by Sandra Hill
Twenty-four hours later, Sally was all alone.
Her sons, with her parents, had left, carting the Switch video game system and games with them. No way were they going without those. Major Durand and Izzie had left the island. Izzie’s parents had presumably stayed for a few extra days, but Sally didn’t see them. Most of the tourists were gone. Joe and Old Mike went back to work on the fishing boat, at her insistence, since word was out that the bluefish had come in early.
It was almost like the awful period after a funeral, when the real loss begins to set in. If Sally allowed herself, she could easily sink into a deep depression. But Sally was strong. She would not allow herself to believe that Jake was gone for good.
And so she did something she hadn’t done for a long, long time. She dropped to her knees, bowed her head, and prayed, “Please, God, help my husband. And bring him home to us.”
Better late than never . . .
Jake was no fool.
And he was a soldier.
Fighting the good fight was what he was all about. Surrender wasn’t in his vocabulary.
And so, he left his pride and everything else of importance behind in the Outer Banks. Maybe it was too late for him. Maybe not. On the chance it was the latter, he drove for hours, never getting out of his truck, not even on the ferries, until he got to the nearest full-scale VA hospital. After parking and locking his vehicle, he went inside. “Where’s the mental health unit?” he asked the older woman at the receptionist desk, a volunteer, according to her name tag.
Up one flight, and over to another wing, he was directed. “Do you need an escort?” she asked kindly.
Even though he’d changed into civilian clothes and the cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding, he probably looked a wreck. Plus, he’d limped in. So, her question was understandable. “No, thank you, ma’am,” he declined. “I can find my way.”
“Use the elevator over there,” she advised.
When he got to the second floor and exited the elevator, Jake noticed that corridors to the right and left had closed doors with signs reading “Code Needed to Enter Locked Units.” Another sign said “Visitors Must Sign In.”
He went up to the desk in the center where a young male nurse sat, working a crossword puzzle. There was no one in the lounge waiting area, although a television was turned on, low volume, a newscast about a local Labor Day festivity. Jake had almost forgotten that today was a holiday.
“I’m Captain Jacob Dawson.” He shoved Major Durand’s business card across the desk. “This is my liaison, who can answer any questions about my history.”
The guy’s eyes widened and he sat up straighter at the Pentagon name and address on the card. “Friends in high places, huh?”
“You could say that.”
“What can I do for you, Captain?” the guy asked.
“I need to be admitted.”
Chapter 20
Lady with a mission . . .
Two weeks later, the boys were back with Sally in Bell Cove, and they resumed their normal school routine. Their father’s absence was a looming worry to the kiddos, but they seemed to accept their mother’s assurance that he would come back as soon as he could. It helped that she’d told them that their father had loved their song routine and was so proud of them.
Another of the many lies she’d been telling.
She cancelled plans for an addition to her bakery. Somehow, she’d lost her enthusiasm for the project. Without Jake here to watch her back and help with the boys, she needed to set some priorities. And, frankly, she felt no great loss. Bigger wasn’t always better. Thus, a surf and kite store would be taking over the adjacent space next month.
She was worried about Joe. He’d taken Jake’s departure even harder than she had. The fact that he hadn’t said goodbye seemed like a double blow to his father. Sally tried to tell the old man that it was because his son intended to come back.
Was that another lie?
And so, Jake’s father plodded on with his daily routines, just as she did. Eat, work, sleep. Day in, day out. But in a holding pattern.
And the weeks went on.
Oh, she knew where he was. Izzie had informed her, the day after Labor Day, that Jake had admitted himself to a VA hospital’s mental health unit. An inpatient dealing with intense PTSD.
“Oh, Jacob!” she had cried. “That would have been so hard for him.”
“Yeah, but it’s a first step . . . a positive step,” Izzie had countered. “He never should have come back so soon. He needed more counseling.”
Sally had a few thoughts about that, but it did no good to berate Izzie. It wasn’t his fault.
“I should go to him,” she’d told Izzie, but he told her that Jake was adamant in declaring, “No visitors!” And that included Izzie, Durand, family, friends, everyone. He wanted to handle this himself.
The ass!
“Will you give him a message from me?”
“He won’t see me, either, Sal.”
“But you could get a message to him. Or Major Durand could. I’m going to email it to you. Then, you are going to print it out, and make sure he gets it, dammit. Do you hear me?”
“They heard you in the Bahamas.”
Then, days later, something happened that shook her world. The nightly news was full of reports on another government overthrow in Balakistan, even more violent than the previous one when Jake had been returned to the US. In the melee that occurred, another dissident tribal group executed many of the top leaders of the Qadir cabinet, including the prime minister and the minister of defense, Nazim bin Jamil.
Sally called Izzie right away. “This is good news for Jake, right? Now that he has no reason to fear that he or his family are in danger, he can come home.”
“Um . . . well . . .”
“What? Don’t tell me. More secrets.”
“It’s not that, exactly.” He sighed and told her, “A member of this new group, in order to justify its case for legitimacy, has released intel on some of the atrocities inflicted by the Qadir followers, some of it on local tribes who failed to support them. We’re talking old people, women, kids, and . . .” His words trailed off.
