Home Front(89)

She was scared; he saw that now. And depressed.

“Conny tells me you won’t start physical therapy,” he said, closing the door behind him and moving toward the bed.

“Get out of here, Michael.”

“You don’t give up, Jo.”

She threw back the covers, exposing her bandaged half leg. It was still huge and swollen. “I do now.”

He heard the tremor in her voice and felt so sorry for her it was an ache in his heart. He wanted to tell her that, make her understand how deeply he felt her pain, but they’d grown so far apart. She wouldn’t even hear him.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I love you, Jolene.”

“Do you think I can’t see the pity in your eyes right now?” she said. “Do you think I don’t know that you’re standing here because you have to? I’ve become your duty.”

He swallowed hard. He had earned this anger, and he would have to take it. For now, there was something more important than their broken marriage to think about.

Don’t let her push you away.

Cornflower was right. If Michael wanted his wife back—and he did—he was going to have to fight for her. And it wouldn’t be pretty.

“Enough,” he said sharply. “This isn’t just about you. This is our life. You’re being selfish.”

“How dare you say that to me?”

“You can’t just lie here and grieve for what’s gone.”

“What’s been cut off, you mean. Say it. Look at it, Michael.”

“You wanted to fly. You, Jo. You wanted combat and war and to be all that you could be. Well, you got it, and this is who you are now.”

She paled. “Shut up.”

“I remember all your boot camp stories and your flight school stories. And how about all those times men climbed into your Black Hawk, saw your ponytail, and got out, saying they wouldn’t fly with a woman. You told me you made them eat their words. You said you were tough.”

She picked up the blue plastic water pitcher by the bed and threw it at him. It missed his head by inches and cracked against the wall, splashing water all over him. “Get the hell out of my room. You’re the last person on earth who can help me.”

“Jo—”

“Get out!”

“Why? So you can go back to wallowing in self-pity?”

“You have no idea what I’m feeling, Michael.”

“I want you back, Jo. And if that doesn’t matter, think about this: your girls need you.”

At the mention of their daughters, she slumped forward. He wanted to say more, push harder, but at the sight of her, looking so defeated, he couldn’t do it.

With a sigh, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

Conny was waiting for him. The big man was leaning against the wall, with his dark, beefy arms crossed in front of him. “She’s a spitfire, our soldier girl. How did it go?”

“She doesn’t want me in there.”

“Is Jolene the boss of who comes into her room?” Conny asked thoughtfully. “I mean, the woman can’t get out of bed. And she needs some motivation, don’t you think?”

Michael looked at the therapist. “I don’t suppose she’d throw anything at her children.”

Conny grinned. “Nope. I don’t suppose she would.”

*



On Saturday, Jolene sat in bed, watching visitors stream past her open door, holding balloons and carrying flowers, talking animatedly to the family members they’d come to visit.

She had thrown Conny out of her room and then tried to read a book. But she kept forgetting the sentence she’d just read. Finally, she gave up and closed her eyes.

In that split second, she was in the Black Hawk again, going down.

We’ve been hit. Tami—

She opened her eyes. God, she was tired of this, tired of the pain, tired of the nightmares … just tired.

“Hello, Jolene.”

She turned slightly, saw Conny at the door. Before she could tell him to get the hell out of her room, Michael walked in, ushering the girls in with him. They moved all together; he had a hand on each girl’s shoulder. Lulu was wearing the small camouflage fatigues that Jolene had made for her last year, with the wings pin on her collar. Her long black hair was a bird’s nest of tangles that framed her small face. Her socks didn’t match.

“Hi, Mommy!” Lulu said, beaming. She walked right up to the bed, grabbed the metal rails, and rattled them. “Daddy said we needed to be good little soldiers to help you get better. I’m all ready. See?” She twirled around to show off her outfit.

Michael patted Betsy, gave her a little push. She stumbled forward. “Hi, Mom.” She wouldn’t look at Jolene, kept tilting her head forward so that hair fell across her face.

Jolene stared into Betsy’s wounded, angry eyes. “I’m sorry I yelled at you the other day,” she said quietly.

Betsy shrugged and looked away. Obviously, she didn’t know where to look—not at Jolene’s face, which was still scraped up and bruised, or at the missing leg. “Whatever,” she mumbled.

Jolene didn’t know how to fix what she’d done. The silence in the room expanded. Then Michael said, “Conny said you needed some motivation to get started on your PT. I knew you wouldn’t let the girls down. They know it will be hard work—and scary—and they want to help.”