If I Lie
Page 8
The muscles in his forearms shift. Fork to mouth. Chew. Cut. Fork to mouth. Finally he rises, rinses his plate, and leaves the room.
A direct hit, sir. I salute his back with a nonmilitary gesture.
And wonder how he’s missed that I’ve been a vegetarian for more than a year.
Chapter Four
Sunday morning I drive fifteen minutes west to Fayetteville. The parking lot at the VA Medical Center is more than half full. The weekenders are arriving to visit their loved ones. I park farther out and ignore the shuttle, preferring to walk in.
Comprised of eight buildings, the hospital serves more than 157,000 veterans in twenty-one counties. Overwhelming to the uninitiated, the five-story redbrick buildings look more like a college campus than a hospital. In the main building, Darlene waves from the front desk as she directs a distraught fortyish woman to the second floor—ICU—and I lift a hand in return.
The last time I took the elevator I ran into one of my classmates, so I opt for the stairs instead. On the third floor, I take two rights and a left, and end up in the long-term-care ward. Room 222B. A quick tap on the door, and George calls a gruff greeting to enter.
His leg must be bothering him today. He is resting in bed instead of in the chair by the window. Pain creases his face into a tic-tac-toe grid of wrinkles. The flourescent lights are not kind. Every age spot and puckered scar is visible, as if I’ve used a 50mm f/1.8 lens to take his picture. George doesn’t give a shit about things like that, though. That’s why he’s my favorite subject to photograph.
“Hey, George.”
Something sparks, and the deep grooves in his face smooth out a little. We never discuss how much we enjoy these visits. At least, not to each other. He doesn’t quite smile, but I know he is happy. “Hey there, Sophie. What the hell are you doin’ here on a Sunday?”
Because George does, everyone here calls me Sophie. He throws his left leg over the edge of the bed. From the knee down, an empty space occupies the area where his right leg should be.
I wanted to see a friendly face. “That’s a nice way to greet a girl, George. No wonder Nurse Espinoza won’t give you the time of day.” Well, that, plus she is half his age, the old geezer.
He grins. “Shows what you know. The hussy was flirting with me not ten minutes ago.”
I shake my head at his outright lie and drop my bag on the end of his bed. In an orchestrated dance, I step slightly in front of George and to the right so he can hold on to my shoulder. I am the only one he will accept help from in this way. Anyone else he would beat over the head with his crutch. He stands, balancing himself on one leg, and leans on my shoulder. The wheelchair is waiting when he twists sideways and seats himself. He grabs for my bag, and I place it in his lap, along with his coat. Without asking, he reaches into the bag for the digital camera. His camera, though he has loaned it to me indefinitely. Uncle Eddy’s camera died a long time ago.
I push his wheelchair past the crowded atrium where all the weekenders go for family visitation. It’s easier to hang out with the patients in the indoor garden, with its sunlight and picnic tables. Easier to forget that someone’s ill when you’re not surrounded by the antiseptic reek of hospital-issue debris. George and me, we don’t like crowds, so we head outside, past the smokers in their hospital robes and nonskid socks. We follow the sidewalk to a small wooded area just off the parking lot. I stop George’s chair at the edge of a melting snow bank, locking the brake so it won’t roll down the incline.
George is already framing the first shot as I circle the chair. He starts clicking away, and I wander several feet, knowing he has already forgotten me with the camera in his hand.
Retired Sergeant First Class George Wilkins left the US Army after two tours in Vietnam. Then he returned for a third tour, only that time he shot his way through the country with a camera instead of a gun. A lot of the famous pictures I’ve seen in the old Life magazines are his. He considered it his job to create a visual record of the war, so people couldn’t forget what his men—his brothers—had gone through.
We first met the day I got kicked off the cheer squad, when my father ordered me to work at the VA Hospital after school a few days a week. He thought it would fill my time and keep me from bringing further dishonor to our family. I wonder how much shame people can hold before they ignite. If someone strikes a match to me, I think I will explode.
“Sophie?”
I hitch my chin in George’s direction, and he snaps my picture. Tucking my hands deeper in my pockets, I fake a smile.
He frowns and lowers the camera. “What’s wrong, girl? Your father giving you a hard time again?”
George thinks my father is a hard-ass and has offered to tell him so on occasion, but I haven’t taken him up on it yet. I open my mouth to say I’m okay, to change the subject, to tell him anything except the truth.
He gives me his “don’t fuck with me, kid” look.
I wish I could hide under my bedspread again, where nobody can see the tears I have to blink away.
George unlocks the brake on his chair and rolls closer. Concern pleats the skin of his forehead. He points to the weathered picnic table that’s used by hospital employees to catch a smoke between shifts. I push him toward the table, glad for the moment to compose myself. I’m almost okay when I sit facing him.
Then he touches my chin, forcing me to meet his hazy gray gaze.
