Ask, Tell, page 10
Since the phone call with Victoria I’ve been trying to
pinpoint exactly when things started to go bad but I can’t.
I run over and over a timeline in my head, back and forth,
sticking on certain things. Big events. Arguments. Love.
Vacations. More arguments. The only thing that keeps
coming up is the army. When I came home from officer
training, something had shifted but it was barely
perceptible. I thought perhaps it was just me who had
changed. I thought things would go back to the way they
were before. They never did.
Vic and I argued about every aspect of my army career,
from me joining to all the moving, from deployments to my
thoughts about staying. It was gentle jibes at first, easy to
ignore, but now I realize it became big without me even
noticing. Was I really so absent from our life? Maybe I should
have tried harder last deployment to take some R and R?
But I was so caught up in work and the excitement of being
needed that I didn’t push when they said it would be hard to
let us go home.
The room is pitch-black, thanks to the towel we roll
against the door to keep the dim hallway light and noise
out. Pity it also keeps noise in. Amy’s snores echo off the
walls, making the space claustrophobic. I push my blanket
aside and lean down to grab my Ugg boots from the floor,
slipping my feet into the soft sheepskin. For the briefest
moment, I think about waking Amy and telling her about
everything, just to get it out of my head. But I can’t. It’s not
allowed. I’m all alone.
The hallway is empty but the low murmur in the lounge
carries through the barracks. I turn away from the sound,
pull my robe closed and shuffle along the hall. I pass Colonel
Keane’s private quarters and see no light under her
doorway. By my watch it is just after two. I keep walking and
spot some colleagues in the hall. Some have just finished
surgery. Others are returning from calls with their families.
There’s a few who also can’t sleep.
We nod to each other in acknowledgment as we pass, but
nobody stops to talk. We know this is not the time. I find
myself in the men’s section and almost bump into someone
as they come from the bathroom. “Sorry,” I mumble and
keep walking. I feel his eyes on my back.
I’m trying to find the logic in how my relationship ended. I
can’t. The past couple of years had not been smooth.
There’s no denying we have drifted from one another and
were staying together simply for the sake of being together.
We had pets, a shared home, Victoria’s gallery and mutual
friends. Staying was easier than dealing with a breakup,
almost as though we both got comfortable in our discomfort.
The way we were going, I’m certain I would have initiated
The Talk fairly soon. No doubt it would have led to this, but it
would have been mutual. And I never cheated. Not once. I’m
almost surprised when I reach a conclusion. Keane was
right, my pride is wounded.
Victoria’s actions ricochet around my head. The cheating.
Moving so far away and taking our pets without telling me
first. It’s a total deviation from the woman I know. Or is it
knew? Unlike the woman I love. Loved. Love? No, loved.
Perhaps she changed into someone completely different
along the way and I never noticed it? Maybe it was me who
changed so drastically. No, I would never do what she’s
done. I pass my bedroom door and keep walking. I just want
to stop thinking, but I can’t.
She cheated. That’s what enrages me. She must have
gone with Kate during my first deployment. Then I was
home and she still did it. Maybe she cheated on me for our
entire relationship. Stop thinking about it, Sabine.
After my first deployment, I was home for six months
working at the Army Medical Center in D.C., then doing pre-
deployment prep. Did she just tell this woman not to come
by? No, I know Victoria. She would have been fucking her on
the side while I was there. I lean against the wall for a few
minutes and scrunch my eyes closed to rid myself of the
image of her sneaking out to screw someone. How did I not
know? I push off the wall and keep walking, past Colonel
Keane’s door again. The light is still off. Would I have acted
on something if it were allowed? No. Never. Not while I was
still with Victoria.
“Captain Fleischer.”
I stop and spin around at the sound of her voice. Colonel
Keane is standing in her bedroom doorway, dressed in
pajama bottoms and a navy blue tank top. The tank clings
to her body in ways no fabric has a right to and I have to
force myself to keep my eyes up, away from her full breasts.
She peers at me for a moment then slips on a pair of
black-framed glasses. I’ve never seen her wear glasses and
didn’t know she wore contacts. They change her face,
making it more angular and emphasizing her cheekbones. I
walk closer, stopping against the wall so I can’t see into her
private quarters.
“This is the second night in a row you’ve been walking the
hallways instead of sleeping, Sabine.” I tilt my head but
before I can ask how she knows, Keane clears her throat and
speaks again. “The footwear you insist on wearing as
slippers make a very distinctive sound when you’re pacing
the hallways.” She looks at my feet, pushing her glasses
back up her nose. “This is also the second time this morning
you’ve walked past my doorway.”
