The next day, Michael woke early, exhausted after another sleepless night. He stumbled out of bed and tried to reanimate his sluggish body with a hot shower, which only made him more tired. He dressed for work in the clothes from yesterday, which he’d left lying over the back of a chair. It was easier than going into his closet and starting fresh. As usual these days, his clothes were strewn everywhere, hanging on chairs, folded in heaps on the floor, draped over the bench at the end of their bed.
He walked down to Betsy’s bedroom door, knocked, and opened it just wide enough to say, “Get dressed, Betsy. Breakfast in ten minutes.”
Then he shut the door and went down to Lulu’s room. Inside, it looked like some kind of toy-and-clothes bomb had detonated. Probably, he should make her pick her stuff up, but, honestly, it seemed easier to do it himself. Then again, that was what he thought every morning, and he had yet to do it. Thank God a cleaning woman came in once a week to help; otherwise, they’d be living in a dump.
“Hey, Lulu,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek.
He picked her up and carried her to the bathroom, standing beside her for the endless amount of time it took her to brush her tiny teeth. When she was done, she smiled at him triumphantly. “I’m a big girl.”
“What do you want to wear to school?” he said. He’d learned in the past few months that telling a girl what to wear—even one the size of a golf club—was a bad idea. Histrionics often followed.
She went back to her room, stood in the pile of stuff with her hands on her hips, studying the disarray.
He counted silently to ten.
Finally, she chose a pair of pink pants decorated with daisy appliqués and a blue
Toy Story
tee shirt. The green striped socks added a clownlike touch, but what did he care? Together they walked down the stairs. In the kitchen, Michael checked Jolene’s meal board—another thing he’d learned made life easier. While he got out the ingredients for french toast, Lulu started setting the table. They worked in a companionable silence that was broken only by the tinkling of silverware.
He was pouring himself a second cup of coffee when Betsy walked into the room, saying, “That TV lady is talking about Mom and Tami again.”
Michael wasn’t surprised. In the last week, the local news had been in a frenzy over the female helicopter pilots and best friends who were shot down together. “Sit down for breakfast” was all he said.
While the girls ate french toast and he drank coffee, he thought about all the things he had to do today. Discovery on the Keller case was in full swing, and he was gearing up for the start of the trial. His mind ought to be teeming with questions and strategies.
And all he could think about was Jolene. He was failing her. Maybe they all were. Since Jolene’s return, Betsy had become sullen, silent. She was certain that her mother was damaged in some essential, life-changing way, and, worse, she was angry at Jo. Angry that she’d gone to war, angry that she’d been wounded, angry that she’d come home changed.
By 8:20, both kids were on the bus and on their way to school. Michael drove down to the ferry and rode it across; in Seattle, he headed north.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up in front of the rehab center. Pausing just long enough to take off his coat and sling it over his arm, he headed inside.
“Mr. Zarkades?”
He saw the physical therapist coming his way. As usual, Conny was dressed in baggy pink scrubs and his gray dreadlocks swung with every step, sort of like the alien in
Predator
.
“Hello, Conny,” Michael said. “How’s Jolene doing? I’ll bet she’s keeping you busy.”
“Hardly.”
“What do you mean?”
“She won’t get out of bed except to go to the bathroom—and she hates that because she needs help. She refuses to learn how to care for her residual limb. She won’t even look at it. That’s not unusual, of course. Acceptance can take years. But she won’t even try.”
“Jolene won’t try?” He frowned.
“She’s hurting,” Conny said, “and not in her missing leg. I get it, but it’s been ten days. She needs to get started on her PT.”
Michael nodded. Turning away, he walked down the long, bright hallway to Jolene’s room. There, he knocked once and opened the door.
She sat up in bed, staring blankly at the TV screen. Her long blond hair was tangled, uncared for, dark at the roots. He saw how pale she looked, how thin. Weight loss had sharpened her cheekbones until they looked like knife blades, and her full lips were colorless and chapped. The violet shadows beneath her eyes attested to sleepless nights. He didn’t even notice the flat place in the blanket. He looked at
her,
his wife.
