Home Front(79)
She held on to the slick metal rail. Her leg was starting to ache, but she didn’t move. She wanted to stand here until Tami woke up.
She stared down at her best friend, seeing the whole of their lives in a second—the girls they’d been together, in uniforms, in cockpits, wanting so desperately to prove themselves … and the women they’d become and the battles they’d weathered together, the jokes they’d shared. They’d been together forever, side by side, listening to everything from Madonna to Tim McGraw, keeping each other strong. Army strong.
“They’re sending me home soon,” she said to Carl.
“That’s great news,” he said.
Jolene looked at him. The thought of going home, of leaving Tami behind, was more than she could bear. “How can I leave her?”
“You have to,” he said gently. “She would want you to. Go home to your kids, Jolene.”
*
How long did she spend with Tami and Carl? Minutes? Hours? She didn’t know. As she stayed with her friend, time lost all meaning, even the pain in her leg was put aside. She kept trying to find the right words to say to Carl, a perfect way to package hope and hand it over, but as the minutes passed, she faded. There was no other word for it. Finally, they ended up sitting in a painful silence, and Jolene called the nurse and asked to be taken back to her room.
In her own bed, she closed her eyes and tried not to think about the worst things—about Tami not waking up and Smitty never coming home.
She was vaguely aware of people coming and going, checking on her, adjusting her medications and tending to her residual leg—lifting, wrapping, cleaning. Hours passing. She tried to keep her eyes closed and ignore it all.
“Jo?”
She heard Michael’s voice and felt a wave of exhaustion. “I thought I asked you to go home.”
“You didn’t mean it. I’ve been trying to tell you I love you, Jo. And I’m sorry.”
She didn’t care. Not anymore. What good was an unreliable love? Slowly she turned her head, looked up into his eyes. “Go home and take care of our children, Michael. Please.” Her voice broke. “Please. They’ll need you. I don’t.”
“Jolene—”
Tears stung her eyes. “Go, Michael. I’ll be home in a few days. They’re getting ready to release me. You know that. You can’t fly home with me anyway. Go. Take care of our children. That’s how you can help me.”
“Okay,” he said slowly, as if maybe he knew it was the wrong thing to do, but he was glad to get the chance to do it. “I’ll go. But I’ll be home, waiting for you, when you get there.”
“Lucky me,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
*
On the long flight home, Michael told himself he was doing what Jolene had asked of him, and there were moments when he believed it. But most of the time, he knew the truth: he was running away, just as he’d done when his father was dying. It was a failing in him, bruiselike, purplish and ugly. He couldn’t stand seeing people he loved in pain.
Worse than the shame was the guilt. He kept thinking that he’d caused all of this. He’d broken Jolene’s heart with careless words and then sent her off to war while he simmered in righteous anger and blamed her for making a dangerous choice.
He would give anything to take back that one night when he’d ruined everything. If he’d sent her off to war with love, would she have come back to him whole? Would she have been stronger then? Would she have turned her helicopter a split second faster?
He knew the answer to that question was no. Jolene was an outstanding pilot, and if she had one great skill from her screwed-up childhood, it was the ability to compartmentalize pain and keep going.
Now he was almost home. When the ferry docked on Bainbridge Island, he drove off the boat and over the Agate Pass Bridge, past the fireworks stands—empty now until Christmas, when they would become tree lots—and through the postcard-perfect town of Poulsbo.
On the bookstore marquee, he saw the first sign: JOLENE ZARKADES AND TAMI FLYNN, YOU ARE IN OUR PRAYERS. COME HOME SAFELY.
There were similar signs everywhere, and big yellow ribbons decorated telephone poles and porch rails and fence posts.
On the way out of town, the yellow ribbons continued—on mailboxes and front doors and autumn-leaved apple trees.
As he approached the house, he could see that the fence line was decorated with more yellow ribbons. The flag on their porch hung slack on this windless night. Bouquets lay on the ground beneath one of the posts, like a grave site, their petals dying and turning brown.
He pulled into the garage and sat there, alone, in the dark. Sighing, he finally went into the house.
His mother was seated on the hearth, in front of a bright fire. At his entrance, she peered up at him from above the jewel-encrusted reading glasses she bought in a six-pack from Costco. Putting down her book, she stood, opening her arms.
He walked into her embrace, not realizing how much he needed a hug until her arms were around him.
“Tell me everything,” she said, leading him to the sofa.
He started with: “I should have waited for the doctor, but you know how impatient I am,” and he told her everything, ending with, “She asked me to come back here and get the house—and the girls—ready for her homecoming.”