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Oh. The U.S. Army hospital in Germany, where he went after the awful day on which his friend was killed and he was so hurt.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
I scoot close to him and wrap an arm around his back…another one around his front, until I’ve pulled him into my arms. I wrap my legs around him, too, and lean against my bed. Barrett’s weight is heavy on me.
I take a tiny trigger risk, stroking his hair over his scar. I try to think of what it must have been like for him: waking up at Landstuhl. The first time he was fully aware of what had happened to him. I’ve looked up epidural hematoma since he mentioned it, and if I’m correct, he would have had a period of normal consciousness after he first got hurt, maybe when he and his friend Breck were making their way to the armored car. During the time his friend died, too. And after that, he would have not really been conscious for a while. They probably drilled some holes to relieve pressure at the nearby hospital, and if I was betting, I would put money on the fact that they did the full-scale craniotomy in Germany to get him really stable.
“Was anybody with you there?”
He shakes his head.
I struggle to swallow.
“I had the shrapnel wound. The craniotomy.”
So he probably woke up sedated, having no idea what had happened, with tubes everywhere, a piece of his skull removed and then screwed back together with titanium plates, a drain going into the site of the surgery…
“I remember waking up,” I murmur. “I was scared. I had a lot of people there…and it was terrible, still.”
I kiss his temple.
Barrett pulls away from me, or rather sits up straighter. His hand squeezes mine. His eyes on mine look depthless.
“I wish I had been there with you.”
His lips find my forehead…then my mouth. We kiss sweetly, then harder, then he pulls away, his shoulders heaving.
His eyes shut.
“Some of the nurses there were German. Some were American. When I first woke up…I had trouble talking. Not for long. Just for a few days while my brain was still swollen. The doctors were busy. Lots of bad shit happening, a lot of wounded coming in. They would be in and out, the nurses would. They’d have to turn me over to get to my back. I couldn’t move my body. Too doped up and…I don’t know.” His hand goes to his head. “Maybe the swelling. I don’t remember it that well. I just remember, they would turn me on my side and…touch me. Just my head…and back. I had a tube in my nose…”
“G-tube. I had one of those too.”
He nods. His hand covers my cheek.
“They would talk about me like I wasn’t there. Like they would say, ‘You’ve got those pretty eyes,’ and, to each other, ‘It’s sad that he’s blind in that eye. Wonder how much he’ll recover’ and ‘why is no one here.’ One of them said once, ‘Maybe he’s an asshole.’” He shakes his head. “They were the only people touching me. The IVs.” I see him struggle to swallow. “They had to change the catheter. All this shit that made me think about…my mom dying. I was always dizzy.”
“When I came to more, and thought about Breck…” Tears fill his eyes. My heart feels shredded. “I could talk, but I didn’t care enough. They kept testing my hand.” He draws into to himself, shaking his head.
“You were by yourself. You probably needed someone with you. Kellan couldn’t come, I guess?”
“He’d had his relapse. But he wasn’t talking to me. Just a little bit. Because…of Lyon,” he says with difficulty.
“What about your dad?”
He laughs, a small, dry kind of sound. “Tight OR schedule.” The words are bitter. I don’t even think he tries to hide it.
I think of lying in my own bed, wishing to be held. Crying underneath my covers for Elvie, who’d left me.
“I think I might write the dreams down.” He hugs me, and in a quiet voice, says, “Tell me it was different for you, Piglet.”
“I had parents there. My brother. Jamie. I talked right away, even though I cried all day too. But my boyfriend never came. He went on a study abroad program. Just couldn’t handle it I guess.”
Barrett’s eyes are hard. “I’m glad you’re not with that asshole, but him leaving like that? It makes me want to kill him.”
“It was for the best. He was all about himself, Elvie was. With parents like his, he’d been raised to think he was the second coming, there to rapture country music fans. I can tell he still thinks that. I’ve watched an interview or two.”
“I don’t care. I still want to hurt that bastard.”