She was scared; he saw that now. And depressed.
“Conny tells me you won’t start physical therapy,” he said, closing the door behind him and moving toward the bed.
“Get out of here, Michael.”
“You don’t give up, Jo.”
She threw back the covers, exposing her bandaged half leg. It was still huge and swollen. “I do now.”
He heard the tremor in her voice and felt so sorry for her it was an ache in his heart. He wanted to tell her that, make her understand how deeply he felt her pain, but they’d grown so far apart. She wouldn’t even hear him.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I love you, Jolene.”
“Do you think I can’t see the pity in your eyes right now?” she said. “Do you think I don’t know that you’re standing here because you have to? I’ve become your duty.”
He swallowed hard. He had earned this anger, and he would have to take it. For now, there was something more important than their broken marriage to think about.
Don’t let her push you away.
Cornflower was right. If Michael wanted his wife back—and he did—he was going to have to fight for her. And it wouldn’t be pretty.
“Enough,” he said sharply. “This isn’t just about you. This is our life. You’re being selfish.”
“How dare
you
say that to me?”
“You can’t just lie here and grieve for what’s gone.”
“What’s been
cut off,
you mean. Say it. Look at it, Michael.”
“
You
wanted to fly. You, Jo. You wanted combat and war and to be all that you could be. Well, you got it, and this is who you are now.”
She paled. “Shut up.”
“I remember all your boot camp stories and your flight school stories. And how about all those times men climbed into your Black Hawk, saw your ponytail, and got out, saying they wouldn’t fly with a woman. You told me you made them eat their words. You said you were tough.”
She picked up the blue plastic water pitcher by the bed and threw it at him. It missed his head by inches and cracked against the wall, splashing water all over him. “Get the hell out of my room. You’re the last person on earth who can help me.”
“Jo—”
“Get out!”
“Why? So you can go back to wallowing in self-pity?”
“You have no idea what I’m feeling, Michael.”
“I want you back, Jo. And if that doesn’t matter, think about this: your girls need you.”
At the mention of their daughters, she slumped forward. He wanted to say more, push harder, but at the sight of her, looking so defeated, he couldn’t do it.
With a sigh, he left the room and closed the door behind him.
Conny was waiting for him. The big man was leaning against the wall, with his dark, beefy arms crossed in front of him. “She’s a spitfire, our soldier girl. How did it go?”
“She doesn’t want me in there.”
“Is Jolene the boss of who comes into her room?” Conny asked thoughtfully. “I mean, the woman can’t get out of bed. And she needs some motivation, don’t you think?”
Michael looked at the therapist. “I don’t suppose she’d throw anything at her children.”
Conny grinned. “Nope. I don’t suppose she would.”
* * *
On Saturday, Jolene sat in bed, watching visitors stream past her open door, holding balloons and carrying flowers, talking animatedly to the family members they’d come to visit.
She had thrown Conny out of her room and then tried to read a book. But she kept forgetting the sentence she’d just read. Finally, she gave up and closed her eyes.
In that split second, she was in the Black Hawk again, going down.
We’ve been hit. Tami
—
She opened her eyes. God, she was tired of this, tired of the pain, tired of the nightmares … just tired.
“Hello, Jolene.”
She turned slightly, saw Conny at the door. Before she could tell him to get the hell out of her room, Michael walked in, ushering the girls in with him. They moved all together; he had a hand on each girl’s shoulder. Lulu was wearing the small camouflage fatigues that Jolene had made for her last year, with the wings pin on her collar. Her long black hair was a bird’s nest of tangles that framed her small face. Her socks didn’t match.
“Hi, Mommy!” Lulu said, beaming. She walked right up to the bed, grabbed the metal rails, and rattled them. “Daddy said we needed to be good little soldiers to help you get better. I’m all ready. See?” She twirled around to show off her outfit.
Michael patted Betsy, gave her a little push. She stumbled forward. “Hi, Mom.” She wouldn’t look at Jolene, kept tilting her head forward so that hair fell across her face.
