Believe: The Complete Channie Series (158 page)

Jonathan

“
W
ILL
YOU
STOP
HOVERING
LIKE
a damn helicopter? I can dress myself.” Jonathan didn’t mean to snap at Mom, but she was driving him crazy. Once she decided to act like a mother again, she went into overdrive. He didn’t need her help pulling his shirt on over his head. He didn’t need her help packing his clothes or zipping his suitcase. And he certainly didn’t need her help carrying it to the car. He held out his right hand and lifted his eyebrows.

Instead of handing it over, she set the suitcase back on the bed.

Jonathan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He held it for four seconds then exhaled as he counted backwards from eight. Using breath control to relieve stress was the one useful thing he’d gotten out of group therapy.

“I’m sorry. But you can’t keep treating me like an invalid. If I need help, I’ll ask for it.”

He smiled to strengthen his apology then grabbed his suitcase and used its weight to flex his bicep. “I may not be as strong as I was a month ago, but I’m still stronger than you and Dad put together.”

Jonathan stepped forward and tripped on his untied shoelace. He reached for the door with his left hand to break his fall, not realizing his mistake, until his stump slammed into the floor.

Instead of proving his independence, Jonathan’s little stunt ended up costing him an extra day in the hospital and six new stitches on the side of his head.

When he was released the next day, his doctor ordered him to leave in a wheelchair. He drew the line at wearing the slip-on loafers his mother had bought for him. It had taken him two days to learn to tie his shoes with one hand. He refused to give up that minor victory just because of one accident.

The drive home was weird. After a few attempts at small talk, they all gave up and just let the silence build until Dad pulled into the driveway. “Well, here we are.”

After a quick glance at his feet to double check that his shoelaces were still tied securely, Jonathan opened his door and stepped onto the driveway. The ever-present lump in his throat swelled when his gaze fell on the imprint of two small hands in the concrete. And right below them, the words
Jonathan and Franklin July 6, 1993
.

One of Jonathan’s earliest memories was the feeling of wet cement squishing between his fingers. Dad had helped him line his hand up next to Franklin’s so they matched. Franklin’s right hand, Jonathan’s left. He’d pointed at the prints when they were done. “Just like you and Frankie. The same; but different.”

Nothing would ever be the same again.

The coat rack in the entryway looked…off. It took Jonathan a second to realize what was wrong. Franklin’s favorite Colorado Rockies baseball cap should have been hanging on the second hook from the top. It wasn’t. Jonathan averted his gaze…into the dining room and found three placemats on the polished cherry table instead of four.

He spun around and detoured into the family room. The trophy case that held the awards Jonathan and Franklin had earned as a team in combined events was completely empty.

Competitive martial arts had been such a big part of Jonathan and Franklin’s lives. Realizing he’d lost that too felt like another death.

Jonathan closed his eyes as grief sucked the air out of his lungs.

“Son?” Dad grabbed his shoulders. “Are you alright?”

Jonathan doubted he’d ever be alright, but Mom and Dad had suffered enough. They shouldn’t have to deal with his pain on top of their own. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want help getting upstairs?”

“No.” He slid the straps of his duffle bag into the crook of his left elbow, but the pressure shot bolts of pain from the tips of his missing fingers to the top of his shoulder. He set the bag on the floor, tucked his suitcase under his throbbing arm and grabbed the duffle with his right hand.

The suitcase slipped after just two steps. Jonathan gritted his teeth and pressed harder with his bandaged stump, but all that did was increase his pain. He let go of the duffle and managed to grab the handle of the suitcase as it slid past his hip.

Dad picked up Jonathan’s duffle bag. “I know you can do it yourself. But let me help you, just this once.”

Jonathan nodded then followed Dad up the stairs. They both paused when they passed Franklin’s closed door.

Dad turned and squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder. “It’s been a long day. Let’s get you settled in.”

The “KEEP OUT” sign was missing from Jonathan’s door. As was the “McKnight Avenue” street sign he’d stolen on a dare.
What the hell?

He dropped his suitcase and opened the door with trepidation. His voice shook as he spoke through gritted teeth, “What happened to my room? Where are my trophies? And where the hell are my weapons?”

The empty trophy case downstairs was bad enough, but the trophies that should have been in his room weren’t shared awards. He’d earned every one of them competing in solo events. They were his and his alone.

Dad set Jonathan’s duffle bag down on the freshly shampooed carpet then groaned. “I told her she could do whatever she wanted with Franklin’s stuff. But she wasn’t supposed to set one foot inside your room. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, it’s not okay.” Dad ran his hands through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. “Maybe she just packed everything up and put it all into storage.”

They both knew the chances of that were slim. Mom had the Goodwill donations pick-up department on speed dial.

“It’s just stuff. It’s not like…” Jonathan let the rest of that sentence hang in the air…
it’s not like someone died.

Jonathan swallowed around the lump in his throat but he couldn’t disguise the pinched sound of his voice. “Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? Who knows why she did it, but if clearing out my stuff helped Mom feel even a little bit better, it’s worth it.”

Dad wrapped his arms around Jonathan, avoiding his stump. “Have I told you just how proud I am of you?”

Jonathan didn’t want to lose it in front of Dad but his control was slipping. “I’m really tired.”

“Do you want me to sleep in here tonight? It’s easy enough to set up the inflatable bed.”

