Home Front(96)

“Conny will be here in a few minutes to take you to get that cast off. Do you want to get back in bed to wait?”

“Could you roll me to the window? I’d like to look out.”

“Sure.” Gloria rolled Jolene to the window. “It’s going to be a beautiful fall day.” She patted Jolene’s shoulder and left. At the door, she paused and turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot. Maudeen Wachsmith in accounting wanted to ask you what you wanted us to do with your mail.”

“I have mail?”

“Guess so.”

“Oh. Well. Bring it to me.” She turned back to the window.

Outside, the autumn sky was a pale sage green with wispy clouds. Beyond the parking lot, giant cedar trees screened whatever lay beyond. Up close, an aged cherry tree clung stubbornly to a handful of blackened leaves. As she watched, one lost its grip and tumbled downward.

“There you are, soldier girl. Nice to see you doing something besides sitting in bed.”

“I was thinking about trying a cartwheel.”

Conny laughed. “You’re a firecracker, Jolene, that’s for sure.”

He came around behind her and wheeled her out of the room. All the way through the hallways, he made small talk: his wife’s new hairdo, his daughter’s promotion, the way his back ached when he first got out of bed in the morning.

“Well, here we are.”

Jolene checked in and was wheeled into an examination room. Moments later came a knock at her door. In walked a stick-thin man in a white coat with messy salt-and-pepper hair and a nose like a portobello mushroom. She could tell instantly that bedside manner would not be his strength.

He came into the room, mumbling an introduction while he glanced at her chart. Then he set the file aside and looked at her. “I’ll bet you’re anxious to see how your hand works.”

She nodded, unable to find her voice.

He pulled up a chair and sat in front of her. Within moments, the cast was off, broken into pieces.

She looked down at her right forearm, shocked to see how thin it was, how pale. An angry red scar ran up from the back of her hand.

The doctor touched her palm very gently. “Can you feel that?”

She nodded.

“Try to make a fist.”

She stared down at her hand, thinking, come on, come on, and please, and then slowly, slowly, she watched her fingers curl into a feeble fist.

Jolene let out a sigh of pure relief.

The doctor smiled. “Excellent. Can you lift your arm?”

She could.

She could.

By the time she’d finished the range of motion tests, she was smiling. At the end of the appointment, she wheeled herself out of the room. It took real effort to make her right hand contribute, but she did it.

“You’re looking good, soldier girl,” Conny said, getting up from his chair in the waiting room.

He rolled her back to her room and positioned her by the window again. “PT in one hour. We need to start working on your grip now, too,” Conny said. “And you can start on crutches.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to go home, Conny. We should postpone until—”

“Until when?”

She saw the understanding in his eyes. It shamed her to show such weakness to him. “Until I’m ready,” she finished lamely.

“Today,” he said quietly.

After he left, she sat there, staring out at the sunshiny day, squeezing the ball he’d left with her. I did it, Tami.

Yes, you did, flygirl.

Jolene would have sworn she heard the words, but no one was there. She looked out the window. Was that you, Tam? She wanted to believe in it, believe in the idea of her best friend finding a way to communicate across all these miles. Maybe it meant Tami had awakened …

“Mrs. Zarkades?”

She looked behind her. An orderly stood at the door, holding a few envelopes rubber-banded together.

“I’ve got your mail.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He came into the room and put a pair of letters on the table beside her. She stared down at them, surprised. Finally, she picked up the packet and pulled out the top letter. It was from someone in Kansas.



Dear Jolene Zarkades:



I read about your story in the Topeka Gazette. I can’t believe I’m writing to you—a stranger—but my heart won’t let me say nothing.



I close my eyes and I think of you because I know how you’re feeling.



I was fourteen years old when I lost my leg. Just an ordinary girl from a small town, worrying about getting pimples and passing tests, and wondering when I would need a bra. Not a helicopter pilot or nothing cool like that.



Then I heard the word: cancer.



My mom cried more than I did. I was more worried about being different. I know you’re probably strong, because you’re in the army and all, but I wanted to make sure someone told you to be gentle with yourself. I wish I’d known that. It took me a long time. You think life will never be normal again, but it will. You and your daughters will be fighting again in no time—and about her chores or her choices. It won’t be about your leg at all!



God bless. I have lit a candle for you and your family in my church. Our prayers go to you.