When A Warrior Comes Home Page 9

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, tell me something you’ve forgotten since you came back that your wife thinks you’d have remembered before you were deployed.”

  “There’s lots.”

  “Tell me the worst one. What brought you here, for example.”

  If he told him, it couldn’t be taken back. This went on his permanent record. Butch swallowed the rock lodged in his throat. “Well, the other day, while Rosa was at the store, I was watching Noe, my son.”

  The doctor smiled. “How old?”

  “He’s just turned one.”

  “They’re so cute at that age.”

  “Yes, he is. Anyway, when Rosa came home, I’d fallen asleep on the sofa, and Noe had wandered into the kitchen and gotten into stuff in the cupboards he shouldn’t have. I didn’t watch him good enough. Rosa was hoppin’ mad, and quite right, too. I told her I’d only just nodded off, but the truth is, I didn’t even remember he was there.”

  “You mean you forgot that you were minding him?”

  “No. When she asked where Noe was, I didn’t know who she meant. I mean I’d forgotten that was our son.”

  The doctor held up one hand. “Give me a few seconds.” He typed for a little while. Then he looked up and said, “What else?”

  Butch’s heart slapped against his ribs. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “The more you tell me, the better chance I have to help. Was that the incident that persuaded you to see me?”

  Butch sighed. “No. That happened last night. I hit my Rosa.” His throat locked up again, and he sucked in a few breaths and dug his nails into his palms. He damn well would not cry. What the hell was wrong with him? “Doc, I love my wife. She’s everything. I’d never harm her. But when I saw her this morning. When I saw her face all bruised. I asked her how it happened. She told me I did it. I don’t remember touching her, but she’s telling the truth.”

  “When did she say this happened?”

  “Last night before I went to the bar.”

  The doctor nodded and typed. He smiled. “You’re doing well, soldier. I know this is tough. Hang in there. We’re nearly through. Tell me, how are you sleeping?”

  “I kinda nap. I’ll drift off, then wake. Sometimes I throw off the covers, sweating like when I was back in the field in Iraq, or else I’m shivering, freezing, as though I have the flu.”

  “Do you have any aches and pains, other than the burn?”

  “Headaches. Real bad. Feels like my brain’s trying to squeeze outta my eyes.”

  “How do you deal with that?”

  “Tylenol.”

  “Does it help?”

  He shook his head. “Not much.”

  “How frequent are the headaches?”

  Butch opened his mouth to answer, but he couldn’t remember. “Often,” he said.

  “Okay. Let’s backtrack to Iraq. How long were you in the field hospital?”

  “On the third morning, I got up.”

  “And?”

  “I told them I was feeling fine.”

  “Were you?”

  “Yeah, a bit shook up, you know. But I wanted to find out about Yaz and Mike.”

  “Did they clear you for duty?”

  “Yeah, but I was kept around base, just hangin’ out because I was rotating out three days later.”

  “Okay, Sergeant. I’ve got everything I need.” He clicked and tapped the keyboard a few times. “I’m prescribing antidepressants and anti-anxiety pills. You take them in the morning and at night. They’ll help with the surges of anger. And I’m giving you something stronger than Tylenol for the headaches; only use these when needed. None of these drugs mixes well with alcohol. Can you stop drinking?”

  “I never used to drink. Never liked it much. I can stop.”

  “Good. Alcohol might appear to help, but it’s a mood depressant. Drinking will make things worse. Trust the medication.” He clicked again, and a printer on the far side of the room hummed. Then he closed the laptop, spread his hands on top, and made eye contact with Butch. “When the human brain is subject to a violent shock it rattles about and gets bruised. This leads to what used to be called a concussion. Nowadays we prefer the term traumatic brain injury or TBI. The symptoms you’ve described—anger, change of personality, problems sleeping, and memory loss—are common in TBI sufferers.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “These drugs will treat the symptoms, but only time will affect a cure. Your brain is bruised and swollen, like any bruise, it needs time to shrink and heal.”

  “How long?”

  “I afraid I can’t be precise. Maybe weeks. Maybe years. Some symptoms may last indefinitely.”

