The characters below are all from Janet's imagination…bummer.
Jenny (JenRar) once again you've proven yourself to be the world's greatest beta. Thank you for your hard work on this story.
Chapter 2 – Not All Gifts Can be Wrapped
Ranger's POV
The beeping of the monitor approximately five feet to my left was the first indication I'd survived surgery. The fact that my eyes didn't want to follow a command to open told me I was still heavily sedated. While I understood the necessity of keeping my body still, I despised the sensation of being drugged and not in complete control.
An Army mandated shrink doing a debrief interview with me once attempted to argue that being in complete control at all times was not healthy. I'd told him I'd rather be sick than dead, and my ability to control everything was the only thing that kept me alive on some missions. I'd watched with satisfaction as he attempted to rationalize what I'd said. His silence had been agreement as far as I'd been concerned.
I tried to remind myself that I was in a secure military hospital and that there was enough firepower both on the base and in the building itself to keep me relatively safe while I got over my most recent injuries. That didn't do much to calm me down, but I had to try something to keep from tearing at the bedding to try to wake myself up.
It was hard to decide which was more surprising: the fact that the road side bomb had caught me off guard, or the fact that I'd survived at all. Technically, I'd succeeded in my mission – the target I'd been assigned was no long breathing, and I was on pace to meet my extraction team a day early. I'd been following along behind a military convoy, hoping they would discourage any rebels from attacking or that my presence would be undetectable beside such a large fleet of marked American vehicles.
There was no warning at all, and the prickling sensation that usually alerted me to trouble didn't engage, either. One moment, I was moving down a path that barely qualified as a road, and the next moment, everything hurt and my ears were ringing from the detonation of a bomb. Fortunately, it made enough of a disturbance that the convoy I'd been following circled back and investigated, rescuing me and bringing me back to their base before flying me out on the first chopper available to get me to a real hospital.
The fact that no one would comment definitively about my condition both worried me and pissed me off. I knew it was bad just because of how I felt, but being intentionally deceived made me feel like a child, which hooked my anger quicker than any other response they could have given. The surgeon had said that when I woke up, he'd be able to give me a complete description of my injuries and his prognosis for my recovery, but until he got a look inside, he couldn't commit to much.
Now that I'd survived the surgery, I was going to find that surgeon and beat the information out of him if I had to. I needed to know exactly what the hell was wrong with me and what I could do to fix it so that I could get out of this shithole. It was a hospital, and by military standards, it was a good one. The care I'd gotten so far had been okay – good, even – but I wasn't made to be locked inside, and until I had a plan to get out, I would struggle to relax.
No matter how hard I tried, getting my eyes to open and my body to move was impossible, so I practiced intentionally relaxing, hoping if I stopped fighting it, the medication would wear off sooner. As soon as I heard the monitor beside me slowing down, the unmistakable squeaking of practical shoes on polished flooring sounded to alert me that someone else was in the room. Papers rustled, and the sound of a pen quickly moving on a clipboard told me that my file had been updated. When a second set of feet entered the room, I continued to fake unconsciousness in the hope they would speak, and I'd get my first clues about how bad things really were.
A hand touched my arm. It was soft and didn't really feel like the clinical touch of a nurse checking my IV. "How long do we have to wait before we can give him a bath?"
I was glad her professionalism didn't get in the way of her checking me out. I knew I had a certain effect on some women, and it sounded like this was one such woman.
"At least twenty-four hours," a husky voice responded, sounding like a woman who smoked a pack a day despite her experience in the medical field proving it was a deadly habit.
"I hope I'm on the floor when he's ready," the first voice replied. "Even bandaged, he's still good-looking enough that I'd love to get my hands on him."
The rough voice interrupted, "Right now, he needs professional hands on him, and any other type needs to revaluate why they're touching him."
The touch that had been present immediately slipped away in light of the reprimand from the obviously-superior staff person. It was unfortunate I couldn't speak because I would have thanked her for reminding her subordinate of her place. I wasn't averse to being touched, but I didn't like being pawed at, especially when I couldn't make it clear I wanted it to stop.
Not completely discouraged, the lively nurse asked her terse counterpart about my condition.
"Time will tell, but the surgeon felt like all the internal injuries had been repaired, and the bones were all set. But there's going to be a long recovery ahead for this one. And we won't know the full scope of the damage to his spine for a few days still. It's in the gray area – that sometimes only means mild nerve damage and sometimes means a loss of mobility. Once the swelling goes down and the surrounding injuries heal, we'll have a better idea of the ultimate prognosis."
