One Was a Soldier by Julia Spencer-Fleming

forward. “You know, there are double-amputee runners out there.”
    Sarah watched as the cheerful mask came back up. “Yeah,” Will said, “but I’ve decided I want to be a tap dancer instead.”
    Everyone laughed, the relieved laughter of those who had gotten to the brink of the abyss but had avoided falling into the bottomless pit of complete and merciless honesty.
    Sarah sighed. “Work,” she said. “Let’s talk about work.”

 
    MONDAY, JUNE 27
    Trip Stillman sat across his desk from his old colleague, watching her fall apart.
    “I’m just trying to get him the help he needs.” Dr. Anne Vining-Ellis’s voice was clogged with tears. “But it’s so hard! Since he came home from Walter Reed it’s been like pushing a rock uphill. On both sides! He qualifies for physical therapy, but Stratton Medical Center can only fit him in once a week. Chris hauls him down to Albany for his sessions, and the rest of the week, he just sits there. Then they suggested a therapist for his depression, but he refuses to go.”
    “Depression?”
    “Lethargy, sleeping dysfunction, loss of appetite—you could use him as a teaching case for interns.” Anne swiped at her eyes with a crumpled tissue and waved her hand. “Oh, he’s trying to hide it from me, with his smiles and his jokes. I think the marines indoctrinated him with a good-little-soldier attitude.” Her lip curled and cracked around the word “marines.” “But he’s lost interest in everything. He doesn’t want to go anywhere, he doesn’t want to do anything—”
    “Have you prescribed anything?”
    “No, of course not. Not that I haven’t been tempted.”
    “And now he’s reporting pain?”
    “At the amputation site. Whenever he tries to walk on his prosthetics. I don’t know if he’s really having a problem or if it’s an excuse to not do his exercises at home. I’ll take him back down to D.C. and get him refitted if it’s necessary, but what if it’s not?” She blew her nose.
    Trip slid the tissue box toward her. “Let me take a look at him.”
    “Oh, God. Thank you, Trip. I know you’ve done a couple of tours of duty. I’m hoping he’ll listen to another soldier where he won’t listen to me.”
    He pushed back from his desk. “I don’t know if two ninety-day stints will qualify me as a fellow soldier to a marine, but I’ll do what I can.” He opened his office door, ushering Anne into the wide corridor that led to the waiting room. Trip had to admit, her tears and jitters shook him. Anne was the very definition of an emergency department jockey—cool under pressure, calm when everything around her fell apart, able to process rapid-fire information and turn it into a rational diagnosis and a measured treatment plan. He had consulted with her half a hundred times before she left the Washington County Hospital for Glens Falls. He had never seen her lose it. Never.
    Will was slouching in his wheelchair as they entered the waiting room. He sat up immediately. He would have been a big kid before—all the Ellis boys took after their dad—and his five months post-trauma hadn’t entirely wasted his natural youthful muscle, although he looked way too pale and had clearly lost weight.
    “Hi, Will. I’m Dr. Stillman.” They shook hands. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? You were in Catrin’s class.” Trip’s middle daughter was a sophomore at Smith. No wonder Anne was so overwrought. A nineteen-year-old ought to be in college, his worst problems hangovers and getting girls to go out with him.
    Will nodded. His light brown hair was growing out of its baldy sour, giving him the appearance of a hedgehog. “Catrin and I were on the cross-country and track team together.”
    Behind Will, his mother made frantic no-no-no gestures. Talking about running was off-limits? That wasn’t a good sign. “Your mom says you’ve been experiencing some difficulties with the prosthetics.” He gestured to the hall. “Why don’t you come on in