Jolene stared into Betsy’s wounded, angry eyes. “I’m sorry I yelled at you the other day,” she said quietly.
Betsy shrugged and looked away. Obviously, she didn’t know where to look—not at Jolene’s face, which was still scraped up and bruised, or at the missing leg. “Whatever,” she mumbled.
Jolene didn’t know how to fix what she’d done. The silence in the room expanded. Then Michael said, “Conny said you needed some motivation to get started on your PT. I knew you wouldn’t let the girls down. They know it will be hard work—and scary—and they want to help.”
“We wanna help! Like when you help us when we have nightmares,” Lulu said, eager to show off her understanding of the plan.
Jolene could picture what had happened last night. Michael had gathered the girls close and told them their mom was hurt and scared and that they needed to help her.
She looked at her children and it hurt so much she couldn’t breathe. She knew what Michael was counting on; he expected her to be the woman she’d been before all this. That woman was gone; she’d been shot down and died in the desert.
Lulu pulled off her Dora the Explorer backpack. Burrowing through it she pulled out her yellow blanket—the special one she used to stroke as she sucked her thumb. “Here, Mommy,” she said solemnly, coming up to the bed. “You can have my blankee.”
Jolene’s heart seemed to break open at that. For a second, she
felt
it, all the love that used to fill her up. She took the sad, worn yellow blanket, remembering how pretty it had once looked in Lulu’s white spindle crib. And she wanted it back, all of it, her life, her ability to love, her sense of motherhood. “Thank you, Lucy. I’ll be careful with it.”
“But I get it back when you’re more better, right?”
“Of course.”
They stared at her expectantly.
Come on, Jo. Fake it.
She finally managed a smile. She refused to let her children down. “Okay, Conny. What do I do?”
“You know the answer to that, Jolene. You’re going to learn how to wrap your leg.”
She nodded, hating the sick feeling that clutched her stomach. “Okay. But the kids don’t need to be here for this.”
“Why not?” Michael said, coming to the side of the bed.
“They shouldn’t see this,” she told him, her eyes pleading. She could see that he was afraid, too.
“This? You mean
you,
Jo? We talked about it,” he said, nodding down at the girls. “It’s you, and we love you, and you’re hurt. We’re not afraid. We’re more afraid of what we can’t see.”
“Like nightmares and monsters in the closet,” Lulu said. “When you turn on the light, poof! They’re gone and you’re safe.”
Jolene stared at Michael, mouthed
please
.
We’re staying,
he mouthed back.
Conny moved down to the center of the bed, opposite her family, and pulled back the covers. Jolene saw Betsy flinch at the sight. Her daughter edged toward the door.
Jolene gritted her teeth as long, dark fingers began slowly unwrapping the elastic bandage. “It’s in a figure-eight pattern, see? That’s how you wrap it back up, keeping it tight to help with the swelling.”
Then the bandage was off; beneath was a soft white gauze.
She clutched at the blanket in her left hand, squeezed the fabric in her fist. Michael put his hand over hers, held it.
She saw her half leg for the first time, and it made her sick to her stomach. It was huge and swollen. Ugly. Tears flooded her eyes, and she fought to hold them back.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Betsy said, grunted really, and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
“It looks like a football,” Lulu said, frowning curiously.
Michael looked at Jolene; she saw her own emotions mirrored in his eyes: fear, loss, sadness, pity.
“Come on, Jolene,” Conny said.
She drew in a shaky breath and slowly, slowly bent forward, picking up the new gauze Conny had put beside her.
“Carefully,” Conny said, putting his hands over hers, showing her how to bandage it.
Her skin was taut and sensitive; swollen; not hers, somehow. Bile rose in her throat; she swallowed and forced herself to keep going.
For Betsy and Lulu,
she thought, over and over.
Act like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t hurt and make you sick
.
Be their mom again
.
She wrapped her leg back up tightly, placed the small silver hooks in place, and then sat back, her eyes stinging as she yanked the blanket back up.
“Beautiful job,” Conny said. “Practically perfect.” He looked down at Lulu. “You and your mom are so brave.”