor, laughing and entertaining me with stories about her day.

But parental pressure is still one of our favorite topics—something we can obviously both relate to.

“The stupid thing is,” Milly tells me as she curls up in the seat next to my bed, “if I’d gone to medical school, everything would’ve been good. Even though I have a nursing degree—from
Johns Hopkins
no less—I’m still a disappointment. I think she just doesn’t like telling people I’m a
nurse
. It doesn’t sound prestigious enough for her.”

It’s late, and her shift is nearly over, but I don’t want to remind her of this. She’s so adorable, with her thick blond hair falling out of a ponytail and her pink scrubs riding up to reveal socks with little flowers.

“I understand,” I reply instead. “I can only imagine what my father thinks of me now. I spent my entire life doing exactly what he wanted, making him proud, and now…”

I look away and bite my cheek, willing away the tears.
Real men don’t cry
, my father always told me.
Soldiers don’t cry.

Suddenly, Milly is moving forward. She grabs my hand and squeezes hard.

“Hey,” she says. “Cameron, look at me.” It takes me a moment, but eventually I raise my eyes back up to hers. A traitorous tear is lazily escaping my eye. “I don’t know what happened over there. Not exactly. But I do know it can’t be entirely your fault.” She runs her finger across my cheek, and I almost want to rub my face against her hand.

I remain quiet, although I know she’s wrong. It
was
my fault. But I don’t want to tell her that. I don’t want to explain. I wouldn’t be able to stand the disappointment in her eyes if she knew the truth. It’s what I see in my father’s eyes every time he visits, and that’s more than enough for me.

“You
can
talk to me about it, you know,” Milly continues. “If you want to, I mean. I’m here. I’m sure you have plenty of other people to talk to, but I just wanted you to know that I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks,” I reply, though I know I’m never going to tell her.

I
’m roused
from sleep by the obnoxious voice of Dr. Larson. I grit my teeth and open my eyes, glaring into his sniveling face.

He’s good-looking, I guess, with his sandy colored hair and dark eyes. I’ve never been able to tell what women might find attractive. But he was obviously handsome enough to talk Milly into bed with him—at least for a short time. He definitely didn’t win her over with his personality though. The man is a weasel.

Milly is simply nodding at him, ignoring his patronizing tone as she makes notes in my chart.

“And how are you feeling?” he asks with a fake smile once he realizes I’m awake.

“Okay,” I reply. “My head hurts.” It really fucking does. I wish the pain would go away.

“You suffered a severe head trauma and have undergone a brain surgery to remove a large clot that was pressing on your brain. Of course your head is going to hurt,” he says condescendingly.

“Well, you asked,” I snap back. I watch his fake smile fade as he narrows his eyes at me.

“Give him another dose of Dilaudid,” he tells Milly eventually, before leaving the room without a second look my way.

“Sorry,” Milly says once he’s out of earshot. “Dr. Larson is…”

“A douche bag?” I ask.

“I can’t really say stuff like that about my coworkers, especially the doctors,” Milly says, though she’s giggling. I love the sound of her laugh. It still sends butterflies through my stomach—the same way it had when I was just waking up. “But I won’t deny that either,” she whispers.

“I can’t believe you dated him,” I say. Then I freeze. I hadn’t meant to say it out loud—I’d simply been thinking it.

Milly freezes as well, her big blue eyes growing even wider as she stares at me.

“How did you… ” She doesn’t finish her question, her mouth aghast.

“Um… I guessed?” I offer lamely.

“Try again,” she replies. I attempt to think of a believable lie, but she is glaring at me with a serious expression. She obviously realizes how I know about her and Larson. But, apparently, she wants me to confirm her suspicions. And so I decide to be honest.

“You told me,” I admit, looking away from her intense gaze.

“Shit!” she says, accidentally dropping my chart. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

I can’t help but giggle. If possible, she looks even cuter when she’s flustered. She looks up at me suddenly with an expression of amazement on her face.

“I’ve never seen you smile before,” she says. “Or heard you laugh. At least not genuinely.”

“You like my smile?” Suddenly I’m feeling a lot more confident. “Do you think it’s…
hot stuff
?”

Milly’s entire face turns red, and she collapses into the chair next to my bed, where she covers her face with her hands.

“Damn,” she says after a moment. “How much did you hear?”

“I don’t know,” I reply. I know I’m smiling like an idiot, but I can’t help myself. “Most of it didn’t make sense. It was just your voice. It was as if you were calling to me, leading me out of this stupid coma. God, that sounds so cheesy.”

But she’s smiling too now, just as goofily as I am, though she’s still bright red with embarrassment.

“I remember you calling me “hot stuff” a lot. And you told me about you and Larson. That’s about it.”