I lift both hands in a conciliatory gesture. She’s got me. “I
apologize for disturbing you, Colonel.” I keep my voice low.
“Have you been to sick bay to get something to help you
sleep, Sabine?”
“No ma’am.”
Keane pulls her glasses off and rubs her eyes. “Perhaps
you should consider it.”
“I will, Colonel. Consider it, I mean.”
“Good, now please go back and try to sleep.”
As if it was so easy. “Yes ma’am. Just another lap.” I give
her a smile and make a swirling motion with my forefinger.
“If I hear you go past my door again, I’m going to force
you down the hallway and lock you in your room.”
The thought of her trying to drag me down the hall makes
me smile. “Yes Colonel.”
She steps back into her room and closes the door, leaving
me to make one more loop around the barracks. I will not
disobey her. It’s after three when I lie down on my bed. I’m
in the exact same position, still awake when Amy stirs just
before six. She rolls over, pulls her sleeping mask off and
stares at me. “Lady, you look like shit.”
Thanks.
We go to breakfast where I beeline to the coffeepots. My
stomach feels too tight to handle two cups. If I cannot
handle a decent quantity of food, breakfast needs to be
something calorie-dense. I spread peanut butter and honey
on the piece of toast I burned.
Amy kicks a chair out for me. “Not sleeping?”
I grunt and take a bite of cold toast, chewing and
swallowing before my body can register it doesn’t want it.
My stomach turns but I force myself to take another. Amy
wordlessly slides some melon over to me. I’m sure she
knows what’s happening, but in true Peterson style, she
doesn’t force me. In her odd, roundabout way she’s just
letting me know she’s around if I need her for anything.
I do, badly, but we’re friends and I can’t put her in a
position where she might have to make a statement under
oath about my sexuality. Don’t tell. I fork up a piece of
melon and stuff it into my mouth. My stomach flips again.
“Why not get something? I can write a script for you.”
Amy breaks a muffin apart, dropping half of it in her lap.
Normally, I would laugh at her. Today, I don’t. “Makes me
groggy.” I take a gulp of coffee. It’s lukewarm and it tastes
like shit.
She shoves a piece of muffin into her mouth, mumbling
around the mouthful, “Groggier than zero hours sleep, Sab?
No fucking shame in it. Everyone needs a bit of chemical
help now and then.”
Everyone isn’t me. I swallow the rest of my coffee. “I gotta
get going, Ames. I’ll catch you later.” She nods. I dump my
half-eaten piece of toast in the muck bucket.
Halfway between the barracks and the main building, the
incoming alarm sounds. I run across the base and into the
building, rushing straight into the prep room to change. I
scrub vigorously as John talks at me and have to ask him to
repeat something he’s already said twice. When I answer
him, he looks at me askew. Oops, wrong answer? Guess I
still didn’t catch what he said.
The surgery is a blur. I shower. I go to chow and try to
force myself to eat something for lunch, then throw half of it
away. I go online and check our shared bank account—Vic
took exactly half, as she’s entitled to—then transfer the
balance out into an account she can’t access. I try to take a
nap but end up staring at the wall instead.
What is it about me that made her fuck someone else?
Was it anything more than just being apart? Why does it
matter? You’re not really unhappy about the actual act of
breaking up with her, are you?
Yes, I am.
No, I’m not.
Remember how she’s taken the boys? Remember how she
cheated on you?
Yes, yes I am unhappy.
We have one day with no incomings and I try to force
myself to sleep. I run laps and work out until my body is
exhausted, but still my mind refuses to turn off and I lie on
my bunk staring at the ceiling, the floor, the wall.
When I email my family, I hide how I am doing and make
excuses about why I can’t video call with Mom. Amy starts
to make worried sounds, which I brush off. I can’t even
bother to be annoyed when someone comments on how
tired I look. Their tone is always concerned, of course.
Even though I’ve barely slept the past two days I drag
myself to our game of flag football. I drop an easy pass for a
touchdown, and I’m so angry at my idiocy that I yell and
kick the ball away before I can stop myself. It sails forty
yards away down an embankment. When I go to fetch it, I
notice everyone around me has stopped moving. They are
all looking at me.
Their faces have that awkward expression people get
when
someone
does
something
outrageously
uncharacteristic and inappropriate. They don’t know how to
react. I run down the bank and retrieve the ball, my
knuckles white as I grip the leather. I mumble apologies to
my team and toss the ball to Bobby. He says nothing. I rush
back and bend in formation with the tips of my fingers
touching the ground.
I can tell everyone is still staring at me. My cheeks burn
with embarrassment and the outrage of my stupidity.
