More Than Enough
Page 23
There is no second’s pause.
No moment’s hesitation.
Just his all-consuming smile. “We have bacon.”
Dylan
It doesn’t take long for us to finish our meals and drive to the VA hospital. She didn’t speak much at the table. In fact, she didn’t speak at all. Neither did I. Same goes for the car ride here.
I watched her though. I watched her eyes, clearer than I’d ever seen them, shifting constantly from one spot to another while her hands rested on her lap, her thumbs circling each other. I watched the rise and fall of her chest caused by her uneven breaths… and I watched her. Just her. And I tried to reason with myself as to why it made me so damn happy that she showed up at my door.
I guess, if you take away my pride, I really just wanted her. How ever she’d have me.
Now, we’re sitting in the waiting room at the hospital, her hands still on her lap and mine on top of my knees, stopping them from bouncing. Somewhere, there’s a clock ticking, soft footsteps as they move from one area to another, and gentle voices filtering from down the hall where the examination rooms are.
The guy sitting across us clears his throat and I look up at him. He’s looking at Riley. Maybe this should piss me off—but the fact he’s missing an arm kind of deflates my annoyance. His gaze moves from her to me and he nods once as if we share some kind of unspoken bond.
We don’t.
I feel like an imposter.
He’s missing an arm. The older guy on my right has scars covering half his face and then there’s me. I’m young, I’m fit—and give it a couple months—I’ll be back to a hundred percent. I glance at Riley, searching for her reaction. Her gaze is lowered, focused on her moving thumbs. I nudge her with my elbow. “You okay?”
Before she has a chance to respond, the same doctor from my first visit calls my name. I stand up, taking Riley with me. She keeps her hand in mine, her grip tight as we walk down the narrow hallway toward his examination room. We walk in silence, the same silence that seems to have surrounded me all day. Silent on the outside, roaring thoughts on the inside.
A woman stands when we enter the room. She’s in her mid-forties, dressed in standard hospital gear. She introduces herself as Tracey, my physical therapist, all while clutching a folder to her chest with LCpl. Banks, D. printed on the front. I sit on the bed while Riley takes a seat against the wall next to the door. Her knees are bouncing now, just like mine wanted to out in the waiting room. She looks out of place and I’m sure she feels it.
“Who do we have here?” Tracey asks, motioning to Riley.
“This is my friend Riley,” I tell her.
“And you’re comfortable with her sitting in the room?”
Riley’s eyes meet mine from across the room and she smiles. And that slight smile gives me the encouragement I need to speak the truth—the truth only she can get out of me. “She’s the only one I’m comfortable with.”
Riley’s body relaxes with her exhale and I know I’ve said the right thing because her knees are no longer bouncing, her gaze is no longer wandering. And me? I realize now why I was happy to see her this morning—because there was a reason I asked her to come with me today. I wanted her here. No. I needed her here.
She just doesn’t know how much.
“How’s the wound healing?”
“Good,” I say, but I’m still watching Riley.
“Still bleeding?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“That’s good, Lance Corporal.”
I tear my gaze away from Riley and focus on Tracey. “Dylan’s fine, Ma’am.”
She nods once. “Okay, Dylan. You ready for me to take a look at it?”
It takes longer than it should for me to shrug out of my shirt and as soon as it’s off, both Tracey and Dr. Garvis block my view of Riley to inspect my shoulder.
He checks the entry wound first and then the exit. “It’s healing well,” Dr. Garvis says while Tracey takes notes in her now open folder. I wonder what it says about me. How much detail goes into medical records of wounded Marines? Does it state how it happened? Not the technical aspects of what bullet or gun caused it but how. When. Where. Who.
They speak for a few minutes, their words a jumbled mess of medical terms and timelines. Dr. Garvis moves back to his seat behind his desk, his fingers typing away when I hear the gasp come from Riley. My eyes snap to hers—wide and glazed with tears.
It dawns on me that it’s the first time she’s ever seen it. Sure, she knows it exists, she’s seen it bandaged up, but she’s never seen it. She raises her hand and covers her mouth and when she sees I’ve noticed her reaction, she looks away.
Tracey must see it, too, because she stands in front of me, blocking Riley’s view. “Still okay, Dylan?”
