Читать книгу The Marine's Return - Rula Sinara - Страница 12

CHAPTER TWO

VIOLENT PAIN SEARED Chad’s right arm like a branding iron burning its way clear to the bone. Instinct had him grasping for his arm, desperate to stop the agony, but his left hand rammed against his right rib cage. He reached again, squeezing his eyes against the pain and swatting air before hitting his shoulder.

“No!” He fisted his hair and cursed a stream of words he only ever used around fellow marines on the battlefield—never in his parents’ home.

He forced himself to look at his side...to remind him that a wrapped stump was all that was left of his right arm. This time, the visual didn’t help to bring him under control.

He covered his face with his one hand and took deep breaths until the phantom pain subsided enough for him to stand. He walked across his old bedroom to where a half-empty glass of water sat on his wooden dresser. He took a long drink, a ritual he’d adopted to train his mind to stay grounded in the here and now. Pain like that had a way of weakening even the toughest warrior. It coaxed his mind into dark places. Sometimes it took him back to that day.

He walked over to the window, pressed his forehead against the cool glass, and looked out at the yard below. The flowering vines climbing the garden walls were more lush and dense than he remembered. Even the fig tree that flanked that far side of the grassy area had grown since he’d last been in Nairobi. A beautiful, serene and deceptively safe haven. That’s what “home” was now. An illusion. A false sense of security. There was nothing safe or beautiful about the world. War and evil were insidious.

They’d left a permanent mark on him—and taken him out of the fight.

They’d neutralized him and the realization that there was nothing he could do about it drove him mad. He would never fight again and that made him feel like a man trapped behind bars, unable to do anything but watch and scream while criminals tortured helpless people. He wasn’t supposed to be the helpless one.

He’d heard of injured vets, even minor amputees, getting permission to reenlist, though they were often reassigned to more “appropriate” jobs. But first they had to be cleared by a psych test to be sound of mind, free of post-traumatic stress and not suffering from debilitating phantom pain.

He failed all three of those qualifications. Six-and-a-half months since the blast and still suffering.

He turned and stood in front of the intricately carved wood mirror that hung over his dresser. Twisted, dark-pink burn scars wrapped around half of his back and up the right side of his neck. Quarter-inch scars mottled his right cheek where surgeons had removed embedded debris. It was a miracle he still had his eyes. Though sometimes he wondered if that was its own form of torture.

Here he was at twenty-four, supposedly the prime of his life, and he was this. He was—had been—right-handed. He’d lost his dominance in more ways than one. But he still had his sight, just so that he could wake up every morning and be met with the monster that was left of him. Just so that he could see the looks of pity on the faces of others. Sometimes he wished he’d never woken up from the medically induced coma he’d been kept in for weeks. Everyone kept saying he was lucky that he’d recovered, for the most part, from the traumatic brain injury he’d also suffered in the blast.

“Chad?” His mother rapped at the door. He hurried to the bed and lay on top of the traditionally woven bedspread, then picked up the magazine he’d abandoned earlier because putting it down every time he had to turn a page had worn on his patience. His mother eased the door open and peered inside.

“Chad.” She came in and closed the door behind her.

“Hey, what’s up?” He hoped he sounded as calm and cool as possible. He didn’t want his mom worrying about him anymore. As a doctor, Hope worried enough about everyone under her care, and she, along with his dad, had spent most of the past year by his side in the States. He’d given them both gray hairs and creases around their eyes these last few months. He’d taken them away from his younger brothers—even if Ryan and Philip were off in college—and their first grandchild.

His older sister, Maddie, and her husband, Haki, had a fifteen-month-old baby. They lived in Kenya’s Serengeti where Haki ran a rural veterinary clinic that catered to the livestock needs of the tribal herdsmen. With a toddler, they definitely could have used Hope’s help, but instead Chad’s mother had been caring for him. He was burdening them all.

His dad, too. As an ex-marine, his dad was good at masking what was going through his head, but Chad could see past the firm “Suck it up, Marine” attitude. Still, he seemed to be emphasizing his own efforts to carry on despite the cast he was sporting. At least that was temporary. Chad’s amputation wasn’t.

Chad knew this wasn’t how either of his parents had envisioned his future.

“Don’t pretend. I heard you. If the pain is that bad, take something,” Hope said.

“I’m not taking any more drugs,” he said, sitting upright and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

You still have everything from the waist down, man. Count your blessings.

“We can switch medic—”

“No.” Painkillers only stole what was left of him.

“Then what? Let me do something. Let me help.”

“I’m fine. Honestly, Mom. It was just a sudden shooting pain. It went away. I’m all good now. Hungry, actually.”

He wasn’t.

He tossed the magazine aside and stood. He motioned to the doorway.

“After you.”

“You can’t fool a mother, Chad. I know you think feeding you will distract me. I’ll do it because, yes, it’ll make me feel a little better, but you can’t sit up here like this for hours on end.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Then let’s head down and eat,” he said, limping slightly ahead of her before she could say more. The deep shrapnel scars in his right hip and thigh tugged with each step. He could hear her following. “Am I smelling chapati and nyama? I thought Jamal and Dalila were with their grandkids today.”

