Unbroken

C
opyright
© 2015 by Emma Fawkes

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

“
Y
ou’re not going
to fix the coffee machine by glaring at it, you know,” I hear Linda mutter from across the room. I know she’s right, of course, so I focus my glare on her instead.

“I can’t believe this machine is broken again,” I grumble when I realize Linda is pointedly ignoring my scowl. The older woman has her head down as she sorts through files at the nurses’ station. Her dark curls are piled high atop her head and her pale green scrubs compliment her mocha complexion. For all intents and purposes, Linda looks like a warm, motherly nurse. I know better—there isn’t a sharper mind in the Neurological Intensive Care Unit, doctors included. I find her incredibly intimidating, yet I can’t help but want to be just like her.

“There should be a rule or something, against allowing dysfunctional coffee machines in hospitals. Or more specifically, in the ICU,” I continue when she still doesn’t speak. “It could be a health hazard. Especially when we’re required to work twelve-hour shifts. That coffee is essential here.”

“That coffee is also disgusting,” Linda finally replies. “How about you jog down to Starbucks and get us some
real
coffee?”

I bite my lip, considering. I’ve already taken my break, so I’m not technically supposed to leave the floor. But then again, the thought of working the rest of my shift without caffeine seems excruciating. And Linda is my superior, so if she’s telling me to go…

“You fly, I’ll buy,” Linda adds, her dark eyes raised questioningly.

I smile and nod, the promise of free coffee helping to make up my mind.

“Hurry up and go now, while it’s slow,” she says as she reaches into the cabinet beneath her desk to pull a ten out of her purse. “We’re supposed to be getting that air transfer patient this evening. Dr. Jeffers wants everyone around for this, so we’re having a meeting at eight.”

“I’ll be back long before then,” I promise as I take the ten-dollar bill from Linda and head towards the elevators. It’s barely after seven, and the Starbucks is inside the hospital complex. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk from my department if I head straight there. I should be back in half an hour if I don’t get lost—though that is a big
if
.

The Washington, D.C. National Military Medical Center is enormous, stretching over a hundred acres outside of the nation’s capital. I’ve been here for only a month and I still sometimes get lost trying to find my way up to the neuro ICU. Still, if there is one route I have more or less down, it’s the route from my department to the Starbucks located in the lobby of the rehabilitation center.

Unfortunately, it is pouring rain by the time I make it down to the lobby, and I decide to forgo crossing through the courtyard and instead take the hallways that connect the buildings. The long corridors turn out to be more confusing than I remember, however, and by the time I make it to Starbucks it’s nearly seven-forty. And, of course, the line is longer than I’ve ever seen it. Momentarily, I consider simply heading back to the ICU, but I know that if I show up empty handed at this point—after already having been gone for over half an hour, Linda will kill me.

Instead, I shift nervously, constantly checking the time on my phone as I slowly make my way towards the front of the line. After I order, I tuck myself into the bathroom to freshen up in front of the mirror.

If Dr. Jeffers wants
everyone
there for the intake of this new patient, it means Nick will be there too. I haven’t seen him today, but I know his schedule as well as I know my own. I inspect myself under the fluorescent light. My long blonde hair is falling out of its ponytail, and the makeup I’d applied before the shift has long since faded. My blue eyes look tired and puffy, but there isn’t anything I can do about it. I redo my ponytail, however, and pinch my cheeks. It’s about all I can muster and I pray that the caffeine and sugar in my iced latte will make me look almost human again. Not that Nick cares anymore—he’s already made that abundantly clear. And not that I care either, but I still want to look good, to remind him of what he’s missing.

With a heavy sigh, I return to the café and await my order. By the time I make it back up to the neuro ICU, it’s almost exactly eight p.m. Tucking our coffees inconspicuously into a cabinet at the nurses’ station—no one needs to know where I was—I make my way towards the congregation of staff. The meeting is already in progress. Nick smirks at me and rolls his eyes, as if my tardiness doesn’t surprise him, but no one else seems to notice.

“Sorry I was late,” I whisper to Linda as the meeting gets wrapped up.

“Uh-huh,” she grunts, studying me speculatively. “Should have known a quick walk to Starbucks was too much for you to handle.”

