Page 104 of Returned Mail

Fear.

Not because he's recovering. I’m so happy he is, but eventually he won't need me. I don't want to tell him that. I don't want to tell anyone. I just smile, celebrate, help him walk, and pretend my chest doesn’t tighten every time a doctor says the word “discharge”.

We’ll be moving to a rehab facility in a couple of days. He seems excited about it, so I let myself get a little bit excited too.

I take a quick moment to text Lyann and my mom some updates. They’ve been asking for a couple of days, but there was nothing to tell them. Not really. Until now.

Me: They are discharging him into a rehab facility. He’s going to be okay! I’ll call you later and tell you more. Love you, Mom.

Mom: Oh honey! I’m so glad to hear that. We’ll talk later. Be safe.

Okay, that’s done.

Me: Hey, we’re moving to a rehab facility. Things are not what he wanted, but what we expected. Can’t talk much right now. Will call later.

Lyann: Ugh, I can’t imagine, babe. It’s okay, just text me when you can.

The military rehabilitation facility isn't what I expected.

It's cleaner, quieter, and it feels less like a hospital and more like a temporary home. There are a couple of gardens and some common spaces. The hallways are wide, and the bedrooms are more like small suites. The physical therapy areas are insanely organized, and with equipment I didn’t even see at the hospital.

People recovering from things nobody should have to survive in the first place. Some are missing limbs, some have big scars. And I’m sure that some are carrying things you can't see at all.

The first few days here have taught me something. George Hale is an unbelievably stubborn man. The first time he tries to shower by himself, I find him in the middle of the room, with his clothes still on, looking furious, and wet. Completely wet.

“What happened, George?”

He glares. “The shower attacked me.”

I stare. “The shower attacked you?”

“Yes.”

“A stationary object attacked you.” I try to mock him a little.

“It knows what it did.”

I laugh so hard I have to sit down. That somehow makes him even grumpier. Eventually, I help him take a shower, which he hates, of course.

Because needing help and vulnerability make him uncomfortable. And because somewhere along the way, he learned that struggling alone was preferable to being cared for. But I help anyway, in small ways, so I don’t make him more uncomfortable than he needs to be. I hand him towels or steady him when he gets dizzy. I also pretend not to notice when frustration flashes across his face.

And slowly, very slowly… he stops apologizing for needing me.

But I have to say that nights are harder.

The days are filled with progress, goals reached, therapy, doctor appointments, and movement. Nights, on the other hand, are quiet and leave room for memory. The first few nights weren’t that bad. But the fourth one…

The fourth one was hell.

I woke to the sound of something crashing, and for half a second, I was disoriented. Then I heard George. He wasn’t speaking, just breathing wrong.

I sat up immediately.

The room is dark except for the moonlight coming through the window. George is standing. Or trying to. One hand braced against the wall. The other clenched into a fist. His entire body rigid.

“George.” No response.

My pulse spikes as I slowly get off the bed. “George,” I repeat, and nothing.