Home Front (27 page)

Is it too late to go back?

I hope not.

I thought I had it figured out, that we had run our course, but I see how wrong I was, and how I hurt you, and I’m sorry.

I’m sorry. That’s what I know now. For so many things. I guess war doesn’t only change the warriors. Those of us on the home front go through our own stuff.

I miss you.

He stared at the e-mail. It was so short. What good was
I’m sorry
with what she was going through?

Could she forgive him? There was only one way to know.

He hit Send.

*   *   *

Jolene woke up, coughing, her eyes watering, the taste of blood in her mouth. She called out for her crew again, got no answer. Tami was beside her, strapped in her seat, slumped forward, unconscious.

Jolene tried to unhook herself from the seat. On the third attempt, she saw the problem. Her right forearm was a bloody mess. She could barely lift her hand, and her fingers didn’t work right. Using her left hand, she leaned forward over the scorched and blindingly hot instrument panel to do an emergency shutdown.

“Mayday,” she said, finding it hard to talk, to concentrate. The radio wasn’t working. She passed out again. When she awoke, she gave her coordinates over the radio, hoping it was working now. She needed the CSEL radio. Where was it?
Think.

“Tami,” Jolene said, trying to reach out for her best friend, but she couldn’t move. She tried to unhook herself, but she couldn’t; something was wrong with her. Her body wasn’t responding. Something was wrong with her right foot.

Tap-tap-tap
.

They were taking fire again. From a distance, she could hear the guttural sounds of men talking, their footsteps thundering forward.

I have to get out, establish a perimeter
.

Tap-tap-tap
.

We’re still taking fire.

She tried to unholster her weapon, but her right hand wouldn’t work.

Finally, she unhooked from her seat and crawled painfully through the cockpit. She grabbed Tami, unhooked her from the seat and pulled hard. Tami slid sideways, her eyes blank, her lips slack. Jolene fumbled with Tami’s helmet, got it off, and saw the huge wound in her head, the blood gushing out of it.

“Stay with me, Tami…”

She looked back into the bay. The right side of the fuselage was gone; bits of metal were melted and smoldering. The canvas straps and netting were on fire. Smitty, slumped sideways, had a black, gaping hole in his chest; it was bleeding and smoking. His eyes were flat, blank. Dead. Jamie lay crumpled in the corner. “Jamie! Jamie!”

She had to get them all out of the helicopter.

When she moved, a wave of nausea rolled through her. The pain in her foot was staggering. Jolene threw up and tried again. She unholstered her weapon with her left hand and brought it up, shaking in her hand, and tried to see through the smoke. “Tami, I’m going to get you out; then we need to establish a perimeter. We need the radio. Jamie, wake up.
Jamie!
Get Smitty out. Help me.”

She lifted up on her good arm, tried to aim out the ruined fuselage. The
tap-tap-tap
grew louder, more insistent. She grabbed Tami, hefted her limp body on her back, and crawled slowly out of the cockpit, falling to the ground, hitting hard. Pain exploded into her thigh.

“Chief—”

It was Jamie. Or had she imagined his voice? “Jamie,” she said, but her voice was barely a croak of sound. She lay there, breathing hard, Tami’s body a deadweight on top of her. “Come on, Tami, wake up,
please…”

She heard the alarm on her wristwatch bleat its lonely sound, but it wasn’t real. She knew it wasn’t real. She couldn’t have heard it above all this noise—the shooting, the screaming. “I’m sorry, Tam,” she said, dragging her friend through the dirt. Her vision swam, blood pounded through her head.

Behind her, the helicopter exploded. She threw herself on top of Tami, covering her friend’s body with her own. Something hit Jolene hard, knocked her sideways … she lay in the dirt, stunned, staring up at the night sky, seeing burning bits of metal falling like fireworks through the blackness, raining down on her.

She heard the bleating of her watch alarm again … or was it something else? A scream? A bomb whizzing past her? A shout? She thought,
BetsyLuluMichael,
and then she was falling, fading … and there was nothing.

