Don't Go (17 page)

Mike doubted he could live the way they did, for months on end. They’d lose weight and get acne, stomach issues, and ringworm. They’d have no electricity or running water and no hot food. They’d pee in PVC tubes stuck in the ground and they’d defecate in common pots, having almost constant diarrhea. The Taliban paid teenagers five dollars a day to shoot at them, a fortune in a country with an average yearly income of four hundred dollars. The Taliban also paid in heroin, or they would attack when they were high, making them even more dangerous.

Mike came out of his reverie when he noticed Chatty and Joe walking toward him, their heads down and their hands shoved into their pockets. He knew that only one of them was going to be happy about his decision, and he walked to meet them, ready to take the heat.

Chatty’s expression went grim. “Why’d you extend? I begged you not to, man.”

Joe extended a hand to Mike. “Doc, I jus’ want to say thank you. The 556th needs you. You doin’ the right thing.”

“Thanks.” Mike shook Joe’s hand, then turned to Chatty. “Think about what we did in that OR. That made the decision for me.”

“So you want to be a hero, is that it?”

“Maybe, yes, or maybe I just don’t want to be a jerk. I can’t turn my back. I don’t want to be the guy who abandons them. Or you.”

“Don’t do it for me, man.” Chatty groaned, shaking his head and looking down, over his red scratches. “Please, don’t.”

“I did it for me. I don’t want to be the guy sitting safe at home on the couch, knowing I left you all. I couldn’t live with myself. You did two tours, Joe did three. There’s a reason those kids write their blood type on their boots. They need
docs
.”

“What about your family?”

“I know.” Mike felt a deep pang. “But it won’t cost the baby, it’ll cost me. I’ll be home in a year, and I’ll still be her father, and we’ll be a family again.”

Joe nudged Chatty. “It’s done,
Jefe
. It’s over. He made his decision, and we gotta respect it.”

Mike chucked Chatty on the arm. “Right. You’re stuck with me for a year. We’ll leave together, you and me. We’ll turn out the lights. Bye, see ya, Afghanistan.”

“You piss me off.” Chatty smiled, begrudgingly. “It’s like you saw a burning building and ran in. This has to be the dumbest move in the history of dumb moves.”

“Thank you,” Mike said, and Joe laughed, but Chatty remained incredulous.

“Scholl’s, this has to be the dumbest thing you have ever done. In fact, it might be the dumbest thing
any
podiatrist has ever done and they do the dumbest things in the history of dumb things.”

Mike gave him a playful shove. “Come on, you didn’t think I was going to let you stay by yourself, looking pretty for some other guy, did you?”

Chatty pushed Mike back. “I told you to get out, but you had to do it your way.”

“Yes, I did.” Mike shook it off and started walking toward the OR, and they fell into step beside him. “You need me here, Chatty. Who else can you get to do three procedures while you do just the one?”

“Oh, salt!” Joe erupted into merry laughter, clapping his hands. “Doc, you did
not
just say that!”

Chatty’s red eyes flared. “For real? For
real?
”

“You heard me, slacker. Race you to the OR.” Mike took off running, bolting past the nurses.

Chatty gave chase, then Joe joined in and all the nurses, even Linda on her crutches, the entire 556th taking leave of its senses and tearing like demented children toward the bloody OR.

Chapter Thirty-two

Mike sat with Joe at his desk, reading the forms to renew his contract. He flashed on the custody agreement, but he tried not to think about that and picked up the pen. “Last one?” he asked, signing.

“One more, Doc.” Joe took the signed form and replaced it with another.

“Don’t do it, Scholl’s!” Chatty called out from his rack, in back of the tent. They’d had to move into the Tactical Operations Center since the fire.

“Thanks for the support!” Mike called back, then signed the last form.

“Thanks.” Joe took the signed paper and started scanning them into the computer. “Don’t listen to him. We’ll get it done, yo.”

Chatty hollered, “No we won’t, yo! Scholl’s, I’m changing your name to Bonehead. What do you think?”

Mike smiled. “Joe, I should email home and let my in-laws know that I extended. Can’t we consider this official business and use your email?”

Joe nodded. “Gimme a minute, and I’ll lend you the laptop.”

“Thanks.” Mike sat down, trying to compose an email in his mind. He’d email his practice later, assuming there was still a practice to email, and he’d stop taking his base share, too.