"How long do you think we'll have him here to take care of?"
If I hadn't been so damn interested in the answer to that question I would have tried to respond; the way she implied she wanted to take care of me made my stomach roll. Did women really talk about men like this? What happened to demure behavior?
A noncommittal sound was the initial response before she added, "He'll be on this floor at least a week. Then he'll move downstairs for his extended recovery before moving to rehab if there's a chance it would be helpful. That's the part that will take the most time. Even if things move fast, he'll be in the hospital for at least a couple of months."
Fuck that – there was no way I was going to be here for two months. If I understood her correctly through the fog in my head, I had two options. The preferred answer would be that I mastered my body the way I always had and did the work necessary to get out of here and back to Trenton so that Bobby could take over my rehab. If that wasn't possible and it turned out that walking wasn't going to be in my future at all, then I'd need to do whatever work was possible to divert attention from myself so that I could end the struggle. Because there was no way in hell I was going back to Trenton in a wheelchair without the possibility of getting out of it. I'd always thought my life would end on a mission, so dying in a foreign hospital because of injuries I got on assignment was close enough I could accept it.
"What's this?" the pushy younger sounding nurse asked. I could feel her hand pulling the sheet back and touching near my hip. Before I could figure out what she was doing, the gruff voice stopped her.
"That's enough." Hell, her voice held enough command to it, I was temporarily impressed and felt the need to stop even though I wasn't doing anything. "According to his chart, he requested his phone to stay with him at all times, and since we had to remove his weapons, the guys upstairs agreed he could keep his phone."
"I thought cell phones were against the rules," the flighty caregiver pointed out.
"They are, but that's not a cell phone." Obviously, this woman was bright and wasn't working her first shift here. "It's a high level sat phone capable of calling anywhere in the world and blocking most tracking systems. Very few people have them, and when one comes in here, it's usually a good idea to let the soldier keep it on them."
"What, like he's some kind of government spy?" The girl almost sounded amused, which didn't elevate her in my opinion any.
"I really couldn't say, and if you value your job, you wouldn't try to find out. People that have those rarely share personal details, and everything you need to know about him is written in his file," the voice of reason pointed out.
A sound much like a sigh that would accompany an eye roll on a teenage girl filled the room, reminding me of Julie for a brief moment. Then footsteps told me someone had left.
The scratchy voice spoke much softer, as though hoping I could hear her but no one else would know what was said. "All right, Manoso, I'm going to do everything on my end to take care of you, but you have to meet me half way and take care of yourself. I'll see you through this if you prove to be the fighter your reputation says you are."
With that challenge, she turned and left the room, the slight echo of her squeaky shoes staying with me for several moments.
Judging time without the benefit of full consciousness proved to be difficult. The first time I felt fully aware, I found that it was possible to open my eyes, too. A quick review of the room gave me nothing to work from. There were no windows, clocks, or clues about the date.
The room was dark, but enough light from the hall was coming in that I could see. I was flat on my back but could angle my head enough to look down my body. A sheet was draped over my waist covering my legs, but the bulk under the cover told me there were casts on both legs. My entire torso was wrapped in gauze, and a slight line of dark red told me whatever had been bleeding had stopped long enough ago that what had seeped out had now dried. I elected to consider that progress.
My left arm was covered in plaster, but my right arm only bore a few rows of stitches. Relief flooded through me when I moved my hand around and was able to feel my phone beside me. I told my arm to lift and was shocked when it appeared in my field of vision. I felt weak, but at least I could control something about myself.
Training was hard to shake off, and I realized when I did an assessment of what I had working in my favor that the ability to move my head, swallow with nothing in my mouth, and control my right arm was really the end of the list. Dwelling on the things working against me was pointless, as the list easily overwhelmed my positives.
My eyes focused on the phone in my hand, and I could feel my lips wanting to turn up at the memory of the last time I'd used this piece of equipment. Stephanie would never know how much I appreciated hearing her voice before I was taken to surgery, but I vividly remembered, as the anesthesiologist put me under, that my last thought was of her.
The muscles in my upper arm seemed to struggle to keep my arm in the air, but I needed to look at the phone a little longer to remind myself that she'd reached out to me – that once again, the life that seemed to surround her came through to me and gave me something to hold onto while I was in surgery.
A male voice cut through my mental ramblings. "I'm glad to see you're awake."
