When I See You (8 page)

God, why have you done this to me?
My little prayer goes unanswered.

I steel myself against the state of affairs in which we are all held hostage and reiterate my need to see Ethan for both of them. Ashleigh tries to put on a brave front, but when I ask her if she wants to go with me, she shakes her head. Retrieving a cigarette from her purse with trembling hands, she finally escapes outside with contrived casualness about needing a smoke. All this from a girl who doesn't even smoke.

I shrug my shoulders in contrived nonchalance at Ashleigh when she looks back at me and follow Igor into the inner chambers of his sanctum. I move with trepidation following behind him down the long predictable dark hallway.

My heart pounds so loudly; I'm sure he can hear it. He gives me a surreptitious look as he opens a door to his right.

We enter a tomb of a room shrouded in red velvet and there is Ethan lying out on a long table. Why bother with a bed for the dead? I cringe inward at the morbidity of my thoughts.
Fuck.

"Leave us," I command.

"But, the law states I have to be present." I turn and give the man a withering glance and wave my superhero hand again. After a minute, he bows out of the room as he did before. "Ten minutes, Mrs. Holloway. Ten minutes. That's it. This is highly unorthodox."

"Fine."

I spend the first two minutes keeping my distance from the man who lies before me. He's dressed in his best suit, the gray one he was wearing when we met. Not surprising, it still fits. Ethan—the impeccable dresser, the finest athlete, the bravest soldier, the best husband, the most doting father. He did everything well. He exuded charm, grace, and humility in every way. He is god-like, all powerful and mighty, even lying here.

I am drawn in to touch him. I trail my fingers along his hands tucked peacefully across his chest. I ignore the clamminess of his skin, the stiffness of his fingers. I've lain with this man for hours. I've heard the gurgling of this man's stomach too many times in our most intimate moments when we would laugh at the sound and its peculiar timing. I lay my head down and listen now, but hear only lifelessness. The stillness of him is so final.

"Don't leave me, baby," I say in the imposing silence.

I lift my head and stare at his face. Pale. Still. Silent. So, unlike him. I wait an indeterminable moment for him to start talking.

"Say anything. Say anything. Say anything at all. I'm here. I'll wait. I'll listen."

The silence wends its way around me like an invisible spider's web.

"Say something.
Anything
." I whisper.

His head is partially covered with a white silk handkerchief and I pull it away, before I can think of why the cloth is there in the first place. And, there it is. The clear reason on why Ethan would never be saying anything to me, ever again. His left eye is missing. Part of his skull.

Igor must have done his best to clean up the brain matter and dried blood before he permitted me in to see my husband like this, but no white silk handkerchief was going to be able to cover up the violence that has been done to him.

I kiss his lips, untouched by the brutality imposed upon the left side of Ethan's face.

"I will always love you, Ethan." I stroke his head as I've always done and it's the one thing in touching him that feels the same; his hair moves like the finest boar brush under my fingers. "I will always love you."

My tears fall on him now and the wet trails make their way down each side of his face. I kiss his neck and then his lips, again. After a while, I burrow my head into his left shoulder. For the first time in days, I feel this tranquility come over me. I close my eyes and revel in the closeness of being with him, again.

Reunited, even as we are. The cruelty of our circumstances plays out in the tranquility of the room like a fine mist dissipates into parched earth.

"Ethan," I say, lifting my head from his shoulder and looking into his lifeless face. I can only stare, waiting for him to answer me. I lay my head back down, close my eyes and begin to cry, again, harder now.

"Mrs. Holloway? Are you? Are you all right?"

Igor Dasher has come back into the room. I open my eyes at the sound of his weary voice and look over at the edges of him in his fine green velvet suit. His image swims before me. My sobs fill up the room now.

"Fine. I'm fine."

He seems to smile, if that is at all possible for the man, at my lies.

He glides across to me as if he is on wheels in this slick bumper car motion. One minute he is across the room, in the next, right beside me.

"Your friend. She's looking for you."

He takes my arm and pulls me towards the door. I turn and take one final look at Ethan.

"Love you for always," I call out to the motionless god lying on the table.

I swear I hear Ethan's voice call back to me, 'Love you, for always, Jordan.'

Good. I'm crazy.

Good. That's good.

That's fine. Fine.

Igor Dasher is looking at me in alarm and I fear I've spoken my thoughts aloud, but he refrains from saying anything more. I grace him with a benign smile, as we glide down the hallway together arm-in-arm. The funeral director hands me off to Ashleigh with a fervent wave of his left hand and not another word. The man seems more comfortable among the dead. I give him this beseeching look, attempting to convey my wishes for him to take care of Ethan in the most respectful manner. As if reading my thoughts, the green velvet man makes that promise to me.

"Thank you, Mr. Dasher," I finally say. "Thank you for letting me in to see him and say good-bye."

*≈*≈*

Chapter 5. A coordinated assault

Brock

I open my eyes and see nothing. Nothing, but blackness, as if I am in a cave without a light source. I blink several times, as if, somehow, by doing so, I will dislodge the darkness that surrounds me. I still can't find the light.

I shake at the sudden touch of a hand upon my arm as a sweet voice whispers, "Welcome back, Lieutenant Wainwright. How do you feel?"

"I can't see." I try to control the tremor in my voice and the one that shoots through my body—a fault line shifts inside, causing me to tense up all over.

"I'll be right back," she says.

A few interminable minutes later, I feel the bed move beneath me.

"Lieutenant Wainwright. You're awake," says a new voice. Male. Authoritative. Haggard.

"I can't see," I say again with matched authority that all but commands him to
fix it
.

