Home Front

“Home,” she said, turning the word into something foreign, a little frightening. “My things are in that duffle bag. ”

He picked up the big army-green duffle bag, carried it out to the car, and was back to get her in no time. Taking control of the chair, he wheeled her out of the rehab center. In the parking lot, he opened the car door and then turned to her.

Her pant leg fell away from the amputated leg like a flag in no wind. He stared down at it, wondering how he was supposed to lift her. Conny had never shown him. Could he touch her leg or would it hurt her?

* * *

For hours, Jolene had been imagining her homecoming. In her mind, she pictured it unfolding perfectly—the girls laughing, her crying, Mila making them all some food. She’d spent the last hour sitting in her chair, in the shadows of her room, telling herself she could do it, she could go home and be the woman she used to be.

Then, at the Lexus, she saw Michael hesitate. He couldn’t even look at her leg, let alone touch it.

She gripped the chair’s metal wheels and rolled past him, determined to climb into the passenger seat herself.

“Jolene, wait—” Michael said.

She ignored him, set the brake, and reached up for the side of the car. What should she hold on to? What would steady her the best? She hadn’t practiced this with Conny.

“Looks like soldier girl is trying to do everything all by herself. I thought we talked about that. ”

Conny crossed the parking lot and came toward them, his dreadlocks swinging. As he moved, he retied them in a ponytail.

“Hey,” Jolene said when he stopped beside her.

“You sneaking out on me? I stayed late to say good-bye. ”

“It’s not good-bye. ” She looked up, afraid suddenly to leave him, afraid to go home, where everything that she’d lost would be so apparent. With Conny, effort was enough; at home, the expectations would be higher.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you three days a week. ”

She nodded, tilting her chin up. He knew how badly she wanted to be the mother she’d once been, the woman she’d once been—and he knew, too, how scared she was that she would fail. They had talked and talked about it. Or rather, he had talked and she had listened.

He squatted down beside her, his knees popping in protest at the movement. “Everyone is scared to go home,” he said softly, so that Michael couldn’t hear. “It’s safe here. ”

He reached out for her left hand, held it in his dark baseball mitt of a hand. “Don’t tell me you’re not tough enough for what comes next, soldier girl, ’cause I know better. It’s a new beginning, that’s all. ”

It was true. She was tough enough. She always had been, from the moment she’d realized that her parents were unreliable. She’d learned to take care of herself. If she could survive her parents’ deaths and Michael falling out of love with her and losing her leg and Smitty dying, she could handle going home … she could love her babies again and be a new version of herself.

She swallowed hard. “By this time next week I’ll be playing lacrosse. ”

Conny grinned. “That’s my girl. ” He patted her hand and stood up. “Ten o’clock tomorrow. Don’t be late. ”

“She won’t be,” Michael said.

“Michael,” Conny said. “Here’s how you help our girl get into the car. ”

Jolene let Conny help her to a stand and then she pivoted on her foot and backed into the passenger seat with Conny’s hand steadying her. She couldn’t help noticing how her half leg stuck forward when she was seated.

Conny patted her shoulder one last time and closed the door.

Then it was just she and Michael, sitting in a car together. She didn’t want to remember the look on his face in the parking lot, when it had been time to touch her, but what else could she think of?

He made small talk all the way home. She nodded and made listening sounds and stared out the window.

The familiarity of the landscape sucked her in, reminded her of the life they’d shared in the shadow of these magnificent mountains; when they turned into their driveway and the headlights shone on their white fence, she thought: I’m home, and for a split second the joy of that was pure and sweet and intoxicating. She forgot about her leg and her husband and her lost crewman and comatose best friend; she thought how lucky she was to be here at all. She still had what mattered most to her in the world: her daughters. And now, finally, she would be Mommy again.

There, just next door, was Tami’s house. You should be there, Tam, she thought sadly.

As they drove up to the garage, the security light came on in a burst of brightness—