She probably had. With all that’d happened I’d blocked it out. “Well, I can’t go. Someone needs to stay with Hope.”
“I am here.”
“Dawson has paperwork for me to fill out. I don’t know how long it’ll take.”
“He’s gone. Said he’ll be in touch with you.”
I opened my mouth, but Sophie shook her finger at my pitiful attempt at another excuse.
“I ain’t gonna pry. I don’t know why you’re so scared to hear what them docs are gonna say. It’d be better to know what you’re facing instead of trying to hide from it, eh?”
Even I couldn’t argue with that.
I hate hospitals. No one but the army knew how much time I’d spent in various hospitals around the world.
The VA hospital was typical for a government facility. About thirty years past its prime. One half of the main building housed long-term patients; the other half short-timers. Checkups and nonemergency appointments were held in the various outbuildings.
The single-lane road curved through the compound. Clusters of oak trees and lilac bushes blocked the employee’s quarters from view. Beds of flowers were a beautiful flare of color among the drab buildings.
I parked in the lot of Building C. Alongside the wide stone steps was a handicapped ramp. A well-used ramp. Seeing it snapped me out of feeling sorry for myself about my injuries. I’d been damn lucky. I knew several soldiers who hadn’t been.
The round-faced girl at the check-in desk-she looked all of fifteen-smiled at me. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I have an appointment at fourteen hundred.”
“Name?”
“Gunderson.”
She stared at the computer screen as her fingers flew over the keyboard. “I don’t need any additional paperwork filled out today, Sergeant Major. You can have a seat.”
“Thanks.”
The waiting room wasn’t as full as I’d feared. The VA was notorious for overscheduling appointments. Puke-yellow plastic chairs were aligned between end tables strewn with magazines. A TV (no big flatscreen to entertain the vets) was bolted in the darkest corner. CNN blared. Several guys in wheelchairs watched the coverage detailing yet another suicide car bomber in Mosul. I shuddered, thinking of my early-morning flashback.
Once again I was the only woman in the room. I was used to the stares and the hostility from older vets who believed a woman had no place in the service, which was worse than getting hit on by new recruits who weren’t intimidated by a woman in uniform.
Names were called. None of them mine. I’d cracked another copy of Reader’s Digest and skimmed Humor in Uniform when a wheelchair rolled up.
A bearded guy pointed to the magazines on the chair beside me. “Done with those?”
“Yeah. Have at them.”
“So can you tell me why everyone on the planet is interested in Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie? Because I sure don’t understand the fascination.”
He smiled and I realized he was an attractive guy, in a Kurt Cobain/’90s grunge metal kind of way.
“Probably because sex sells,” he said, answering his own question. “Plus, it’s easier to stomach trivial stuff than the truth of what’s going on over there.”
“True.”
“This is the first time I’ve seen you here.” He groaned and hung his head. “Jeez. That probably sounded like some lame pickup line. Moving on. Which branch owns your soul?”
“Army. You?”
“Marines. I assume you’re retired?”
“No. I’m active.”
“And you’re here?”
“My dad died recently, so I’m home on leave.”
“Oh, man, that bites. I’m sorry. My folks are both gone.”
Neither of us said anything.
He smiled sheepishly. “Well, that was another conversation killer.”
“You do have a knack.”
“Let’s start over.” He held out his hand. “Maxwell.”
I clasped it and we shook. “Gunny.” My military nickname popped out automatically.
“Name or designation?”
“Both.”
He whistled. “A hot chick that can shoot. Be still my heart.”
At any other time his flirtatious comment would’ve made me grin, but today I couldn’t shake off the impact of my ghastly morning discovery. The other men were scowling at us, not because we were being too loud, but because we had the audacity to strike up a normal conversation. No one was normal here. For some it was a point of pride, for others a mark of shame.
War redefines normalcy for those of us in the service. Even the most gregarious soldiers can pull back into themselves after recurring combat situations and long-term deployments. Some never recover. Sadly, all these guys giving us the stink eye appeared to be alone. Had they isolated themselves on purpose? Was it easier to deal with horrific memories and life-altering injuries when you didn’t have to explain yourself and your unpredictable moods to people who could never understand it unless they’d lived it?
One guy kept glaring at me. Rather than offer him a friendly smile, I returned his glare until he spun around and gave me his hump back.
Hah. Take that. The guy was too damn young to be acting like a bitter old coot.
That could be you if you keep pushing away everyone who cares about you.
Care isn’t the same as need, my inner loner argued. Hope needs me now, but does she care about me for the long run? Sophie’s care felt… forced at times and based on Hope’s needs, not mine. Jake needed me because of the ranch.
Sobering to think the only person who really needed me was Levi and he was dead.
The nurse called a name-Maxwell’s apparently-and he rolled away with a jaunty salute.
I took the opportunity to look around at the other vets, hoping a dose of self-tough love would wake my hermit ass up, when I noticed an Indian man in a wheelchair at the back of the room.
Sunglasses covered his eyes beneath the brim of a battered ball cap, the front emblazoned with the SCREAMING EAGLES emblem of Eagle River High School. I squinted at him. He’d been a big man at one time, wide shoulders, long, thick neck, large head, but with both his legs gone above his knees it was hard to gauge how tall he used to stand. My eyes kept flicking toward him, not because of his disability. Something about him looked familiar, yet I couldn’t put my finger on it. Despite my mother’s voice reminding me it wasn’t polite to stare, I did it anyway.
The door swung open. A nurse approached him and spoke loudly. “Blacktower?”
“I’m blind, not deaf, so you don’t gotta shout.”
The nurse blushed. “Sorry. The doctor sent me out to tell you he’s running behind.”
He didn’t bother to look up when he grunted.
Blacktower. Now I knew why he looked familiar. He was Hiram Blacktower’s brother, Josiah, the disabled and partially blind Gulf War veteran.
A woo-woo feeling rippled through me again. What were the odds I’d run into him here?
My pragmatic side assured me those odds were above average in our sparsely populated state. Since I was seeing the VA eye doctor, who rotated into this facility only once a month, logic dictated Josiah would be here at the same time. Healthcare choices for veterans were limited, and Indian veterans even more so. The Indian Health Service had a worse reputation than the Veterans Administration, so no surprise he’d chosen the lesser of two evils.
I tossed the magazine on a side table and headed toward him. “Mind if I sit here?”
Josiah grunted.
I flopped down. “Nice ball cap. Does that mean you are a Screaming Eagle alumni?”
No answer.
“I’m from Eagle River. Or I was. I’ve been gone the last twenty years in Uncle Sam’s army. You a marine?”
A slight nod.
“Look. We haven’t met, but when I heard your name and saw your ball cap, I realized I know your family. Hiram Blacktower is your brother, right?”
He mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
“I said yes. I’m sorry you know him.”