Purple Heart Part 3

"You keeping a journal?" he said. He tapped the black notebook in his hand but didn't wait for Matt to answer. "Everything goes in here. Every order I got, every raid I went on."

"How come?"

"They're going to question you," he said. "Everybody here gets interviewed. About, you know, what happened to them."

Matt frowned. "I don't know what happened to me."

"Well, you're gonna want to figure that out," Francis said.

Then the doors at the end of the room swung open and a pair of MPs came striding in. The ward fell silent.

There was a lot to be afraid of in Iraq: roadside bombs, snipers, mortar fire. But seeing a pair of military police coming toward you was just about the worst. It meant someone was in trouble with the bra.s.s. Big trouble. "I'd rather have a bunch of hajis shooting my a.s.s off than deal with those a.s.sholes," Justin once said. "Those guys will make your life a living h.e.l.l."

Matt averted his eyes as the two MPs advanced, but Francis shoved his notebook under his pillow and got out of bed.

"Sorry, brother," Francis said, turning toward Matt. "Looks like I have a date."

A STRANGE SOUND WOKE STRANGE SOUND WOKE M MATT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. At first, he thought it was the faint mewling of an alley cat. There were lots of strays in Baghdad, cats and dogs. His squad had adopted a tiny gray kitten they'd found nosing through the garbage during their first week in country. Itchy, they named him. The first time a mortar hit the compound, the soldiers had practically jumped out of their socks. Itchy didn't even blink. Only a few weeks old, he was already a veteran.

But as Matt listened more closely, he understood that the sound wasn't coming from outside. And it wasn't a kitten. It was a man, several beds away, weeping softly.

"WHAT DAY IS IT?"

Matt shrugged. "The doctor asked me that yesterday," he said. He was in a tiny office, sitting across the table from the cute young female officer who'd brought the satellite phone to him the other day. Her name was Meaghan, Meaghan Finnerty, and she had reddish-blond hair that she kept tucking behind her ears, ears that were small and pink. They reminded Matt of seash.e.l.ls.

The sign on her door-written in Magic Marker above an indecipherable Arabic word-said Evaluations. Evaluations.

"Do you know what month it is?" she said.

Matt didn't answer.

"Don't worry," she said. "This isn't a test. Your answers are confidential."

Matt sighed. September was Caroline's birthday, and he remembered Sergeant McNally giving him leave to go to the rear operating base to call her with his free USO calling card. It had been three in the morning her time, so Caroline was asleep. She said there'd been a fight at the homecoming game. That had been only a little while ago, so he took a guess. "October?"

Meaghan Finnerty didn't let on if this was right or wrong. "How about the day of the week?"

Matt was pretty sure he'd been in the hospital for a day and a half, maybe two; he counted backward from when Dr. Kwong had said he'd been there for twenty-four hours and tried to remember how many times the orderlies had brought around the meal carts. That added up to two days, give or take, but he still had no idea what days.

He shrugged.

"Can you tell me the names of your squad members?" she said.

"Justin-he's my boy," Matt said. "Wolf-his real name is Hugh, but we call him that because of how he can howl. He has a wolf sticker on the back of his helmet. His mom sent us Silly String."

She nodded, her expression unreadable.

Matt went on, anxious to show her how much he could remember. "Sergeant McNally. He's from Pittsburgh. He's a...you know, when you stand on a ladder..." He kneaded his brow with the tips of his fingers. His head was throbbing and he couldn't think of the word. He looked at Meaghan Finnerty for help.

"Does he use a hammer or a paintbrush?" she asked.

"A hammer, ma'am. He makes things. Like shelves." The word was just out of reach.

"Is he a carpenter?"

"Yes, ma'am. A carpenter. That's it." He felt like a fool.

Meaghan Finnerty reached for a stack of what looked like playing cards. She held one up and asked him to tell her what it was.

"A shoe," he said in a sullen tone.

She held up another card.

It was the thing you wear when it rains. Matt bit his lip and tried to think of the word. Then he stood up abruptly, scattering Meaghan Finnerty's stack of cards all over the floor. He wasn't going to play this stupid, kindergarten game anymore.

"I'm not an idiot, you know." He waited for her to dress him down or kick him out of her office.

"I know you're not," she said simply.

"Then what's the matter with me?" He slumped back down in the chair, weak suddenly from his outburst, his head pounding.

"A lot of people with TBI have trouble finding or remembering words. And they often do what you did: use a complicated definition for a common item," she said. "It's a way of covering up for a lack of understanding or an inability to think of a word."

"Is that why I just acted like such an a.s.shole?" He caught himself. "Ma'am. Excuse me, ma'am."

But Meaghan Finnerty smiled ever so slightly. "That's a good sign."

"Acting like a...jerk?"

She shook her head and stray pieces of her hair came untucked from behind her ears. "Calling yourself one."

"I don't get it," Matt said.

