Unfortunately.
"Do you remember what happened to you?"
A rush of images. The bullet-riddled Jeep. The aqua glow of the pool. The bundles of spent-fuel rods under the glassy surface.
"Guy named Charlie. There was an explosion."
"You sustained no serious injuries, except some bruising and the small wound in your right cheek. Don't be surprised if you have some tenderness for a few days, maybe a whiplash that rears its head in a week or two."
The digital clock said 9:18 A.M. My brain was still playing catch-up, but I had a vague recollection of an interview I was supposed to be at in twelve minutes. I had graver concerns now. My fingers rose to my cheek, found a bandage and some tape.
She said, "I wouldn't take that--"
But I'd already peeled it back. I sat up, my stomach muscles burning. The skin on my face and chest felt raw, as if sunburned. The floor was cool beneath my bare feet.
The nurse said, "I think you should take your time getting--"
I trudged across the room to the mirror, my ass hanging out the hospital gown's gap, and looked at my face. A hole in my cheek, the size of a pea, with surprisingly little blood. The skin dimpled in around it. "Shrapnel?"
"You could call it that," the nurse said. "It's actually a bone fragment."
My eyes ticked right, picking up her reflection in the mirror. "Not mine?"
"No."
I swallowed hard.
"It's embedded in your cheekbone and it won't do any damage, so rather than have you undergo an invasive procedure, the doctor figured she'd let it be."
A little piece of Charlie Terrorist permanently lodged in my skull. My head throbbed a few times, hangover style, and I shuffled back and slid into bed. I took a few deep breaths. "Where's my stuff?"
"You mean your clothes?" The nurse pulled a plastic tub from under the bed and set it beside me on the sheets. My Pac-Man shirt had been sliced off my body by the paramedics. It was torn beyond that, too, the ripped fringes charred from the explosion. The heap of pajama pants was in similar condition. The Pumas sat neatly under the rags.
"The doctor'11 be in soon on rounds to take a look at you and probably discharge you." She offered her hand, which I shook. "A pleasure meeting you, Nick."
She left me alone in the private room. I was high up, maybe the fifth floor, my window overlooking Beverly Boulevard. Cedars-Sinai Hospital. Circling the room, I tried to slow my panicked thoughts.
I picked up the nightstand phone and called my place to see if anyone had left a message. After two rings someone picked up.
"Hello?" I said.
Silence. Not even breathing, but I could hear enough background noise coming over the line to know that it wasn't just a dropped call.
"Who is this?" I asked.
The connection went dead. I called back, got my voice-mail recording, and punched in my code. No messages. Had I misdialed the first time?
Your life is now on the line.
I shook off a shiver. Everyone lives with a shadow, whether it's a lump under the skin or an abusive ex-husband or an addiction that comes knocking when it's hungry. For seventeen years I'd done everything to forget what was hanging over my head. I'd tried my best to rebuild my life. Bad weekend volleyball at Santa Monica Beach. Happy hour at El Torito with "the gang" from work. The occasional date. It had been quiet for so long that I told myself I might be out of the woods. The past
few years, I'd even relaxed into believing, Yes, I can have this. But no matter how hard I pretended, deep down I knew that it couldn't be true. And now, finally, the spooks had come out of their holes.
I grabbed my left sneaker from the tub and shook it--the rattle was still there. Charlie's key. I pinched my eyes, rubbing hard. Kanji script appeared in the darkness behind my lids-- Charlie's TRUST NO ONE tattoo. Okinawa. War buddies. I recalled his rasping words: I trusted Frank. I trusted him with my life.
I found a remote on the nightstand, clicked on the overhead TV. The morning news showed helicopter
"Do you remember what happened to you?"
A rush of images. The bullet-riddled Jeep. The aqua glow of the pool. The bundles of spent-fuel rods under the glassy surface.
"Guy named Charlie. There was an explosion."
"You sustained no serious injuries, except some bruising and the small wound in your right cheek. Don't be surprised if you have some tenderness for a few days, maybe a whiplash that rears its head in a week or two."
The digital clock said 9:18 A.M. My brain was still playing catch-up, but I had a vague recollection of an interview I was supposed to be at in twelve minutes. I had graver concerns now. My fingers rose to my cheek, found a bandage and some tape.
She said, "I wouldn't take that--"
But I'd already peeled it back. I sat up, my stomach muscles burning. The skin on my face and chest felt raw, as if sunburned. The floor was cool beneath my bare feet.
The nurse said, "I think you should take your time getting--"
I trudged across the room to the mirror, my ass hanging out the hospital gown's gap, and looked at my face. A hole in my cheek, the size of a pea, with surprisingly little blood. The skin dimpled in around it. "Shrapnel?"
"You could call it that," the nurse said. "It's actually a bone fragment."
My eyes ticked right, picking up her reflection in the mirror. "Not mine?"
"No."
I swallowed hard.
"It's embedded in your cheekbone and it won't do any damage, so rather than have you undergo an invasive procedure, the doctor figured she'd let it be."
A little piece of Charlie Terrorist permanently lodged in my skull. My head throbbed a few times, hangover style, and I shuffled back and slid into bed. I took a few deep breaths. "Where's my stuff?"
"You mean your clothes?" The nurse pulled a plastic tub from under the bed and set it beside me on the sheets. My Pac-Man shirt had been sliced off my body by the paramedics. It was torn beyond that, too, the ripped fringes charred from the explosion. The heap of pajama pants was in similar condition. The Pumas sat neatly under the rags.
"The doctor'11 be in soon on rounds to take a look at you and probably discharge you." She offered her hand, which I shook. "A pleasure meeting you, Nick."
She left me alone in the private room. I was high up, maybe the fifth floor, my window overlooking Beverly Boulevard. Cedars-Sinai Hospital. Circling the room, I tried to slow my panicked thoughts.
I picked up the nightstand phone and called my place to see if anyone had left a message. After two rings someone picked up.
"Hello?" I said.
Silence. Not even breathing, but I could hear enough background noise coming over the line to know that it wasn't just a dropped call.
"Who is this?" I asked.
The connection went dead. I called back, got my voice-mail recording, and punched in my code. No messages. Had I misdialed the first time?
Your life is now on the line.
I shook off a shiver. Everyone lives with a shadow, whether it's a lump under the skin or an abusive ex-husband or an addiction that comes knocking when it's hungry. For seventeen years I'd done everything to forget what was hanging over my head. I'd tried my best to rebuild my life. Bad weekend volleyball at Santa Monica Beach. Happy hour at El Torito with "the gang" from work. The occasional date. It had been quiet for so long that I told myself I might be out of the woods. The past
few years, I'd even relaxed into believing, Yes, I can have this. But no matter how hard I pretended, deep down I knew that it couldn't be true. And now, finally, the spooks had come out of their holes.
I grabbed my left sneaker from the tub and shook it--the rattle was still there. Charlie's key. I pinched my eyes, rubbing hard. Kanji script appeared in the darkness behind my lids-- Charlie's TRUST NO ONE tattoo. Okinawa. War buddies. I recalled his rasping words: I trusted Frank. I trusted him with my life.
I found a remote on the nightstand, clicked on the overhead TV. The morning news showed helicopter
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