Fifteen

Michael stood at the kitchen window, staring at the coming night. It was mid-September and cool, with a whispering breeze that made the skirts of the giant cedar trees dance along the edges of the tall grass. The days of beach walking were coming to a close; autumn was drawing near, with its cold, frosty mornings and endless falling rain. He knew without looking that the plum trees had begun to lose their leaves.

In the lavender light, he stared at the white fence line that delineated their land.
This is us,
Jolene had said as she helped him hammer the slats in place so long ago.
The Zarkades family
.
Everyone will see this fence and know we belong here
.

Down on the bay road, a car came around the bend, its headlights bright spots against the sunset. He watched the car approach—it was a boxy, official-looking vehicle. At the bend in the road, the car slowed … at his driveway, it slowed more and turned in, then parked.

Michael’s fingers curled around the smooth, cool white tile counter.
Turn around, drive away … you’re in the wrong place …

A soldier got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and turned to face the house.

Oh, God
.

Michael closed his eyes, breathing so hard he felt light-headed.

The doorbell rang, sounding ugly and discordant.

He walked woodenly to the door, opened it. “Is she dead?”

“I’m Captain Lomand—”

“Is Jolene dead?”

“She’s alive.”

Michael clutched the door frame, afraid for a moment that his knees were going to give out.

“I’m sorry for coming like this. I knew how it would look, coming up the walk, but I didn’t want you to get a phone call from a stranger for … this. May I come in?”

Michael nodded numbly and stepped aside, thinking,
But you are a stranger
. The man walked into the house and went into the family room. He acted as if he’d been here before, which probably he had, but Michael had no idea who he was.

The captain stopped by the sofa, remained standing, and removed his hat. When he looked at Michael, his eyes were compassionate. “Jolene’s Black Hawk was shot down several hours ago.”

Michael lowered himself slowly to the brick hearth. Behind him, a fire blazed. It was too close, and too hot, but he couldn’t feel anything.

“She’s being transported to Landstuhl, Germany, right now. It’s the biggest American military hospital in Europe. She’s in good hands.”

“Good hands,” Michael repeated, trying to will his mind to work. “But how is she?”

“I don’t have any details, sir,” Lomand said.

“Was Tami in the helicopter with her?”

“Yes,” Captain Lomand said. “But I have no information about her condition at this time. Except that she’s alive.”

“What do I do? How do I help her?”

“Pray, Michael. That’s all we can do for her right now. As soon as we have information, a Red Cross worker will call you.”

Michael stared down at his hands, saw that they were shaking. Funny things came to him, stupid things—he heard his own heartbeat and the way breath escaped him, the sound of a beam settling somewhere in the house.

“People will stop by later. To help,” Lomand said.

Michael had no idea how strangers could help, but he didn’t care so he said nothing. Words seemed dangerous suddenly; there was too much he didn’t want to hear or think. He wanted this man gone. “I need to see her.” That was all he knew for sure.

“Of course.”

Lomand stood there a moment longer, looking pained. “She’s a fighter,” he said quietly.

“Yeah.” Michael couldn’t listen anymore. “Thank you…” He meant to say the man’s name, but he’d forgotten it. He got up and headed toward the door, opening it. He heard the captain behind him, heard his heavy footsteps on the wooden floor, but neither of them spoke.

At the door, the captain said, “We’re all praying for her.”

Michael nodded. He didn’t have the strength to speak, not even to say
thank you.
He stood there in the doorway, watching the captain walk down the driveway, his back ramrod straight, his hat fixed firmly on his head, his arms at his sides.

Time fell away from Michael. One minute he was standing there, watching a soldier walk to his car, and the next minute he was alone, standing in the cold of an open doorway, staring at a yard that was slowly growing dark.

In his career, he’d heard dozens of victims and defendants say
I don’t remember what I did
 … and
I just snapped, my mind went blank
.

He knew now how that felt, how a mind could simply shut down, stop working.