"People with traumatic brain injury often have trouble with social situations; they can't seem to interpret the actions or feelings of others," she said. "At least you knew you were acting like an a.s.shole."

This time, Matt smiled.

"Smiling. That's a good sign, too," she said. "A lot of people have difficulty understanding jokes or sarcasm or abstract expressions."

Matt swallowed. "Can you, you know, can you help me?" He couldn't believe it; he was near tears again. He needed to remember what happened in that alley. Someone was going to question him any day and all he knew was what Justin had told him. And he could hardly remember that. Worse, bits and pieces were coming back to him, things that made no sense.

"We'll do what we can here."

"What do you mean?" he said.

"If it turns out you need extensive help, they'll send you to Germany."

Iraq had felt terrifyingly strange when he'd first arrived; after only a few months, it was the only place he could imagine being. Now it was the idea of going to Germany-of leaving his buddies-that seemed terrifying.

"We'll know in another day or two," she said. "I'll evaluate you again and see if we can get you back out in the field."

Matt stared at her, his brow furrowed. He pictured himself standing in a meadow.

"We don't want you out in the field unless you're able to quickly process information, respond to orders, that sort of thing."

He nodded slowly, tentatively. It dawned on him: "Out in the field" was one of those abstract expressions she was talking about.

"But you have to be prepared..." she was saying. "You may have trouble concentrating. Especially when it comes to integrating new or complex pieces of information."

Matt knelt down, gathered up the picture cards on the floor, and handed them to her.

"Raincoat," he said as he turned to leave.

Meaghan Finnerty frowned.

"That last picture you showed me. It was a raincoat."

THE NURSE WITH THE FUZZY PIGTAILS CAME TO HIS BED THE first thing the next morning, lugging a dusty green duffel bag. "Your buddy dropped this off," she said, setting it on the bed. "Private Kane." first thing the next morning, lugging a dusty green duffel bag. "Your buddy dropped this off," she said, setting it on the bed. "Private Kane."

"Justin?" Matt said. "Is he here?"

She shook her head. "He said you might want this stuff," she said. Then one of the other nurses called out for her and she walked away, her white shoes squeaking with efficiency as she crossed the room.

Duct-taped to the bag was a note from Justin.

Dude,You are still the baddest, cold-hard killer around-even if you are wearing a little blue hospital gown that shows your bare white a.s.s. Good luck with the s.e.x change operation.Party on, JP.S. My dad can finally stop harping. Looks like I'm going to get a medal for saving that nubile white a.s.s of yours.P.P.S. Charlene says you can borrow her nail polish anytime.

JUSTIN'S DAD WAS A V VIETNAM VET; HE'D GOTTEN A BUNCH OF medals, including a Bronze Star with a V for valor. He was gung ho about the war, sending Justin letters saying how he'd better kill some hajis and bring home a medal. Justin didn't answer his letters; he said he wasn't going to write back until he had something to say that would shut his dad up. Matt smiled at the word medals, including a Bronze Star with a V for valor. He was gung ho about the war, sending Justin letters saying how he'd better kill some hajis and bring home a medal. Justin didn't answer his letters; he said he wasn't going to write back until he had something to say that would shut his dad up. Matt smiled at the word nubile. nubile. An old word of the week. An old word of the week.

And Charlene, who was only about five feet three but could bench-press more weight than half the guys in their battalion, was the biggest hard-a.s.s in the group. "I'm in combat just as much as you guys are," she'd said, holding out a quarter-size piece of shrapnel she wore on a cord around her neck. "Souvenir of a firefight from March." The guys had given her merciless s.h.i.t when she'd pulled a bottle of nail polish out of her duffel-until she showed them how to use it to repair a leak in the tube of her gas mask.

Matt tugged on the drawstring of his duffel bag. Stuffed inside were a couple pairs of clean underwear, a can of foot powder, his DVD player, along with the sixth season of South Park, South Park, his yearbook, a can of Pringles, and a packet of Skoal. At the bottom were his letters from Caroline folded inside a Ziploc bag, along with the picture he'd kept taped inside his helmet. He'd only been in the hospital for, what? forty-eight hours?, but the things in the duffel bag looked like souvenirs from another life, like the baby pictures and old report cards his mom kept in a sc.r.a.pbook-especially the picture of Caroline. his yearbook, a can of Pringles, and a packet of Skoal. At the bottom were his letters from Caroline folded inside a Ziploc bag, along with the picture he'd kept taped inside his helmet. He'd only been in the hospital for, what? forty-eight hours?, but the things in the duffel bag looked like souvenirs from another life, like the baby pictures and old report cards his mom kept in a sc.r.a.pbook-especially the picture of Caroline.

It was a photo of her in her cheerleading uniform. She was looking off into the distance, at something that was happening on the football field, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. He had another picture of her-a photo of the two of them at the prom, standing under an arch covered in plastic flowers-but he liked this one best because she hadn't known her picture was being taken. She was just standing there, in front of everyone in the bleachers, unaware of how little-girlish she looked, twirling her hair around her finger, concentrating, trying to understand what had just happened on the field.