It’s like the gesture gives my tear ducts permission to let loose.
“Talk to me,” he says.
A direct hit, sir. I salute his back with a nonmilitary gesture.
And wonder how he’s missed that I’ve been a vegetarian for more than a year.
Chapter Four
Sunday morning I drive fifteen minutes west to Fayetteville. The parking lot at the VA Medical Center is more than half full. The weekenders are arriving to visit their loved ones. I park farther out and ignore the shuttle, preferring to walk in.
Comprised of eight buildings, the hospital serves more than 157,000 veterans in twenty-one counties. Overwhelming to the uninitiated, the five-story redbrick buildings look more like a college campus than a hospital. In the main building, Darlene waves from the front desk as she directs a distraught fortyish woman to the second floor—ICU—and I lift a hand in return.
The last time I took the elevator I ran into one of my classmates, so I opt for the stairs instead. On the third floor, I take two rights and a left, and end up in the long-term-care ward. Room 222B. A quick tap on the door, and George calls a gruff greeting to enter.
His leg must be bothering him today. He is resting in bed instead of in the chair by the window. Pain creases his face into a tic-tac-toe grid of wrinkles. The flourescent lights are not kind. Every age spot and puckered scar is visible, as if I’ve used a 50mm f/1.8 lens to take his picture. George doesn’t give a shit about things like that, though. That’s why he’s my favorite subject to photograph.
“Hey, George.”
Something sparks, and the deep grooves in his face smooth out a little. We never discuss how much we enjoy these visits. At least, not to each other. He doesn’t quite smile, but I know he is happy. “Hey there, Sophie. What the hell are you doin’ here on a Sunday?”
Because George does, everyone here calls me Sophie. He throws his left leg over the edge of the bed. From the knee down, an empty space occupies the area where his right leg should be.
I wanted to see a friendly face. “That’s a nice way to greet a girl, George. No wonder Nurse Espinoza won’t give you the time of day.” Well, that, plus she is half his age, the old geezer.
He grins. “Shows what you know. The hussy was flirting with me not ten minutes ago.”
I shake my head at his outright lie and drop my bag on the end of his bed. In an orchestrated dance, I step slightly in front of George and to the right so he can hold on to my shoulder. I am the only one he will accept help from in this way. Anyone else he would beat over the head with his crutch. He stands, balancing himself on one leg, and leans on my shoulder. The wheelchair is waiting when he twists sideways and seats himself. He grabs for my bag, and I place it in his lap, along with his coat. Without asking, he reaches into the bag for the digital camera. His camera, though he has loaned it to me indefinitely. Uncle Eddy’s camera died a long time ago.
I push his wheelchair past the crowded atrium where all the weekenders go for family visitation. It’s easier to hang out with the patients in the indoor garden, with its sunlight and picnic tables. Easier to forget that someone’s ill when you’re not surrounded by the antiseptic reek of hospital-issue debris. George and me, we don’t like crowds, so we head outside, past the smokers in their hospital robes and nonskid socks. We follow the sidewalk to a small wooded area just off the parking lot. I stop George’s chair at the edge of a melting snow bank, locking the brake so it won’t roll down the incline.
George is already framing the first shot as I circle the chair. He starts clicking away, and I wander several feet, knowing he has already forgotten me with the camera in his hand.
Retired Sergeant First Class George Wilkins left the US Army after two tours in Vietnam. Then he returned for a third tour, only that time he shot his way through the country with a camera instead of a gun. A lot of the famous pictures I’ve seen in the old Life magazines are his. He considered it his job to create a visual record of the war, so people couldn’t forget what his men—his brothers—had gone through.
We first met the day I got kicked off the cheer squad, when my father ordered me to work at the VA Hospital after school a few days a week. He thought it would fill my time and keep me from bringing further dishonor to our family. I wonder how much shame people can hold before they ignite. If someone strikes a match to me, I think I will explode.
“Sophie?”
I hitch my chin in George’s direction, and he snaps my picture. Tucking my hands deeper in my pockets, I fake a smile.
He frowns and lowers the camera. “What’s wrong, girl? Your father giving you a hard time again?”
George thinks my father is a hard-ass and has offered to tell him so on occasion, but I haven’t taken him up on it yet. I open my mouth to say I’m okay, to change the subject, to tell him anything except the truth.
He gives me his “don’t fuck with me, kid” look.
I wish I could hide under my bedspread again, where nobody can see the tears I have to blink away.
George unlocks the brake on his chair and rolls closer. Concern pleats the skin of his forehead. He points to the weathered picnic table that’s used by hospital employees to catch a smoke between shifts. I push him toward the table, glad for the moment to compose myself. I’m almost okay when I sit facing him.
Then he touches my chin, forcing me to meet his hazy gray gaze.
It’s like the gesture gives my tear ducts permission to let loose.
“Talk to me,” he says.
