The Last Hour (28 page)

“Maybe it just hasn’t been necessary. ’Cause I’ve seen her blow her stack a couple times.” I’d sure as hell seen her that way. Only because occasionally I’m a complete idiot. You wouldn’t know it from her normally icy calm exterior, but that woman’s got a temper.
 

“I don’t believe it,” Sarah said. She looked at me with wild eyes.
 

“Trust me,” I said, a grin forming on my face. “Next time you’re at the condo, ask her why we have new sliding glass doors.”

“No!”

I nodded.
 

“That must have been some disagreement,” she said. “What did she do?”

“You know that copper head that sits on the mantel?”

“The
head!
Of course I remember it!” As she said the words, a nostalgic grin crossed her face. I looked at her, eyes raised, hoping she would elaborate.

“I don’t remember exactly how old we were ... maybe four? Julia had gone away to college, so it would have been about then. Carrie would go get the head, and sneak it into our room at night, and tell these bloodcurdling ghost stories to me and Jessica and Alexandra. Stuff about spirits from Jakarta which followed the head back when Dad brought it back to the states, and how they would get revenge in all kinds of bloody ways. It was so freaky. I don’t know where she thought up all that stuff. Jessica was terrified of that head. And Mom would freak when she found us, because the head is some kind of antique.”

I glanced at Carrie, who sat, arms folded across her chest, pointedly not looking at my mother. I tried to imagine her as a mischievous teenager, sneaking into her twin sisters’ bedroom at night to tell ghost stories. I could just see it. I didn’t know that side of her, but the more Sarah told me about their childhood, and how Carrie had sheltered and protected her sisters, it became just one more reason to love.
 

I choked up a little as I said, “Sarah, I want to get out of this. I haven’t known Carrie nearly long enough.”

 
She nodded. “She’s the best big sister you could ever imagine.”

I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, rubbing my fingers against my eyelids.
 

“So why did she throw the head anyway? What did you
do
to her?”

I laughed. “Some things stay private, Sarah.”

What I’d done was made a complete ass of myself, and I didn’t really want to share that with Sarah right now. I mean, nobody’s perfect. Least of all, me. But that night I’d hurt her, and Carrie hadn’t deserved it. She hadn’t deserved it at all.

The truth is, from the moment Major Smalls and Jared Coombs showed up at our hotel in New York on New Year’s morning, I think I figured Carrie was going to flake out on me. They had led me downstairs that day, to an ugly looking government sedan, where I sat in the back seat. Coombs had driven, heading out of the city at a good clip. And all I could think at the time was that none of this was going to lead anywhere good. Even if I won, we were still going to lose. And I wouldn’t have blamed her. I wouldn’t have blamed her at all, if she’d just deleted my number off her phone and moved on.

We were halfway through New Jersey when I felt like it was confirmed, because my phone hadn’t made a single chirp. No incoming messages, no nothing. I slipped it out of my pocket and realized what a complete idiot I was. The phone was dead because I hadn’t charged it. I’d had much bigger things on my mind.

“So what’s the plan, Major?” I had asked her.
 

She glanced over her shoulder at me. “You’ll in-process at Fort Myers, and for now you’re assigned to Headquarters, Criminal Investigation Division. We get you settled in there and figure out what’s next.”

“So we’re winging it?”

“Does that bother you, Sergeant?”

“It kind of makes it hard to make life plans. You know I’ve got college apps in for the fall.”

“Where?”

“American University. Georgetown.”

“Well, that’s convenient. We won’t be far away, if you get held over past the fall.”

Jesus. “You think this is all going to take that long?”

She nodded. “More than likely. The investigating officer was appointed late last week. He’ll be collecting information for some time, before we even get to the hearings.”

“I don’t know how all of this works,” I said. “And why Washington, anyway? I’m surprised this isn’t happening at Fort Drum.”

“Normally it would,” she said, “but Sergeant First Class Colton is currently a patient at Walter Reed.”

I grimaced. “Really? What happened?” Colton and I hadn’t exactly stayed in touch since I left the Army.
 