I nod and look over her shoulder at Riley, who’s now looking everywhere but at me. “Riley,” I call out.
“Yeah?”
I motion for her to sit on the bed with me and without hesitation; she picks up her bag and sits next to me, her hand immediately on my leg.
Tracey smiles. “I’ve gone over your file,” she says, “and I’ve come up with a rehabilitation plan for the injury. We weren’t sure if you needed more time for it to heal or if your current exercises are helping—”
“He does these spinny things,” Riley interrupts.
Tracey quirks an eyebrow at her, her amusement evident. “Spinny things?”
“Yeah.” Riley holds her free hand to her chest, then rotates her shoulder like she must’ve seen me doing a few times. “Spinny things.”
Tracey smiles.
So do I.
“And these ones,” Riley continues, releasing my hand. She has both hands on her chest now, her elbows moving back and forth and I wonder if I’ve looked as ridiculous as she does at this very moment.
Tracey laughs. “Well, it’s good to know you’ve been doing them,” she murmurs, scribbling more notes in the folder.
I cover Riley’s hand with mine when she places it back on my leg. Then I nudge her with my elbow. “You been watching me?” I joke.
She shrugs.
“So keep doing those,” Tracey says, looking up from her notes. “Give it about a week or so and you can start adding weights. You can start with—” She breaks off when Riley moves quickly to pull out a notebook from her bag. She flips open the cover and sets the tip of the pen on a blank page, her eyes on Tracey. Then she nods.
Tracey looks at me.
I shrug.
Dr. Garvis joins us.
“Go on,” Riley says. She looks down at her book, just long enough for her to write: Dylan’s rehab on the top of the page, and then refocuses on Tracey.
“Riley?” I ask, my gaze moving from Tracey to her. “What are you doing?”
“Taking notes,” she answers.
She’s already written Tracey and Dr. Garvis in the time it’s taken me to ask a simple question.
The rest of us stay quiet, our eyes on her. “What?” she asks, looking between us.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, smiling to myself.
“I’ll be giving Dylan a copy of the rehab plan and all the exercises so you don’t have—”
No moment’s hesitation.
Just his all-consuming smile. “We have bacon.”
Dylan
It doesn’t take long for us to finish our meals and drive to the VA hospital. She didn’t speak much at the table. In fact, she didn’t speak at all. Neither did I. Same goes for the car ride here.
I watched her though. I watched her eyes, clearer than I’d ever seen them, shifting constantly from one spot to another while her hands rested on her lap, her thumbs circling each other. I watched the rise and fall of her chest caused by her uneven breaths… and I watched her. Just her. And I tried to reason with myself as to why it made me so damn happy that she showed up at my door.
I guess, if you take away my pride, I really just wanted her. How ever she’d have me.
Now, we’re sitting in the waiting room at the hospital, her hands still on her lap and mine on top of my knees, stopping them from bouncing. Somewhere, there’s a clock ticking, soft footsteps as they move from one area to another, and gentle voices filtering from down the hall where the examination rooms are.
The guy sitting across us clears his throat and I look up at him. He’s looking at Riley. Maybe this should piss me off—but the fact he’s missing an arm kind of deflates my annoyance. His gaze moves from her to me and he nods once as if we share some kind of unspoken bond.
We don’t.
I feel like an imposter.
He’s missing an arm. The older guy on my right has scars covering half his face and then there’s me. I’m young, I’m fit—and give it a couple months—I’ll be back to a hundred percent. I glance at Riley, searching for her reaction. Her gaze is lowered, focused on her moving thumbs. I nudge her with my elbow. “You okay?”
Before she has a chance to respond, the same doctor from my first visit calls my name. I stand up, taking Riley with me. She keeps her hand in mine, her grip tight as we walk down the narrow hallway toward his examination room. We walk in silence, the same silence that seems to have surrounded me all day. Silent on the outside, roaring thoughts on the inside.
A woman stands when we enter the room. She’s in her mid-forties, dressed in standard hospital gear. She introduces herself as Tracey, my physical therapist, all while clutching a folder to her chest with LCpl. Banks, D. printed on the front. I sit on the bed while Riley takes a seat against the wall next to the door. Her knees are bouncing now, just like mine wanted to out in the waiting room. She looks out of place and I’m sure she feels it.