Jamal and Dalila were like grandparents. They’d worked as driver, cook and nannies for Hope’s parents, also doctors in Nairobi, since she’d been born. They’d stayed on with the family—really as part of the family—and continued to help when Hope married Ben and adopted his three children and then when the couple had their own baby, Philip.

None of them cared who was blood related and who wasn’t. They’d always been a family in the tightest sense of the word.

The aroma of beef, onion, curried spices, vegetables and warm flatbread wafted up the stairwell. Chad’s stomach grumbled loudly. Maybe he was hungry. Funny that hunger was the one pain he rarely felt.

“Yes. Dalila cooked her famous stew early this morning before leaving. For ‘her Chad,’ as she put it. I just warmed it all up for lunch.”

Lunch? Had he really been in his room that long?

“She’s a kitchen goddess,” he said, quirking the corner of his mouth up. He reached for the banister and clenched his jaw when he realized he’d tried reaching with his right arm. How many more months or years was it going to take for his brain to adjust?

He made his way down the curved staircase, placing his hand against the left wall for balance when he felt a twinge in his right hip.

“I have an ironsmith coming in a few days to make a matching banister for the left side,” Hope said.

“Cancel the appointment. You don’t have to change anything on my account. I’ll manage.”

“I know we don’t have to. Your father and I want to. It’s not a big deal. He said he’ll be back in time for lunch. He got a ride to the office. He needed to sign off on some new recruit applications. I told him someone could bring the paperwork to the house, but he was desperate to get out.”

Ben’s work with KWS and the Kenyan armed forces to combat ruthless poachers was just another example of how evil existed even at home. There was no escaping it...a fact that made Chad’s blood curdle, especially now that there was nothing he could do about it.

His father had always been his role model...someone whose expectations he’d always tried to live up to. After Chad’s biological mother was killed by a reckless drunk driver when Chad was only four, and his dad had retreated into a shell, Chad had quickly caught on to the fact that the only way for his father to notice him was to try to be just like him. He probably already was on some level, behavioral genetics and all.

But as soon as he was old enough to really understand how needlessly his mother had lost her life and how rampant violence and war were in the news, Chad had understood what had really driven his father to serve. And it had become Chad’s mission, too.

Roosevelt, the family dog, came bounding up just as Chad cleared the last step. But rather than colliding into Chad or jumping up on him, the four-year-old mix padded around him, wagging his tail and sniffing.

“He’s finally outgrowing some of that puppy energy,” Hope said.

Chad’s eyes stung as he reached down and scratched Roosevelt behind the ear. Losing Aries in action still gouged him in the heart.

Roosevelt licked his hand. The dog knew. His behavior had nothing to do with outgrowing puppyhood, if that even happened for dogs with any Golden or Lab in the mix. Nope. Chad had no doubt Roosevelt sensed something was wrong. Dogs could smell disease and injury. They mourned loss. And Chad had lost more than his arm. When the doctors had brought him out of his induced coma, he’d discovered that Aries had died in the blast and his best friend, Tony, had been killed only a week after the blast that injured Chad.

Chad walked across the living room with the dog at his heels and opened the glass patio doors that led to their garden. He could hear his mom tinkering in the kitchen. He sat on the top step leading out onto the grass, grabbed a rubber ball and tossed it. It took a curved path into the base of a flowering bougainvillea—far from the tree he’d been aiming for. Roosevelt didn’t seem to care one way or the other. His mother’s vine, however, didn’t look too happy.

“Here’s some iced tea. Extra lemon, the way you like it,” his mom said, as she stepped outside and sat next to him. She handed him a glass then took a long drink from her own.

“Sorry about your vine,” Chad half muttered, setting the glass down next to him. He was screwing up even something as benign as tossing a dog a ball. It was hard to believe he’d once handled and trained military dogs. Now he couldn’t even play fetch right. How long would it take to really get comfortable with using his left arm for anything other than general use? He still couldn’t sign his name legibly with his left hand, let alone aim a ball with any accuracy...or a firearm, for that matter.

He’d received an honorable discharge from the marines. A medal, to boot. So why wasn’t he feeling an ounce of pride at the moment?

“Are you kidding me? Any of the plants you see here survived Roosevelt’s initial puppy years. They’ll survive anything at this point,” Hope said.

Chad hated hearing a double meaning in everything, even when it wasn’t intended. He scratched his hair back and took a swig of tart tea.

“I guess.”

“You know, tossing that ball is good for you. I know we’re setting up additional physical therapy now that you’re here—ah, don’t argue about that right now—but really, there’s a lot you can do on your own. Though maybe we should put up a small soccer goal, just so that you don’t torture that tree when your skills sharpen,” she teased.

Chad grinned. Leave it to his mom to get a smile out of him. He actually appreciated that she didn’t shy away from the facts.

“How’d you guess the tree was my target?”

“That’s classified information.”