“A stroke, and there’s been some complications. He was transferred to Walter Reed last week, so they made the call to conduct the investigation out of here. Aren’t you happy? Isn’t your girlfriend going to work for NIH?”

I nodded, though I was disturbed they even knew about Carrie’s fellowship. I certainly hadn’t told Smalls about it. But they’d already shown far more knowledge of our lives than I was comfortable with.
 

“How constrained are my movements going to be? Am I restricted to the base? Will I be able to see Carrie?”

Smalls frowned. “I don’t see any reason for any kind of restrictions, Sergeant; you’ll be treated just like any other soldier on active duty. You’ll have assignments, a job to do, and will have normal time off just like any other soldier. Unless you give us reason to think otherwise.”

“What kind of job?”

“I don’t know. Can you type?”

Oh, Jesus,
I thought. “Yeah, I can type.”

“I’m sure we can find a home for you, then.”

“Oh, well that’s encouraging.”

Coombs responded in a sharp done. “Don’t be a smart-ass to the Major.”

“You know what, Coombs? You guys just spent a long time explaining that I’m not under arrest. Stop treating me like a fucking criminal.”

I didn’t get a response. I didn’t really expect one. But I wasn’t going to just sit there, silent. And that’s how the rest of the ride went: in silence. I stayed in back, staring out the window. Thinking. Remembering. I was a hair’s breadth away from Dega Payan every second of that ride, as if the textures and smells and silence of Afghanistan had come home right alongside me. And then my thoughts would turn to Carrie. How much better off she’d be if she decided this was just too much hassle for a new relationship. How much I wanted her to stay with me, even though I knew she should go.
 

Coombs stopped the car for gas in Delaware, and I went in search of a pay phone and called Carrie.

She answered right away. “Hello?”

“Carrie, it’s me.”

“Where are you?”

“Rest stop somewhere in Delaware. Battery’s dead on my phone. They’re taking me to Fort Myer, in Virginia.”

“Well, I’m on my way.”

“What?” I asked, stupidly.

She sighed. “I took Dylan and we told your parents what’s going on, and I just dropped him back off. I’m on the New Jersey Turnpike.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.

“Ray,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up. Yes, I did.”

How could I do anything but smile? “All right, then. I’ll try to get a charger for my phone tonight, and give you a call?”

“Okay. Let me know where you end up. And Ray?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t worry about all of this. We’ll get through it together.”

I had closed my eyes and taken a deep breath. There was no way she could have known how much that meant to me. There was no way she could have known that she was becoming a lifeline for me, that my best moments of peace were those moments when our world shrunk down to just the two of us.
 

I just wished I could bring that peace right now. Make a little bubble where there had been no trial, no scandal at NIH, no reporters or police or pressure or public, no
accident
, and that we were together, alone in a world of our making. I stared at her as she sat there on one side of the waiting room, her expression grim, and I could see the beauty and wonder of life that was just beneath the surface. I’d have done anything, anything in the world, to get back to her.

Kate Sherman was studiously ignoring me, her eyes looking everywhere in the waiting room but at me. Her arms were crossed over her chest, anger just below the surface. But the longer I looked at her, the more my own anger just drained out. What she’d said was unforgivable, and she deserved that slap. But all the same ... it was her kid in surgery. I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d have acted the same if our positions were reversed. I’d like to think I wouldn’t. I’d like to think that under the weight of all that stress and worry, I’d hold up. But I knew better, didn’t I? Ray and I had been through plenty of stress, and both of us had done things, said things, that we ended up regretting.

So when the door opened and I saw Doctor Peterson, I not only stood, but waved Ray’s parents over. And then I stopped breathing, my stomach wound up in knots, the fear suddenly slamming into me like a hammer. And when Kate got close, I grabbed her hand. Her eyes widened in shock.

“Doctor Peterson, this is Kate and Mike Sherman. Ray’s parents.”

Peterson was shaking, swaying a little on his feet.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sherman ... I’m on your son’s surgical team. I came down to let you know he’s out of surgery.”

I gasped for air, and my knees suddenly felt weak. Dylan, who had been standing close-by, rushed to my side and put an arm around my waist.

“How is he?” I asked.

