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Two years later, his dad died. I didn’t understand until later that his car accident hadn’t been an accident at all. He’d intentionally driven into a concrete bridge abutment at seventy miles an hour, disguising his suicide. He couldn’t handle losing his wife, and his unrelenting grief caused him to abandon his son. Mark didn’t cry that day. He was too stunned. I’d wrapped my arms around him while he sat there, numb, both of us shaken by the irrefutable evidence that youth is no guarantee against pain and loss.
That’s when Mark moved in with us. My parents converted our finished basement into a teenager cave, with a bedroom, bathroom, kitchenette, and living room. It was a mini-apartment in our basement, and he and I hung out there constantly – except when he’d sneak his girlfriends over. Then I ran interference for him, keeping my parents distracted. He’d do the same for me, letting me use his man-cave to sneak my boyfriends over.
Tragedy continued to find us, though. I’d finished my last final exam of my freshman year of college and was headed for a party when Mark showed up at my dorm, his eyes red and swollen. A drunk driver had hit my parents’ car head-on. There were no survivors. Mark took the news as hard as I did. He’d lost his parents, found a second family in mine, and lost my parents, too. Everyone Mark cared about, he lost. I was the lone exception. I suspect that’s subconsciously why he’s always avoided any substantial long-term relationships.
A groan from the hospital bed yanks me back to full attention, and I sit up straight. “Mark?” I tighten my fingers around his bruised hand, then stop, afraid I’ll hurt him. “Mark? Can you hear me?” He moans again, and I jump up, cupping his face gently between my hands, careful to avoid his breathing tube. “I’m here, Mark. You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.” I press the button for the nurse, and he groans a third time. A moment later, a tiny blond woman with a hugely pregnant belly hurries in.
“Hi, dear. Did you need something?”
“I think he’s hurting,” I tell her, just as Mark groans again. She whips out a penlight and checks his pupils, asking him to squeeze her hands and open his eyes, but to no avail.
“Any change?” I ask.
“Responding to pain is good, but we don’t want him hurting. I’m going to get him something for the pain.”
The shot stops his pained moans, but even when he falls silent, I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s got to be okay. He’s got to. Mark is my person. He’s my best friend, my hero, my rescuer. He knows me better than anyone, and he’s the most important person in my world.
He’s got to be okay, because I can’t do this without him.
CHAPTER FIVE
CHARLIE
Days and nights begin to bleed into each other. I stay past midnight and return before dawn every day, leaving just long enough to shower, catch an hour or two of fitful sleep, and shower again. It’s nerve-wracking being unarmed in a strange location. I can’t doze for more than a few minutes without waking in a panic to scan my surroundings. I finally resort to catnapping upright against my hotel room door so I know no one can sneak up on me. Lila comments on my exhaustion during one of our video chats, and when I confess my struggle in a moment of weakness, Tucker has two soft-grip telescoping tactical batons delivered to me by the end of the day. When extended, they can shatter bones; collapsed, they’re innocuous looking, barely longer than a tube of lip gloss. That night, I sleep for a solid four hours.
Spending so much time in a military hospital again is also adding to my tension. While BAMC isn’t Walter Reed, it’s still populated by uniformed officers and soldiers alongside healthcare providers in white coats and scrubs. The cloying perfume of efficiency and disinfectant combines with the constant auditory and visual stimulation, leaving me feeling like every nerve in my body is raw. My days are a gumbo of fear and anxiety, heavily seasoned with intrusive memories of a time I’ve tried desperately to forget.
I cope by pouring all my energy into Mark. If he can hear me in his comatose state, then I intend to do everything possible to prevent memory loss. I talk to him incessantly. I discuss anything and everything – what the doctors said, what today’s goal is, what they’re serving in the cafeteria. It doesn’t matter what I talk about, so long as I’m engaging his brain and maintaining our connection. I talk until my voice gives out, then switch to his favorite music or audiobooks.
Monica spends a lot of time in Mark’s room. She lets me assist with whatever she’s doing for him, not because she needs my help, but because she understands my need to stay busy.
“Tell me how you’re related,” she says one day while we’re changing his dressings. “Brother and sister? Cousins?”
Monica was born and raised in Colombia and still has a slight accent. Her olive skin is dazzling, and her dark eyes and long dark hair emphasize her brilliant smile. She’s intelligent and kind, and I’m glad Mark has her.
“We’re not. We’re best friends. His family moved next door when I was nine and he was eleven. His mom died of breast cancer when he was thirteen.” A flash of sadness hits me at the memory of his mom transforming from a vibrant, lively woman to little more than a skeleton, gray and gaunt. Mark’s dad underwent the same evolution, but from grief. “His dad couldn’t handle losing her. He committed suicide when Mark was fifteen.”
Monica rubs Mark’s leg. “So tragic,” she murmurs. “So much pain.”
“His dad made arrangements before his death for my parents to become Mark’s guardians. Our parents had been best friends. My folks were crushed when his parents died.”
She gives me a quizzical look. “If you aren’t related, why does the military consider you his next of kin?”
I smile. “Because any guardian’s family member can be designated next of kin.”
“So your parents, will they be coming?”
My smile fades. “No. They died when I was eighteen. It’s just been Mark and me since then. We enlisted after they died. We were barely grown, not sure what to do with our lives. The Army offered purpose and structure, and we needed both.”
“You left the Army and he stayed in?”
Time stops for a moment, and my breathing stalls briefly as icy memories tighten my stomach. “Yes. I’ve been out for four years. Mark had planned to stay until he hit twenty years.”
She smiles. “I’m glad he has you here. He’s going to need you.”
The times I’m alone with Mark without distractions are hardest. That’s when I’m forced to face horrifying possibilities I’m not strong enough to deal with.
What if he doesn’t survive?