He slipped the picture out of the Ziploc bag and held it gingerly by the tips of his fingers. At night, before they went out on house-to-house searches, he'd take the picture out and spend the last few minutes before they left looking at Caroline twirling her hair, pretending he was in the bleachers watching her. He could practically feel the snap in the fall air, hear the shrill call of the referee's whistle, feel the lump in his jacket pocket where he'd hidden a can of Budweiser.

But now she seemed more like someone in one of those celebrity magazines. Her face was familiar-the way Jennifer Aniston or Britney Spears was familiar-in the way that makes you feel like you know the person, even though all you really know is their picture. He put the picture back in the Ziploc bag and slipped it under his pillow.

He opened the yearbook and flipped idly through the pages. He scanned the pictures of the debate team, the Honor Society, the Chemistry Club, and wondered what those kids were doing right now. Go get Saddam, Go get Saddam, one kid had written. one kid had written. Remember the Alamo, Remember the Alamo, said another. said another.

As he turned the page, a piece of paper fluttered onto the bed. It was a child's drawing of a battle. The guns-M16s and M4s-were precisely drawn, even though they were nearly as big as the soldiers. A Black Hawk UH-60 hovered overhead-complete with h.e.l.lfire ant.i.tank missiles mounted on the sides. Its guns spit out a shower of bullets-drawn as a hundred tiny pencil hash marks arching across on the paper. At the bottom it was signed in wobbly English letters: Ali. Ali.

The last time he'd seen Ali was when they were patrolling the market near the al-Hikma Mosque. Charlene had caught him trying to steal a blue plastic tarp off the back of their Humvee.

"Skittles," he said, batting his eyes at Charlene. "Please."

Ali had become a bit of a pest. He'd started out begging for food, but lately, he seemed to miraculously appear whenever they were in his sector, hanging around, getting underfoot, begging for batteries, old magazines, empty soda cans-anything he could sell. Charlene had shooed him away, then turned to Matt. "We're really not supposed to fraternize with the local children."

Matt couldn't believe it. She was quoting from the new Army Field Manual. "We're here to help these people, Charlene. Besides, he's just a kid."

Matt picked up the drawing, studied it for a while, then tucked it inside the Ziploc bag along with Caroline's letters.

FRANCIS WAS BACK, WRITING FURIOUSLY IN A SMALL BLACK notebook. At the other end of the room, there was a new guy-a middle-aged man with soft, sloping shoulders and a bit of a paunch-sitting up in bed reading notebook. At the other end of the room, there was a new guy-a middle-aged man with soft, sloping shoulders and a bit of a paunch-sitting up in bed reading Hustler. Hustler. Matt decided to go for another walk, to see if he could make it as far as that guy's bed. Matt decided to go for another walk, to see if he could make it as far as that guy's bed.

He felt a little stronger this time, a little more steady on his feet, but he was aware that his right leg was dragging a little. It didn't hurt; it just didn't move in sync with his other leg. Two days and he was able to walk forty-five steps.

The guy turned the magazine upside down on his belly. "So," he said, "what brings you here?"

"I was on the business end of an RPG," Matt said. This phrase still didn't sound quite right, but it was the one thing he was sure of. "What about you?"

"Threw my back out hauling a drum of kerosene," he said. "I'm pretty sure they don't give out Purple Hearts for that. Too bad. I'd like to bring that back to my cla.s.s."

Matt didn't get it.

"Shop cla.s.s," the guy said. "I teach shop. I'm National Guard. Never thought they'd actually send us here. But I'll tell you, I am too old for this c.r.a.p. I'll be forty-three next month and I am too old to be running around this G.o.dforsaken place, chasing after kids half my age, looking for hajis around every corner..."

An image-Justin bolting around a corner, running across the alley with his head down-flashed into Matt's mind, then vanished as quickly as it had come.

"...but they need me, you know what I mean?" The shop teacher kept talking, unaware that Matt had stopped listening. "I can even rig up a DVD player to run off a car battery. What about you?" he said. "What do you do back home?"

"Me? Auto detailing."

"So the army gave you a big pay raise, right? Nine hundred a month to get shot at. I bet you're not even legal to buy beer, am I right?"

Matt nodded.

Talking to this guy-or, rather, listening to him-was exhausting and Matt started to walk away, his head pounding.

He'd only gone about a half dozen steps when he had to stop and grab hold of the railing of an empty bed. He stood there as his legs trembled uncontrollably. The railing started to slip from his grasp-his hands were suddenly sweaty-and he felt his legs give out from under him.

A pair of hands grabbed him roughly, lifting him up by the armpits. It was Francis. Somehow he'd made it from the other end of the ward just in time.

"Whoa there, little buddy," he said. "Am I gonna have to tell the bartender to cut you off?"

Matt looked into his eyes. They were deep brown, the color of a strong cup of coffee.