Slowly, I lowered my arm back to the mattress and made sure my blank face was locked down.
"Before the surgery, I promised to come back once I had clear information to share, so I'm here to make good on my word," he explained, letting me know he was the man that had performed the operation.
When he moved close enough, I nodded, recognizing his face as one I'd seen before.
"In some respects, you were lucky," he began, giving me reason to hope that what he was going to tell me might not be as bad as I'd thought it might be. "The burns to your skin were limited and minor enough that they will heal with little in the way of treatment from us. Your abdomen and left shoulder received the worst of it in that respect. As far as broken bones go, I was able to set both legs and your left arm, only having to use stabilizing pins in your left femur. I used some wire in your chest because two of your ribs were crushed more than just broken. That should offer enough stabilization to allow for healing without further interference. Of course, the cuts and gashes were numerous, but sutures will be sufficient to heal those. The worst damage was isolated to the internal bleeding from the pure force of the explosion. Your spleen is gone, and your lung was punctured, but those are both easy to treat. Your kidneys took a beating, but you are beginning to run clear instead of red or pink as you were the first two days after being brought in, so I am encouraged by your progress there."
He stopped to take a breath, and I knew he was holding back something big. I locked my eyes on him, waiting for him to man up and tell me what else was wrong.
"The most troubling injury is your spine. There were some fractures to three of the lower vertebrae, but the spinal column itself was not severed. Still, the amount of swelling there is indicative of trauma to the spine, which means I can't give you an answer about what might come from that injury."
When I spoke, I hardly recognized my own voice. "If it turns out worst case scenario, what would that mean?"
A frown came over his face, as though he didn't appreciate me focusing on the negative, but I admired the fact that he didn't try to talk me out of wanting the information. "A worst case would be the damage is too great to recover from, and even though the spine is intact, the nerves are too compromised to carry signals. If that's the case, you lose the ability to control your legs, and all sensation from the waist down is lost or decreased to the point of being negligible. A best case scenario would be a complete recovery."
"What's your professional opinion of where I'll fall between the two?" I pushed, needing something more than the two extremes.
His eyes narrowed, as though he were fully thinking through my question. "I don't know. I refuse to blow smoke and promise you a complete recovery, nor have I seen anything to make me think you'll lose the use of your legs. Time will tell, and until then, we just have to wait."
I appreciated the fact that he was being honest, that he wasn't sugar-coating anything like some doctors would have. Even though I knew he couldn't give me a definitive answer, I needed something more. "How much time?"
"It could be as little as a couple of days or as much as two weeks," he attempted a guess.
It might have seemed like he hadn't really answered my question, but I still appreciated him giving me something to hold onto. In two weeks, I should know what to expect from my legs. I could wait two weeks.
"Anything I can do to help speed it along?" Most likely, I knew the answer, but I'd had to ask.
"Yeah," he surprised me by responding. "You can keep your ass in this bed, not argue with the nurses who come by to take care of you, and you can stop mentally categorizing every small change in how your body feels." He paused a few seconds before adding, "But since I know there's no way in hell you'll do all that, just try to be as still as possible – specifically, try to keep your abs relaxed so you don't jar your back. I know you think you're losing muscle mass by the day, but the less stress there is on your body, the faster we'll have an answer of what's going on inside."
"I can do that," I assured him, glad to see the shock on his face at my easy acquiesce.
After answering some more minor questions, he excused himself and left me alone once more.
It only took a few seconds before I could literally hear the silence. It practically filled my ears, heavily weighting me down, forcing me to dwell on the possibility that my body might heal and I still might not be able to get out of this bed on my own. Hell, I'd considered every possible way a mission could go to shit, but in all the scenarios I'd assumed, I'd either beat the odds and come out on top or fail so monumentally that death would be the immediate consequence. Never had I considered that a mission might take away my physical abilities, basically removing a big part of who I was. Without my legs, I wouldn't be Ranger – I'd go back to just Carlos Manoso, second son of Ricardo and a generally useless person. Every skill I had revolved around my ability to use my body in some way.
Realizing this line of thought wasn't helping, I attempted to force my mind in a different direction. Every time I got close to finding something that could hold my thoughts, some nagging idea would seep back in of how I couldn't handle life in a wheelchair. Finally, I allowed myself to pull up the memories that I knew would stop the mass confusion in my head. The only thing that ever consumed me without fail was the mental movie reel I had of Stephanie.
