He turned away from the lectern, and Jessie's heart turned over when she saw his face. It was ravaged, haggard…tense and drawn…the face of someone looking into hell.
One of the officers in dress uniform quickly stepped up to the microphone and thanked all the reporters for coming. The press conference-one ordeal, at least-was over.
Chapter 9
Jess didn't say much in the car as they were being driven to the plane. Although Tristan knew there were two good reasons for her reticence-Al Sharpe at the wheel and Lieutenant Commander Rees beside him in the front seat-he still had the feeling the reason for her silence was that once again he'd let her down. Since the news conference he'd felt her disappointment like a physical touch; her unanswered questions were an incessant tapping behind his temples.
But explaining to her why he couldn't give her the answers she wanted seemed utterly beyond him, and eventually he put his head back against the seat and pretended exhaustion. He didn't have to pretend much, and the headache he had was real enough. Evidently, he wryly told himself, the aftereffects of a little too much Altbier.
It wasn't until they were in the Air Force jet somewhere over the North Atlantic that Jess finally broke a long, droning silence. Out of the blue-so to speak-she said, "It might be better if you talked about it."
Tristan had been dozing, drifting in and out of shadows. Shaking off their wispy remnants, he turned his head to look at her. Her luminous eyes, filled only with compassion and concern, were to him a silent accusation. Pretending to misunderstand, he yawned, grinned and leaned closer to murmur huskily, "I'd a whole lot rather do than talk about it, sweetheart. Told you I was gonna make it up to you. Soon as I get the chance."
He could almost feel the heat of her blush, but her gaze didn't waver. She said breathlessly, "That's not what I mean, and you know it. Tris, what happened to you…you can't expect it not to have-I mean, PTSD isn't something to be ashamed-"
He made a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh and rolled his head away from her. "God, Jess, don't you start. I've heard it all from the military shrinks, believe me."
"Then why-"
"What's the point?" His voice, though barely above a whisper, was explosive, like an air gun letting go, and he paused for several breaths to force himself to ease up. "Look," he said when he felt calm enough, "who do you think's going to understand? Nobody can understand. Nobody. I can talk about it until the cows come home and it's not gonna make anybody know what it was like. Ever. Okay, Cory Pearson's a journalist, he's gonna write about it because that's who he is. It's what he has to do, I guess. But not one word he writes, I don't care how good he is with words, not one word is ever gonna make anyone feel what we felt. So what's the point in talking about it?"
"That's not what it's for-talking about it." Her whisper had a sticky sound. "It's to help you."
"Oh, yeah? Help me do what? Remember?" He fought against the sudden stabbing urge to tell her everything. About the pain, the cold and the hunger, the humiliation, the sense of utter powerlessness, the fear, the isolation, the constant expectation of death. Revulsion overwhelmed him and he couldn't stop a shudder. "Trust me, I don't need any help remembering. What I need is to forget."
"Yes, but you can't-"
"Jess, don't. Look…let's get something straight. I'm not gonna dump what's in here-" he tapped his temple "-in my head all over you. I won't do that, so don't ask me again." The fine skin around her eyes flinched at his harshness. He couldn't stand to look at her eyes. He drew a quick, hurting breath and after a moment went on brokenly, "Tell me-what kind of a man would I be if I laid all that on you? It's bad, Jess. Understand? It's enough one of us has to carry it around. I'm not about to burden you with it, too."
He could see she didn't begin to understand, even before she whispered fiercely, "I'm your wife, dammit. It's my job to help you carry your burdens. Please, Tris. Talk to me."
Gazing at her, he felt all at once a tremendous helplessness, a sense that she was slipping away from him, as though a powerful force, like a flood or a tornado wind, had torn her from his grasp and was carrying her farther and farther out of his reach. From across the widening chasm between them, he slowly shook his head. "I can't, Jess. I'm sorry."
"If not to me, then somebody, dammit."
Aching with a new grief, he leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.
* * *
Pressed against the crowd-control barricade, Sammi June shaded her eyes with her hand and stared across the shimmering tarmac. Behind her she could feel Grampa Max's silent presence, a bulwark against the press of the restless, flag-waving crowd. He wasn't especially tall-only a couple of inches taller than she was-but for an old guy he was solid and strong, and even though she'd never felt close to him and hadn't been thrilled to learn he'd be accompanying her to Washington for the big reunion, she was glad he was with her now.