“Who do we have here?” Tracey asks, motioning to Riley.
“This is my friend Riley,” I tell her.
“And you’re comfortable with her sitting in the room?”
Riley’s eyes meet mine from across the room and she smiles. And that slight smile gives me the encouragement I need to speak the truth—the truth only she can get out of me. “She’s the only one I’m comfortable with.”
Riley’s body relaxes with her exhale and I know I’ve said the right thing because her knees are no longer bouncing, her gaze is no longer wandering. And me? I realize now why I was happy to see her this morning—because there was a reason I asked her to come with me today. I wanted her here. No. I needed her here.
She just doesn’t know how much.
“How’s the wound healing?”
“Good,” I say, but I’m still watching Riley.
“Still bleeding?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“That’s good, Lance Corporal.”
I tear my gaze away from Riley and focus on Tracey. “Dylan’s fine, Ma’am.”
She nods once. “Okay, Dylan. You ready for me to take a look at it?”
It takes longer than it should for me to shrug out of my shirt and as soon as it’s off, both Tracey and Dr. Garvis block my view of Riley to inspect my shoulder.
He checks the entry wound first and then the exit. “It’s healing well,” Dr. Garvis says while Tracey takes notes in her now open folder. I wonder what it says about me. How much detail goes into medical records of wounded Marines? Does it state how it happened? Not the technical aspects of what bullet or gun caused it but how. When. Where. Who.
They speak for a few minutes, their words a jumbled mess of medical terms and timelines. Dr. Garvis moves back to his seat behind his desk, his fingers typing away when I hear the gasp come from Riley. My eyes snap to hers—wide and glazed with tears.
It dawns on me that it’s the first time she’s ever seen it. Sure, she knows it exists, she’s seen it bandaged up, but she’s never seen it. She raises her hand and covers her mouth and when she sees I’ve noticed her reaction, she looks away.
Tracey must see it, too, because she stands in front of me, blocking Riley’s view. “Still okay, Dylan?”
I nod and look over her shoulder at Riley, who’s now looking everywhere but at me. “Riley,” I call out.
“Yeah?”
I motion for her to sit on the bed with me and without hesitation; she picks up her bag and sits next to me, her hand immediately on my leg.
Tracey smiles. “I’ve gone over your file,” she says, “and I’ve come up with a rehabilitation plan for the injury. We weren’t sure if you needed more time for it to heal or if your current exercises are helping—”
“He does these spinny things,” Riley interrupts.
Tracey quirks an eyebrow at her, her amusement evident. “Spinny things?”
“Yeah.” Riley holds her free hand to her chest, then rotates her shoulder like she must’ve seen me doing a few times. “Spinny things.”
Tracey smiles.
So do I.
“And these ones,” Riley continues, releasing my hand. She has both hands on her chest now, her elbows moving back and forth and I wonder if I’ve looked as ridiculous as she does at this very moment.
Tracey laughs. “Well, it’s good to know you’ve been doing them,” she murmurs, scribbling more notes in the folder.
I cover Riley’s hand with mine when she places it back on my leg. Then I nudge her with my elbow. “You been watching me?” I joke.
She shrugs.
“So keep doing those,” Tracey says, looking up from her notes. “Give it about a week or so and you can start adding weights. You can start with—” She breaks off when Riley moves quickly to pull out a notebook from her bag. She flips open the cover and sets the tip of the pen on a blank page, her eyes on Tracey. Then she nods.
Tracey looks at me.
I shrug.
Dr. Garvis joins us.
“Go on,” Riley says. She looks down at her book, just long enough for her to write: Dylan’s rehab on the top of the page, and then refocuses on Tracey.
“Riley?” I ask, my gaze moving from Tracey to her. “What are you doing?”
“Taking notes,” she answers.
She’s already written Tracey and Dr. Garvis in the time it’s taken me to ask a simple question.
The rest of us stay quiet, our eyes on her. “What?” she asks, looking between us.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, smiling to myself.
“I’ll be giving Dylan a copy of the rehab plan and all the exercises so you don’t have—”