“Right.” A brief laugh escaped him. Roosevelt came running back with a rubber bone. “Wait a minute. I’m pretty sure I threw a ball.”

“Who knows how many toys are hidden out there. I’m beginning to think your father hides them just so he can have an excuse to buy more,” Hope said.

It had taken forever for Ben to give in to the “free” puppy Maddie had brought home for Philip when he was still in high school. He’d seen how devastating it could be for a marine to lose his canine—his friend had lost his dog in battle, a dog named Wolf, back when Ben had lost his wife, Zoe.

For years, Ben had refused to get a family dog, out of fear of reliving that kind of pain. But Roosevelt had been a blessing since day one and, once Philip had left for college, Ben had ended up bonding with the dog.

Chad took the bone and tried tossing it Frisbee style. This time it veered left and landed mid-yard.

“I don’t want to deal with physical therapists anymore. I worked with them long enough before coming home. It’s not helping.”

“You have to give it time.”

“It’s not doing anything.”

“Chad, you have to try. You won’t get better by sitting around here. You have to have physical training. I’m not just saying this as your mother. I know this as a doctor.”

“Get better? Have you looked at me? I won’t ever ‘get better.’ That implies a full recovery. That’s a physical impossibility for me.”

His pulse pounded at his temples and his eyes burned. He hated feeling cornered. The pressure everyone had been putting on him to get up and take action, as if he was lazy or wallowing in self-pity, was as irritating as the scars that still itched relentlessly. This wasn’t about self-pity. This was about everyone thinking they knew what he was going through. But they didn’t know what he needed. No one could.

His mom pressed her fingers to her eyes. Roosevelt stood with his bone in his mouth, waiting. He looked between the two of them. The dog’s tail slowed to a pitiful pace. Chad stared at him but made no move to play. He couldn’t tell if it was anger or frustration, but this feeling that tightened his chest and squeezed at his throat whenever anyone insisted he should make an effort to get better paralyzed him.

Roosevelt let out a short whimper then dropped the bone and settled at Chad’s feet.

“Do you really want to know what I see when I look at you?”

Hope laced her fingers and tucked them in her lap. She paused and the way her dark brown eyes glistened pinched at his conscience. He didn’t want to hurt her. He really didn’t. Hope had always been the glue for their family. She was the voice of reason...the heart and soul of their family. She’d essentially saved them all from spiraling down and falling apart after Zoe’s death.

But there wasn’t anything to save now. Sure, he was alive, but she couldn’t change the fact that he’d never be the same again. That the future he’d always envisioned would never happen.

All he’d ever wanted was to be a marine. To fight the bad guys and rise in the ranks. To avenge the death of everyone he’d lost in life. To try to extinguish evil so that the rest of his family could have safe, long lives. He wasn’t unreasonable. He knew he couldn’t stop death altogether or keep random accidents from happening. But he could pick the worst of the worst and stop them from terrorizing the world. That’s why he’d joined the marines.

He’d never considered settling into civilian life, let alone trying to map out a new future without his mind and body whole.

Hope put a hand on his knee.

“I see Chad. I see you as the rambunctious, overactive toddler I first met. I see you as the incorrigible, confident, adrenaline-loving teen. I see the valiant, focused and proud-to-follow-in-his-father’s-footsteps man you were when you joined the marines. I see you, Chad.

“I know you too well and love you too much to look at only the surface. I’ve also witnessed your inner strength and drive. The kid I raised never gave up on anything. If he had, your dad and I may have held out a few more years before getting gray hairs. These injuries? They’re obstacles, yes. But they’re not you.”

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mom. These injuries...what happened to me and the memory of it...they are me now. We’re the sum of our experiences. Aren’t we?”

She hugged her arms around her waist and glanced up at the cloudless sky. She couldn’t answer because he was right. She took a deep breath and held it for a fraction of a second before letting it go.

“Have you ever considered that your mama Zoe was your guardian angel on the day of the explosion? That she’s the reason you’re alive? Because that would be a gift. A gift from her. Not a punishment. You’re right that we’re the sum of our experiences. But we hold those experiences in our minds...in our souls...not our bodies.”

Chad gritted his teeth and shot up, his thigh bumping into his glass of tea. The glass tipped over and broke, causing the dog to startle and jump up onto all fours.

Hope’s hand flew to her chest for a brief second before she moved to clean up the glass.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get this,” she said, setting her own tea down on the far side of the steps.

He didn’t miss the quiver in her voice. A part of him cared; a part of him didn’t. Heat washed through him and that sharp phantom pain shot through his missing arm again. He dug his nails into the back of his neck.

“Don’t. Stop trying to fix things. I’m not broken glass. You can’t just pick up the pieces. You know what people do with shattered glass? They sweep it up and toss it in the trash. I love you, Mom, but you don’t get it. You can’t come even close to understanding what it’s like to be me right now. Don’t you dare tell me my body doesn’t matter.”

With that, he stormed back in the house, trying hard to ignore the breathless sobs and clinking of glass shards he left in his wake.