She knew without his saying the words that what he wasn’t including in the list of victims was captives, as well, like Jake. She inhaled to brace herself.
“One female member of this new group witnessed some of the prisoner torture firsthand. While she doesn’t mention names, it’s clear—at least to us in the military—that she’s talking about Jake.”
“Where is she doing this talking?”
“On the internet. But I’m begging you, Sally. Don’t look. The details are too graphic, and . . .” Izzie seemed to choke up. “And there are some pictures.”
Oh, my God! Will this nightmare ever end? “All the more reason why I should go to him.”
“No. He is going to feel humiliated by some of this crap. He shouldn’t, but you know that he will. Besides, he’s not in the mental health unit anymore.”
“What? When did that happen? Is he in another part of the hospital?”
“No. He’s left North Carolina.”
“I knew it, I knew it. I should have gone to him while he was still that close. Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do so, you lying piece of dog . . . barf.”
Izzie laughed. “He had an appointment at that orthopedic hospital in New York City, but that was a few days ago. I don’t know where he is now.”
He knew. He just didn’t want to tell her, either at Durand’s or Jake’s orders.
Aha! In that moment, Sally knew where he was now, too. With the phone to her ear, she went over to the wall calendar. Yep, September 30. The eye clinic in Baltimore. But she wasn’t telling Izzie that she knew. Instead, she tweaked him a little, “By the way, what did you do to Laura Atler when you were here? Word is that she’s no longer seeing Gabe Conti.”
“Me? I didn’t do anything. We didn’t even do th
e deed, not totally,” he said.
“Oh? Then why did she go to some voodoo woman at the mall to put a curse on you? Have you noticed an itch in an uncomfortable place lately?”
“Whaaat?”
She hung up on him, laughing. Probably hysterically, considering this was not a time for mirth.
Or maybe it was.
She had plans to make.
First off, she called Joe. “Can you come stay with the boys for a few days? I hate to ask you when the king mackerel are hitting heavy.”
“What’s up, girl?”
When she explained, he said, “Screw king mackerel! About time we did something, instead of sitting on our asses waiting.”
Next she called the Outer Banks Airlines to see if she could get on one of the early morning shuttles to Norfolk International. From there, she could book a seat on a plane to Baltimore. It was surprisingly easy.
She called José and then Mary Lou to ask for their help with the bakery. She was not surprised that they readily agreed and asked if there was anything else she needed.
She went upstairs to pack but first went into Matt’s room where the video game system was now housed. The boys were halfway through their two-hour weekend daily limit.
Her announcement that she had to go out of town for a day or two met with some whining and protest, even when she mentioned that PopPop would be babysitting for them. Ever since Jake had left, they were much more needy. Maybe they thought she would skip out on them, too. But then they soon conceded, realizing that PopPop was much more lenient than she was. Her trip could work to their benefit, the wily little devils concluded, probably already coming up with a strategy to convince their grandfather that they really needed more game time. No big deal in the scheme of things.
“Don’t you guys want to know why I have to go?” she asked them.
They immediately became alert.
“I’m going to bring Daddy home.”
Was this a near-death experience, or just God giving him a second chance? . . .
Jake felt himself coming out of the anesthetic at the vision care hospital. As he drifted in and out, he opened his good eye and guessed that he must be in the post-op room, having just gone under the knife an hour or two ago. That’s how long the surgeon had said the eye muscle procedure would take.
One of those times when he was more wakeful, he thought he smelled cinnamon. And smiled. I could get used to this happy juice.
But wait. I must have died, he thought, and this is heaven. For some reason, he wasn’t alarmed at that prospect. Just sort of sad that he wouldn’t see Sally or his sons again.
“Sweetheart, you are only going to wish you were dead when I’m through with you,” he heard Sally say.
He must have spoken aloud, or else he was talking to Sally from “the other side.” He chuckled and said, “Do they have cinnamon sex in heaven?”
“Shhh. The nurse will hear you.”
It sure did sound like his wife, and the cinnamon scent was enveloping him, taking away that medicinal smell that pervaded hospitals. And who was that holding his hand? Was it a nurse? No, he didn’t think a nurse would kiss his hand.
Yep, it must be heaven.
Still later, when the opiates had mostly left his system, he came fully awake and realized that he was back in his regular hospital room. Man, he was sick of hospitals. When this was over, he swore he would never voluntarily enter another one again.
That’s when he noticed that the cinnamon scent was still with him. Moving his head, he saw Sally sitting in a recliner in the corner, fast asleep.
How long has she been there?
Why is she here?
How did she find me?
I thought I said no visitors. No, that was back at the mental health unit.
Sally is here.
Mmmm.
Instead of being angry, he felt a calm acceptance blanket him and he sighed himself back to sleep. He hadn’t died after all, he supposed. This time his sleep was natural.
“Captain Dawson! Captain Dawson, wake up. That’s good. Here. Have a sip of water. Just a small sip. How do you feel?”