“It’s raining, and I didn’t want to walk through the courtyard,” I reply indignantly—a little louder now that the group is dissipating. “And I was only like a minute late.”

“The patient has arrived early,” Linda replied. “What part of the meeting did you miss?”

“Um… everything?”

“Here,” Linda says, pressing a chart into my hands and motioning for me to follow her. “Cameron Watson, twenty-eight. Marine, wounded in Baghdad during an explosion. He was thrown about twenty yards up in the air, and the landing caused an epidural hematoma, among other—significantly less severe—injuries. He underwent several surgeries in Istanbul to evacuate the blood clot. Almost immediately after, he was flown back here, though he’s still in a medically-induced coma. We’re not sure yet how bad the damage will be when he wakes up.”

“Why is he here?” I ask, confused. “If he hasn’t woken up yet, wouldn’t it have been safer and easier to keep him in Turkey, for a couple of weeks, at least?”

“Yeah,” Linda replies, pursing her lips. “But I guess his father is some big-wig General, I haven’t looked him up yet. He insisted his son be flown here for the best care.”

I realize that we’ve stopped in front of the new arrival’s room, so I slowly make my way inside. The sight of the patient—attached to a ventilator, his head bandaged—makes my breath hitch. This young, brave Marine, who looks like he’s quite attractive despite his bruises and gauze dressings covering his face, may never wake up. I struggle to keep a threatening tear at bay. Thankfully, it appears he has sustained very few injuries elsewhere. His high cheekbones are covered in stubble, and I have to force myself to quit staring at him. It doesn’t help that his foreign hospital gown isn’t very good at concealing his body, revealing large, muscled arms covered with tattoos.

If I had one weakness when it came to men, it was tattoos—lots of them. I loved illustrated men. It was what first attracted me to Nick. He had rolled up his sleeves to scrub his hands one day, revealing a large arm tattoo, and I was hooked.

“Pretty, huh?” Linda asks, breaking into my reverie and making me blush. Obviously, I hadn’t been as subtle as I thought—nothing gets past Linda.

“Not… bad,” I reply lamely.

“Well then, he is your patient. I don’t want the hassle of dealing with his father, whoever he is. Just don’t let Jeffers know, he wanted me on it specifically, but I already have double the patients of everyone else.”

“That’s because you have double the talent of everyone else.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me, you know that,” Linda replies. “And it looks like Dr. Larson is going to be the attending in charge. That’s not going to be a problem is it?”

I blanch. Truly
nothing
gets passed Linda.

“No!” I stammer. “There’s nothing going on between Nick… Dr. Larson and me.”

“Anymore,” Linda whispers under her breath as she leaves the room. Louder, she says, “Then he’s your patient now. Don’t screw up!”

I swell with pride as soon as she’s gone. This is a big deal. Yes, I was first in my graduating class at Johns Hopkins, where I’d earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Nursing, but I’ve only been at this hospital for a little over a month. And, although Linda does have a larger pool of patients than any other nurse in the neuro ICU, her entrusting me such a high-profile case means she has a great deal of faith in me.

I swallow nervously, realizing what a responsibility this is. Still, I can’t help but preen as I make my way towards the hospital bed.

“Hey, hot stuff,” I say to the patient, after making sure no one else is within earshot. “I’m Milly Hamilton. I’ll be your evening nurse for however long you’re here.”

I like to talk to my patients, even if they’re in a coma, like most patients in the neuro ICU. I’ve been told they can’t hear me, but I don’t care. I don’t believe they can’t, plus, it makes
me
feel better. After checking his vitals and making sure everything in his chart is up to date—a pointless task as he’d only been admitted half an hour ago—I leave to make my normal rounds, checking on my other patients.

A few hours later though, the floor is quiet—most of my patients are asleep or still unconscious—and I find myself back in the room of the hot soldier.

“Hey there, Cameron,” I say, looking through his chart. “Do you mind if I call you Cameron? You’re more than welcome to call me Milly. Hopefully, you’ll get the chance, when you wake up. Because you
are
going to wake up, you know. You’re in one of the best hospitals in the world, and we’re going to make sure everything is okay—that you’re okay.”

As I talk, I can’t help but examine his tattoos. There are the usual military tattoos: the insignia of the Marine Corps and another that I assume represents his specific unit. But there are other images as well. Along the entirety of his right arm, from shoulder to wrist, is a detailed portrait of an angel, standing on a bed of demon bones. On his left arm, along with the military emblems, is a large, brightly colored illustration of Superman.

“You have a bit of a hero complex, don’t you, Cameron?” I tease. I feel a little silly acting so flirty towards a comatose patient. But it’s not like I have the time to actually get out and meet real men. Especially not since my break-up with Nick. He kind of left a bad taste, to say the least, and I’m in no hurry to find another boyfriend.

“Not that you’re not like a Superman yourself,” I say, shyly. “Because you definitely are. Trust me. The size of those shoulders and pecks—that is definitely the body of a real superhero.”

I shake my head, trying to get any improper thoughts out of my head.

“Anyway,” I continue, “any hero complex you may have is rightly deserved. You
are
a hero. Hurt in the line of duty, protecting our country. I can’t think of anything more heroic than that.”

I lapse into silence after a while, just relaxing in the chair next to his bed, enjoying the quiet. When my shift finally ends, I’m embarrassed to realize that I’d spent more time in the soldier’s room than I’d meant to—probably double the amount of time I’d spent with any of my other patients, though he’s only been in the ICU for less than half of my shift.

Halfheartedly, I promise myself that I’ll be more professional in the future. Still, I can’t help but feel drawn towards the enigmatic soldier, even though he’s comatose. At home after my shift, I drift to sleep with images of angels and scruffy cheekbones and large knotted pecs floating through my mind.

I
t’s confusing
. Disconcerting and dark. I’m floating. I struggle in vain to get my balance, to stand, to see. But I can’t… I can’t move, I can’t see, I can’t remember… There is only darkness. Darkness and floating.

There are other things, things at the edge of my memory… Explosions. Screaming. Men crying out for help—crying out in pain.

I’m falling. But I’m miles away from that. Miles away from the fall, from the fire, from the cries. I’m just floating.

There is a dull ache at the back of my head. I try to lift my hands, to see what’s wrong, but I can’t move. I am frozen here. Frozen in time. Frozen in space. But I’m not unhappy with this. I’m not scared. Just floating.

And then there’s nothing. For a long time.

After what feels like a million years later, or maybe the next minute, there is a voice. There is a soft, delicate voice—is it the voice of an angel?—and it’s calling to me. I can’t make out what it’s saying. But it’s there, it’s a constant, and it’s leading me somewhere. I’m still floating, but I begin to float towards it. It’s guiding me.

And then, there’s nothing again.

T
he first thing
I notice is that I can’t move. There is a dull, throbbing ache in my head, and I can’t move. I try to open my mouth—try to scream—but I can’t do that either. I’m frozen in place.

I panic. Where am I? What am I doing?

I struggle with my memories. It’s like waking up from a dream that is quickly slipping from my mind. It’s there, right on the periphery of my mind, but I can’t access it. There are a few scattered images and sounds. Fire. Screaming. Pain. Yet I can’t string them all together to make a coherent thought.

But then it doesn’t matter, because there it is, that voice. It’s talking to me again, soft and lilting. It’s calling to me, leading me somewhere. It relaxes me until I’m able to drift back to sleep.

T
here is a jeep
. I’m in it. It’s being attacked by a dragon. The dragon is enormous, with sharp green scales and flaming red eyes. It shoots fire from its mouth, engulfing the jeep—engulfing me and my men. I reach for purchase, trying to secure my position, but I find nothing to hold on to. Suddenly, I’m falling, but I don’t hit the ground. I just keep dropping, as if I’m sinking into the earth. As I drop, I look up at the burning jeep above me. The screaming of my men slowly grows quieter as I sink down into nothingness.

And them I’m awake.

I still can’t move, but I know I’m awake—more awake than I’ve been in a long time. There is a shrill beeping to my right, and I can feel something scratchy extending down my throat. I try to open my eyes, but that seems impossible for some reason.

