Home Front

You’ve got this, Jo, she thought desperately. You can handle anything. Just don’t look away. The first time is the hardest. But that was the old Jo talking, and her voice was quiet, easy to ignore.

He unwrapped the elastic bandage slowly, so slowly she knew he was giving her the time to readjust with every motion. He lifted her leg a little, unwrapping the back, then moving across the front.

She thought she was going to be sick. Hold on, Jo. Hold on. Her fingernails bit hard into her palm. She felt herself starting to sweat.

He pulled the last of the bandages away, set them on the sheet beside her good leg. All that was left was a soft, gauzy dressing. Through it, she could see the discoloration of her swollen, bruised skin. She closed her eyes.

“Jo?”

“I’m not looking,” she whispered. “I can’t. ”

“Keep breathing. Just listen to my voice. I’m going to massage your leg, okay? It’s good for circulation. When you’re ready, I’ll teach you how to do it. ”

When his hands touched her skin, she flinched, felt a ripple of revulsion. She couldn’t help herself; she made a little whimper of sound.

“Breathe, soldier girl. ”

She let out a heavy breath.

Slowly, she felt his fingers moving, massaging, releasing the clenched muscles, and it was a kind of magic. She felt her shoulders let go, her fists open. Her head lolled forward the slightest bit.

“There you go,” he said at last, and she had almost fallen asleep. “You can open your eyes now, Jolene. ”

“Is it covered?”

“Yes. You’re covered. ”

She heard the slight emphasis he put on the word, and she lifted her head slowly, opened her eyes.

The elastic bandage was back in place, wrapped more tightly now, the tiny silver closures angled in a pair, almost like officers’ bars.

“Thanks,” she said. “That helped with the pain. ”

“You will get better, Jolene. Trust me. ”

“I didn’t used to be such a bitch. ”

He came back up to the head of the bed, stood beside her. “You’re not a bitch. You’re just scared. My wife, now she’s a bitch. ” He smiled. “And I love her like a crazy man. ”

“I didn’t used to be scared, either. ”

“Then you were lying to yourself. We’re all scared sometimes. ”

To that, she had no answer. She had lied to herself about a lot of things over the years, lied or looked away. It had been the only way she knew how to survive. And she’d been right to do it—this fear was unbearable. It unwrapped who she was, as neatly as he’d unwound her bandage, leaving too much pain and ugliness exposed.

Nerve endings; he’d said they were the problem. Things that got cut off, that ended abruptly or died—like parents and marriages—kept hurting forever.

She knew he expected her to be stronger, to try harder, to believe she could get better. But she didn’t want better. She wanted her old life back, her old self back, and both were gone, amputated as cleanly as her leg.

“Just try. That’s all I ask. ”

Try. It was another word for believe, and she was done with that.

“Go away, Conny,” she said, sighing, closing her eyes.

OCT.

It’s raining outside my window. All I can see is tears. There’s something seriously wrong with me, and it’s not a missing leg.