  Butch hadn’t known what to expect from the doctor, but learning he might never recover hadn’t occurred to him. His heart fluttered and accelerated, trying to burst from his chest again. He wiped his hankie across his forehead again, blew his nose. He had no words. How would he tell Rosa? Well he wouldn’t. He’d figure this out himself. He stood and offered a hand.

  “Thanks, Doc. It’s not the kinda news I expected or wanted, but at least I’m not going crazy. I hope the pills help.”

  The doctor stood. “They will.”

  “One more thing,” Butch said. “Will my command hear about this?”

  “Of course. But General Swain is fully cognisant of these types of injuries. There’s no reason you can’t remain a useful member of the unit provided we handle the worst symptoms. Sergeant, you did the right thing coming in. We can’t fight an enemy if we don’t know he exists. Can we?”

  Butch nodded. “Thank you, Doc.” He closed the door behind him and made his way out of the building. Once outside, he called Rosa to pick him up. Not having a driver’s license sucked.

  Chapter 11

  When the front door closed behind Sarah’s parents, Mike yelled, “Good riddance.” Seated on the sofa with Christopher pressed against him he asked, “Ready for the next level?” Christopher nodded. Mike clicked the controller and engaged the enemy. Sarah was speaking. He sensed her standing in the doorway but blocked her out. More nagging. Since he got home: nag, nag, nag. The house was filthy. Daniel looked and acted like a spoiled brat. Even Christopher had needed a few sharp words to bring him into line. He glanced down at his son and ruffled his hair. “But you’ll be okay, now Daddy’s home. Right, Chris?”

  His son stared at the TV. “Yes, sir.”

  See, it doesn’t take much to get respect.

  Sarah moved in front of him, blocking the screen, hands on hips. He paused the game. “What?”

  “Yes. What?” she said. “What the hell’s the matter with you? You chased my folks away. You’ve upset Daniel. You’re playing video games and—” She picked up the plastic rings from the six-pack of beer he’d finished. “— getting drunk in the middle of the day. We’ve waited a year for you to come home and this is all you care.”

  Christopher wriggled, and although Mike tried to hold him, he squirmed off the couch and ran to his mom and buried his face in her belly.

  This wasn’t the homecoming Mike wanted either. He’d seen enough on Skype to suspect the place had gone to shit without him, but things were worse than he’d feared. He sprang to his feet, stepped forward, looming above her, faces inches apart. Their son, sandwiched between them, started to cry.

  Sarah met his stare, ready for battle.

  What was the point?

  He was worn out from fighting—fighting the hajjis, fighting the German medics, and now fighting this bullshit in his own home.

  He shouted in her face, “I didn’t sign up for this. I’m outta here, and you’d better adjust your attitude by the time I get home.” Waving a hand around the room, he said, “Clean this place up. Then remind your sons they should respect their father.” Mike put a hand on her shoulder and pushed. She staggered back a step, flinched, and wrapped her arms around Christopher. “Didn’t see that coming did you? Now shape up. And make sure dinner’s ready when I get back.”
r />   He grabbed the car keys from the hook in the hall, snagged his leather jacket, and slammed the front door behind him. On the path, he stopped and pulled sharp, fresh American air into his lungs. “Ah. So good to be out of the dust, and sand, and heat.” He drove four blocks to Butch’s place. No one was home, so he headed for The Blue Note. At least there, he could talk to soldiers who understood what the hell was going on in the world.

  The bar’s parking lot was mostly empty. It was only two fifteen, a little early for the evening crowd. No problem; he needed time to himself.

  Time to think.

  At the bar, he took a stool and ordered a Wild Turkey and a Bud chaser. He downed the shot, ordered another, then phoned Butch but got voicemail. After leaving a message telling him to come to The Blue Note, Mike scrolled through his contact list, stopped at Brian Matthews’s name, and called.

 

  Brian was playing what-if with a budget spreadsheet when his phone rang. He’d been massaging numbers since he returned from his meeting with GameSoft, and there was no way he could fund the project. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now, but the call was from Mike, so he answered.

  “How’re they hangin’, Nerdman.” Mike’s words were slurred, celebrating his homecoming, maybe? Although the sergeant had never taken more than a couple beers while they were in Iraq.

