Home Front(88)

“She keeps pushing me away.”

“Of course she does. That’s the army way, the military mentality. Be strong, do it all yourself, finish the mission. Don’t let her push you away. She needs you now, even if she doesn’t know it. And watch out for PTSD symptoms. Nightmares, lack of sleep, hypervigilance, sudden bouts of anger or depression or apparent numbness.”

“Thank you, Chris,” Michael said.

This time, the doctor stood. They shook hands.

The doctor walked over to the door, opened it, and looked back. “Polyester or corduroy, by the way?’

“What?”

“For my suit.”

“I can get—”

“Hugo Boss it is,” Chris said, grinning as he left the office.





Twenty



The next day, Michael woke early, exhausted after another sleepless night. He stumbled out of bed and tried to reanimate his sluggish body with a hot shower, which only made him more tired. He dressed for work in the clothes from yesterday, which he’d left lying over the back of a chair. It was easier than going into his closet and starting fresh. As usual these days, his clothes were strewn everywhere, hanging on chairs, folded in heaps on the floor, draped over the bench at the end of their bed.

He walked down to Betsy’s bedroom door, knocked, and opened it just wide enough to say, “Get dressed, Betsy. Breakfast in ten minutes.”

Then he shut the door and went down to Lulu’s room. Inside, it looked like some kind of toy-and-clothes bomb had detonated. Probably, he should make her pick her stuff up, but, honestly, it seemed easier to do it himself. Then again, that was what he thought every morning, and he had yet to do it. Thank God a cleaning woman came in once a week to help; otherwise, they’d be living in a dump.

“Hey, Lulu,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

He picked her up and carried her to the bathroom, standing beside her for the endless amount of time it took her to brush her tiny teeth. When she was done, she smiled at him triumphantly. “I’m a big girl.”

“What do you want to wear to school?” he said. He’d learned in the past few months that telling a girl what to wear—even one the size of a golf club—was a bad idea. Histrionics often followed.

She went back to her room, stood in the pile of stuff with her hands on her hips, studying the disarray.

He counted silently to ten.

Finally, she chose a pair of pink pants decorated with daisy appliqués and a blue Toy Story tee shirt. The green striped socks added a clownlike touch, but what did he care? Together they walked down the stairs. In the kitchen, Michael checked Jolene’s meal board—another thing he’d learned made life easier. While he got out the ingredients for french toast, Lulu started setting the table. They worked in a companionable silence that was broken only by the tinkling of silverware.

He was pouring himself a second cup of coffee when Betsy walked into the room, saying, “That TV lady is talking about Mom and Tami again.”

Michael wasn’t surprised. In the last week, the local news had been in a frenzy over the female helicopter pilots and best friends who were shot down together. “Sit down for breakfast” was all he said.

While the girls ate french toast and he drank coffee, he thought about all the things he had to do today. Discovery on the Keller case was in full swing, and he was gearing up for the start of the trial. His mind ought to be teeming with questions and strategies.

And all he could think about was Jolene. He was failing her. Maybe they all were. Since Jolene’s return, Betsy had become sullen, silent. She was certain that her mother was damaged in some essential, life-changing way, and, worse, she was angry at Jo. Angry that she’d gone to war, angry that she’d been wounded, angry that she’d come home changed.

By 8:20, both kids were on the bus and on their way to school. Michael drove down to the ferry and rode it across; in Seattle, he headed north.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up in front of the rehab center. Pausing just long enough to take off his coat and sling it over his arm, he headed inside.

“Mr. Zarkades?”

He saw the physical therapist coming his way. As usual, Conny was dressed in baggy pink scrubs and his gray dreadlocks swung with every step, sort of like the alien in Predator.

“Hello, Conny,” Michael said. “How’s Jolene doing? I’ll bet she’s keeping you busy.”

“Hardly.”

“What do you mean?”

“She won’t get out of bed except to go to the bathroom—and she hates that because she needs help. She refuses to learn how to care for her residual limb. She won’t even look at it. That’s not unusual, of course. Acceptance can take years. But she won’t even try.”

“Jolene won’t try?” He frowned.

“She’s hurting,” Conny said, “and not in her missing leg. I get it, but it’s been ten days. She needs to get started on her PT.”

Michael nodded. Turning away, he walked down the long, bright hallway to Jolene’s room. There, he knocked once and opened the door.

She sat up in bed, staring blankly at the TV screen. Her long blond hair was tangled, uncared for, dark at the roots. He saw how pale she looked, how thin. Weight loss had sharpened her cheekbones until they looked like knife blades, and her full lips were colorless and chapped. The violet shadows beneath her eyes attested to sleepless nights. He didn’t even notice the flat place in the blanket. He looked at her, his wife.