both professionally and personally. Maybe, it's the vulnerability of my situation. I can't see, so I'm more dependent upon the only person who seems to understand me these days. Never mind the incessant and endless questions she has asked me from my personal life to my time served in Afghanistan. The woman has left nothing to chance as she tries to undo my mind's prison that holds onto my sight.
"Will I ever see?" I finally asked her a few weeks ago.
"I don't know. There's no physical reason that you can't see. It's something psychological. Perhaps, something you've put on yourself that keeps you from seeing. But, Lieutenant, the longer it goes on…there will be permanent damage to the nerves." I detected the worry in her voice. I felt the acquiescence in her demeanor, even though I couldn't physically reach out and touch her right then.
"Who wants to be with a blind guy like me?"
She didn't answer for a long time and then, when she did, it changed everything between us. "I do."
≈ ≈
The door to my hospital room opens and I automatically look up toward the direction the sound came from. I sigh at my own reaction. Will I ever get used to this darkness?
"Lieutenant Wainwright," Kate says to me.
"Major," I say in my most seductive voice.
"They're releasing you. Your wounds are healed enough…"
I grimace at her sudden hesitation. "Go on. Get it over with."
"The blindness appears permanent. As you know, we haven't made any more progress in prompting your memory."
She stops again and clears her throat.
I wait.
"I've made arrangements for you to attend the Criss Cole Rehabilitation Center in Austin. It's out of process, but I've convinced them to take you. That way you'll be near your family there." Her tone takes on this consoling bedside manner. I frown in her general direction as she sits down beside me. "You'll learn to better cope with the blindness," she says. "They'll teach you Braille, how to use a walking cane, help set up your permanent residence, assist you with your career choices, get you a guide dog—"
"So, you're giving up on me," I say with a sardonic tone. Her body shifts next to mine.
"No," she says in a low controlled voice. "It's the best way, Lieutenant."
"Major, don't tell me you're about to break protocol."
Her breath comes faster. I smile.
We have been playing around with this growing thing between us for a couple of months and I am suddenly more than ready to take it to the next level, desperate to take it to the next level, even.
"Stop flirting with me, Lieutenant," she says. "I'll come visit." Her tone gets more serious. A hint of caution seems to play in her tone. She sighs before saying, "I can't…be your psychiatrist anymore, Brock."
She lightly touches my hand with hers and then she moves off the bed and away from me.
"Kate, wait. Don't go."
"Have to." Her silky voice is farther away and I wave my hand through the air hoping to reach for her somehow.
"Kate."
The sound of the door clicking closed is my only answer. Another door, like so many in my life, seems to have closed.
≈ ≈
With the voice command feature on my cell phone, I place my sixty-fifth phone call to Jordan Holloway's home number. It's been just over four months since Ethan's death, but Jordan has yet to take or return any of my phone calls to her. I'm prepared to leave another message when she answers on the third ring.
"This is Jordan."
I'm taken aback at just hearing her voice. Her breathing comes in a rush as if she's been running or doing stairs.
"Uh, it's Brock Wainwright. Don't hang up! I really need to talk to you. I wouldn't be calling you if it wasn't important."
"I have nothing to say to you, Brock."
I wince at hearing her barely contained anger. She hates me. She blames me. And, why not? I blame myself. I hang my head.
"What is it? What do you need to tell me?"
"Look, I'm the executor of his estate. Like it or not," I say gently. "We need to talk about some things."
"When?
"Will I ever see?" I finally asked her a few weeks ago.
"I don't know. There's no physical reason that you can't see. It's something psychological. Perhaps, something you've put on yourself that keeps you from seeing. But, Lieutenant, the longer it goes on…there will be permanent damage to the nerves." I detected the worry in her voice. I felt the acquiescence in her demeanor, even though I couldn't physically reach out and touch her right then.
"Who wants to be with a blind guy like me?"
She didn't answer for a long time and then, when she did, it changed everything between us. "I do."
≈ ≈
The door to my hospital room opens and I automatically look up toward the direction the sound came from. I sigh at my own reaction. Will I ever get used to this darkness?
"Lieutenant Wainwright," Kate says to me.
"Major," I say in my most seductive voice.
"They're releasing you. Your wounds are healed enough…"
I grimace at her sudden hesitation. "Go on. Get it over with."
"The blindness appears permanent. As you know, we haven't made any more progress in prompting your memory."
She stops again and clears her throat.
I wait.
"I've made arrangements for you to attend the Criss Cole Rehabilitation Center in Austin. It's out of process, but I've convinced them to take you. That way you'll be near your family there." Her tone takes on this consoling bedside manner. I frown in her general direction as she sits down beside me. "You'll learn to better cope with the blindness," she says. "They'll teach you Braille, how to use a walking cane, help set up your permanent residence, assist you with your career choices, get you a guide dog—"
"So, you're giving up on me," I say with a sardonic tone. Her body shifts next to mine.
"No," she says in a low controlled voice. "It's the best way, Lieutenant."
"Major, don't tell me you're about to break protocol."
Her breath comes faster. I smile.
We have been playing around with this growing thing between us for a couple of months and I am suddenly more than ready to take it to the next level, desperate to take it to the next level, even.
"Stop flirting with me, Lieutenant," she says. "I'll come visit." Her tone gets more serious. A hint of caution seems to play in her tone. She sighs before saying, "I can't…be your psychiatrist anymore, Brock."
She lightly touches my hand with hers and then she moves off the bed and away from me.
"Kate, wait. Don't go."
"Have to." Her silky voice is farther away and I wave my hand through the air hoping to reach for her somehow.
"Kate."
The sound of the door clicking closed is my only answer. Another door, like so many in my life, seems to have closed.
≈ ≈
With the voice command feature on my cell phone, I place my sixty-fifth phone call to Jordan Holloway's home number. It's been just over four months since Ethan's death, but Jordan has yet to take or return any of my phone calls to her. I'm prepared to leave another message when she answers on the third ring.
"This is Jordan."
I'm taken aback at just hearing her voice. Her breathing comes in a rush as if she's been running or doing stairs.
"Uh, it's Brock Wainwright. Don't hang up! I really need to talk to you. I wouldn't be calling you if it wasn't important."
"I have nothing to say to you, Brock."
I wince at hearing her barely contained anger. She hates me. She blames me. And, why not? I blame myself. I hang my head.
"What is it? What do you need to tell me?"
"Look, I'm the executor of his estate. Like it or not," I say gently. "We need to talk about some things."
"When?
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