Slowly, he closed the door and returned to the warmth of his kitchen. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, his own breathing, and those words, over and over and over again.

Shot down
.

She could be dying right now … all alone …

He closed his eyes, imagining it for a moment, the loss of her, the funeral, the words, the feelings. As much as it pained him, he couldn’t stop. He
wanted
this pain; he’d earned it, and how would he survive the worst if he wasn’t ready?

The problem was, he didn’t know the worst, couldn’t identify it. There was telling the children, raising them without her, failing at it, stumbling; there was standing in front of their friends—a widower who had let his wife go to war on a tide of bad words, broken promises; there was coming home without her and learning to sleep alone.

Missing her.

That would be the worst. How was it he hadn’t thought of all of this when he’d so foolishly said
I don’t love you anymore
? Then, he’d thought of the worst of who they’d become. She’d seemed to him to have grown so big and so small at the same time—the lynchpin of his existence in an irritating way. He’d resented her strength, her independence. He’d wanted to be needed by her, even though he knew he was unreliable. He’d blamed her for his unhappiness, when all along he had been the one to let go of what mattered.

And now maybe he would have to live without her. The idea was overwhelming. He could consider the symptoms—the talks, the responsibilities, the public moments—but the real truth of it, the imagining of a life going on with no heartbeat, was more than he could bear.

He stumbled over to the kitchen counter and picked up the cordless phone. It took him three tries to dial his mother’s number—his fingers were shaking so badly he kept hitting the wrong numbers. When his mother answered, sounding breathless and happy to hear from him, pain rushed in, tightened Michael’s throat until he could hardly speak.

“Hey, Michael. It’s good to hear from you. I’m just unpacking some boxes at the store. Are we still on for—”

“Jolene,” he said, his eyes stinging.

“Michael?” his mother said slowly. “What is it?”

He leaned forward, rested his head on the kitchen wall (papered in sunny yellow,
shouldn’t a kitchen be sunny, Michael? It’s the heart of a home
). He couldn’t see anything now. “Jo’s been shot down. She’s alive—on her way to a hospital in Germany.”

He heard his mother’s indrawn breath. “Oh, my God. How—”

“That’s all I know, Mom.”

“Oh,
kardia mou,
I am so sorry…”

The endearment, spoken so softly, cracked his composure. He drew in a great, shuddering breath, and then he was crying as he’d never cried before, not even at his father’s death. He thought of Jolene, smiling, laughing, sweeping their daughters into her strong arms, twirling them around, and putting her arms around him, holding him close at night.

He cried until he felt empty inside, hollow, and then, slowly, he straightened, wiped his eyes. His mother was still talking, saying something … her voice droned on, but he couldn’t listen. There was nothing to comfort him now. “Give me a little time, Ma. A couple of hours to tell the girls,” he said.

She was still talking when he hung up.

He leaned over the kitchen sink, thinking for a second that he might vomit. He’d done that before at bad news—when they told him his father’s cancer had metastasized. He swallowed thickly, trying to calm his heart rate by force of will.
She could die.
The silver drain blurred before his eyes, and fresh tears formed, burned, fell down his cheeks, splashing on the white porcelain.

How long was he there, bent over, crying into the sink?

When he could breathe again, he dried his face and forced his spine to straighten. Moving slowly, he went through the house, up the stairs. Every riser he took was a triumph, like bicycling up the Rockies. By the time he reached Betsy’s door, he was breathing hard, sweating.

He paused at the door, wishing more than anything that he didn’t have to tell them this … Then he went inside, remembering a second too late that he was supposed to knock, that adolescent girls demanded privacy.

They were on the bed together, watching the videotape of Jolene reading a bedtime story.

Michael wanted to stop right there, on the threshold to his daughter’s room, and turn around. They wouldn’t be the same after he gave them this news. They’d know, from now on, that bad things could happen, and they could happen fast, while you weren’t even paying attention. Helicopters could be shot down. Mothers could be hurt … and worse.