Colonel Keane’s mouth is pressed into a thin line when she
takes her place opposite me. I drop my head to avoid her
stare, looking down at the rocky soil below my fingertips.
This is not me.
I am not this person.
I don’t understand why I can’t put this behind me and
move on.
Chapter Eleven
The mark I leave on the bottom of the chart doesn’t look
much like my signature. I contemplate scribbling it out and
trying again but decide it isn’t worth it. My hand made the
scrawl. It’s good enough. John and Bobby burst out of the
OR still chattering about our earlier football game. They
don’t mention my tantrum. Their conversation feels distant,
like I’m underwater listening to someone talking outside the
pool. I wash my hands, closing my eyes and willing the
tiredness to go away. Like fatigue is something that can be
reasoned with.
The loud ring of yet another incoming patient starts up as
I toss the paper towel toward the trash. It hits the ground.
Without a word, the three of us turn away from one another,
sprinting to the bathrooms. My legs are heavy, almost
drunk-feeling.
When I get back, I rummage through the uniform in my
locker, hopeful of something sugary hiding on the shelf. Two
pieces of candy. Bless you, Amy. I stuff both into my mouth,
shrug into a fresh top and rush out to wait for the helo.
“What’ve we got?” My fingers keep missing the holes in my
disposable glove.
“Multiple hits in the vest and GSW left arm,” says John.
I don’t have a chance to ask anything because our
casualty is rushed in. He’s getting CPR. That’s unexpected.
The PJ squeezing the resuscitator explains breathlessly, “He
literally just arrested, right as we were getting him out.”
“Gotta be BABT,” John tells me. He sounds a lot more
excited now than when he was telling me it was just GSWs.
“Tamponade?”
Behind armor blunt trauma. The armor vest stops the
projectile but the energy of impact transfers to the body. I
catch sight of large bruises on the soldier’s left pectoral.
With a high enough caliber and in the wrong spot, well…it’s
no wonder he’s arrested. Pericardial sac is probably full of
blood.
Stupidly, I glance at the face of the guy on the stretcher.
He seems barely old enough to shave and the more I look at
him, the more I think he looks like Vic’s younger brother,
Pete. Panicked, I look at the right side of his chest for a
name but of course his torso is bare. I look at his face again.
It can’t be Pete. Pete isn’t in the army. Is he? My tongue is
thick inside my mouth and I can’t ask the questions I need
to.
Keane brushes past me with a clear declaration. “I’m
leading this one. Sabine, take over compressions. John, get
on the bag.”
All I need to do are chest compressions. I can do that. I
wait until the PJ has finished his compression cycle, confirm
that there’s neither pulse nor rhythm and take over. Words
move through the space around me but I can’t grasp them.
We’re moving to the theaters and with each compression
I’m screaming inside my head at the heart. Beat! Beat!
Beat!
A nurse takes over the bag so John and Colonel Keane can
scrub. I keep doing my compressions. Beat…beat…beat.
People swirl around me. Bobby swaps from the bag to
oxygen and administers drugs, telling me what he’s doing
the whole time. Dumbly, I nod in response. Sweat inside my
gloves squelches and slips. My scrub top is plastered to my
back and sweat is dripping off my chin onto the casualty. I
want to apologize for sweating on him. Not Pete. Beat. Beat.
I stop my compression cycle and do a vitals check.
Nothing. I say a word I hate. “Asystole.”
“Agree,” Bobby confirms.
I start my compressions again. Keane materializes beside
me, glancing up at the monitors. “He’s been down for
almost six minutes. We’re doing a lateral thoracotomy. Get
trays ready, please.” There it is. She’s made a diagnosis.
Nothing to lose. “Kathy, take over compressions. Sabine, go
scrub.”
I finish my cycle and the nurse takes over from me. My
arms tremble and I shake them out. I can’t stand it any
longer. “What’s his name?”
The pause from everyone around me sits thickly in the air.
Scalpel in hand, Keane answers, “Daniels.”
It’s not Pete.
Her eyes meet mine. Concerned. Querying. “Do you need
to be relieved, Sabine?”
“No ma’am.”
Keane is saying something else but I can’t make it out
through the ringing in my ears. She makes the first incision
and I leave the room. At the scrub sink, I reach up for a
pack, ripping at the plastic. It won’t open and I fumble,
tearing at it for a few seconds. The packaging finally gives
and the sponge falls into the sink. I snatch at it and toss it
toward the trash. It misses. Fuck, it can stay on the floor.
The second one opens right away.
Inside the theater Keane is making quick movements to
open the soldier’s chest and remove the pericardial blood
that’s stopping his heart from beating. She is so confident.
So competent. I finish my scrub and as I push into the