Sammi June's earliest memories of Grampa Max were of a growly man with fiercely scowling eyebrows who visited now and then and was always pointing a threatening finger at her and barking, "You!" Eventually, and she had no idea how, it came to her that this only was Grampa's way of playing with her, and that it pleased him when she planted her hands on her hips and thrust out her chin and shouted "You!" right back to him. And that if she was brave enough to ignore the scowls and push past that scolding, threatening finger and climb into his lap, he would laugh and hug and cuddle her-although sometimes he'd tickle her roughly instead.
Later she'd learned that Grampa Max wasn't ever going to be the sort of grown-up who tried to "make up" to kids to get them to like him by playing their games or buying them presents or taking them places, but that he was the "go-to" guy when something got broken. Grampa Max could fix anything, and Sammi June used to save all her broken toys in a cardboard box for when he came to visit. Grampa Max could also be counted on to let her sneak sips of his beer when nobody was looking.
After her dad had gone off to the Persian Gulf and hadn't come back, Sammi June saw less and less of Grampa Max. He'd seldom visited Momma and her at Gramma's house, even after he retired and moved to Florida, which was much closer than when he'd had to fly all the way from Seattle. On those rare occasions when he called her on the phone, like on her birthday or Christmas, it was hard to think of things to say to him, and she was always glad to say goodbye and hand the phone over to Mom-although Sammi June had the feeling her mother didn't find it any easier to talk to Grampa Max than she did. It was as if the loss they all shared, rather than bringing them to a common meeting place, had instead made walls between them.
Now, stealing a sideways glance at the grandfather she barely knew, Sammi June thought it was funny-strange funny-that the same things about Grampa Max that had made him seem scary when she was little were what made her glad he was here with her now. A strong, erect, proud man, with that same scowl she remembered, a craggy nose and a jaw that looked as if it had been carved in granite, he looked steadfast and sure and completely in control. No sloppy emotions there for her to have to worry about, that was for sure.
Then she happened to look down. Grampa Max had moved up to stand beside her and was gripping the barricade, leaning forward a little on his hands. She saw a mechanic's hands-big, strong, gnarled and scarred hands that had spent a lifetime building things, mending things…building airplanes, mending broken toys. As Sammi June stared at her grandfather's hands she saw the knuckles whiten. And it came to her like a swift and unexpected blow, the realization of what it must feel like to be a father, to be a proud strong man who builds airplanes and fixes things, and to have your only son die in an airplane, to have your life and the lives of everyone you love broken into a million pieces and know there's nothing in the world you can do to fix it.
Sammi June's throat began to ache, and she shook her head and silently laughed, trying to mock the ache away. No sloppy emotions, huh? She glanced up at Grampa Max to see if he'd noticed anything, but he was staring out across the tarmac.
His eyes were narrowed and bright as laser beams. Her head jerked as she followed his gaze, and her heart gave a terrible lurch and took off, thundering and racing like a cattle stampede.
A plane was moving toward them, wavering in the heat shimmer, seeming not quite connected to the earth. As Sammi June watched it come closer, she wondered how it was possible for someone to have their heart beat so hard and still be standing up, straight and still and looking perfectly normal. She wanted to reach for someone and grab on, have someone put their arms around her and hold her up. But there was only Grampa Max, so she did as he did-she gripped the barricade so hard her knuckles turned white and stared at the plane until her eyes burned.
Out on the tarmac, the plane had rolled to a stop. People were bustling around it now, rolling things, pushing things, chocking wheels, rolling out a roll of red carpet, moving some big white stairs up close to the side of the plane. Sammi June's heart bludgeoned her; her mouth felt dry and sticky, and there wasn't any spit when she tried to swallow.
She thought, This doesn't seem real. And then, That's just stupid. Of course it feels real-it's happening to me right now. How can it not feel real when it's actually happening?
The plane's door was opening. The stairs were pushed into place in front of it and secured. A group of people, some in military uniforms, some in business suits, walked out to the plane down the long red carpet. Two of them went up the stairs and disappeared inside the plane. Time, interminable minutes, passed. Sammi June thought her head was going to explode.
