Home Front(67)

He hit Play.

And there she was, Jolene in uniform, smiling at the camera, pointing out landmarks around Balad—here’s the place where we get that good pie …

His wife.

The tape ended, and the last image of her froze on screen. She stood with Tami, both in uniform, their arms slung around each other. Jolene was smiling brightly, but he saw the truth in her eyes. She was scared and lonely, too.

He wanted to talk to her so much it was an ache in his chest.

There was no way to call her, though. All he could do was write her a letter.

The thing he’d never done. He’d started several in the past weeks, but he’d deleted them all before sending. He was so ashamed of how he’d acted before; how could he just drop her a letter now and pretend that everything was different?

He walked through the family room and into his office, where he sat down at the computer and booted it up.

Jolene, he typed, then stopped, deleted that, and began again.



My Jo—



Do you remember when I first called you that? We were at the arboretum, in a rented rowboat, watching baby ducks float through the reeds. You said, “I wonder how they find their mom,” and that made me understand how hurt you’d been by your childhood. It took you a long time to tell me what it had been like, and when you finally told me … that’s when I knew you loved me. I used to look in your eyes and see my own dreams. When was the last time we really looked at each other? I wonder. Anyway, back to the ducks. I said, “They just know. Like I know you’re my Jo.”



“I want to be yours,” you said.



I loved you so much it hurt. I used to lie in bed and imagine losing you in terrible ways. Sick, huh? But I did it. I loved you so much it was as if I had to think about losing you or I would have lost myself instead. Did you love me like that?



I think you did.



So what happened? When did we stop being lovers and start being just the girls’ parents, and then roommates? When did I start blaming you instead of myself? I think a lot of it started with my dad’s death. I had never lost anyone before—I didn’t know how it felt to be ripped apart like that, and I didn’t handle it well. I think I blamed you for everything that was wrong in my life.



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.”