Home Front

It was a lie. She wouldn’t feel better, but she needed to close her eyes and get away from this grief. She couldn’t bear it. Not anymore; she wasn’t strong enough. Her heart might just stop … and would she care?

She swallowed the pills, dry, and sank to the bed, hanging her head, willing them to work.

Michael moved closer, took her in his arms again. She knew he was judging her for taking the pills, thinking that she was pathetic and damaged, but she didn’t care. It was the truth anyway; she’d been snapped in half and her courage was gone.

She looked at him through her tears. “We were supposed to grow old together. We were going to be old women, sitting on our deck in rocking chairs, remembering each other’s lives…”

* * *

On the day of Tami’s funeral, Jolene couldn’t get out of bed.

As soon as she woke up, she poured herself a glass of wine. Downing it quickly, she poured and drank another. But there was no help in the bottle today.

She heard the shower start upstairs. Michael was up.

Throwing the covers back, she got out of bed, put on her prosthetic leg, and made her way across the family room slowly; aware of every step, every bump and line and scar on the wood floor. In the past few weeks, she’d made excellent progress with her prosthesis, she was able to wear it almost all the time now, and her movements were getting stronger every day.

At the rag rug, she positioned her fake foot carefully so she wouldn’t slip and then kept going. Up the stairs. Grab, lift, thrust, place, step. Each riser took phenomenal concentration and resolve. By the time she got to the master bedroom, she was sweating.

She shouldn’t be up here. It was off-limits, really, this second floor. No one trusted her to use the stairs. No one trusted her to do much of anything, really. She could hardly blame them.

She limped over to the closet and opened the louvered doors. Her clothes were all still there, neatly aligned.

The first thing she saw were her ACUs, the combat fatigues, with the black beret pinned to the chest. She and Tami had worn that uniform almost every day in Iraq …

Beyond it were her class As—dress uniform: a jacket, knee-length skirt, and white blouse. She pulled it out, stared down at the jacket with its gold detailing, surprised by the emotion that washed over her.

“Jo?” Michael said, coming into the room. He was bare-chested, wearing a towel wrapped low on his hips; his hair was still wet. “You’re crying,” he said.

“Am I?”

He came over, took the uniform from her. “Let me help you get downstairs. Mom should be here by now. ”

“I can’t do this. ”

His gaze was steady, warm. “You can. ” He held on to her arm, steadied her as she moved through the bedroom and went down the stairs, where Mila was waiting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee.

“I came to help you get ready,” she said gently.

Jolene felt as empty as corn husk, hollow, dried-out. She was shaking when her mother-in-law took her by the elbow.

Mila helped her into the shower. When Jolene was done, and wrapped in a big, thick towel, Mila positioned her on the toilet, then brushed and dried her hair. Her residual leg stuck out like a baseball bat, still swollen and decorated with bright-pink stitch marks. Mila wrapped it expertly in the elastic bandage and then covered it with the gel sock.

“A little makeup would be nice today, don’t you think? You’re pale and you’ve lost so much weight…”

Jolene nodded but didn’t really care.

“Sit up straight and close your eyes. ”

Jolene closed her eyes when asked, opened them when prompted, and pursed her lips. She couldn’t have cared less how she looked, but neither did she have the strength to protest.

“There. All done. Let’s get you dressed. Here. ” Mila knelt in front of her, holding the waistband of the skirt open.

Jolene lifted her left foot and guided it through the opening, gritting her teeth when her mother-in-law slipped the skirt over her stump. Then she stood dutifully and sat again, zipping her skirt before she opened her arms for the blouse, fixing the smart dark neck tab at her collar.

Mila talked the whole time, about gardening and recipes she’d tried and the weather. Anything except the thing they were getting ready for. “Okay. All done. How did I do?”

Jolene lifted the skirt and put her prosthetic limb on. Grabbing the handrail by the toilet, she got to her feet. Turning with care, she faced the mirror on the back of the door.