Waiting for shadow, p.1
Waiting for Shadow, page 1
Waiting for Shadow
Tracking Jane, a prequel
Copyright © 2014, Eduardo Suastegui
Published by Eduardo Suastegui, Smashwords edition, revision 1.0
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 – except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews – without the permission in writing from its publisher, Eduardo Suastegui.
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Published By Eduardo Suastegui
A Voice of the Mute Tales production
http://eduardosuastegui.com
Table of Contents
Waiting for Shadow
Table of Contents
» Chapter 1 «
» Chapter 2 «
» Chapter 3 «
» Chapter 4 «
» Chapter 5 «
» Chapter 6 «
» Chapter 7 «
» Chapter 8 «
» Chapter 9 «
» Chapter 10 «
» Chapter 11 «
» Chapter 12 «
» Chapter 13 «
» Chapter 14 «
» Chapter 15 «
» Chapter 16 «
A Word from the Author
The “Our Cyber World” series
» Chapter 1 «
“Jane McMurtry,” a baritone voice says.
I can’t pin down why I don’t respond. Maybe I’m getting back at them for confiscating my legs and parking me in this crowded waiting room. Here I sit with my pants cinched up at the knee so as to not embarrass me or make anyone uncomfortable at the sight of my chopped off knees.
“Major?” His voice turns sing-songy in that lovely African American way.
Maybe that’s why I don’t respond now. Not because of the way he’s inflecting, but because I don’t deserve that rank. Major. I was a Captain when the IED went off, and that’s where it should have ended, like it did for the others.
His voice gets louder. “Major Jane McMurtry?”
Now I’m getting miffed. I’m on a chair. A regular chair. Not a wheelchair because they took it away after they rolled me in here. Because this is the VA and God forbid if they have enough wheelchairs to go around or care a darn about how getting left stranded makes you feel. I should have bounced and crawled my way out of here to prove I don’t need them, their wheelchairs, their treatment, their prosthetics, none of it.
But without the legs I have no way of driving home. In spite of swinging moods and flashes of insanity, I still got it. Logic, the cruel kind that certifies I’m crippled, constrained, trapped, and most of all and as much as I may hate to admit it, dependent.
“Jane?” He steps into the room, folder under his arm, smile on his face, hands on the handles of a dingy wheelchair. Lionel’s his name, I recall now. He’s helped me before.
He scans the room and picks me out of the crowd, finally. “Hey, there you are.”
“Not like I can go anywhere.”
“Oh, you’re going places, girl. Them sweet legs we’s about to fit you with? You’re gonna rock them.”
I glare at him, but I can’t keep it up for more than a second on account of his bright, wide smile. My lips break into a shallow smile of my own.
He comes closer. “Need some help?”
“I got it.”
Except for one guy I reckon is strung out on a deep-hole drug cocktail, all heads and eyes have turned toward me. Let’s see it now. How will the big ugly chick get into that wheelchair? Will we get a little show when she splatters on the floor?
“You sure?” Lionel asks.
“I got it.”
I readjust my backpack, which I’m wearing backwards on my chest. With the one skill I mastered well and early, I grab onto the chair arm-rests, do a twist and spin, and drop with a flop onto the vinyl seat.
“There you go,” Lionel says like I tricked out a slam dunk basket.
He swings me around and starts wheeling me back toward the entrance into the examining rooms.
I catch a glimpse of a gal giving me a thumbs up. “Good job,” she tells me as I roll by her. “Thank you for your service.”
Family member of someone getting treatment, no doubt. Too clean, too plump, too whole to have served and gotten chewed up in some way or another. All’s she can say is good job and thank you for your service. Well, what else can she say?
I nod and let her fall out of eye range, thankful when the door closes behind Lionel and me. On my rump I feel the vibration and rattling of the wheelchair. It will keep on rolling for a good while, if I recall where the fitting room sits, clear across the other side of the building.
“How was therapy?” Lionel says.
“A joy, as always.”
He laughs. “I remember you.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Yeah, that sunny and dry sense of humor.”
“That’s me. Here to brighten up your day.”
He chuckles. “Tha’s all right. That grumpy thing ain’t gonna last long. Because when you see these legs, when you walk on ‘em, you’re going to bust a move, girl.”
I want to be angry at him, but I don’t have it in me. With all the pain and shame he wheels around this place, probably getting paid barely above minimum wage, guys like him try their best to boost you as best they can. With a smile, with a strong helping hand, with respect, with genuine interest in how you’re doing they make you feel like you ain’t got it so bad.
“Are you asking me out on a dancing date, Lionel?”
“Oh, you wanna go clubbin’ now? I get ya. Yeah, but I gotta say it. If you think them therapy sessions are tough, you ain’t sweat nothin’ until you gone dancing with Lionel.”
I smile at that. It feels good to smile. “Do you give lessons?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll be your hip-hop coach. Hey! How’s this for an idea? With all the press you been gettin’, you could land yourself on Dancing with the Stars! Won’t that be something?”
“Yeah, I bet I’d grab the sympathy vote, no problem.”
