Captured(89)

Silence.

“Ida?”

She opens an eye at me. “I’m just going to rest now, Reagan. I’ll be all right. I just need to rest.”

I cross the room, kiss her cheek. “I love you, Ida.”

She just smiles at me, eyes still closed.

Ida ended up never leaving the hospital. After Hank died, she just never woke up again.

And that’s how I want to go. In my sleep, with the man I love. After sixty years together.





EPILOGUE

DEREK





San Antonio, 2013





“Push, you *!” I shout. “Get it up! Get it up! You better push harder than that, you little bitch! Yes! There you go, a little more…and down. Good.”

PFC Michael Helms is missing both legs from the waist down. Stepped on an IED. He’s a buff motherf*cker, though, and he’s got heart. Real heart. Never gives up. That’s what kept him alive when the medics couldn’t get to him for nearly ten minutes, pinned down by a sniper.

Everyone in here has a story. Buddy over there lost most of the skin on his face in an explosion. And he’s the funniest guy I’ve ever met. He can make anyone laugh, no matter how shitty their day. They’re all my clients. I started out in the Army hospital where I did my own recuperation…twice. Busted ass night and day to get my therapy license, and opened my own gym for guys like me. Guys and girls, I should say. Seen a few women come through here, combat vets like everybody else, missing pieces, with stories they don’t want to tell. I push them, squids and grunts and jarheads alike. Force them to live. Force them to want to live, despite the losses they’ve all suffered. I’m damn good at it. And they identify with me, knowing my story. Seeing the evidence in my missing leg, in the Paralympics medals on the wall.

Quitting time comes around, the guys showering and filtering out, leaving me to close the gym. I wipe everything down, stock the cooler, shut off the computer, the lights. Drive home.

Well, I head that way, at least. I stop at a certain bar on the way. Hunter is there, has a round waiting for me. We talk about the day, about his and Rania’s third kid, a boy this time. Victor, after Hunter’s dad. He just turned one. Big trouble, but cute as hell.

Not as cute as Hank, though. Never has a three-year old boy been as cute as Henry Thomas West. He’s all me, and all Reagan. Blond, green eyes, sweet as sugar and ready to cause a hell of a ruckus if you take your eyes off him for a split second.

“How’s Reagan coming along?” Hunter raises a finger for a refill.

“Oh, she’s in the I hate my body, I hate being pregnant, why did you do this to me, I’m a whale phase.”

Hunter chuckles. “Fuck, I hate that phase.”

“Me, too. Why d’you think I’m here?” I jerk my head toward the outside world, meaning home. “Soon as I get home, Tommy’s gonna want to play LEGOs and Henry will need a diaper, and Reagan will need pretzels and peanut butter and diet root beer.”

“Quit complaining, douche. You love it.”

I nod. “Fuckin’ right, I do. But it’s my right as a man to complain about it now and then.”

Hunter laughs. “True shit, son.” He swigs at his Buck Wit. “So. Y’all done?”

“With kids?” I clarify. “Ain’t had this one yet, so I’m not sure. Ask me when the baby’s a month or two old, and I’ll probably say hell yes, we’re done. Ask me again later, and I’ll probably say maybe. I’d like a daughter.”

Hunter chuckles, shakes his head. “As a man with both, I can tell you girls start out easy, but they only get harder as time goes on.”

“Guess we’ll have to see.”

We each have one more, exchanging baby and work stories, and then I drive home. I had a big ol’ Chevy Silverado rigged up so I can do everything from the steering wheel, gas, brake, all that. No way I could drive with my right leg the way it is. Took some learning, but I’m used to it now.

Rania is there, along with Maida, Emma, and Vic. It’s a f*cking zoo. Five kids, all yelling, running around. Tommy and Maida have toy lightsabers, and Tommy is on top of the back of the couch, swinging at Maida, who is dancing across the cushions. Each one yelling “I GOT you!” Emma and Hank are on the floor, whacking each other with a doll and a truck, respectively, and laughing about it, for some reason. Vic is crawling around on three limbs, using one hand to keep a binky stuffed in his mouth.

There’s my love, sitting in her favorite chair, nibbling on Triscuits, talking to Rania and overseeing the chaos.

“Has he gone home now?” Rania asks me as I enter.

“Yeah. He’ll beat you there, though.” I give her a one-armed hug, and she squeezes my waist.

Rania has, throughout Reagan’s pregnancy with Hank and this one, too, been here every day, helping with the cooking and cleaning and childcare, so Reagan can work.

My girl writes books. Who knew? She writes these kinky, steamy novels about military men and the women who love them. They make me blush like a schoolgirl, but they sell like hookers on a two-for-Tuesday.

She’d smack me for saying that.

I’m proud as hell of her, though. She’s good at it. Works hard. She’s talented, and she has a mind for the business aspect, which is tricky, it turns out.