“Here we go.” Joe slid him the laptop, which was logged onto the military server. “Don’t be long, okay? We’ll be in Bagram soon to resupply, and you can Skype then. Also, remember OPSEC. I’m reminding you because of Operation Viper. The last thing I heard, they were delaying the offensive because of our staffing issues.”

“I understand.”

Chatty hollered out, “Explain it again, Joe. Talk slow. He’s a bonehead, remember?”

“Chatty, go to sleep!” Mike started typing, keeping it short and sweet, because he could explain more later, when they were in Bagram:

Dear Bob and Danielle, I have decided to stay here so I would appreciate you taking care of Emily. I would write more but I can’t now. I’ll call as soon as I can. Thanks so much. Kiss Emily for me. Love, Mike

Mike pressed
SEND
and passed the laptop back to Joe, managing a smile. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Doc. You’d better get some sleep, too. By the way, here’s your mail.”

“Thanks.” Mike glanced at the mail wrapped around a
Journal of the American Podiatric Medical Association.
He’d put in a forwarding order online and it hurt to see the home bills, like gas, electric, phone, and water, from when Chloe was alive.

“Wait, hold on. I have one more thing for you.” Joe ducked under the table, rooted around, and popped up again, holding a silvery tin heart, with flames coming from the top. “It’s a
milagro
, a good-luck charm.”

“Really?” Mike accepted it, touched

“I asked you to stay, and you agreed. This keeps you safe from harm, keeps you healthy.”

“Where did you get it?”

“My girlfrien’ gave it to me.”

“No, I can’t take it then.” Mike tried to give it back, but Joe put up his hand like a wall.

“Please, she gave me two others, and I got one from my mom and my aunt, too. Trust me, every Tejano in the Army has a stash.”

Chatty hollered out, “Joe, why don’t you kiss him and get it over with?”

Joe laughed. “
Jefe
, you just jealous I didn’t give you one.”

“The hell I am!”

Mike smiled. “He’s jealous.”

“I know.” Joe winked.

“Thanks, Joe. Good night.” Mike tucked the milagro in the pocket of his ACU jacket with the crucifix and the Emily photo, picked up the packet of mail, and made his way to the back of the tent. Supply boxes had been stacked to form a makeshift wall between Joe’s office and their sleeping area, which consisted of two cots placed end-to-end against the tent wall.

Chatty lay in his cot, with his night-vision goggles on his watchcap, which was pulled over his eyes. “I’m not jealous.”

“Are too.” Mike stretched out on his rack, putting his mail on his chest. It struck him that this was their first night without Phil and Oldstein, but the glasses and iPod were still under Joe’s table, so they were under the same roof, after all.

“This truly sucks, does it not?”

“Yes, it does.” Mike didn’t have to ask Chatty what he meant. He stared at the ceiling, which billowed in the wind. Six inches of snow had fallen, and they’d had to brush off the top so the tent wouldn’t collapse.

“Here’s my problem, Bonehead. I find what’s transpired completely unacceptable, yet it keeps happening. One unacceptable event after another. It’s a slippery slope, my addle-pated friend, and before you know it, you’re accepting the unacceptable.”

Mike smiled, not because it was funny, but because it was true. “Which is, in itself, unacceptable.”

“Ha! You’re not so dumb after all. And if things weren’t bad enough, our porn cache burned up. War is hell.”

Mike groaned, not ready for gallows humor. “Too soon, Chatty.”

“I can’t sleep,” Chatty said, after a minute, and Mike picked up his mail, set aside the bills, and opened up his podiatric journal.

“Would you like me to read you a bedtime story?”

“Does it involve women kissing? I love those stories at bedtime.”

“No.” Mike opened his podiatric journal. “It involves the consequences of pediatric obesity on the foot-and-ankle complex.”

“Read on, it will put me to sleep.”

“Once upon a time, there were ten obese children and ten children of average weight, and they were recruited for a cross-sectional research study.” Mike paraphrased the abstract of the article. “Anthropometric parameters were measured to evaluate active ankle dorsiflexion, arch height—”

“Enough. Tell me a story where the pizza boy comes in and meets the two girls and they start kissing.”

