“Jo, please…”
“You want to help me, Michael? Go home. Get the house ready for a cripple. Get my girls ready. It won’t be easy for them to see me like this. They’ll need to be prepared.” She closed her eyes, feeling useless tears again. Thankfully, the morphine kicked in, and slowly, slowly, she felt herself drifting away.
Michael leaned down and kissed her cheek. The soft, familiar feel of his lips on her skin nearly did her in. She almost reached for him, almost told him how scared she was and how much she needed him.
Instead, she said, “Go … way…” She refused to need him anymore.
As if from far away, she heard his footsteps as he walked away, heard the door swoosh open and click shut. At the last minute, she thought:
Come back
. But it was too late. He was gone, and she was falling asleep.
Her last conscious thought was a list of what she’d lost: Running. Flying. Being beautiful and whole. Being strong. Picking up her children.
Michael.
Eighteen
Twenty-four hours after they cut off Jolene’s leg, they wanted her to get out of bed. At first she fought with the nurses who came to put her in a wheelchair, and then she realized the opportunity it presented: she could see Tami.
Now she was out of bed and in a wheelchair.
“Are you comfortable, ma’am?” the young nurse asked, helping Jolene settle into the chair.
How many days had passed since she’d climbed into the pilot’s seat of a Black Hawk helicopter? Now she needed assistance just to sit in a vinyl chair. Her gauze-wrapped stump stuck out in front of her. “I’m fine. Thank you. I’m going to see Chief Tami Flynn. In ICU.”
“I’ll push you.”
She couldn’t even do
that
by herself because of her bum right hand. The nurse positioned herself behind the wheelchair and rolled Jolene out of the room.
The ortho ward was full of patients like her—their limbs shattered or broken or gone. Most of them were men, and so young. Just boys, by the looks of them; one even wore braces.
That made her think of Smitty.
Smitty, with his bright smile and gawky walk and horsey laugh; Smitty, who drank Mountain Dews one after another and swore that girls were dying to get into his pants. Smitty, who had been so excited to go to Iraq.
We’re going to kick some ass over there, Chief. Aren’t we?
Too young to have a beer but old enough to keep his head calm in battle and die for his country.
In the elevator, she had nowhere to look except down—at the part of her that jutted out, bandaged white, useless.
Stump.
She looked away quickly, feeling sick. And ashamed. How could you live when you didn’t have the courage to look at your own body? The doctors and nurses seemed unconcerned with her cowardice. Repeatedly they’d told her it was normal to be squeamish and afraid, that it was normal to grieve for a lost limb. They assured her that someday she would be her old self again.
Liars.
On the third floor, they rolled out of the elevator and headed through the busy ICU hallway. Here, as before, the personnel were in constant motion.
The nurse stopped outside a closed door. On the metal surface, someone had taped up the soldier’s creed. Not someone. Carl. He had put up these words for his wife, because he understood her so well. He knew what Tami would want everyone coming into her room to know: a soldier lay in this bed.
Jolene hadn’t read these words in years.
I am an American Soldier.
I am a warrior and a member of a team.
I serve the people of the United States, and live the Army Values.
I will always place the mission first.
I will never accept defeat.
(This had been underlined.)
I will never quit.
I will never leave a fallen comrade.
I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior task and drills.
I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself.
I am an expert and I am a professional.
I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies of the United States of America in close combat.
I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life.
I am an American Soldier.
Jolene swallowed hard.
The nurse opened the door and wheeled her into the small high-tech room. Carl sat by the bed, his hands in his lap.
“Jolene,” Carl said, getting to his feet. She could tell by the way he moved that he’d been sitting a long time. “I’ll take her from here,” Carl said to the nurse, who placed a hand on Jolene’s shoulder, left it there long enough to make a point, then left the room.
Carl bent down and lightly kissed Jolene’s bruised cheek. She reached up with her good hand and held his hand. “How is she, Carl?”
He shrugged. “Apparently no one can say anything for certain when it comes to brain injuries. She’s in a coma. We’ll know more when she wakes up.”
He wheeled her to the bedside. Jolene hated how low she was, like a kid looking up. Already she’d learned how different the world looked from a seated position. Still, she saw Tami’s profile. Her friend’s face was black and blue and misshapen. She looked like she’d gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. A gash split her swollen upper lip. Bandages covered her head, the gauze darkened here and there by blood soaking through. “Help me stand,” Jolene said quietly.
Carl helped her out of the chair, positioned himself beside her, holding her upright.
“Hey, flygirl,” Jolene said. She wanted to touch Tami’s hand, but it took all her strength and concentration to hold herself upright. She clutched the bedrail with her one good hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“She would be pissed to hear you say that,” Carl said quietly.
Jolene nodded. It was true. Tami would have hated to hear that Jolene felt guilty about the crash, but how could she not? “I wonder if she knows we’re here?”
“She knows.”
Jolene wanted to believe that. She felt a sudden rush of loss, of grief. They had been best friends for more than twenty years. Tami was as rooted in Jolene’s soul as Michael and the girls. The thought of losing her …
No.
She wouldn’t think that way. “You’ll come back to us, Tam. I know you will. You’re probably just doing this for attention.”
She told Tami about her own injury, and about Smitty, and about Jamie, who was recovering in a room just one floor down, and who asked about Tami every day. She talked about home, and the beach, and the summer they would spend collecting sand dollars and flying kites.
“We’ll run along the beach again, both of us.” She heard her own words and lost steam. Tears scalded her eyes, fell, and all she could do was plead. “Come back, Tam.”
“What if—”
“
No.
She’s not going to die,” she said softly. “You hear me, flygirl? No dying allowed. If I have to live with one leg and one arm, I will need you.” At that, she realized the gravity of it all, the looming loss, and she closed her eyes, thinking,
come back.
