Ask, Tell, page 4
Keane gives me an encouraging smile. “I’m waiting for it
but I thought you might have an idea.”
She’s so close to me that I feel her body heat as I chew
the inside of my lip, thinking. Why is she asking me? “All I
can think of is PCS, ma’am.” Post-concussive syndrome.
Brains do not like shock waves from IEDs. “We had that case
last month…but he wasn’t symptomatic until a day or so
post-op.” I check the chart one more time. “I’m sorry, that’s
all I can think of.”
Keane is watching my hands again and I realize I’ve been
gesturing as I talk. Mitch often tells me talking with me is
like having a conversation with an orchestral conductor. I
drop my hands to my sides.
“Thank you, Captain. That was my thought too. I’m
pleased to know we’re on the same page,” Keane says
softly. She is flushed. This is new.
My eyes widen at her tone. “Yes ma’am. I’m sorry I don’t
have more for you.” I move slightly to the side. Something is
making the pit of my stomach tight, as though this is edging
into borderline flirting. I’m interested in flirting but I’m not
interested in being disciplined. Or worse.
Colonel Keane straightens up abruptly, leaning away from
me. “As you were.” She snaps the chart closed then strides
away without waiting for me to respond.
I stare after her, confused. What an odd reaction. She
seemed almost…guilty. Was she trying to flirt? It certainly
seemed so to me. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re imagining
things, Sabine. I’m still holding Private Holman’s medical
chart. Shit. I power walk back to his bed and drop it into the
holder. I pause a moment and stare at him, trying to decide
if there’s anything more I can say. There isn’t.
Chapter Four
Victoria is a disembodied voice. “I can barely see you.
Why don’t you just call tomorrow?”
“Vic, we’re here now. I don’t know what’ll happen
tomorrow. I may not get time.” It’s hard to keep my tone
even. I’m tired and want to sleep but this is our scheduled
weekly video call, so here I am. It’s close to midnight here,
which is convenient for Vic. Not so much for me. Now she
wants me to hang up and call her some other time. I want to
tell her that I specifically stayed awake for this, but it will
only cause an argument and I cannot be fucked dealing with
it.
The lounge area is occupied by four of us, including Mitch.
We are dotted around the room, seated at tables or
sprawled, as I am, on one of the worn couches. I sit facing
the room so nobody can see my laptop screen. If anyone
queried, I would just tell them she is my sister and the lie
would stand because we share dark hair and high
cheekbones. Mine comes from my mother’s Mediterranean
heritage meshing with my father’s Germanic bone structure.
Vic’s is the result of a skilled hair colorist and genetics she
isn’t sure about.
I would prefer not to lie, but I also don’t want to be called
in to address a complaint of homosexual conduct. The
inevitable shitstorm of formal investigation and discharge
are not worth it. I’ve never had to explain her away like that
because nobody has ever seen our calls, or even a
photograph of her. Vic loathes the secrecy. Her opinion lies
somewhere around fuck the institution.
That attitude is part of what attracted me in the
beginning, her carefree nature offset my love of order
perfectly. Now I feel her digs at the army serve no purpose
other than deliberate antagonism. She wasn’t always like
this but the longer I stay in the military, the more bitter she
becomes.
I’m in the lounge because the connection in my room was
awful, but here it’s no better. There must be a storm coming
and it’s messing with the Wi-Fi, one of the relatively small,
yet annoying issues that creep into my daily life. Mitch is
curled up on an easy chair hiding from his roommate’s
snoring. He is reading yet another zombie horror novel, but
I’m sure he’s also listening in on my call.
I adjust my headset, plucking the speakers away from my
ears then letting them fall back into position. I keep my
voice low and the headset means her words stay private.
“What time’s the show?” I tuck my legs underneath me and
shift the laptop. The heat on my legs is becoming
uncomfortable.
“Starts in two hours. I’ll have to leave in twenty minutes.”
At least the sound is fine.
Something moves against my thigh and I lift my butt off
the couch to dip a hand into my pocket. A half-melted
chocolate bar. Amy. How did I not notice that in there? I toss
it onto the couch and lean closer to the screen, as though it
would somehow fix the connection. “How many artists?”
When I first deployed, I struggled with accidentally calling
her baby or honey whenever we spoke. Now those words
don’t even seem to enter my lexicon, or hers it would seem.
We are perfunctory. Almost bored with one another. Early in
the deployment, she would spend our calls listing all the
things she missed about me, and missed doing to me. Her
graphic descriptions left me blushing and unable to respond
for fear of someone overhearing, and when we hung up, I
would rush to my room or the showers to relieve the
throbbing between my legs.
