Home Front(106)

Her hands were shaking again. She went to the refrigerator, poured herself a glass of wine, and sat down. By the time she’d drunk two glasses, she felt slightly better. The wired feeling had dissipated somewhat. But the fear remained.

She needed help.

There. She’d thought it. Nothing mattered more than her children, and she was losing them, pushing them away, frightening them. She’d punched her husband in the face and didn’t remember doing it. What could she do to her children? She went to the phone. After a quick look in the phone book, she dialed the Department of Veterans Affairs.

“I think I need to talk to someone,” she blurted out when the receptionist answered.

“About what?”

“I’m an OIF vet. Injured. I need to talk to someone about the nightmares I’m having.”

“Just a sec.”

Breathe, Jolene. Don’t hang up.

“Can I help you?” a man said abruptly.

“Oh. Yes. I hope so. I’m a returning Operation Iraqi Freedom vet, and I’m having some trouble sleeping.”

“Are you thinking of hurting yourself or others?”

“What? On purpose? No. No, of course not, but I just—”

“I can make you an appointment with a counselor.”

She sighed in relief. “That would be great. Thanks.”

“How is December fifteenth?”

“I’m sorry. Did you say December fifteenth? It’s October.”

“Yes. That’s how long the wait is. We’re backlogged. A lot of returning soldiers need help. If you’re thinking of hurting yourself, however…”

She knew what would happen if she answered in the affirmative. They’d stamp whacko on her file. “No. Thank you. I don’t need the December appointment. I’m sure I’ll be fine by then.” She hung up the phone and sat there.

Her phantom pain was back, twisting her ankle hard.

She made her way to the family room and collapsed on the sofa, trying to gut it out. Sweat itched across her scalp. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing through the pain.

Later, a knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She came awake sharply. How long had she been asleep? Were the girls home already? She glanced at the clock. It was only three. She got up, retrieved her crutches, and limped slowly to the front door, opening it.

Ben Lomand stood on her porch, holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Ben,” she said, smiling for the first time in days. “It’s so good to see you, come in.” She led the way back into the family room and sat down on the sofa.

“I came to see how you’re doing,” he said, sitting beside her. “Michael said you’d be home now.”

“I’m getting better every day,” she said.

“That’s good.”

She steeled herself. “Have you spoken to Smitty’s parents?”

He nodded. “At the funeral.”

“Do they blame me?”

“Of course not, Jolene. They know their son was a hero and that he died serving his country. They’re proud of him.”

“I tried to get to him.”

They fell silent, each knowing there was nothing to say.

“Jolene,” the captain said at last, a pained look on his face. “I’ve got some news for you.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve got your physical profile from Captain Sands in Landstuhl. It assesses your FFD.”

FFD. Fitness for duty.

“Oh,” she said softly. With all that had happened in the past weeks, she’d forgotten about her career. About flying.

How could she have forgotten? “And?”

“You’re a pilot,” he said, his eyes filled with compassion. Maybe some soldiers could fulfill their job assignments with one leg. Not a pilot.

He was going to say she could never fly again. She closed her eyes for just a moment, feeling as great a pain as her missing leg. “I don’t meet the retention criteria,” she said. “Of course I don’t. I only have one leg.”

“You could appeal. Go on probation, see if you could meet the criteria for duty after rehab.”

She looked at him. “They won’t let me fly again, though, will they?”

The answer was in his eyes. “No. No flight status. But you could stay in the Guard maybe. Or if you retire, you’ll have full benefits.”

“Benefits,” she said softly, trying to imagine her life without the military, without her friends, without flying … but she was a pilot. A pilot. How could she be in the Guard and not fly?

What was left to her now?

“I’m sorry, Jo.”

She nodded, looked away before he could see the sadness in her eyes. “Thank you, sir,” she said in a thick voice.

After he left, she grabbed the bottle of wine and went into her bedroom.

*



The ferry was docking on Bainbridge Island when Michael’s cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Mr. Zarkades? This is Principal Warner, from the middle school. I’m afraid there’s been an incident with Betsy.”

The ferry banged into the dock; stilled. He started up his car. “What? An incident, did you say? What does that mean?”

“Betsy was in a fight.”