Home Front

Finally, exhausted, she slumped back into the pillows and closed her eyes. The grief gave way to a yawning sense of despair. Here she was, her leg cut off, lying in a hospital bed far from home, without a best friend to talk to or a husband to hold her.

Michael.

She released a heavy breath at the thought of him.

He would stay with her now; that was who he was. Michael Zarkades had a strong sense of duty. He would see that she was broken, and he would step back into the marriage where he belonged. Pity would bring him back to her; duty would make him stay. That was why he was here, after all. The dutiful husband standing by his broken wife.

Someone touched her face gently. She opened her eyes slowly, worked to focus. The meds were still in her system, making her unsteady.

Michael smiled tiredly down at her. The shirt he wore, an expensive black turtleneck, hung strangely, as if he’d been pulling on the fabric at his throat, stretching it out. Of course he touched her gently. She was damaged now, crippled; he would be afraid to touch her, afraid that what was left of her would break. “Hey, sleepyhead,” he said, “welcome back. ”

“Michael,” she said, feeling inestimably sad. “Why are you here?” She had to concentrate to make her voice work. She felt so groggy.

“You’re my wife. ”

She swallowed; her throat was dry. Her thoughts jangled around her head. “You wanted a divorce. ”

“Jo, I’ve been trying to tell you since I got here: I love you. I was an idiot. Forgive me. ”

It was what she’d waited months to hear, dreamed of almost every night in the desert, ached for, and now … she didn’t care. His words were meaningless. She pushed her morphine pump and prayed for the drug to work quickly.

“Give us a chance, Jo. You need me now. ”

“I’ve never needed anyone. ” She sighed. “And thank God for that. ”

“Jo, please…”

“You want to help me, Michael? Go home. Get the house ready for a cripple. Get my girls ready. It won’t be easy for them to see me like this. They’ll need to be prepared. ” She closed her eyes, feeling useless tears again. Thankfully, the morphine kicked in, and slowly, slowly, she felt herself drifting away.

Michael leaned down and kissed her cheek. The soft, familiar feel of his lips on her skin nearly did her in. She almost reached for him, almost told him how scared she was and how much she needed him.

Instead, she said, “Go … way…” She refused to need him anymore.

As if from far away, she heard his footsteps as he walked away, heard the door swoosh open and click shut. At the last minute, she thought: Come back. But it was too late. He was gone, and she was falling asleep.

Her last conscious thought was a list of what she’d lost: Running. Flying. Being beautiful and whole. Being strong. Picking up her children.

Michael.

Eighteen

Twenty-four hours after they cut off Jolene’s leg, they wanted her to get out of bed. At first she fought with the nurses who came to put her in a wheelchair, and then she realized the opportunity it presented: she could see Tami.

Now she was out of bed and in a wheelchair.

“Are you comfortable, ma’am?” the young nurse asked, helping Jolene settle into the chair.

How many days had passed since she’d climbed into the pilot’s seat of a Black Hawk helicopter? Now she needed assistance just to sit in a vinyl chair. Her gauze-wrapped stump stuck out in front of her. “I’m fine. Thank you. I’m going to see Chief Tami Flynn. In ICU. ”

“I’ll push you. ”

She couldn’t even do that by herself because of her bum right hand. The nurse positioned herself behind the wheelchair and rolled Jolene out of the room.

The ortho ward was full of patients like her—their limbs shattered or broken or gone. Most of them were men, and so young. Just boys, by the looks of them; one even wore braces.

That made her think of Smitty.

Smitty, with his bright smile and gawky walk and horsey laugh; Smitty, who drank Mountain Dews one after another and swore that girls were dying to get into his pants. Smitty, who had been so excited to go to Iraq.