Home Front(128)

“Who knows indeed?” She smiled. “I love you, Michael Zarkades.”

*



In the abstract, Jolene had known that Washington, D.C., was a city of monuments. She’d read about the various places dedicated to the country’s history, but until she stepped out onto the busy streets, she didn’t quite understand how they all joined one to the other and told a story. Everywhere she looked—on tiny slivers of snowy ground, on plaques on park benches, on white marble statues—there was a memory, a reminder. The scale of the city surprised her, too. She’d imagined a New York–type city, full of thrusting skyscrapers. But this city felt grounded in a way she hadn’t expected; there were no high-rises, no canyons of concrete that made passersby feel small.

New York was a city that showed off its greatness, sought to make tourists look at man’s accomplishments with awe. D.C. knew that man’s greatness lay not in stone and steel, but rather in ideas and decisions.

“Are you ready?” Michael asked.

She turned away from the hotel room window, which overlooked a quiet street covered in snow.

Behind Michael, a gilt-framed mirror hung on the wall above a sleek French reproduction dresser. In it, Jolene saw herself from the waist up.

A soldier again—if just for this moment—in her class A dress uniform, with her hair pulled back and a black beret positioned with care. Medals and insignia decorated her chest, reminding her of who she used to be. This was probably the last time she would wear this uniform. She was in the process of taking a medical retirement from the military. Soon, this uniform would be like her wedding dress, a memory hanging in plastic in the back of a closet.

That part of her life had ended. The future lay cloudy in front of her, full of possibilities.

“Jo?”

She smiled. “I’m fine, Michael. It’s just weird, that’s all.” She slipped into the coat he offered her.

She held Michael’s hand as they walked to Constitution Avenue. The whole city was gray and white, with slashes of black, a moody chiaroscuro. They walked through the Constitution Gardens; snow glazed the tree branches and benches.

They strolled past one last bare tree, and there it was: the Wall. Even on this frigid, snowy day the black granite seemed alive, reflecting the images of those few visitors who had ventured out in today’s cold; an endless expanse of glossy black stone engraved with the names of soldiers who’d died in Vietnam. She reached out with her gloved hand, let her fingers trace the names in front of her. Dotted along the wall were mementos and flowers and gifts left by loved ones.

There were more than 58,000 names.

She didn’t realize she was crying until Michael put his arms around her. She leaned against him, barely noticing the snowflakes falling on her cheeks and eyelashes.

They stood there until Jolene was shaking with cold, and still she hated to leave. “I want to bring the girls here in the summer.”

“Summer is a great idea,” Michael said, “but now, let’s go. I can’t feel my hands.”

She nodded and let him lead her away. In front of them, distant, the Lincoln Memorial rose up through the gloom and snow, pearlescent, lit by beams of golden light. A house, divided against itself, cannot stand.

Michael flagged down a cab, and they climbed in. “Walter Reed,” he said, clapping his gloved hands together.

Jolene settled into the seat and stared out the window at the white-coated city blurring past. By the time they pulled up to the imposing medical center entrance, it was snowing so hard she could barely see.

When she stepped into the busy hospital, she had a sharp, sudden memory: she was on her back, strapped to a gurney, staring at hot lights, trying not to cry or scream, asking, How is my crew? until she lost consciousness. The pain was overwhelming. It was all in her head in a second.

Michael squeezed her hand, reminding her with his touch that she was here, standing; the worst was behind them. She took off her heavy woolen coat and handed it to her husband.

For a moment, as she stood there in her dress uniform, decorated with the medals she’d earned and the patches that had defined so many years of her life, she felt tall again, steady. It didn’t matter that the skirt revealed what she’d lost; the uniform revealed who she had been for more than twenty years. She wore it with pride.

“Are you okay?” Michael asked.

She smiled. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll wait for you?”

“Okay.” She let go of his hand and went to the desk, where the nurse on duty gave her the information she needed.

“Are you family?” the nurse asked.

“No.”

“Is she expecting you?”

“No. My visit is a surprise. But I’ve cleared it with the hospital.”

The nurse studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Room 326. You’re lucky. She’s leaving in two days.”

Thanking her, Jolene headed down to room 326, in the orthotics wing.

The door was open.

Jolene moved through the buzz of medical staff with the ease of someone who had learned the routine of a place like this.

She paused at the open door and knocked.

Inside the room, a woman lay in a hospital bed, angled up. Jolene recognized the look in the woman’s eyes: a combination of fear, anger, and loneliness. There were few lonelier places in the world than a hospital room. Even with loved ones beside you, there was no escaping the frightening, isolating truth that neither love alone nor family could make you whole.