Blue Stars (48 page)

“I’m not kidding. Did you do that Regents practice test? The one on the computer?”

“Practice test…”

“Otis! If I get back and—”

“Relax, relax, I finished it.
And
famous-African-American-person book report. All I have is math journal—”

“Good. You know how much homework I got, right? And you don’t see me leaving it until last minute on the weekend, so…” Fine, that was obnoxious but true. Almost true. She had no idea how she was going to finish that Kinesiology project by Monday, but somehow it would get done. Last night she stayed up until one to finish chapter review questions for Nervous System and Pulmonary, so at least those were out of the way.

The divorce had gone through as quickly as she could have hoped. Now the VA checks had started to come in, plus all Eddie’s rehab was taken care of. Lacey kept an eye on the money and made sure it all got funneled into the accounts she’d helped Lolo set up. Did those articles help their case? Sure, maybe. All Lacey knew is that she fought for as big a payout as Eddie could get—his rating got up to 85 percent—and then walked away from all of it, even though the lawyer thought she was crazy. Except she’d held back just enough for first semester tuition at Hunter College. She’d allowed herself that much.

Compared to that one preprogram basic-sciences course they made her take, Hunter’s physical therapy program was intense. Three years, full-time, all classes held at the Brookdale campus in lower Manhattan. She’d have to do two clinical practicums for the last year, sort of an internship in a health center or hospital, and if she got through
that
there would be the licensing exam. All before she could even earn a dollar. And she was a million years older than the other students, and she’d probably hit menopause by the time she got certified. But Jim said it took as long as it took, and so what, as long as she liked it?

And actually, she loved it. From the first course, Physical Modalities, she could tell she was going to rock this. All that fitness assessing and injury rehab and body typing and exercise program designing that she’d done at Rudy’s and for her own clients … she totally saw how to make that count now, in the classroom. And who knew, maybe one day she’d be able to work with injured vets like Mike. Really work with them, not just basic core-strength stuff like she’d done on Ward 57. Lacey kept it a complete secret, she didn’t even tell Jim, but she had this idea for how you could combine a regimen of PT work with training routines, and how that could really help guys—and women—who were adjusting to limb loss. Maybe she could even design her own method, and write it up online somewhere … and get famous, and rich …
Oh shut up. First, finish your Kinesiology project.

Under the City Island bridge there were a few people fishing off the small beach, even in the cold and dark. What the hell kind of catch did they put in those white buckets, and who bought it? Had to bring in some kind of money, because guys were always down there, no matter the weather.

“We’re gonna order pizza so he wants to know do you want Anthony’s or Famous Famiglia? But not that healthy place with the whole wheat crust, disgusting.”

“Actually … can you put him on? Love you baby.”

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“So, uh … how’s Eddie?”

Lacey breathed out, long and slow. She shifted the phone to her other ear. “About the same, honey. He likes the new shirts you helped me pick for him, because of the zip-ups, no buttons. And Lolo says he’s been sleeping good, and the doctor said soon they’ll take him off the seizure meds, so…” She fell quiet. Why did she always have to put on the good spin? Otis knew how things stood. The divorce, their new apartment, how Jim came over but only on the weekends he didn’t have his girls. Maybe someday she’d be able to really talk to O, and tell him what it was like with Eddie both before and after the war, where she went wrong and how she tried to make it right. Maybe someday Otis would tell her what he thought too. But for now, she had to get through these moments where she felt so bad about things she could hardly stand it.

“He said to say hi.” Not true. As far as she could tell, Eddie didn’t have any memory of Otis. Or if he did, you couldn’t tell from the few short sentences he was capable of speaking.

“Okay. Um, so do you want pizza? Wait, here’s Jim.”

“Hi, baby. You okay? How was it over there?”