Peterson looked down at the floor. And then he said, his voice quiet, “He’s in a coma. He’s not breathing on his own, and ... there’s very little brain activity.”

Kate let out a moan.
 

“How long before he recovers?” I asked.

Peterson shook his head. “Carrie ... it’s highly unlikely that he will recover. We’ll continue to monitor him very closely and revisit in the morning. But right now, I suggest you all go get some rest. I’m not telling you to give up hope yet. But ... you need to be prepared for the worst.”

Maybe it was delayed reaction or shock. Because even as Kate fell into hysterics, I just stood there, feeling like a stupid cow, his words running around through my head not making any sense at all. My whole body felt numb, and I tried to form a coherent thought and I couldn’t. I whispered, “That’s ... not possible.”

It wasn’t. Ray was too alive, too vital, too much of everything. Everything about him was real, solid. He couldn’t be what the doctor described. Not breathing on his own. No brain activity. Not Ray.
 

“I want to see him,” I said.

“That wouldn’t be advisable until morning,” Peterson said. “You need to go home, and get some sleep.”

“I don’t have a home without him,” I said, my voice breaking, knowing I wasn’t making any sense at all. My arms were crossed over my stomach as I said the words, and I wanted him to just take them back. And just like that I went from numb disbelief to rage. I wanted to hit Doctor Peterson for daring to say those words. And without thinking, without transition, without any filters, I said, “I won’t give up on him. Do you hear me, Doctor? Don’t
you
give up on him!”

Doctor Peterson swallowed. I’m sure he must go through this sometimes. Delivering bad news to families. I didn’t really care about his feelings right now. I didn’t want realism. I didn’t want Ray’s doctor to be pragmatic. I wanted him to be a hero.
 

“I promise we’ll do the best we can for him.”

“I want to see him,” I repeated. I was shaking, from a mixture of exhaustion and desperation. “Even if it’s just for a minute. Please.”

Peterson sighed and said, “All right, follow me.”

Michael and Kate fell into step behind me, and Peterson stopped immediately. “Just Carrie for now.”

Kate’s eyes fell on me with what I was certain was a mix of resentment and pure hate. My eyes slid off of her as if she weren’t even there. A moment later I followed Peterson down a confusing series of hallways, and then we were in an area I’d not been in before.

“This is the recovery room. Once Ray’s clear of anesthesia, he’ll be moved to ICU, probably somewhere near your sister. We’ll try to get them in the same unit.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Peterson stopped near a set of doors, where a hand sanitizer dispenser hung on the wall. “Sanitize your hands, please. There’s still significant risk of infection.”

I did as instructed, and then he led me past two doors, and opened one more.

Immediately I heard the loud rasp of a respirator. It was dim in the room, of course, though not dark. The room was lined with a series of monitors displaying Ray’s pulse and other vitals. And in the center, my husband. His head had been shaved and was swathed in bandages, as had his left arm and leg, both of which were immobilized. His eyes were closed, and a thick plastic tube had been jammed down his throat. Other tubes and wires ran everywhere.

I stood at the door, looking in, arms clasped across my stomach, my heart pounding. Ray’s skin was blanched almost white. I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry and scratchy. All I’d wanted for hours was to see Ray. But now that I was in the room with him, I was ... terrified. With tiny, cautious steps, I approached him. And as I got closer, I started to cry uncontrollably, the tears running down my face, and I couldn’t stop. Because I’d never seen someone who looked so damaged. It didn’t look like Ray at all: instead, it was a ... a thinner, paler wax facsimile, as if someone had made a mold of Ray’s face and body and then slightly squeezed and melted it. As if they had made a mockery of his face, the sort of thing you might see in a roadside carnival or in a bad TV show, but not ever the sort of thing you would see in your husband’s face and eyes. His face was swollen beyond recognition, and flakes of blood scattered his face and neck on the few spots of exposed skin I could see through the plastic tubes and wires.
 

But somewhere inside, Ray was there. Somewhere inside, the man I loved, the man who I would have my future with, he was in there, fighting to survive. I knew it. I could feel it. Sometimes it almost felt like he was right there, whispering at my shoulder. And I was going to do everything I could to help him come back. Everything.