Home Front(76)

As he sat on his uncomfortable bed, staring at nothing and remembering everything, he tried to figure out a way to undo the mistake he’d made today. How would he convince Jolene that he’d changed when he’d acted exactly as she must have expected him to?

At the time they’d agreed upon, he called home. Betsy answered. In the middle of his hello, she said, “How’s Mom?”

What should he say? The truth would probably give her nightmares, but she needed to be prepared for the worst, didn’t she? He might have handled it better if he’d been prepared. He leaned back against the cheap, wobbly headboard. “She says she’s feeling a little better and she can’t wait to talk to you.”

“But what’s wrong with her?”

He paused. Now was the time to say something, the right thing, to calm his daughter’s fears and allow her to hope. He turned through the choices—lies or the truth—and came up with half-truths. “Her right hand and ankle are … hurt. They’re working to fix them up now.”

“She’s left-handed, so that’s good,” Betsy said.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

“Dad? What aren’t you telling me?”

He cleared his throat. “Nothing, Betsy. We don’t know everything yet, that’s all. They’re still running some tests. I’m sure that soon—”

“You think I’m a baby. Lulu!” she yelled, “Dad’s on the phone. He wants to tell you that Mom got shot down but she’s fine.”

“Betsy—”

“Daddy?” Lulu squeaked. “Mommy’s all better? Did they give her ice cream?” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He talked to Lulu for a few minutes, although, honestly, he had no idea what either one of them said, and then his mother was on the phone.

“How is she, Michael?”

“I let her down, Ma,” he said softly, more to himself than to her. He knew instantly that it was a mistake, not the sort of thing he should have said to his mother, but he needed advice right now, and what good was advice based on bad information?

“She’ll let you know what she needs, Michael. Just listen to her.”

They talked for a few more moments. After he hung up, he closed his eyes, thinking that he would never be able to sleep, but, before he knew it, sunlight was streaming into the room, and he was blinking awake.

The bedside clock said seven fifteen.

He got out of bed, feeling old and tired. By the time he’d showered and shaved and dressed for the day, he felt a little better.

Until he stood at Jolene’s bedside, and it all came rushing back—the fear, the guilt, the anger. He was afraid she would lose her right leg and use of her hand, and in losing them become someone else. He couldn’t imagine how it would feel to be so wounded, to lose so much. How could she get back to who she had been?

He felt guilty that he worried about her limbs when her life hung in the balance, and he was pissed off that she’d put herself in harm’s way and been wounded and now neither one of them would be the same.

He hated his own weakness, felt as if he were stewing in this pot of his own worst traits. He wanted to be the kind of man who just wanted her to live, in any condition—and he did, he was that man—but he was the other man, too, the one that couldn’t imagine looking at her in the same way if she lost her leg and couldn’t use her hand.

He moved in closer, careful not to disturb the tubes coming out of her.

Her face looked flushed; beneath the yellow and purple bruising, her skin had a reddish cast, and she was sweating profusely, breathing shallowly. Dirty, greasy hair flanked her injured face. Her lips were chapped and cracked and peeling, colorless. It made him think that he should have ChapStick with him. The smell was worse today, like garbage left out on a hot day. He fought the urge to gag.

He glanced down the blanket. Her right leg, on top of the blanket, was still swollen and awkward looking, the foot turned almost unnaturally to the right. That vacuum sucked and wheezed, drawing viscous yellow liquid from the wound.

He heard her come awake, heard the catch in her breathing.

“Mi … chael,” she said, her head lolling sideways to look at him. Her gaze was glassy, unfocused. “You’re … here … thass nice…”

“I was here before, remember?”

She frowned, licked her lips. “You were?”

“Jo?” He had so much to say to her, but where should he start? It was hard enough to undo damage done in a marriage without all of this. He brushed the hair from her face and felt her forehead.

She was burning up.

“Wait…” she said, drawing the word out. “You doan love me…”

Michael hit the nurse’s button. When a woman came in, he said, “She’s burning up.”

The nurse pushed him aside so hard he stumbled back. Within seconds, the room was full of people, taking Jolene’s temperature, pulling back the covers. A nurse unwrapped the gauze on her leg.

The smell almost made him sick.

“Get her to the OR, stat.” This was Dr. Sands. When had he come in?

“Wait,” Michael said, surging toward her, bending down. “I love you, Jolene … I do.”

It was too late; she was unconscious. He stood there while they wheeled her away.