Eventually, her lists faded away and turned into
meaningless conversation. Now we rarely mention anything
soft or endearing. Instead, we speak of the mundane, avoid
the important and argue about the tedious. Before I left on
my first deployment, a year apart with only the vague
possibility of two weeks leave back home seemed
unbearable. Now, nine months through my second, I wonder
why I thought I couldn’t do it.
Vic’s image focuses, then distorts again. “Just three. Paul
thinks I’ll make a few sales. We’ll just have to see.”
Sales are important for her, more for her ego than our
bank balance. Her first exhibition and sale was celebrated
with a bottle of champagne as expensive as one week’s
rent. We did the same at my graduation from medical
school, but not when I graduated from Commissioned
Officer Training. We’ve hardly celebrated anything about my
army career.
“Send me some photos of the work?” I squint, trying to
make out her features. Her wide eyes and thick wavy hair.
The quality of this call is woeful and I can’t help but feel
disappointed. Regardless of the issues in our relationship, in
the nine years we’ve been together I have never stopped
being awed by her physical beauty. It’s a pity other things
fade away. Things that once excited now aggravate and
annoy.
When I speak to her, I have to remind myself why we’re
together. Why we love one another. Things that help me
when she’s detached, or I’m tired and upset. I make myself
remember how we fell in love when I was in my final year of
med school at Ohio State. We used to spend our time hiking
through state parks, camping, laughing and enjoying one
another.
For our first date we got lost and drove for hours trying to
find a drive-in movie theater. We settled at the edge of the
field to watch the second half of Gone with the Wind and
drink margaritas poured from a thermos. I licked salt from
the edge of the glass and Vic said my lips were the fullest,
most sensuous lips she’d ever seen. Then she kissed me.
I skipped study sessions when she told me the huskiness
of my voice drove her mad with desire, after which she
threw me down onto the bed where we stayed for almost
two days. Now I can’t imagine spending slow time in bed
with her. What would we even talk about once we were done
fucking? Movement in the doorway catches my attention
and I look up in time to see Colonel Keane pause, her laptop
tucked under an arm. Her eyes have a wide deer-in-the-
headlights look as we make eye contact. My boss opens her
mouth, closes it abruptly and walks away without coming
into the room. I’m still looking at the doorway when a
peeved voice bursts through my headset. “Sabine!”
“Mmm, sorry. What was that?”
“I asked if you got my last email. About the back door?”
“Shit. Yeah, sorry I haven’t replied. Just hire someone to
repair it, or I’ll sort it out when I get home.”
“I’ll leave it for when you get back, then you’ll be happy
it’s the correct one. I mean, what’s another three months
with a sticking door handle, right?” She’s pissed off. I’m sure
it’s because I never replied to her email, and because I
didn’t respond right away just now. I’m pissed off because
there’s no reason she can’t do it and now it’s one more
thing for me to deal with when I get back.
Mitch materializes beside me, his eyes on my chocolate
bar as he dog-ears a page of his book.
Victoria must have caught sight of him. “Hi Mitchy.” The
video pixelates before I catch sight of her twisting her hair
up and shoving a hair stick through it.
I tug the headset away from my ear. “Vic says hi.”
Mitch leans down, waving in the general direction of the
camera. “Hello darlin’. Ugh, what a God-awful connection.”
He must assume his voice carries through my microphone to
Vic. Mitch snatches the candy bar from the couch and
waggles it at me, eyebrows raised in silent question.
I give him a vague wave. Whatever. Eat it, you
uncontrollable chocolate addict. There’s a blur of movement
on the screen before a furry shape is presented to me. The
video stabilizes for me to see Vic smile as she holds up our
cat, Brutus. He is limp when Vic gently moves him close to
the webcam. I have no idea if he can see me but I know he
hears me when I raise my voice slightly. “Hello, my precious
baby!” Brutus leans forward, straining toward the sound of
my voice.
Mitch stops unwrapping the chocolate long enough to
snort. I lift my middle finger and wave him off. He departs
the room with the remains of my candy bar clutched in his
fist. Thief. Vic sounds bored as she strokes Brutus’s black
fur. “He’s gained weight again. The vet says he needs less
kibble, even though he’s on the special protein one.” She
likes the cat well enough, but she doesn’t love him like I do.
Whenever she emails me, there is always a picture of Brutus
to satisfy my feline cravings but I suspect she has taken
them all at once to dish out at intervals.
“Maybe feed him less again or swap it for all wet food?” I
regret saying it immediately. She’ll take it as criticism. Vic
doesn’t respond. Instead, she bends her head to watch
Brutus, who has begun a vigorous grooming ritual on her
lap. I watch the cat lick a front leg and rub it over his ears a
few times, and feel an urge to cover the awkward silence.