  “I’m doing fine, thanks. How’s the leg?” Memories of the screams in his headset when the VCOM tore Mike’s leg away from the broken bedframe sent a shiver snaking down Brian’s spine. It must have hurt like hell.

  “They patched me up pretty good. Out for my first night of freedom, and I’m looking for someone to show me what I’ve been fighting to preserve in the good ol’ US of A. Why not join me for a beer?”

  Brian’s gut reaction was to decline. Then he scanned the spreadsheet again and a black cloud descended. The LightCube was his chance to stop workin’ for the man. Instead, it looked as though he’d have to run to Adam Barnes, cap in hand, and admit he couldn’t deliver. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. Yeah. Aw, hell. Why not? I can be in Fayetteville in ninety minutes. Where are you?”

 

  When Brian arrived at The Blue Note a little after four, Mike, standing at the bar with a group of guys dressed in cammies, noticed him and gave an exaggerated wave.

  The men made room and Mike shook Brian’s hand. “This is the guy I was tellin’ y’all about. Brainiest dude I ever met. What’ll you have, Brian?”

  “Michelob Ultra, thanks.”

  Mike bought a round of beers for the group and a bourbon for himself. The bar crowd was noisy, with everyone forced to shout over a heavy metal number booming from the jukebox. Even so, Mike’s voice was louder than needed. “These guys,” he pointed to four of the soldiers, “are shippin’ out in the a.m.—first tour. They’ll be stationed at good ol’ Camp Liberation. Got any advice for them, Brian?”

  “Take a sand pail. You’ll need it. That place is like the surface of Mars.”

  Mike laughed and slapped Brian’s shoulder hard enough to buckle his knees, and way more enthusiastically than Brian’s comment deserved. The men exchanged glances, and over the next five minutes everyone sidled off, leaving Brian and Mike alone.

  He regretted coming. Babysitting a drunk wasn’t much fun. Perhaps if they shifted from the bar Mike would calm down. “How about sitting where it’s quieter, and you can catch me up on the guys.”

  The words flipped Mike’s serious switch. His face flattened to a grim mask. He frowned, nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  They carried their drinks to a four-top in an alcove. Mike positioned his latest bourbon shot precisely at the center of a beer mat and stared at the drink.

  “So how are Butch and Yaz?” Brian asked.

  Dragging his attention from the table, Mike looked up and sighed. “Butch is fine. He’s home. I left him a message earlier. He’ll probably come by. Heh, wait. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  Before Brian could protest, Mike called and left another message.

  “And Yaz?” Brian asked. “You guys were in Germany before I got discharged from the field hospital.”

  Mike turned his head, took a few deep breaths. When he faced Brian again, his eyes were full. “Yaz lost both his legs.”

  Brian exhaled with a whoosh as though punched in the gut. He clamped both hands on the table’s edge to keep his balance. Mike reached out and patted him on the arm. “I know—shocking as all hell. You’ve been there. You understand. Most of these.” Mike waved a hand at the crowd. “Well, the ones who haven’t been posted, anyway, just don’t get it.” Mike locked his eyes on Brian’s. His speech no longer slurred, his words more carefully chosen. “It sucks, but Yaz and me and Butch have to look at the positives. If you hadn’t driven the VCOM into the trailer when you did, we’d all have burned up for sure. Yaz nearly didn’t make it, anyway. The medics told me it was close. He lost so much blood they worried about brain damage. Because of you, he’s alive.”

  “Have you talked with him? Is he, you know—”

  “Yeah, he’s crazier than ever. Yaz is strong. He’ll strap on a pair of artificial limbs and hike downtown to get another tattoo.”

  Brian went to speak, but no words came. He drained his beer. “I’ll get us a drink.”

  Mike shook his head and pointed to his half-full shot glass. “I’m good.” He waved Brian away. “Go ahead. You’ve got catching up to do.”

  When Brian came back from the bar, Mike told him Butch was on his way. “Gave me some bullshit about not coming. But when I said you wanted to see him, he changed his mind.”