“All right. She’s got him in front of the TV a lot, as far as I can tell. Or maybe that’s the aide. Anyway, they’re good for groceries, and the stairs look better.” Jim had paid for a guy to tear out Lolo’s rickety-wood stairs in the front and back, and put in leveled concrete ones.

“How are you, though.”

“Eh. You know.” She had to swipe her eyes again, before gunning it onto the Hutch in the split-second gap in the traffic. Jim
did
know. It was still hard to believe this love he had for her, hard to accept it. They were taking it so slow—she had met his beautiful daughters but only in passing, as “a friend.” Nobody mentioned getting married, ever, and a lot of times he didn’t even stay over, just left after dinner with her and Otis, went back to his place.

But they took every chance they could to be alone. And together they were as good as Lacey had remembered, had imagined—which was saying something.

One night she was waiting up for him, reading Patient Care case histories half asleep on the couch. But he didn’t even come over to kiss her when he came in, just gave a weird wave and hustled off to the bathroom where she heard the shower running. Later in the dark bedroom, after they made love, she asked what was up with that.

Jim rolled on his back, his big arm still under her neck. “Don’t be pissed, but … I’ve been going to a few meetings, all right? The ones for family and friends of … anyway, I told this lady who was running it about you and how great you were doing—”

“Four months in, that’s nothing. It doesn’t even get hard until after your first year, is what they say.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like that I come home smelling like the bar.” He raised his head and stared at her. “My clothes and shit.”

“Are you serious? I’m not going to go on a bender ’cause someone spilled Busch Light on your—”

“I’m not joking around on this, all right, Lace? This lady said whatever I could do would help, and there’s this Web site, and so I’m going to take a shower after every shift before I touch you or kiss you or whatever. For as long as I want. Okay?”

There was real heat in his voice. “Okay,” she said softly. And kissed the side of his face until he brought his head back down on the pillow next to hers.

“Come on home,” he said now on the phone. Red headlights flared ahead; there was always a slow-up where the highway crossed with 95. “You can catch the rest of the movie with us.” She laughed. “What, it’s good. And maybe, you and I can watch a little something different, later on.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, smiling at his efforts to cheer her up. She knew the kind of movie he meant. “Actually, I’m going to go to that thing.”

“You sure? You up for that?”

“Yeah. Think so.”

“So call me after. Drive safe.”

“I won’t be too late. Make sure he brushes his teeth. And I love you.”

She let the sounds of his
love you too
linger, then dropped the phone back in her heavy backpack, full of texts and notebooks. Traffic picked up as she came up on Pelham Manor, tracing the river north until it disappeared under the big intersection at Sandford Boulevard. The moon was out, its cold white sliver winking at the top of her windshield.

Lacey fished out a lipstick and put some on one-handed. No chance to do anything about her hair in a boring ponytail, or this smear of grease on the thigh of her jeans from Lolo’s garbage cans. It both mattered and didn’t. Of course Martine would look her over, checking out everything about Lacey since the last time, a year and a half ago, and there was no getting around that. But she could handle it.

Martine had reached out, texting her after someone forwarded her the Walter Reed article. At first they both kept it real short, real basic:
How long you guys been back? Since summer. How’s Otis doing? Good, how are you guys?

Lacey hoped for nothing, expected nothing. But last week she got a long e-mail, one that it looked like Martine had written late at night. It said how sorry she was for not calling after Eddie got hit, that she kept wanting to but didn’t know how, and maybe it was time they moved on from all that stuff before. She prayed about it. She wished she hadn’t burned that bridge. Also, she wrote about how moved she was reading those
New York Times
articles, how upset seeing what they’d been through, and the other families, and how she couldn’t believe Lacey went to testify in front of the actual House of Fucking Representatives. And did she hear they were closing it down? Walter Reed. Gonna build a new facility, a better one. Unbelievable, right?

You did the right thing
, Martine had typed.
Eddie deserved better by them. So did you.

Then she invited Lacey over for a girls’ night in at her place, nothing fancy, just some of the FRG girls and some wine and apps. She hoped Lacey would come. It had been so long.