I allowed myself to remember the look of her entering that diner and how confidently she approached me. I could see she was nervous, but she refused to let that stop her from getting the help she needed. I also couldn't help but notice that she didn't seem the least bit interested in me, which was equally intriguing. She didn't appear to be checking out the young waitress across the restaurant, so I marked off lesbian as a possibility for why she didn't seem to fall for my charm the way most women did. By the end of our time together that first day, I realized I liked her spunk. I didn't think she had a bat's chance in hell of catching Morelli, but I liked the way she went about it just the same.
Of course, no walk down Stephanie's memory lane would be complete without the phone call in the middle of the night to release her from cuffs attached to her shower rod. I knew she was pumped with adrenaline from the anger coursing through her system. Add in the fact that she was cold from having been wet at some point, and the image she presented when I walked into her bathroom was the stuff a guy could dream about for years. I would never have described Stephanie as a knockout before this, but damn if she couldn't pull off sexy-as-hell in that situation. She was well beyond embarrassed, yet when I walked in, she looked me in the eye, not even attempting to cover herself up. Admittedly, she had no chance of succeeding, but there was an attitude coming from her that was screaming "this is who I am and the kind of shit that happens to me. Accept it, or keep your commentary to yourself." I had to admit, I admired her even more for the way she handled that night.
I had no idea how much time I spent running through my memories of Stephanie, but for the whole time I reflected on our past together, my mind never once went back to the potential damage to my spine. No one had the ability to make me feel as much like a real man as she did.
By the time the nurse returned who had checked on me when I was unconscious, I had gotten myself in a place where I could bear being around another person. She did her initial checks without comment, obviously not one of those people who felt the need for constant chatter. It was exactly the kind of professionalism I appreciated – and the kind that drove Stephanie crazy.
Finally, after she'd switched out the bag hanging on the pole to my right, she spoke. "Manoso, I'm Henderson, and I'm the charge nurse on this floor. Anything special I need to know to make your time here any easier?"
She wasn't asking a fluff question, and the no-nonsense manner she addressed me allowed me to respond without feeling like I needed to harness people skills that were way beyond my reach at the moment.
"The less interaction I have with the young nursing staff, the better," I told her, not sure why that was the first thing out of my mouth. I still remembered the touch on my arm when they thought I was still unconscious and how it had made me nauseous.
"Anything else?" she asked after nodding her head at my demand.
"My phone stays with me at all times," I stated rather forcefully. I knew she understood this based on her explanation from before, but the object in my hand was a link to Stephanie, and right now, I couldn't stand the thought of it being taken from me.
"Got it," she assured me before adding, "I have a charger that I'll bring and plug in so that you don't lose contact with whoever is on the other end of the phone."
I knew the battery life on this type of phone was well beyond anything commercially available, but it still had limits, and I was glad she was aware of them before it died on me and I had to experience feeling cut off from the outside world.
There was a pregnant pause where she waited to see if I had any other random thoughts to share. Once it became obvious neither of us had anything else to add, she turned and walked out.
Without missing a beat, I resumed the memory movie of Stephanie. I remembered the first time she'd referred to me as Batman and how she'd seemed so sure I owned a home that was well hidden, which she referred to as the Batcave. I did have a house that I owned – and yes, protected – but in reality, my apartment on seven was more of my home. It was certainly where I spent most of my time. Plus, after the first time she'd crashed there and I'd seen her sleeping in my bed, I felt more drawn to that place than any other spot on Earth.
I smiled as the memory of her sneaking into my office at Haywood, as though I wouldn't be alerted by the guys in the control room when she tried to get in and out of my secure space. After she left, I went down the stairs because I knew she'd never consider putting herself through that exercise when an elevator was available. I hoped by getting in right after she'd been there that I could figure out what she'd been up to. I refused to believe she was attempting to take anything from me, but her behavior didn't exactly lend itself to any other interpretation.
The second I walked into my office, I laughed out loud. On my desk was a small rectangular box, wrapped in black paper with the Batman symbol in bright yellow on top. I must have wasted half an hour sitting in my chair, just staring at the package. It had been years since I'd gotten a real, honest-to-God birthday present, complete with fancy paper and a card. My family had gone to exchanging gift cards years ago, preferring to let people pick out what they wanted. It was practical, but until I was faced with a real surprise gift, I didn't realize what we were missing.
Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer and I opened the card, which carried the same superhero theme. There were no printed words, but she'd filled most of the blank space with her curly script, wishing me a happy birthday and reminding me that the skips hadn't been missing court much lately, but she couldn't let my big day go without recognizing it. I knew that the low levels hadn't been giving her much to chase lately but hadn't thought that she might be low on funds.
Without thinking about the invasion to her privacy, I pulled up the live file I had on her and looked up her checking account balance. She was down to seven hundred dollars, and it was the last day of the month. Tomorrow, her rent of six hundred and ninety dollars would be due, and then she'd be down to her final ten bucks. Practically speaking, she was dead broke, and yet she'd still used some of her money to buy me a present. No matter what was in the box, I knew it would be the most valuable thing I owned.
Carefully, I pulled the tape off, ensuring I didn't rip the paper, and then neatly folded it for some reason. I wasn't one of those people who saved wrapping paper to reuse, but every part of this present was meaningful, and I didn't want to lose any of it because I was impatient. Finally, I lifted the lid from the box, and the grin that came over my face was too much to block with my typical blank expression. Sitting on a bed of fluffy cotton was a Pez dispenser with a Batman head on it. When Stephanie worked a theme, she went all out.
I lifted his head, not really interested in the sugar pellets that usually filled these toys. Unexpectedly, instead of the pale, oval-shaped candy, there was something in the shape of a superhero now sitting in my hand. I was confused about the difference until I noticed her card had fallen over and there was additional writing on the back. In small letters, she'd added, "I knew you would never agree to eat the empty calories of the candy that came with the Pez, so I kept it and filled Batman with my favorite characters from a bottle of chewable multi-vitamins. It's true that there's sugar in them, but at least there's something in it that's good for you, too."
I couldn't stop myself from laughing aloud at that point, and despite knowing I already took a multivitamin that was considered the top of the line, I still popped the kid's product in my mouth. It was sweet and tart at the same time, but knowing the thoughtfulness she'd gone through on my behalf, I'd not tasted anything as wonderful in my life. She'd always been the best kind of medicine for me.
Thinking of medication forced me back to the realism of my current situation. Somehow, I had to find a way to pass the time for fourteen days with no physical activity. It was then that I found my right arm moving once again, bringing my phone up to my ear and holding down the speed-dial number that I knew would bring me the voice I most wanted to hear. I hadn't thought it through or considered what I might want to say to her. I'd just acted on a gut-reaction kind of impulse.
"Hello?" Stephanie answered on the third ring, somehow making her greeting sound more like a question.
"Hey, Babe," I responded, letting her know who was dialing her at whatever time it happened to be.
"Ranger?" She still sounded uncertain that it was me, making me wonder if I'd woken her.
"It's me," I promised her. When she didn't immediately speak, I added, "Are you okay?"
My concern for her was enough to break whatever spell she'd been under, and she finally spoke. I knew then that it didn't matter what she said; just hearing her made me feel more like a man than I had since the bomb first detonated. I felt strong and vital, and any thoughts that had been lingering about being incomplete totally vanished in her voice. I'd been right to call her... She was exactly the medicine I needed.
Stephanie's POV
It was just after midnight, and I couldn't sleep. Tank had called earlier and told me that after reviewing the tape, they had an image of who had planted the bomb in my car. Any wishful thinking I'd done about it being an accident where my bad luck allowed some fluke to make my car combust was now completely gone. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened, but knowing that the person who had always watched over me wasn't in town now had made me feel vulnerable and exposed.
Going as far as to pick up my phone and debate speed-dialing him, I was stuck in that position when the object in my hand began to ring. It took me a minute to believe someone was really there and it wasn't a figment of my imagination before I answered.
Even then, I was convinced I'd somehow gone to sleep because the person on the other end of the phone was the very man I most wanted to hear from. If he'd been in town and this had happened, I knew he'd be pushing for me to stay in lockdown of some sort, which I'd completely object to and fight him on. Knowing that, it seemed strange to experience the sense of relief I felt just from hearing his voice. I guess what I'd really needed was the assurance that I wasn't alone. The unconditional support I'd always gotten from Ranger was the precise medicine I needed to rip away the sensation of isolation I'd been wallowing in earlier.
When he asked me if everything was okay, I felt my mouth open, and I jumped in to tell him everything that had happened since we last spoke a couple of days before. I'd never know how he knew to call when he did, but I'd be forever grateful that once again, my own personal Batman was there for me exactly when I needed him to be.