Freedom of Love (Letter From Home #2)(10)
Hey Molly,
I had not heard of Andrew Taylor, but looked him up. He writes exactly what I like to read. I know when you box up books, there’s probably no way to make sure they get to this MWR, but if you can put Kandahar MWR on the outside of the box, then it would have a good chance of getting here. This is a big base so a lot of people would have access to the books.
I was surprised that you appear to be younger than I thought. Somehow I imagined you being a little, old lady librarian. Sorry about that.
I started reading mysteries as a kid. My dad had an old set of Hardy Boys Mysteries and we would read them together. I went through a phase of loving Agatha Christie, then Margaret Miller and I have to say that PD James is an all-time favorite.
I’d love to hear more about the books you come across in the library. Most of the medics I work with aren’t into reading as much as I am, so hearing about your discoveries will be a nice distraction.
Yours truly,
SGT Brody Molina
Re-reading my email three times before I was satisfied with it, I still sat with it unsent for a moment. Leaning back in the chair, I rubbed my hand over my face, sighing loudly. In a world full of extroverts, it sometimes sucked being an introvert. Even this email had stressed me out, trying to decide if I should write, what to say, and what her reaction would be. With a final f*ck it, I hit send.
The bird hit turbulence and banked hard to the right. Rocking back on my heels to steady my feet, I jabbed the needle in the patient’s arm, hitting the vein on the first stick.
“Fuckin’ A, Sarge,” my crew medic called out, earning a grin from me. I wasn’t always successful on a first stick, but I’d earned the reputation of being damn accurate in the air.
Stabilizing the patient, I began to pump pain meds and fluids in him. With a tourniquet on his leg set by his comrades in the field, I made the decision to leave it alone. It appeared adequate for the few minutes it would take to get to the base. Part of my job was knowing what needed to be prioritized and what needed to be left for the surgeons.
The turbulence jolted us again and, this time, I fought to retain my balance. Fuck! Planting my feet while grabbing a bar overhead, I kept from falling over, but some of our supplies were tossed onto the floor of the bird. Kicking a few items away from my feet, I leaned back over the patient checking the IV line.
I was usually much steadier on my feet but we were at the end of almost continuous missions for the past twenty-two hours. The next crew was ready to stand by and, hopefully, after we landed this one, we would have a break. Intense fighting had broken out near one of the outposts and the injuries were piling up. So far today, though, all saves.
An hour later, I was back in the bird, but this time on the ground cleaning and restocking. We had quickly restocked between our flights out today, but items had been more thrown in rather than itemized, categorized, and double checked, which is what we did now.
By the end of the twenty-four-hour shift, I felt every one of my thirty years, almost staggering back to the tent as my boots pounded the dust. Bone wearying fatigue pulled at my aching muscles and joints. Once more, my bed called my name more than food and I resisted the urge to immediately hit the DFAC.
Crashing onto my bed, I knew my mind needed a distraction from the constant replay of the day’s frustrating events. Leaning over, I grabbed the latest mystery I was reading from my makeshift bookcase, glad for Molly’s offerings. It didn’t take long for the words to begin swimming on the page as my mind relaxed enough for sleep.
Not hearing my tent mates come in, I slipped off, dreams of a beautiful woman named Molly intertwined with the mystery filled my night.
Chapter 5
(May – Molly)
“So what makes you think you don’t have anger issues?”
Looking around the group of women sitting in a circle, my stomach clenched. I hated the group sessions. The women sitting with Susan were either denying they did anything wrong, claiming they were falsely convicted or were proud of what they had done to end up in this place. I was neither. I didn’t deny what happened with Sam nor was I proud. What happened was over…done. And talking about it wasn’t going to change anything.
“I rarely get angry and when I do, it’s about something that would make anyone angry,” I said, my voice harder than normal.
“Hell, girl, you’re in here because of—”
“That’s not important for you to point out,” Susan interrupted, looking at the other woman. “Your job is to work on your issues and let the other women work on theirs. And recognize that we each have our own difficulties.”
I watched as a few women nodded while others appeared irritated that I had not discussed wanting to kill Sam. Heaving a sigh, I was grateful when the session ended. Standing, I was almost out of the room when Susan called me back.
She was still seated in the now empty circle of metal, folding chairs and motioned for me to have a seat. I obeyed and looked into her face, waiting to see what she wanted.
“Molly, you’re a model prisoner here and your work with the military books project is going fabulously. But I’m concerned that you still have not opened up about what brought you here.”
“I see no reason to talk about it,” I replied honestly, if not a bit tersely. How can I when I promised my sister that I wouldn’t say anything?