Patricia Mccormick - Purple Heart

C AN YOU FEEL THAT, P RIVATE ?

Matt Duffy awoke to a tingling sensation in his foot. He lifted his head and took in the sight of a man in green scrubs standing at the end of his bed. The sensation in his foot, it seemed, had something to do with the man.

Matt closed his eyes, let his head fall back on the pillowand felt a terrible throbbing at the base of his skull.

The tingling in his foot grew stronger, annoying, a series of pinpricks. Matt opened his eyes, looked past the man in scrubs, and saw that he was in a long, narrow room with two rows of metal beds. Across from him, a soldier in a gray T-shirt and shorts sat on the edge of the mattress. The soldier, a baby-faced kid with red hair and freckles, seemed to be staring at something in his lap. Matt squinted. The kid wasnt holding anything at all, it turned out; he was looking at his right arm, at a tight, flesh-colored bandage that ended in a stump where his hand should have been.

Another, sharper jab at his foot. Private Duffy, said the man at the end of the bed. The man had dark, almond-shaped eyes and was wearing a Hawaiian-print surgical cap. He was, apparently, probing the sole of Matts foot with something sharp. Can you feel that?

A voice, thick and slow, said something that sounded like Yeeeaaugh. It was, Matt realized, his voice.

Another pinprick. This time on his leg. And that?

Matt nodded.

Can you wiggle your toes?

Matt looked down toward the foot of the bed. The feet sticking out from the green army blanket were pale and almost delicate, not like his at all. He bit his lip and concentrated. The toes moved.

Good. The man came around from the foot of the bed to the side. Now your fingers.

His fingers also cooperated while Matt watched, as if from far away.

Your legs?

It took all his strength, but he was able to raise them, one at a time, a half inch off the bed.

The man leaned over and put one hand on either side of Matts neck. Face-to-face like this, Matt could see that he was young, that he had a chicken pox scar on his forehead. Was he a doctor? Or some kind of medic?

He turned Matts head ever so slightly, and a sharp, hot stab of pain shot down his neckpain so intense, it brought tears to Matts eyes.

That hurts. The man sounded pleased. Good. Pain is good. Better than the alternative.

He made some notes on a clipboard. Probable TBI, he said, almost to himself. Then he looked up at Matt. Traumatic brain injury. He frowned, hurriedly making more notes. Ill order up some tests for language retrieval, cognitive functioning.

Panic washed over Matt as he strained to understand. Cognitive problems? What did that mean? He tried to speak, but the doctor, or whatever he was, was already on his way out of the ward. Matt wanted to ask what had happened to him. To ask about the other guys in his squad. And to ask him to please, please bring him some water.

But a powerful weariness pressed down on him. He fought to keep it at bay, blinking once, then once more. Then he closed his eyes and surrendered to it.

The noises in the roomthe hum of voices, the steady beep of a machine nearby, the faint trill of a phoneall faded to a low drone and for a moment, before he lost consciousness, Matt saw a little Iraqi boy standing at the end of an alley.

The alley was littered with debris. There was an overturned car in the middle of the street, a candy wrapper fluttering from a coil of razor wire, a stray dog nosing through a pile of trash. From far away, the high-pitched wail of the muezzin pierced the air, calling the faithful to prayers. There was a sudden, silent flash of light and the boy was lifted off his feet. He was smiling, smiling and slowly paddling his arms like a swimmer. Then he seemed to float, high up into the crayon-blue sky, until all Matt could see were the soles of his shoes as he disappeared, far above the burning city.

O N BEHALF OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE U NITED S TATES AND the citizens of a grateful nation

Matt opened his eyes and saw an officer, a lieutenant colonel, a man with a deeply tanned face and a regulation crew cut, standing over his bed. The man was clutching a box, the kind of thing that would hold a piece of jewelry, a necklace maybe. Then he took the thing from the box, leaned over, and laid it on Matts chest.

He paused for a moment and searched Matts eyes for some sign of understanding. A heavy fatigue pressed down on Matt, but he struggled to keep his eyes open. He could feel the mans hands working as he took hold of the blanket and did something with it.

I award you the medal of the Purple Heart, he heard the man say. For wounds sustained in combat.

A Purple Heart. Matt had heard that the biggest, bravest, most badass guys in the army often burst into tears when that medal was pinned on their chests. But Matt didnt want a medal. He just wanted to know what was wrong with him. He felt his mouth flopping open and closed, gulping like a fish, but no sound came out.

Your mission now, son, is to get better, the man said.

Matt tried to nod, to say, Yes, sir, but nothing happened.

Get betterand get back out there.

Again, the fatigue bore down on him, pushing him below the surface of consciousness, and he fell back into a thick, hazy sleep as he heard the mans footsteps echoing across the marble floor as he walked away.

W HEN M ATT AWOKE, A PALE SHAFT OF LIGHT WAS STREAMING in from a window nearby. It was dusk, he decided. The light was too weak to be morning light. Dusk. Definitely dusk.

A few rows away, an army chaplain was praying silently over a figure in a bed. Matt tried to call out to him, but the sounds that came out of his mouth were sluggish and dull, not really words at all. The chaplain made the sign of the cross over the figure, then came and stood next to Matt.

The man had watery blue eyes and a cross-hatching of wrinkles that fanned out toward his temples. He was wearing an Oakland As baseball cap, camouflage fatigues with a cross insignia, and some kind of purple scarf draped around his neck. The scarf had a special name. Matt knew it from his days as an altar boy. But he couldnt remember it.

The priest reached for the cup of water next to Matts bed and lifted it as if he were raising the chalice at Communion. Matt nodded weakly and the priest put the straw to his mouth. The water was stale and tepid; it had probably been sitting there forever. But it felt good going down Matts throat.

He took a few sips, then let his head fall back onto the pillow. Father, he said, his voice cracking, whats wrong with me?

Im not sure I can answer that, son, the priest said. Why dont we take a look at your chart?

He walked to the foot of the bed and picked up a clipboard that must have been hanging there. Says here youre eighteen years old. Catholic. Blood type O positive. The priest scanned the page silently. They brought you in six hours ago. A couple of stitches, bruised ribs. He paused. TBI. Traumatic brain injury.

Matt fought to stay calm. Whats that?

Laymens terms? Its when your brain gets shaken up.

Im not The word was right on the tip of his tongue, but he couldnt remember it.

Brain damaged?

Matt nodded.

Well, son, Im not a doctor, but I think youre going to be fine.