by Gina Holmes
“Go on.”
“But when I got that phone call—” she drew in a deep breath, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning in her chest—“I felt as though I’d been punched.” She shook her head. “No, not punched—gutted.”
His eyes widened at her word choice, and she realized that although it was exactly the right description of how she’d felt, it was the wrong one to free her.
“He was a great son,” she added.
“Was?”
Exasperation spilled from her in the form of a sigh. This constant monitoring of every word and deed was already getting old. “Is. I mean is. Handsome. Popular. The rare combination of homecoming king and valedictorian.”
“You have much to be proud of.”
“Yes, I’m very proud of my son. We were, are, very close.”
“The phone call you mentioned—tell me about it.”
“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever heard.”
His eyes encouraged her to continue.
How desperately she’d needed to hear from Benji, one more time. Instead, it was Private Yoshida who’d contacted her. She sat up straight as steel and repeated his words verbatim. How could she ever forget them?
“‘This is Private Yoshida. I have arrived safely at Parris Island. Please do not send food or bulky items. Do not call me. I’ll mail you a postcard with my new mailing address. Thank you for your support. Good-bye.’ I begged him to tell me he would be okay, that he’d call again soon, that he knew I loved him. But he wouldn’t deviate from the script.”
He handed her a tissue. “That would be a tough call to get.”
She dabbed at her eyes, then wiped her nose. “There’s a war going on. He could die.”
“Is that why you drove your car into a signpost?
“Even if I had wanted to die, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t kill myself.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s a sin.”
“According to?”
“We’re God’s temple. We’re not to destroy it.”
He nodded. “I see.”
She doubted it. “I was distraught. My son went off to the Marines. My only son. My husband, the love of my life, is dead. Dead! I hadn’t meant to hit that sign. Maybe I was driving too fast; I don’t know. But I wasn’t and am not suicidal.”
What seemed like genuine compassion glinted in his eyes as he leaned forward and placed his thick hand on her shaking arm. “You’ve been through a lot, Kyra. I want to help.”
She pulled away. “Then let me go home.”
He sighed. “I know you want that. I believe that your accident was unintentional and you probably would not kill yourself.”
She tilted her head back in relief. “Thank You, Jesus.” She looked at him. “So I can go?”
He shook his head. “Regretfully, no.”
“Why not?”
He searched her face for an uncomfortably long time. “Because we still have one problem.”
She crossed her arms. “What’s that?”
“Your late husband is downstairs demanding to see you.”