“Hey, I’m serious, here. You could do it. Give you a goal, too. We all need us some goals and aspirations, right?”
“Right now I’d be happy to walk instead of waddle.” I almost stop there, but because he cares, I go on to add, “I want to get back to tracking. Full time. Not just these little jobs I’ve been doing for my local police department, you know?”
“Hey, baby steps, girl. You doing it right, and you’s doing fine.”
“Did you see me on TV?”
“You mean 60 minutes?”
“Tick, tock, tick, tock.”
“Sure did. Streamed it on the Internet. Nice story. Got you just right. You and your dog. What’s her name?”
Shadow, I almost say. “Shady.”
“Girl, right? Love that name. Shady. Not your common name. How did you come up with it?”
I sigh. We’ve turned, and at the end of the long hallway I see the large door that won’t come soon enough. “Because Shadow felt like too much of a cliché.”
“Hmm. Well, Jane. These legs we’s about to give you, they’re the sports model. You know what I’m sayin’? I see you and Shady doing your job no problem.”
“Sure. Thanks.” The way I say that must come across like a cold splash of water. Lionel stops talking.
He keeps rolling me until we get to the entryway, but we don’t stop there. We turn right and head down a shorter, narrower corridor. I almost ask where we’re going, but it don’t much matter so long as we get this over with.
We stop at a few feet from a door that seems of a different ilk. Heavier. Reinforced. A cipher lock to its right lights up red from each key. But Lionel doesn’t type on it.
I crane my neck to look at him and see he’s looking up. Tracing his gaze, I see a domed camera above the door. It blinks green with what looks like a moving laser point. I look back at Lionel to see he’s standing real still. The door clicks. A hiss comes from inside, and the door starts swinging outward, its outer edge tracing along the yellow tape semicircle Lionel stayed clear of.
“Fancy,” I say.
“Ain’t it?”
We walk through. I squint to try and raise a recollection, but no, I’m darn sure I ain’t come here before. Still, doubts remain. I’ve been drugged enough that maybe I came in here and wouldn’t remember it even if in exchange for my recollection they promised to grow me some real legs and threw in a svelte fashion model figure for good measure.
“How are you, Jane?” The female voice comes from Dr. Hinckle. She’s been treating me ever since I’ve had enough conscious awareness to notice who’s peeking and poking me.
I sit a little straighter in my chair. “I’m missing some legs.”
“Well, I can assure you that’s an extremely short-lived and temporary condition.” She comes over with outstretched hand. We shake, and she adds. “They did explain why we needed them, right?”
“Can’t say that they did.” To tell it true, they might have said something I didn’t quite catch in the middle of being peeved about going leg-less. “Just took ‘em and slapped me on a chair in the waiting room.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about that. How disconcerting for you.” She looks down at her clipboard, checks something off before she levels h
“Hmm. You know what they say about efficiency?”
She smiles broadly with all the pleasant fakery she can toss my way. “What’s that?”
“It’s the hobgoblin of uncaring hearts.”
Dr. Hinckle frowns at that, takes a few seconds to decode it, and then softens her expression. “Again, I’m sorry. It’s just the process that we have to—”
“I waited for near an hour out there. What if nature called?”
“I’m sure someone would have helped.” Her eyes open wider. “Do you need to go now?”
I shake my head.
An interior door clicks open with some more pressure differential hissing. Someone that seems familiar and two people I would prefer not to recognize walk in.
“Jane,” Lieutenant Colonel Brady says.
I look from him to Dr. Taylor, my shrink, and the other guy I should recognize. I know him. I know I do. I know those wire rim glasses, I know those sharp, small blue eyes, and I’ve seen that long-ago receded, red-turning-to-white hair line.
“My, my. I get the full posse today,” I say.
Behind me, Lionel snickers and stops right quick when Brady shoots him a terse look. While I try to project a casual air about it, I wonder why all the dignitaries have dropped in.
“Everyone’s been talking about your great progress,” Dr. Taylor says, eyeing Dr. Hinckle. The two of them smile and nod at each other. “We want to see for ourselves.”
“See what? Me getting fitted for new legs? That sounds rather boring and below you all’s pay grade.”
Dr. Hinckle re-aims her perma-smile back at me. “The fitting will be minor. As I explained, by adjusting to your previous set of prosthetics, we’ll minimize the tweaks we have to do now.”
“Hmm. So everyone wants to see me walk.” I look back at Lionel and throw my arms out. “Maybe do a little dancin’ for you all.”
Lionel lets out another short-lived snicker.
The guy I’m not recalling pulls up a stool and sits in front of me. “How’s the pain been?”
“Who are you?”
He turns to glance at Dr. Taylor, then returns his attention to me. “I’m Dr. Sven. You can call me Rich. I’m the guy that operated on you.”
“In Germany?” I ask, like I remember being in Germany from anything other than someone told me that’s where I got sliced, diced and put back together.
“And here.” He points at the floor, like he dropped me on that tiled slab and did me right there.