“How’s Caesar?”
For a moment an expression I don’t recognize crosses her
face. “He’s good.” Before I can comment, Vic whistles and
our Doberman shoots into view, his whole butt moving as he
wags his tail. From his position on Vic’s lap, Brutus swats the
dog half-heartedly with a white paw. How rude. Et tu, Brute?
Vic pushes the laptop back, tapping the table and pointing
to the screen. “Look!”
Caesar jumps up, paws on the table and sniffs, his nose
wet against the webcam. I lean closer. “Hey buddy!” The
dog tilts his head, seeming confused before he jumps down
and runs off. Vic and I laugh together for what seems like
the first time in ages.
“He was never very smart,” she concedes. I make a noise
to show my agreement, but not too strongly because the
dog is her favorite.
I lean back on the couch with a dull sort of sadness in my
chest. All my people are living their lives back home without
me. Some nights, the thought keeps me awake and I have
to get up and wander the hallways to rid myself of the
heaviness, bumping into other insomniacs or people coming
and going from a shift. These are the times I think of all the
things I miss about my girlfriend.
I miss the feel of her hair, soft curls loose against my bare
skin when I wake up. She knows how I take my coffee, right
down to the exact amount of milk I like. Sometimes I think
she makes it better than I do. I miss her laugh, always just a
little too loud. I miss her hands, long fingered and callused
from holding paintbrushes. Pianist’s hands, though she’s
never played aside from clinking out the first notes to
“Heart and Soul”. I miss the way she used to make me feel.
When I remember these things, it makes me feel worse
because it always segues into things I do not miss about
her. Her snide comments about my job and how I only joined
the army to please my family—she’s right, of course, but
that’s beside the point. The way we fight about it never
changes. We’ve always fought and I used to think I would
worry when we stopped fighting, because that would mean
the spark had gone. Now I know that’s not true. The spark
can go out just fine all on its own. It happens gradually, but
it happens nonetheless.
A short burst of electronic static startles me. “How’s
work?” Vic asks because she feels she has to. The reality is
she doesn’t like to hear about the awful, gory aspects of my
job.
I shrug. “The usual.” I don’t like to get into specifics. The
evasion works well for us and stops arguments. Once fiery
and passionate, they used to end with us tumbling into bed.
Fight and fuck. Now that I’m deployed, they end with no
contact until something triggers her desire to speak to me
again.
Our first major fight, we yelled at one another for hours
because we had to move for my residency. Then, the trailer
we were towing rocked with the movement of the car while
we made up in the backseat, our lovemaking frenzied and
passionate. We fought again when we had to move to D.C.
for my army posting, then when I left for my first active
duty. I think we’re still fighting about that one, but I’m not
sure we’ve made up this time.
There are a few boxes stacked behind her. “What’s with
the boxes?” I ask, tilting my head to try to see them better.
“Art supplies,” she answers quickly. Vic stretches an arm
to the side and when her hand comes back into view she’s
holding a glass half-filled with ice and amber liquid.
Glenmorangie with a splash of soda. It wouldn’t even be
dark in D.C. yet. How nice to be her, at home drinking in the
twilight. There’s a sudden rush of saliva in my mouth as I
imagine how she would taste if I were to kiss her at this
moment. A deep ache starts between my legs. I look
around, feigning casualness. “I can try the connection in my
room again. Amy is doing rounds.” Vic will understand what
I mean.
“I have to get going for the gallery show, Sab. There’s
hardly any time,” she says carefully. “Is it even worth it?”
Of course it’s worth it. My teeth find the inside of my
cheek. I want to snap at her but instead, I force a
nonchalant shrug. “Well. I suppose not then.” My tone is
neutral, though rejection twists my gut. “I miss you.”
“You too. Hey, I’ve got to go. Talk soon.” Vic waves and
the video call shuts off abruptly, leaving me stunned. I close
the laptop, tuck it under my arm and trudge back to my
room to take care of the ache myself.
Chapter Five
This morning I’m alone for breakfast, sitting in a corner of
the chow hall with my back to the room. I take a too-large
bite of toast and turn the page of my tattered book, leaving
a smear of peanut butter on the paper. I contemplate licking
it off.
“Captain Fleischer.”
I drop my things and spin around. Keane is directly behind
me, which means I can’t push my chair back. I twist and
squirm, and manage to stand with my ass wedged against
the table. I throw an unnecessary salute, trying to buy some
time to frantically chew. When I manage to swallow, it feels