Dad had been with Jonathan in the hospital during his entire stay, only leaving to make room for visitors and even then, he didn’t leave the hospital. He only went to the cafeteria or the chapel.

Franklin’s funeral was the next day. Jonathan didn’t know how he was going to get through the night; but he was a soldier, not a baby. “I’m fine. Besides, it’s been a long time since you slept with Mom.”

Jonathan cringed when he realized the double meaning of his words. Dad’s chuckle didn’t help. He kissed Jonathan’s forehead then pulled the door shut behind him, revealing a dark, rectangular spot on the wall. A poster-sized photo used to hang there.

Jonathan palmed the wall and pressed his cheek against its cool, lightly textured surface. He closed his eyes and pictured the moment captured by the camera three years ago…

He and Franklin stood center stage at the Disney World Sports Complex, hoisting a huge trophy above their heads. The packed arena, energized and cheering, had thrilled him beyond anything he’d ever experienced before. They’d both placed in individual events, but together they won the synchronized forms and weapons class. They’d always performed better as a team than they had as individuals.

Jonathan felt drained and heavy at the same time. He used to be so full of life he couldn’t keep his feet on the ground. How ironic. Now it took all his energy to cross the room and lie down on top of his bed.

He drew his knees to his chest ignoring the pain that shot through his ribs. The tears that leaked out of his tightly shut eyes did nothing to relieve the pain of his combined grief and guilt. They did however, dissolve the last of his self-control and like a cracked dam, Jonathan could no longer withstand the pressure of holding everything inside. He buried his face in one of the decorative satin pillows and screamed.

It was dark when Jonathan finally pulled the sodden pillow away from his face. He switched on his bedside lamp and pulled a fistful of tissues out of the box to dry his eyes and blow his nose. He crawled under the covers even though he knew he’d never fall asleep. Not even with the help of narcotics. Pain meds dulled the constant ache of his wounds, but did nothing for the gaping hole in the middle of his chest.

Jonathan
fingered the crease of his Army blue dress pants, pinching it where it broke over his knee cap. He sat on the front row of the chapel and stared at the flag draped over Franklin’s coffin. All it held was a small urn of ashes, Franklin’s dress blue uniform and his dog tags.

Once the Army figured out that the dog tags someone had shoved into Jonathan’s front shirt pocket weren’t his, they were able to identify some of Franklin’s remains with DNA testing. By the time they got it all straightened out, Jonathan was out of intensive care. Dad offered to postpone Franklin’s funeral for a couple more weeks, but Jonathan wanted to get it over with while he still had access to high doses of pain killers.

Bishop Thorne droned on and on about the plan of salvation; as if he were trying to convert everyone instead of directing a funeral. But as soon as he started talking about Franklin, Jonathan wanted him to stop and start preaching again—or just shut the hell up.

“Franklin McKnight’s time on earth was short, but he accomplished so much while he was here.”

“Bullshit.”

A collective gasp, followed by a buzz of indignant murmurs, snapped Jonathan out of his daze. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud—even if it was true. Franklin had a plan for his life. A plan that did not include getting blown to pieces and scattered all over some insignificant dirt road in the middle of Afghanistan.

Strong arms wrapped around Jonathan’s shoulders. “It’s okay, son. It’s okay.”

Jonathan jerked away from Dad and stood up. His vision tunneled as he crashed through the double doors of the chapel. He stumbled and tripped over his own feet as if he were drunk—which he probably was. He’d taken an extra dose of pain meds when the funeral home’s limo pulled into the driveway that morning, but his missing hand still throbbed with each beat of his heart.

A car rolled up beside him, slowing to match his pace, but he didn’t recognize it. The tinted window hummed as it rolled down. Dad was behind the wheel. He put a hand on the passenger seat and leaned towards Jonathan. “Get in.”

Jonathan slid in and pulled the door shut. “Whose car is this?”

“Bishop Thorne’s.” Dad didn’t say another word until he parked at the cemetery. He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “You aren’t the only one grieving.”

“I know.”

“I want you to participate in the dove release ceremony.”

Jonathan shook his head. He didn’t want to be there at all. And he sure as hell didn’t want to participate in any bird ceremony. Mom had forbidden the firing of any weapons, so instead of a three volley salute to honor Franklin’s service and sacrifice, he was getting a flock of doves. The stupid birds would probably shit on his casket.

Dad put his arm around Jonathan and led him towards the crowd standing on the hill. People stepped back and made a path that led to Franklin’s open grave. Dad nodded at the bugler. The poignant notes of “Taps” squeezed Jonathan’s chest, but it didn’t thaw the icy numbness surrounding his heart as he watched the honor guard lift the flag from Franklin’s casket.

Tears streamed down Dad’s cheeks as a soldier knelt in front of him and handed him the folded triangle. But Jonathan’s eyes remained dry. The numbness spread to his fingers.

A man in a black suit led Mom and Dad to a large, wicker basket. Music from a portable sound system filled the air as they opened the lid and released twenty white doves; one for each year of Franklin’s life. The man reached into a much smaller basket and pulled out a single bird then tried to give it to Jonathan.

Jonathan lifted his bandaged stump. “I’ve only got one hand.”

“It’s okay.” The man handed the dove to Dad then took Jonathan’s right hand and placed it on the dove’s back. It’s silky feathers tickled his palm.