Home Front

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

Sincerely,

Mavis Sue Cochran

Topeka, KS

Jolene wiped her eyes and put the letter back in its envelope, then opened the second one.

Chief,

I’m PFC Sarah Merrin. I’m at Walter Reed, after six months in-country.

I don’t really know what to say or even why I’m writing to you. I guess because it’s quiet here now. And you’re a woman.

I lost my leg last week. Now they’re afraid I’m going to lose the other leg. Infection in blast injuries is bad, but I guess you know that. I’m going to be here a long time.

How do you do it? I guess that’s what I want to know. They tell me I’ll be able to walk again—even run—but it hardly seems likely and when I look down at what’s left of me, it isn’t pretty. Can’t see my husband sticking around after I take my clothes off.

Any words of wisdom you got would sure be helpful.

Sincerely,

Sarah Merrin

Jolene put the letter back in the envelope and stared down at it. She knew how Sarah felt, lying in her hospital bed, so far from home, wondering what part of herself she’d get back and what she’d lost forever.

But wisdom? Jolene had none to offer.

She would just add Sarah Merrin to the list of people she couldn’t help, the people she’d let down.

* * *

That night, after a long, grueling day at work, Michael left the office and drove to the rehab center. As he drove through the stop-and-go rush-hour traffic, he thought about the jury consultant he’d met with today. They’d begun voir dire proceedings—jury selection—in the Keller case. As every criminal defense attorney knew, cases could be won or lost before the trial even began. Jurors were crucial. He would need to find compassionate, liberal-minded people who believed that a good man’s mind could be broken by war. The prosecution would be looking for hard-liners who thought psychiatric disorders were just excuses for criminality.

It was dark by the time he reached the rehab center. He parked close to the entrance and went inside. The minute the bright lights enveloped him, he let go of the Keller case and thought about his wife.

She was coming home tonight. Finally.

He hoped that now they could begin to really heal. Last night, he and the girls and his mother had spent hours readying the house for her return. They’d placed flowers on every surface and filled the fridge with her favorite foods. His mother had spent all day in the kitchen with the girls, making baklava and moussaka; they’d frosted a lemon cake and decorated it with fresh orchids. They’d hung a banner across the front porch that read: WELCOME HOME TO OUR HERO! and moved the WELCOME HOME, MOMMY banner to the kitchen.

Betsy had spent hours decorating Jolene’s new downstairs bedroom. There was a new bed and a bright new comforter and literally dozens of pillows to help her position her leg while she slept.

Everything was perfect.

At the rehab center, he walked down the brightly lit hallway to her room and found her sitting in her wheelchair, looking out the window.

She was as beautiful as ever in profile. The scrapes and bruises on her face were almost healed. The only scar remaining was a small pink slash along her jawline. She was frowning slightly, chewing on her thumbnail.

“You look nervous,” he said, coming into the room.

She turned, saw him, and didn’t smile. “I am. ”

It was a surprise, that answer. Jolene had never shown fear or anxiety, not when her parents died, not when she gave birth, not even when she went off to war. All of that she’d handled with the stoicism and courage that was as much a part of her as the green of her eyes.

She didn’t really want to go home; he could see it in her eyes. It made him wonder sharply if he’d lost her.

He wanted to say something real, but she looked so distant—as if her composure were the thinnest of shells—that he didn’t dare. “It’s time to go home. ”