Purple Heart Read online

  Purple Heart

  by Patricia McCormick

  For Brandon

  In Memoriam:

  Army Sergeant Sherwood Baker

  Army Specialist Joshua Justice Henry

  Marine Lance Corporal Patrick B. Kenny

  Army First Lieutenant Neil Anthony Santoriello

  Marine Lance Corporal William Brett Wightman

  Contents

  Begin Reading

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  “CAN YOU FEEL THAT, PRIVATE?”

  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 pillow—and 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 wasn’t 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 Matt’s 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 Matt’s 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 Matt’s head ever so slightly, and a sharp, hot stab of pain shot down his neck—pain so intense, it brought tears to Matt’s 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. “I’ll 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 room—the hum of voices, the steady beep of a machine nearby, the faint trill of a phone—all 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.

  “ON BEHALF OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES 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 Matt’s chest.

  He paused for a moment and searched Matt’s 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 man’s 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 didn’t 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 better—and 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 man’s footsteps echoing across the marble floor as he walked away.

  WHEN MATT 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 A’s 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 couldn’t remember it.

  The priest reached for the cup of water next to Matt’s 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 Matt’s throat.

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

  “I’m not sure I can answer that, son,” the priest said. “Why don’t 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 you’re 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. “What’s that?”

  “Laymen’s terms? It’s when your brain gets shaken up.”

  “I’m not…” The word was right on the ti
p of his tongue, but he couldn’t remember it.

  “Brain damaged?”

  Matt nodded.

  “Well, son, I’m not a doctor, but I think you’re going to be fine.”

  “Why? How do you know?”

  The priest sighed. “If your injury were more serious, they’d fly you out to Germany. In this war, as soon as you’re well enough to walk and fire a gun, they send you back out. Evidently, they think you’re going to be ready to fight again before long.”

  Matt exhaled. If he could get back to the guys, everything would be okay.

  The priest—the name stitched on his pocket said Fr. Brennan—opened his prayer book and began reciting something, his lips barely moving, his voice hushed. When he finished, he made the sign of the cross, then touched the tip of his purple scarf to Matt’s forehead.

  Matt’s throat clamped up. What was wrong with him? When did he turn into such a crybaby? He bit down on the inside of his mouth to keep from crying.

  The priest looked at him with what seemed like infinite understanding. “Be still, son,” he said. “Be still. And know.”

  Matt had been expecting some kind of standard Catholic saying about the Lord being his shepherd, that sort of thing. “What’s that from, sir?” he asked.

  The priest smiled, took off his baseball cap, and held it out toward Matt. Under the brim, written in ballpoint pen, were the words: Be still. And know.

  Matt didn’t get it.

  “It’s short for ‘Be still and know that I am in you and I do the work.’” Father Brennan stared down at the inscription. “Barry Zito. Oakland A’s. Cy Young winner 2002.”

  Matt nodded.

  “It’s his mantra,” Father Brennan said, wringing the cap in his hands. “Wrote it on the inside of his brim one time when he was in a slump. So when he got on the mound, he could just look up, see those words and tune out everything else. Turned his whole season around.”

  Matt remembered, sort of.

  “Here in Iraq, the things you see, sometimes you wonder about God,” Father Brennan said. He put his cap back on his head and walked toward the next bed. “But there’s always baseball.”

  MATT LAY IN BED FOR A WHILE, TRYING TO TAKE IN HIS surroundings. Only a few of the other beds were filled and the people in them seemed to be sleeping or reading. There was an Alabama football bumper sticker plastered on the wall across from his bed. Roll on, Tide, it said. Matt wondered what happened to the soldier who’d put it there. Was he home, recovering? Or was he back with his squad? Or dead? Nearby was a magazine picture of Jessica Simpson in cut-off jeans and a straw hat. Someone had drawn words coming out of her mouth: I support the troops.

  Matt thought for a minute of the bombed-out elementary school that their squad used as a base, where he had taped up a picture of Jennifer Lopez over his cot. Justin had written a bubble coming out JLo’s mouth that said, Matt Duffy is charismatic. Charismatic was one of the words from Justin’s word-a-day calendar, something his mom had sent him. The guys gave him endless grief about his vocabulary-improvement plan, but Justin was dead serious about it. “Just because I’m devastatingly handsome doesn’t mean I can’t also be smart,” he’d said. On the bottom of the picture, Wolf, another one of the guys, had scribbled another line coming out of JLo’s mouth: I want Matt Duffy to be my baby daddy.

  “Mind if I take your vitals?” A young black woman in scrubs had appeared out of nowhere. Her skin was dark as blue velvet and her hair was pulled up into two bunches on the top of her head. She had wide, deep brown eyes and a full mouth. Her teeth stuck out a little, not in a rabbity way but in a way that was, for some reason Matt couldn’t quite figure out, sort of sexy.

  She laid a cool hand on Matt’s wrist.

  “Where am I?” he said.

  She scarcely glanced up. “Ward twelve, bed thirty-seven.”

  “No, I mean, are we in Baghdad?” he said. “This place is pretty quiet.” There was no shelling or AK-47 fire.

  “Yup,” she said. “Welcome to the Green Zone.”

  The famous Green Zone. The walled compound inside Baghdad where Saddam Hussein had once lived. Now it was occupied by the Central Provisional Authority. The brass.

  Matt and his squad had patrolled Sadr City, an insurgent hotbed just outside the walls of the compound. But they’d all been fascinated with the Green Zone. Justin said the staff at the CPA could get hamburgers and hot showers there. “They can even watch movies in Saddam’s old palace theater,” he’d said one morning when they were on latrine cleanup duty. “America on the Tigris,” Justin called it.

  The nurse strapped a blood-pressure cuff on his arm and began squeezing the little black pump. “This used to be a private hospital for Saddam’s friends.”

  Matt took a good look around. The walls and floors were covered in thickly veined gray-and-white marble. There was a crescent and star symbol inlaid in the floor in the center of the room. And everywhere there were little white signs in the curvy, mysterious alphabet of Arabic; underneath, in Magic Marker, were English labels.

  Behind the nurse, Matt could see a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall. Next to it was a small plastic sign in Arabic, illustrated with a simple diagram of how to use it. A piece of duct tape had been stuck over the sign and someone had written on it, in English, Fire Extinguisher.

  But the staff, or maybe the patients, had done their best to make the place look like home, too. There was a cluster of little desktop American flags at the nurses’ station, a Rambo poster taped on the men’s room door, and a wall covered with bumper stickers. It’s God’s Job to Forgive Saddam. It’s Our Job to Arrange the Meeting, said one. Proud to be an Infidel, said another. And, down at the bottom, one about Bush: He put the DUH in W.

  “Do you know what happened to the other guys in my squad?” he said.

  If she’d heard, she didn’t answer. She had released the blood-pressure cuff and was standing still as if she was listening for something. Then came the unmistakable whoomp, whoomp sound of helicopters in the distance.

  “Medevacs,” she said. And, just as quickly as she’d appeared, she left.

  LATER, MATT DIDN’T KNOW HOW MUCH LATER, THE MAN IN the green scrubs came back to his bedside. This time, he was wearing a Stars and Stripes surgical cap. And this time, Matt had a chance to look at his name tag. J. Kwong. M.D. So he was a doctor, after all.

  “Well, Private Duffy. It’s been almost twenty-four hours,” he said, looking down at Matt’s chart. “How are you feeling?”

  “Sir, what’s this brain thing I have?” Matt said.

  “TBI?” The doctor glanced up. “Most common injury in Iraq. It’s like a concussion, only worse.”

  Matt waited for him to say more.

  “We’re going to keep you here for a couple days, do an evaluation,” he said, making a note on the chart. “TBI usually gets better on its own—especially in mild cases. But it can get worse a couple days after the impact.” He hung the clipboard at the foot of the bed. “We’re going to keep an eye on you, get you up and moving, see what you remember, what you don’t.”

  Matt nodded as if he understood. He didn’t remember what Dr. Kwong had told him yesterday. He wasn’t even sure he remembered what he’d said just a few minutes ago.

  Dr. Kwong shined a light in Matt’s eyes, then asked him if he knew what day it was.

  Matt stared at him blankly.

  “You know the month?”

  Matt couldn’t answer.

  “The name of your unit?”

  “The hundred-and-third.”

  Dr. Kwong made a note in his chart. “So,” he said, “here’s what you can expect. Dizziness, memory problems…”

  He went on with the checklist of symptoms, at the same time putting Matt’s body through a series of motions—bending his legs, tapping his knees with a little rubber-tipped hammer, poking and prodding him.

  “…vomiting, problems with coordination, mood swings, low frustration threshold.” He paused. “You may find yourse
lf…agitated.”

  “Agitated?” Matt said. “What do you mean, ‘agitated’?”

  Dr. Kwong glanced away for a moment. “You may be…emotional for a while.”

  Matt looked away, too, focusing instead on a blond nurse who was changing the sheets on a bed across the way.

  “You may have trouble remembering simple words and phrases,” Kwong said. “And you could have a hard time learning and retaining new information.”

  “Sir,” Matt said, “I have a…” He stopped.

  “You don’t have to call me sir.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “You know. When your head hurts. And you take aspirin…”

  “Headache?” Dr. Kwong said.

  “Yeah, a headache.”

  The doctor nodded. “Exactly what I’m talking about. Difficulty with language retrieval.” He looked up from the chart where he was making notes. “You follow hockey?”

  Was this a trick question, Matt wondered, like asking him what day it was?

  “Eric Lindros. Remember him?” Dr. Kwong was smiling now. “Played for the Philadelphia Flyers.”

  Matt tried to imagine what some hockey player from Philadelphia had to do with him.

  “He had something like fifty concussions,” Dr. Kwong said. “He has TBI.”

  “Oh,” Matt said.

  “Don’t worry,” Dr. Kwong said. “He also has a really hot wife.” He scribbled a few more notes on the chart. Then closed the file.

  “Someone from Lieutenant Colonel Fuchs’s staff will come by later,” the doctor said. “They’ll ask you some questions. Write up a report about the incident.” He hung the chart at the foot of the bed. “It’s routine under these kinds of circumstances.”

  Matt didn’t quite follow. These kinds of circumstances?

  But the doctor was gone, his beeper summoning him somewhere else in the hospital.