“Fuzzy.”
“That will wear off,” a nurse said.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“Should I bring a urinal?”
“Hell, no! Help me to the head.”
After he’d relieved himself and gargled some mouthwash, he let her assist him back to the bed with an arm around his waist. He felt weaker than cat piss.
Once back in bed, he asked, “My wife?”
“She’s out in the hall, speaking with your friend.”
My friend? Sure enough, he listened and could hear patches of a conversation between Sally and Izzie. The traitor. Izzie must have brought her here. Or was it vice versa? Somehow he couldn’t care.
Once he was tucked into the bed and all his vitals taken, the nurse asked, “Is it all right if they come back in?”
He nodded. Might as well get it over with.
“Hey, buddy,” Izzie said, coming up on one side of the bed. He was in uniform and must have come directly from the airport. Last he’d heard, his friend had been stationed at Fort Bragg, waiting to go active in Kandahar. In fact, he should be OUTCONUS by now.
“Oh, Jacob!” Sally came over to the other side of the bed.
Great! She pities me. “What the hell are you two doing here?” Jake asked with more hostility than he was feeling.
Sally winced and Izzie shook his head at Jake’s stupidity.
“Sorry,” Jake said, but then turned on his friend. “Why did you bring Sally here?”
“Hey, I didn’t bring her here. She arrived before I did.”
“I came on my own when I figured out where you were. On my own. Imagine that. Little ol’ me has a brain in my fool head. Fool, for caring enough about you.” She had tears in her eyes.
He felt like shit for making her cry, and he reached for her hand, squeezing. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, and he meant it. To Izzie, he added, “You, on the other hand, need to leave us alone.”
Izzie nodded and winked at him. “Bet you’re commando under that pretty gown.”
His friend was impossible.
“How do you feel?” Sally asked, moving to sit on the side of his mattress. He was still holding her hand.
“Okay, but I have to tell you, Sal, I’m not very optimistic about the outcome of this surgery.” He pointed to his left eye, which was heavily bandaged.
She cocked her head in question. “I talked to your surgeon, and he said there was a thirty percent chance of improvement.”
“Yeah. Those odds aren’t in my favor, though, especially with my bad luck streak of late . . .” He shrugged.
“What bad luck streak?”
“My evaluation at the orthopedic hospital in New York a few days ago proved to be the bomb I feared it would be. The most I can hope for with this gimpy leg is . . . a gimpy leg.”
“I hate when you use that word.”
“It is what it is.”
“And I hate that expression.”
He stifled a grin at her vehemence. “With continued exercise and massage therapy, I might get a little more mobility.”
“See, that’s a positive.”
“If I stop that active regimen or slack off even a little, I could regress to an even worse state.”
“So, you don’t stop. Besides, you enjoy all that exercise crap.”
More stifled grins. “Bottom line. Surgery isn’t an option for all the damage that’s been done to the muscles and ligaments and tendons. I will always be lame, to some extent.”
“Lame, blame, shame! Nazim has a lot to answer for, and hopefully he’s answering for it in hell.”
Jake had seen the news of Nazim’s well-deserved demise while he’d still been back at the hospital in New York. “You got that right.”
“How did the counseling go at that mental health unit?” she asked.
“You know about tha
t?”
She nodded.
“Really well. I’m suffering from PTSD, Sal. I might always be, but I’m getting a handle on controlling the symptoms.”
“That’s good. To me, that’s a bigger hurdle for you than the leg or eye injuries.”
She was right. If he could get his head on straight, the other problems might be manageable.
“Listen to me, Jake. You are a survivor. And it’s time you used that word to describe yourself instead of all those negative ones. And I’ll tell you something else. You have a family and a community that care deeply for you. That is no small thing.”
“You’re going to make me cry, and I’m pretty sure tears aren’t a good idea for the stitches in my eye.”
“Does it hurt?” she asked, lifting the sheet and crawling under it with him.
“What? Whoa! What are you doing?” he asked.
She cuddled up against him and he lifted his arm so she could rest her head on his shoulder. Her left hand was flattened on his belly, low down. “I missed you,” she said.
He kissed the top of her head and said, “I missed you, too.”
“Yeah? How much?”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
She ignored his remark and rubbed his belly in an absentminded sort of way as she talked softly, giving him the news, inconsequential things that had happened while he’d been gone, including the fact that they’d won a humongous trophy for their song at the Lollypalooza.
“The boys can’t wait to show it to you. It’s almost as big as Luke. They think it’s made of gold.”
“Major Durand sent me a video of the performance. I’ve replayed it over and over on my laptop. It was really nice, Sal.”
“You should tell the boys that.”
“Are they okay?”
“Uh-huh. I told them you were called away on some mission.”
He chuckled. In my shape? The only mission I’m capable of is a trip to the toilet.
“I can feel your negative thoughts again.”
The whole time they chatted, softly, she continued to stroke his belly and abdomen and chest, then back to his belly. He was beginning to suspect her actions weren’t so absentminded, after all, especially when a certain body part began to take notice.