She held on to the slick metal rail. Her leg was starting to ache, but she didn’t move. She wanted to stand here until Tami woke up.
She stared down at her best friend, seeing the whole of their lives in a second—the girls they’d been together, in uniforms, in cockpits, wanting so desperately to prove themselves … and the women they’d become and the battles they’d weathered together, the jokes they’d shared. They’d been together forever, side by side, listening to everything from Madonna to Tim McGraw, keeping each other strong. Army strong.
“They’re sending me home soon,” she said to Carl.
“That’s great news,” he said.
Jolene looked at him. The thought of going home, of leaving Tami behind, was more than she could bear. “How can I leave her?”
“You have to,” he said gently. “She would want you to. Go home to your kids, Jolene.”
* * *
How long did she spend with Tami and Carl? Minutes? Hours? She didn’t know. As she stayed with her friend, time lost all meaning, even the pain in her leg was put aside. She kept trying to find the right words to say to Carl, a perfect way to package hope and hand it over, but as the minutes passed, she faded. There was no other word for it. Finally, they ended up sitting in a painful silence, and Jolene called the nurse and asked to be taken back to her room.
In her own bed, she closed her eyes and tried not to think about the worst things—about Tami not waking up and Smitty never coming home.
She was vaguely aware of people coming and going, checking on her, adjusting her medications and tending to her residual leg—lifting, wrapping, cleaning. Hours passing. She tried to keep her eyes closed and ignore it all.
“Jo?”
She heard Michael’s voice and felt a wave of exhaustion. “I thought I asked you to go home.”
“You didn’t mean it. I’ve been trying to tell you I love you, Jo. And I’m sorry.”
She didn’t care. Not anymore. What good was an unreliable love? Slowly she turned her head, looked up into his eyes. “Go home and take care of our children, Michael. Please.” Her voice broke. “Please. They’ll need you. I don’t.”
“Jolene—”
Tears stung her eyes. “Go, Michael. I’ll be home in a few days. They’re getting ready to release me. You know that. You can’t fly home with me anyway. Go. Take care of our children. That’s how you can help me.”
“Okay,” he said slowly, as if maybe he knew it was the wrong thing to do, but he was glad to get the chance to do it. “I’ll go. But I’ll be home, waiting for you, when you get there.”
“Lucky me,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
* * *
On the long flight home, Michael told himself he was doing what Jolene had asked of him, and there were moments when he believed it. But most of the time, he knew the truth: he was running away, just as he’d done when his father was dying. It was a failing in him, bruiselike, purplish and ugly. He couldn’t stand seeing people he loved in pain.
Worse than the shame was the guilt. He kept thinking that he’d caused all of this. He’d broken Jolene’s heart with careless words and then sent her off to war while he simmered in righteous anger and blamed
her
for making a dangerous choice.
He would give anything to take back that one night when he’d ruined everything. If he’d sent her off to war with love, would she have come back to him whole? Would she have been stronger then? Would she have turned her helicopter a split second faster?
He knew the answer to that question was no. Jolene was an outstanding pilot, and if she had one great skill from her screwed-up childhood, it was the ability to compartmentalize pain and keep going.
Now he was almost home. When the ferry docked on Bainbridge Island, he drove off the boat and over the Agate Pass Bridge, past the fireworks stands—empty now until Christmas, when they would become tree lots—and through the postcard-perfect town of Poulsbo.
On the bookstore marquee, he saw the first sign:
JOLENE ZARKADES AND TAMI FLYNN, YOU ARE IN OUR PRAYERS. COME HOME SAFELY
.
There were similar signs everywhere, and big yellow ribbons decorated telephone poles and porch rails and fence posts.
On the way out of town, the yellow ribbons continued—on mailboxes and front doors and autumn-leaved apple trees.
As he approached the house, he could see that the fence line was decorated with more yellow ribbons. The flag on their porch hung slack on this windless night. Bouquets lay on the ground beneath one of the posts, like a grave site, their petals dying and turning brown.
He pulled into the garage and sat there, alone, in the dark. Sighing, he finally went into the house.
His mother was seated on the hearth, in front of a bright fire. At his entrance, she peered up at him from above the jewel-encrusted reading glasses she bought in a six-pack from Costco. Putting down her book, she stood, opening her arms.
He walked into her embrace, not realizing how much he needed a hug until her arms were around him.
“Tell me everything,” she said, leading him to the sofa.
He started with: “I should have waited for the doctor, but you know how impatient I am,” and he told her everything, ending with, “She asked me to come back here and get the house—and the girls—ready for her homecoming.”
“You shouldn’t have left her,” his mother said.
“You told me to listen to her, that she’d tell me what she needed.”
“Michael,” his mother said, shaking her head.
“I know.” He raked a hand through his hair, sighing. “She threw me out.”
His mother made the tsking sound he knew so well. “Men are stupid. I’m sorry, but it’s true.
Please leave
doesn’t mean she wanted you to actually do it.”
“I’m not a mind reader.”
“Clearly.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation. I feel shitty enough. I don’t need you making it worse.”
She looked at him. “Your wife is in Germany, wounded and afraid, and you left her there alone, grieving for her lost crewman and worried about her best friend. Do you really think it can get worse, Michael?”
“I don’t know what to do, Ma. I’ve never been good at this shit.”
“Here’s what you do, Michael. You go upstairs and tell your children about their mother. Then you hold them when they cry and you get your family—and this house—ready for your wife’s return. You don’t make the same mistake again. Next time, you look at Jolene—all of her, Michael, even what’s missing—and you tell her you love her. You do love her, don’t you?”