Unable to stand it, after a sleepless night Lacey texted Mart the next morning.
You know I’m with Jim now, right?
She couldn’t breathe until the response came.
I know. I miss you.

So now she was taking the exit onto Third Street, scared as shit but full of hope anyway, honking at some clown who thought he could cut her off, dreading the moment she’d ring Mart’s bell and have to walk through that door. She’d hold her head up though, because that’s what Lacey did, and she’d go in to face Martine and those women and she had no idea what would happen next.

But there was still a little time. Still a few blocks to go. So Lacey turned on the radio, found the right song, and began to sing.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Although this book is fiction, it is based on real events surrounding the housing scandal at Walter Reed that became known in 2007. To learn more, please read the series of articles published in the
Washington Post
by Dana Priest and Anne Hull, whose undercover investigation and reporting (with accompanying photographs by Michel du Cille) won the Pulitzer Prize. I’m grateful to these authors for their insight into the conditions of life at Walter Reed for recovering soldiers and their families, and acknowledge their work as an inspiration for my novel.

Of the many other sources that contributed to my understanding of Walter Reed, the Iraq War, and its home front effects, the following proved especially helpful:
Blood Brothers
by Michael Weisskopf;
Home Fires Burning
by Karen Houppert;
A Soldier’s Courage
by Janis Galatas;
Long Road Home
by Martha Raddatz;
Operation Homecoming
edited by Andrew Carroll;
The War Comes Home
by Aaron Glantz;
Thank You for Your Service
by David Finkel;
Run, Don’t Walk
by Adele Levine;
Alive Day Memories
directed by Jon Alpert and Ellen Goosenberg Kent. I also relied on
Edith Wharton
by Hermione Lee and
A Son at the Front
by Edith Wharton, with introduction by Shari Benstock.

This novel would not have been possible without the incomparable Alice Tasman and editor extraordinaire Brenda Copeland. Much appreciation also to Laura Chasen and everyone at St. Martin’s Press.

Thanks to the staff and institution of the Pritzker Military Museum and Library, especially librarians Tina Louise Happ, Angela Grunzweig, and Paul Grasmehr.

Several people lent me their time and expertise on matters related to the military and medical treatment. (All remaining errors are my own.) Thanks to Jonathan Popovich, readjustment counselor. A thank-you to Daniela DeFrino, MS, RN, of the University of Illinois at Chicago. In Chicago, a thank-you also to Dr. Paul Defrino, MD, orthopedic surgeon, and to Dr. Ellen Omi, MD, trauma surgeon.

I am very grateful to those who read the manuscript and offered suggestions and support: Liam Callanan, Rebecca Makkai, Gina Frangello, Rachel DeWoskin, Thea Goodman, Zoe Zolbrod, and Dika Lam. And for encouragement along the way, many thanks to Caroline Hand Romita, Jenny Mercein, Lauryn Gouldin, Melissa Tedrowe, Bonnie Gunzenhauser, Valerie Laken, and Dawn Smith.

For time and space and quiet, thanks to the Ragdale Foundation, and the Holy Wisdom Monastery of Madison.

I want to acknowledge the many dear members of my extended family who have or are currently serving in the armed forces, and especially to the women in our family who know well what it is like to be the wife, mother, grandmother, or sibling of a service member at war. Particular thanks to Mary Gray, whose comments on the manuscript—and whose support—were invaluable.

Much love and thanks to my amazing parents and siblings, especially to Lowrey Redmond for taking care of me on research trips to Washington, D.C., and to Jocelyn Gray for sharing her expertise as a therapist for military veterans and their families. Special gratitude goes to my brother Malcolm Gray, who allowed me to learn from his experience as a Marine in Iraq and then to tell my own story. This novel is dedicated to him with love and admiration.

To Courtney, Samantha, and Wendy: all my love.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR