Page 7 of Falling for my First Crush

Julius shrugs. “Eh, whatever. She’s hot, even if she is a little serious for me. If she’s lucky, she’ll get another date with me.”

I focus on eating. He’s being disrespectful to whoever this woman is, but I don’t want to start anything. That would make for a lot of unpleasantness here at work. The conversation continues to focus on Julius and his date. I figure that I must know her family. A fourth generation family means that they’ve been here longer than my family. I’m only third generation, and there aren’t many others that have been here longer. Well, the Moretti family has.

“Maia wanted to take me to some poetry thing at the library, but I convinced her that we should go to the hotel bar instead. I mean, come on! Can you guys even imagine sitting and listening to poetry?” Julius is guffawing as I tune back into the conversation.

I nearly choke on my sandwich, coughing that turns into hacking, as I try to swallow. I take a gulp of water as all the guys turn to look at me. I do my best to shrug. “Wrong pipe,” I manage to choke out.

He’s talking about Maia Moretti. There’s no one else it could be. Jealousy hits me so hard, I feel the edges of my vision darken for a moment. How could she ever go out with someone like him? I want to ask him more questions, find out how she is, get whatever information he’ll give me. But before I can say anything, the siren goes off, meaning we don’t even get to finish dinner. I push all the surging feelings aside, as I get ready to go do my job.

Five

JACKIE

No one mentioned that I was late to dinner, which I took as a minor miracle. Joe wasn’t brought up either, which I thought was strange, but also kind of a relief. I’m not sure what it was about Joe bringing Maia up that got me so upset. They were always close, and he always had a crush on her. She never seemed interested in him like that, though. By the time I go to bed, I decide that it’s all in my head. Joe has every right to ask about anyone he wants.

When I wake up in the morning, I feel a lot better. My head is clear, and my emotions feel regulated. I hurry through my morning routine. I’m taking Sabina to her appointment today. I have high hopes for the new program she’s in at the hospital. Since it’s comprehensive, they should be able to help her with her TBI symptoms as well as her depression and her anxiety. Gianna, Maia, and I are all taking turns getting her to and from her appointments. We all work, as do our parents, so it makes sense for us to all chip in.

I pause at these thoughts, because they aren’t wholly accurate. We feel responsible for what happened to Sabina, but that doesn’t really touch on it either. Guilty, maybe. Sabina joined the Army to prove that she was tough and capable. I often wonder if we made her feel like she wasn’t good enough or strong enough when we were all growing up. If we hadn’t done that to her, she might never have felt the need to prove herself, never have gone overseas, and so on. It’s a horrible game of ‘what if?’ There are no answers. I don’t have any now. All I can do is take the next right step forward.

Sabina is nowhere to be found when I come downstairs. I fix myself a piece of toast. It’s all I can stomach at the moment. Mornings aren’t my jam. My schedule has been so all over the place these past few weeks, that my eating has been off as well.

I’m just finishing my toast, when Sabina drags herself into the kitchen. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a week, which I suspect is close to the truth. I smile at her, and she gives me a weak smile back.

“Are you hungry? Do you want some toast or coffee?” I ask, wincing at the false brightness in my voice.

“I can make my own toast,” she says curtly.

“Right, of course,” I say quickly. “I just meant, since I was going to make myself another piece, I could make you one, too.”

I can tell that Sabina doesn’t believe my lie, but she doesn’t argue with me. She just shakes her head instead. I watch her go about getting some juice from the refrigerator. Most of the time, I can’t tell that she’s recovering from a TBI; but sometimes she has trouble concentrating on the task at hand, or she trembles, as if fear is still radiating through her body. When I see it happening, I want to wrap her in a hug. But Sabina doesn’t like hugs all that much anymore.

“Well, I’m going to finish getting ready for work. Meet you in the car in fifteen minutes?” I say. Sabina nods, but doesn’t look at me. My heart hurts for her. I linger in the doorway for a moment, before heading back to my room to finish getting my stuff together for the day.

I pause in front of the mirror that hangs above my dresser. My dark brown hair is cut in a bob that I’m constantly tucking behind my ears. My hair frames my face and makes me look like a pixie. That’s why I got the cut in the first place. I think it makes me look cute. My eyes are a deep brown, and for a long time I thought it made me look soulful. Cute and soulful are not hot or beautiful. They are not the things that men are looking for.

Why am I even entertaining this sort of thought? I shake my head quickly to clear my brain. I have to focus on work. Today I’m on the maternity ward, which is one of my favorite places to be. There is typically so much joy in the maternity ward with babies being born. I’ve seen some tragedies there as well, but it’s generally a cheerier ward than most of the other ones.

Taking a deep breath, I grab my purse and my ID badge and head down the stairs. There is still no sign of Sabina, and I don’t hear her in the kitchen. I know that it’s important not to hover over her. She’s still a fully functioning adult, and she needs to be allowed her autonomy, but it’s hard when I know that she’s struggling. All I want to do is take her pain away and help her through it.

“Sabina, I’ll be in the car,” I call, before I head out the front door.

I slide behind the steering wheel and wrap my hands around it for a moment, as I collect myself. Sabina doesn’t need to see me upset. That is one thing that I can do for her, regulate my emotions. Hopefully the day will be calm and light, although I do hope that I can assist with at least one birth.

A few moments later, Sabina slides into the passenger seat and clips her belt without saying anything. I glance over at her, my mind going blank, as I try to think of something to say. Finally, I decide that I don’t have to make conversation if she doesn’t want to. Forcing her to talk isn’t doing anything for her mental health. I need to learn to be okay with silence.

We don’t live that far from the hospital, so the ride doesn’t stray into uncomfortable territory. After parking in the employee lot, we make our way into the hospital, still in silence. I wish that I could think of the right thing to say. I’m not sure if there is a right thing to say, but my problem is that I can’t think of anything to say. At all. My mind is just one big blank wasteland.

By the time we reach the floor where the Wounded Veteran program is held, my guilt has kicked into overdrive. “Have a good time,” I say, as Sabina opens the door to the unit.

She glances over at me, her face twisted into a grimace that might be her attempt at a smile. “Sure,” she says. “ A really good time.”

I watch her retreat to the reception desk, her shoulders slumped. My heart breaks for her, but I have faith that this program will help her find her way to a new normal. That is the only way that she will move on with her life. I hope that I will be able to help her with her new normal eventually.

By the time I get up to the maternity ward, I feel wiped out emotionally. I stash my stuff behind the nurse’s station. I’m immediately whisked away to attend a birth. As soon as that baby is born, I’m pulled into another room. The first two moms deliver quickly with no complications. These are obviously our favorite kind of births, because they are basically all joy and no stress. We have another mom laboring at the same time, but her labor is progressing slower.

On my way back to type up my patient notes, I pop in to check on her. “Hey,” I say, hovering in the doorway of her room. “How are you doing?”

“She’s in pain,” the dad snaps. “How do you think she’s doing?”

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