“Hmm. I’m sure it’ll come back to me. Or not.” After a moment’s hesitation, I extend my hand. “Thank you, and nice to meet you on this side of sobriety.”
His lips break into a soft, tentative smile, and he shakes my hand. “How’s the pain?”
“I’m overdue for my pills, and it’s beginning to poke me something fierce.” I eye Brady. “But I’ve been trained well. Trained to plow through the pain.” Which is how I make the two day drive down here from Colorado, I want to add, but I don’t want to sound like a whiner.
“Well, let’s put on your new prosthetics and see how we do,” he says.
Last time, when I came for my now deprecated set of legs, they did the same thing. They told me no pain meds after breakfast, and didn’t see me until after lunch. I remember them looking disappointed when they put on the legs, had me walk around the room, and when they asked me about the pain, I told them it was the same if not worse. Never figured out then what putting on new prosthetics has to do with pain. But I ain’t no doctor, and besides, I had more important things to worry about, like where are them pain killer pills.
Dr. Sven waves at Lionel, and he goes over to my right. I see them there now, two pairs of legs. At first I surmise they’re my old and new legs, but they all look newer and cleaner than what I came in wearing.
“We’re going to have you try two sets of prosthetics,” Dr. Sven explains. “See how they work. More than likely, we’ll have you take both home, see how they work out.”
I frown at him. “Ain’t that a little heavy on the taxpayer’s pocket?”
Sven gives me another of his soft smiles and waves at Lionel again. “I’ll show you how to put them on.”
Without asking for permission, he undoes the knots holding my cargo pants over my knees and rolls them up to expose my truncated knee joints. By now Lionel is handing him one of the legs. For her part, Dr. Taylor has taken a half step to her right. From there she gets a better view. In a second, her face tenses up with what looks like restrained regret. She’s never seen my stumpy knees, I realize. Good for her, I guess. Maybe now she’s gained another window into my psyche.
“These go on a little different,” Dr. Hinckle is saying.
Dr. Sven’s already rubbing some gel on my left knee, after which he slides a stretchy rubber sleeve onto it and secures the manmade joint brace. He repeats that for my right leg. When he’s done, he feels around, checks everything. Then he stands and slides his stool out of the way.
“That’s my cue, I take it?” I ask.
He nods.
I look over at Lionel and it comes back to me. Last time I got a new set of legs, he helped me up. Now he stands a good five feet away, making no effort to come near. He smiles at me.
“Go on,” he says. “You can do it.”
I look down and close my eyes. Can I? Can I stand up? Can I walk? I reopen my eyes and start unzipping my backpack to take out my walking sticks. Up to now, I’ve needed them to stay upright. They’re the telescoping kind, real compact to carry, and with a certain cool factor a standard cane don’t merit.
“Let’s try it without those,” Sven says.
I glare at him, angry that my eyes are starting to heat up and moisten. “No.”
“OK,” he says in a lower voice.
I take off my backpack and let it drop to my right. With a click-release, both sticks unfurl. I lean forward, and for a bit of ill-fated levity, I tap the sticks together, like I’m about to jump off the shoot to start a downhill ski race.
The thought crushes me. As I jam both sticks into the tile, a memory of me skiing down a powdered Colorado mountain comes pounding at me. How I’d like to do that again. I mean really do it, and not just on some bunny slope while fitted with some odd contraption.
After one deep breath, I push myself out of the chair and stand.
“How does it feel?” Dr. Hinckle asks. Her pen hand stands at the ready to check something off on that clipboard of hers.
“Wobbly. What else is new?”
“Ease off on the pressure you’re putting on the sticks,” Dr. Sven says. “Let your core and your legs do the work.”
I close my eyes again and notice my breath’s gotten shallow, like my lungs don’t want to take in any more.
“Just relax,” Sven says. “It’s going to be OK.”
I lean back at the waist to stand straight. The sticks come off the floor, and I feel myself teeter. But then, I self-correct. Without the sticks. It’s an odd feeling. I can’t tell if comes from the legs or somewhere inside me, my body adjusting to these new contraptions.
Sven’s stretching out his hand. He’s smiling. “I’ll take those now.”
“No.” My voice sounds hoarse, strained, like a frightened dog that barks once or twice to tell you he ain’t comfortable with what you’re asking him to do.
“OK,” he says, withdrawing his hand to fold his arms across his chest. “Your way then. Take a lap around the room.”
My eyes land on Dr. Taylor’s. She doesn’t much care about my legs. She’s here to see how what bobs above my shoulders reacts to this slice of trauma. She wants to see how her patient handles stress, make sure she’s not giving up on life.
“Perhaps we should do it on the treadmill,” Dr. Hinckle says. I know what she means. The treadmill comes with side handle bars I can use to catch myself from falling. It also pads your fall should you crumble into a heap.
“Here’s fine,” Dr. Sven says. “Go on, Jane. You can do this.”
Lionel comes over to me. “I won’t let you fall. Do like the doc says, and I’ll be right next to you.”
I look into his dark brown face and his gleaming eyes, and somehow that gets me unstuck. “Thanks.” I swallow. And I start walking.