 

  By the time Mike had told his Landstuhl escape story, bragging how he conned his way onto a cargo flight to get home two days early, Butch arrived. Mike jumped up and hollered across the crowded bar. Butch spotted him and headed their way. Walking behind, Brian recognized Rosa from the family photo in Butch’s trailer. That picture, taken right after Noe’s birth, didn’t do her justice. The puffy face and paunchy belly were gone. She wore a white blouse and tight jeans. Tanned skin stretched like silk over high cheekbones. Another woman, a taller blonde, came in with Rosa and followed her to their table.

  The men shook hands, but when Brian turned to Rosa, she pushed his arm aside and hugged him. She whispered into his chest, “Thank you for saving my Butch.” She pronounced her husband’s name with an exotic Spanish lisp—Booch. Brian’s face pulsed with heat. He gave her a small squeeze and felt her softness, smelled her hair, something musky, but with a citrus edge—whatever perfume she wore, it suited her.

  “Okay you two, break it up before I throw a bucket of water over you,” Butch said. Rosa laughed, pulled back, and her brown eyes sparkled up at Brian.

  Mike stepped toward the second woman and placed a hand on the small of her back. He sounded oddly formal, unsure of himself, when he said, “Brian, I’d like you to meet my wife, Sarah.”

  She returned Brian’s firm handshake. With blue eyes and an honest, open face, Sarah was an attractive woman except for a worry-frown that seemed permanent. Her grip and the steel behind her eyes gave Brian the impression she was a woman to be reckoned with.

  “Pleased to meet you at last, Sarah. Mike spoke of you so often in Iraq, I feel I already know you.”

  Mike put his arm around her, turned her from the table, and whispered into her ear. Brian didn’t catch the conversation, but he heard Mike say, “Sorry.”

  After finding a chair and seating Sarah next to him, Mike hailed the server. “What can I get you guys?”

  “Coke for me,” Rosa said and fixed her gaze on Butch.

  “Same,” he said.

  Mike raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “I’m taking medication. Doesn’t mix well with booze.”

  “Brian, ready for another?” Mike asked.

  “No thanks. I’ll make this the last. I have to drive back to Raleigh.”

  “Budweiser, honey?
” Mike asked his wife.

  “Sure.”

  He placed the order and smiled at Sarah. A look Brian couldn’t fathom passed between them and made him feel he was intruding.

  “Brian?” Rosa, sitting opposite, fixed him with chocolate eyes. He thought he might melt into them. “Butch told me you drove the robot and rescued him and Mike and Yaz. That was very brave.”

  He pursed his mouth. “Not really brave. The robot went into the trailer. I operated it from a hundred yards away. Mike was the hero.”

  Sarah’s head jerked up. She stared at Mike who became engrossed in arranging four beer mats into a diamond shape on the table.

  “You never told them?” Brian asked.

  Mike shrugged and mumbled, “I just got back.”

  Brian focused on Sarah. He couldn’t meet Rosa’s gaze without getting flustered. “When I first got the VCOM into the trailer, Mike was farthest from the fire. I couldn’t see the others through the smoke, so I headed for him, but he pointed to Butch and ordered me to get him out first. After I’d dropped Butch outside, when I went back, the flames had gotten worse, but Mike waved me off again and told me to get Yaz—” Brian’s voice caught in his throat. He remembered Yaz’s burns, the blackened and crusted flesh. A wave of nausea washed through him and sweat moistened his brow. He took a swig of beer and fought for control. “What Mike did was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Rosa reached out and laid one hand on his arm and one on Mike’s.

  Mike’s cheeks were red. He cleared his throat. “Butch, have you heard from Yaz?”

  Butch shook his head. “You?”

  Mike glanced at Brian, blew out his cheeks, and then took a deep breath. “I saw him in Landstuhl. No easy way to say this. Fourth-degree burns. He lost both legs—amputated above the knee.”

  Sarah’s hand went to her mouth.

  “Damn,” Butch said. “How’s he handling it?”

  “A lot better than I would. You know Yaz, always sees the rainbow not the rain. He reckons if they fit him with a pair of those spring legs, like that South African sprinter, he’ll be able to jump high buildings.”