In the moment, I am fully lucid. I’m Cameron Watson. I’m a First Lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps, currently stationed in Iraq. But when I try to pitch around in my mind for memories of any recent events, there is nothing but fog. Where am I, what am I doing—that is a complete mystery.

“Hey, hot stuff. Have you missed me?”

It’s that voice again. The voice that’s been calling me—leading me. I try to respond, but I still have no control over my body. I can’t open my mouth.

“I’ve missed you too. I see you’re doing well today. Your vitals are strong—stronger than they’ve been yet. I bet you’re super strong yourself, by the look of that chest. You’ll be up and out, kicking butt again in not time, I’m sure.”

The voice continues speaking, but it grows quieter, farther away. I can no longer tell what she’s saying—this angel that calls to me. I struggle, fight to get back to her, back to where I understand her words, but it’s fruitless, and soon everything slips away.

T
he next thing
I hear is a man’s voice, stern and angry. I fight my way out of the fog to understand what he’s saying.

“… hard to believe. You’re completely unqualified.”

“Linda assigned this patient to me,” comes the voice of my angel. “You have absolutely no authority over the nurses’ assignments.”

“I do, if they’re incompetent,” sneers the voice. “And you obviously don’t have the experience or knowledge to deal with this.”

“I’m not incompetent,” replies the angel.

I struggle to make sense of their conversation, but the voices are coming in and out. Not all of the words are intelligible. However, I do understand that this man is berating my angel. I want to defend her. I want to scream at the man to leave her alone, but I can’t open my mouth. Plus, even if I could, I doubt I would be able to speak. I can feel something wedged down my throat.

Eventually, the voices die down, and I float away again. I’m suddenly brought back into the moment, however, by a soft, warm hand squeezing my own. And then my angel speaks again, quieter this time, so soothing. I know that she’s speaking to me.

“Sorry about that,” she says. “I’m really
not
incompetent. Nick and I… Dr. Larson… we were seeing each other briefly, right after I started working here. It didn’t take long to realize that he liked to sleep with all the nurses—at least the young, attractive ones. Suffice it to say, things are over now. And he hasn’t really been able to leave our personal relationship—or lack thereof—out of the workplace.”

The angel sighs and squeezes my hand tighter.

“I was so stupid,” she continues. “I can’t believe I slept with a doctor, I’m such a cliché. But you know what? I made a mistake and I learned from it. Never doing that again, trust me.”

She giggles, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. It causes a strange tingling sensation at the pit of my stomach. I want to capture that sound and replay it over and over forever. Unfortunately, as quickly as it began, it’s gone. The angel squeezes my hand again, then lets go.

“I’ve got to go make my rounds,” she says quietly. “But I’ll be back. There are still a few hours left in my shift. We’ll have plenty of time to talk.”

With that, I can hear her rise from her seat next to me and leave the room. Left to my own thoughts, I struggle to get my bearings, trying to piece together where I am and what’s going on. Unfortunately, my memory is still mostly fog. Frustrated, I eventually drift off to sleep.

“
H
ey
, hot stuff,” my angel calls to me, pulling me from a restless sleep. Images of fire and endless falling are replaced by the soft lilt of her voice.

“The doctors say you should be waking up in the next few days,” she tells me. “I’ll really miss these chats, but it will be nice to see you with your eyes open. I’m sure they’re as beautiful as the rest of you.”

I feel the familiar warmth of the angel’s hand and, as it squeezes my own, I finally find that I can squeeze back.

“What the… oh my God!” The angel lets go of my hand and my fingers curl at the loss. Hesitantly, I try my other hand and find I can wiggle those fingers as well. I can feel my angel leaning over me and, with all of the energy I can muster, I open my eyes.

I’m met with bright blue eyes directly in front of mine. A halo of radiant blonde hair confirms my belief that she really is an angel. I open my mouth to speak, to call to my angel, but she shakes her head.

“Relax,” she says. “You have a breathing tube in your throat right now. You won’t be able to talk. Oh my God. I’ll be right back, I’m going to get the doctor.”

With that, my angel turns away and leaves the room. I try to call her back, but I still can’t speak. And I realize that I’ve used up all of my energy wiggling my fingers and opening my eyes. My eyelids grow heavy, and before my angel can return, I drift back to sleep.