Mike set the magazine down, moved aside the household bills, and flipped through his junk mail. “All I have is a class reunion reminder, a Valpak, and a discount card from a guy who wants to plow my driveway.” He stopped at an unfamiliar envelope that wasn’t junk mail, with a return address from the Coroner’s Office of Chester County, Pennsylvania.

“Come on, tell me a story. Start with the pizza. What kind of pizza do they get? I like mushroom.”

Mike couldn’t speak. The envelope must contain Chloe’s autopsy report and toxicology screen, which would show the alcohol levels in her system.

“I also like pepperoni. Can’t you just taste a pepperoni pizza right now? Real New York pizza. Thin crust with gooey mozzarella and that yellow cornmeal on the bottom.”

“
Jefe!”
Joe hollered from the office area. “Please stop talking about pizza! Noise discipline!”

Chatty called back, “Your problem is that you think MREs are food!”

Joe yelled out, “I’m responsible for your nutrition! I keep my family well fed!”

Chatty yelled back, “Then get me a New York pizza! Bonehead, you ever have John’s, in the Village? Or Bleeker’s?”

“No.” Mike got up stiffly, folding the autopsy report in with the other mail. “I have to go to the bathroom. Be right back.”

Chatty rolled his watchcap up, so he could see. “Scholl’s, it’s twenty degrees out there. You can’t hold it in?”

“Nah.” Mike stuck the mail under his arm.

Chapter Thirty-three

Mike sat on one of the supply boxes in the freezing latrine, stuck his high-intensity flashlight between his teeth, and opened the envelope. The report was four pages, and it read at the top, Office of the Chester County Coroner. There was a grid with the coroner’s and his assistant’s name, and the box was checked Full Autopsy Performed, with the date and exact hour. Under the name, it read Chloe Voulette, and it had her date of birth, age, race, and sex, as well as Body Identified By, and in that blank was filled in Danielle Voulette Ridgeway. The case number was #2013–770.

Mike read the first few lines:

The autopsy is begun at 8:16 p.m. on December 15. The body was presented in a black body bag. The subject was wearing a blue cotton sweater and jeans. Jewelry included two smooth-textured gold hoop pierced earrings, one-inch diameter, one in each ear, one gold watch on left wrist, and one gold and diamond engagement and wedding ring.

Mike read on, to the section under General Appearance:

The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished, adult white female who appears to be the stated age of 32 years. Body height is 66 inches. Body weight is 129 pounds. Rigor mortis is generalized to late. Livor mortis is anterior. The body is cold to the touch. Artifacts of decomposition are absent and evidence of medical and postmortem care is absent. There is obvious evidence of a single knife wound to the left forearm.

Mike wasn’t sure if he could go on, but he wanted to know the alcohol content of her blood. He skimmed the report, concerning identification, then the other parts of the external examination, including head and neck, trunk, and extremities. There was a section on injuries, which described the length and depth of the wound, and below that was a section on internal examination, which began:

Internally, there is almost no blood present in the heart and great vessels and tissues, due to exsanguination from the wound.

Mike skipped ahead to the internal examination section, which described the Head–Central Nervous System, Skeletal System, Respiratory System, Throat Structures, as “unremarkable.” He knew it was a term of art, but nothing about Chloe was unremarkable, to him. The internal examination continued with the Cardiovascular System, Gastrointestinal System, Urinary System, and at the bottom, the Female Genital System. It killed Mike to think that anyone, even a doctor, was intruding on Chloe’s privacy in such an intimate way. Still, he read the paragraph:

Female Genital System: The structures are within normal limits. There is no evidence of recent sexual activity. Examination of the pelvic area indicates that the subject was pregnant at the time of death. The uterine walls reveal swelling and mucosa consistent with healthy pregnancy. The fetus was approximately four (4) weeks gestation. Fetuses under twenty (20) weeks gestation are not considered viable and therefore the fetus was not autopsied.

Mike felt stunned. He must’ve read it wrong. That was impossible. He shined the flashlight on the report and read it again;
Examination of the pelvic area indicates that the subject was pregnant at the time of death
. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to react. It wasn’t possible. There had to be some mistake. He flipped back to the first page of the report, to double-check that this was Chloe’s autopsy. The coroner could’ve confused her with somebody else, but the first page was clearly marked and her case number was at the top of the page. The coroner could have been wrong about her being pregnant, maybe she had some kind of uterine tumor or cyst that he had mistaken for a fetus.