There is this unfamiliar sensation with panic that stirs to life inside. It threatens to surface as the minutes seem to grind by. A hand touches my eyelids and pulls them back. Looking. Looking.
Looking for what? I can't see.

My breathing gets labored the longer this goes on. My heart rate speeds up, and this burning sensation stabs at me at mid-chest.

"What is it? Why can't I see?" My words come out harsh, but I keep going. "Why can't I see?"

"Yes. The medic on scene said that you complained of that after you returned to camp. Before that." He pauses. "Could you see before that?"

My mind races, thinking back to what he is talking about. "Before when? What are you talking about?" The terror threatens to surface. I gasp for air.

"Do you remember returning to camp?"

"There was a mission. Ethan and me. We were on a mission. A long hike." Flashing images of Afghanistan roll through my mind. Tall grass. All the fucking dust. I turn my head, as if I can hear Ethan talking to me. My eyes search the darkness and try to make out an image, an image of any kind, but there's nothing.
I see nothing.

"It was dark," I say in a low voice. My throat tightens. I squeeze my eyes closed and then open them again. "It was all black. Treacherous terrain. Carrying everything. I know I saw the light of the camp." My voice trails off as my mind attempts to deal with the present and nothing but darkness.

My memory must be playing tricks on me; it flashes with the images of a black night of Afghanistan. I lean back against the bed. My head is caught between two pillows. I struggle to gain my balance and reach out and feel the cold steel of what must be the bed rail. My breathing gets more uneven.

"Do you remember anything else?" he asks.

"What? No. I don't remember anything. It's too dark."

The reality of darkness attacks me from all sides. The pain in my chest worsens. Blackness engulfs me. I close my eyes, trying to escape its oppressiveness. I open them, but it's still there. I struggle to catch my breath.
I'm forgetting something. What is it?
Something happened, but I can't remember what it is.

"Lieutenant, we're doing everything we can. You have multiple bullet wounds in your right shoulder and the upper chest. Fortunately, it missed your heart and we were able to re-inflate your right lung." He stops. He just stops talking and sighs heavily before he goes on.

"We can't explain the blindness."

"I'm a spotter. With a sniper team. A Navy SEAL.
I can't be
blind
."

I can't control the fear in my voice any longer. It takes over my whole body and my mind. I groan and put my arm over my face. Sudden exhaustion assails me. I feel helpless and out of control. In response, pearls of sweat spread across the surface of my skin, everywhere.

The blackness swims all around me, like the murky water of Logan's Pond back home. Just thinking of my father, the pond, my mother, and home somehow lifts me up. It's just enough to take a much needed breath.

"It's probably temporary," he says.

I detect the uncertainty in his voice. He will not give me false hope. I open my eyes, discover the blackness, once again, and let out a jagged breath. I close my eyes, then open them again. There is no difference whether they are closed or not. It is all black.
There is nothing. I see nothing.

A door opens somewhere near. I hear the click clack of a woman's high heels meet up with the linoleum floor. The sound comes toward me, capturing my attention.

"Dr. Smith, I thought I told you to come and get me as soon as the lieutenant was awake?" A different female voice. I hear her heavy breathing, as if she's been running, but sense she's angry.

This modicum of satisfaction at her telling off this Dr. Smith cheers me up.
Tell him, sister. Let's fix this thing. Tell him now how we're going to do it.

"Right, okay. I'll leave you to it," says the voice I now designate to Dr. Smith. His angry retort sounds insincere.

I take solace at this heated exchange. A minute later, there's the sound of the door closing with a resounding bang.

"Asshole." I start to smile upon hearing her whisper this. She takes a deep breath, and the faint scent of her perfume drifts towards me. "I'm Dr. Richards. Kate Richards. Major Kate Richards, Lieutenant Wainwright," she says. The woman outranks me by one, and I try to control the grimace that automatically travels across my face at hearing her rank.

"Major Richards," I say dryly.

She kind of laughs. I hear the scraping of a chair against the floor. Her scent gets even stronger, and I presume she's brought the chair close to my bedside. Then, she firmly grips my right hand.

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

I sigh heavily and feel growing frustration and this incalculable fear at the same time.
How many times am I going to have to tell them I don't remember anything?

Finally, I answer, "Carrying a lot of stuff to camp. It was dark. I remember seeing the camp's lights up ahead. It was tough—the trek back to camp. Mountains. Terrain. I think I cut myself up a bit on some of the jagged rocks as I made my way down."

I've run out of words, and I wrack my brain to try to remember more. "Where am I? How long have I been here? Why can't I see?" I tack on all these questions as the panic within me begins to travel outward.

She strokes my hand in regular rhythm; I'm caught up in counting the number of times she does this, while a weird sense of calm comes over me.

"Lieutenant, you've been in this hospital for the past nine days. You've had major surgery on your upper torso. Both your chest and shoulder were hit by gunfire. As Dr. Smith must have told you, you're lucky to be alive."

"I can't see." My retort is harsh and I no longer try to hide the anger and panic. "I need answers now!"

"You've been through a harrowing experience," she says in a soothing voice. "And, we're trying to determine what has happened to your sight. It seems to be triggered by a traumatic event. Can you tell me anything else you remember? Anything at all. Take your time. Close your eyes and think."

Time wallows. It just wallows there like the mysterious stillness of murky water where something terrible is bound to be lurking. In this case, it's this undeniable fear I succumb to. I'm lost, out of sorts. I can't breathe.

"Tell me anything you remember." Her coaxing is mesmerizing on some level; it brings me back. Her bedside manner is obviously her "A" game.