Home Front(86)

It was grossly swollen, huge, rounded at the end, wrapped in white.

“Take a deep breath,” he said.

“I … can’t.”

“Look at me, Jolene,” he said.

Her one good hand curled into a fist. She tried to catch her breath and couldn’t.

“Just look at me.”

As he said it, his hands moved to what was left of her leg—her residual leg, they called it. Wouldn’t want to say stump; that was an ugly word.

You’ve got this, Jo, she thought desperately. You can handle anything. Just don’t look away. The first time is the hardest. But that was the old Jo talking, and her voice was quiet, easy to ignore.

He unwrapped the elastic bandage slowly, so slowly she knew he was giving her the time to readjust with every motion. He lifted her leg a little, unwrapping the back, then moving across the front.

She thought she was going to be sick. Hold on, Jo. Hold on. Her fingernails bit hard into her palm. She felt herself starting to sweat.

He pulled the last of the bandages away, set them on the sheet beside her good leg. All that was left was a soft, gauzy dressing. Through it, she could see the discoloration of her swollen, bruised skin. She closed her eyes.

“Jo?”

“I’m not looking,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

“Keep breathing. Just listen to my voice. I’m going to massage your leg, okay? It’s good for circulation. When you’re ready, I’ll teach you how to do it.”

When his hands touched her skin, she flinched, felt a ripple of revulsion. She couldn’t help herself; she made a little whimper of sound.

“Breathe, soldier girl.”

She let out a heavy breath.

Slowly, she felt his fingers moving, massaging, releasing the clenched muscles, and it was a kind of magic. She felt her shoulders let go, her fists open. Her head lolled forward the slightest bit.

“There you go,” he said at last, and she had almost fallen asleep. “You can open your eyes now, Jolene.”

“Is it covered?”

“Yes. You’re covered.”

She heard the slight emphasis he put on the word, and she lifted her head slowly, opened her eyes.

The elastic bandage was back in place, wrapped more tightly now, the tiny silver closures angled in a pair, almost like officers’ bars.

“Thanks,” she said. “That helped with the pain.”

“You will get better, Jolene. Trust me.”

“I didn’t used to be such a bitch.”

He came back up to the head of the bed, stood beside her. “You’re not a bitch. You’re just scared. My wife, now she’s a bitch.” He smiled. “And I love her like a crazy man.”

“I didn’t used to be scared, either.”

“Then you were lying to yourself. We’re all scared sometimes.”

To that, she had no answer. She had lied to herself about a lot of things over the years, lied or looked away. It had been the only way she knew how to survive. And she’d been right to do it—this fear was unbearable. It unwrapped who she was, as neatly as he’d unwound her bandage, leaving too much pain and ugliness exposed.

Nerve endings; he’d said they were the problem. Things that got cut off, that ended abruptly or died—like parents and marriages—kept hurting forever.

She knew he expected her to be stronger, to try harder, to believe she could get better. But she didn’t want better. She wanted her old life back, her old self back, and both were gone, amputated as cleanly as her leg.

“Just try. That’s all I ask.”

Try. It was another word for believe, and she was done with that.

“Go away, Conny,” she said, sighing, closing her eyes.



OCT.



It’s raining outside my window. All I can see is tears. There’s something seriously wrong with me, and it’s not a missing leg.



I’m being weak, falling into this pit of self-pity, and it embarrasses me, but I can’t help myself. Conny comes into my room, wearing this big-ass smile, and he says all I have to do is try. He shows me pictures of women playing tennis on artificial legs, and I get the point, really I do. I just can’t seem to make myself care. What right do I have to walk when Tami is lying in a bed, fighting for her life, and Smitty is buried in some box deep in the earth, never to smile again, never to say, Heya, Chief, you wanna play cards?



I’ve been here eight days, and Michael has visited almost every day. I pretend to be asleep when he comes. I lay there, listening to him breathing beside my bed, and I keep my eyes closed. What a coward I’ve become. He hasn’t brought the girls to see me again. I know why. They’re afraid. They see me and they know I’ve changed and it makes them wonder if their world will ever be the same. I yelled at Betsy when she hit my leg. I didn’t mean to, but what could I do to change it? I know it’s my job to comfort them, but I can’t. It’s just not in me. Every time I think of them I want to cry.



Maybe if I could sleep, I’d be okay. Or better, anyway. But my nights are full of nightmares. I hear my crew screaming for me, over and over and over. I see Tami reaching for me. It’s getting so bad I’m trying not to close my eyes.



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