She could see shadowy forms hovering in the doorway. She held her breath. Finally…finally people began to emerge from the plane and make their way down the stairs-but so far, no one she recognized, though she stared and stared until her eyes blurred. Now she was shaking so hard she could barely stand.
Grampa Max had left her side. He was leaving her! Moving away from her, pushing through the barricade! Sammi June watched in amazement as he shoved it aside and pushed his way right past it. A military security guard put out his arms to block his way, like someone herding chickens, she thought, and Grampa Max pushed him aside, too, as if he were no bigger than a fly. Sammi June hesitated only for a second before she darted after him. The guard stepped in front of her, immovable as a tank.
"Please-that's my father on that plane," she gasped, and her jaw and chin felt as stony as Grampa Max's as she looked the guard unblinkingly in the eye. He hesitated. Then, to her relief and astonishment, he gave her a short nod and stepped aside.
By that time Grampa Max had made it as far as the strip of carpet and was walking rapidly and determinedly along it toward the group of dignitaries gathered at the foot of the stairs. There were so many bodies clustered around that Sammi June couldn't even see who they were shaking hands with.
And then she halted in her tracks and watched, trembling, as Grampa Max-proud, indomitable, granite-jawed Grampa Max-grabbed hold of a tall, thin man wearing a pilot's flight suit and enfolded him in his arms. Even from where she stood she could see the sunlight glittering on the tears streaming down his cheeks.
A laugh bubbled up inside her chest, but it bumped into a sob on the way out and the two emerged together. Then she was standing in the middle of the tarmac with her hands pressed against her mouth, and all around her were cheering people and band music playing and cameras flashing, and she was desperately trying to hold everything in and scared to death because she was having no success at it whatsoever. And in the middle of all that she felt arms come around her and heard her mom saying her name. It felt good-it had been a long time since her mother's arms around her had felt that good-but at the same time the thought was running through her mind: Okay, but this is only for a second-I'm not a child-I don't want Dad to see me like this.
And it struck her then that the feelings a parent has for a child were a lot less complicated than the ones a child has for its parents. She thought of the tears on Grampa Max's face-pure unselfconscious, unconditional joy. No "How am I supposed to feel?" there, was there? No sir.
Her mother was murmuring huskily in her ear. "Honey, there's somebody else here's been waiting an awful long time to give you a hug."
Sammi June pulled away from her mother's embrace and turned to face the tall, thin man standing next to Grampa Max, who at the moment was loudly blowing his nose into a big white handkerchief. She felt herself grow tall and still. Dry-eyed, now, and calm inside, she looked into the stranger's eyes and said, "Hi, Dad." Vaguely surprised to find herself already out of breath, she caught a quick one before adding, "Welcome home."
She stepped resolutely forward to accept his embrace, and as she felt his arms come around her, found herself inhaling deeply. And she remembered, suddenly, all the times she'd flown joyfully full-tilt into her daddy's arms, when he'd come back from wherever it was he'd been, and whether he'd been gone a day or a week or many months, it hadn't mattered because he was her daddy, and she was glad to have him home. When she was really little, she'd grab him around the knees and then he'd pick her up and carry her. When she got too big to carry, he'd hug her hard and lift her feet off the floor and swing her around. But for her it was always the same: giggling, she'd rub her cheek against his whisker-scratchy face, and then bury her face in his neck and inhale his special daddy smell. Now, although she tried to find it-the daddy smell-she couldn't. Either she couldn't remember it, or it wasn't there.
She felt her dad's breath-his laughter, his voice-gust softly against her temple. "My God. Your mother showed me pictures, but-my God-I can't believe how grown-up you are. How beautiful you are." She felt a tremor go through his body, and his words seemed to catch on something as he whispered, "Guess I can't call you baby girl anymore…"
And even though her father's arms were around her once again, and his same whisker stubble was scratchy against her face, she felt a bewildering, aching sense of loss.
* * *
Watching her daughter's face, Jessie pressed clasped hands against her lips and fought to control the dry sobs that rippled through her body. I won't break down, she told herself. I won't. Dammit, I'm not about to let the whole world see me cry.
She'd only then begun to be aware of the crowd gathered beyond the barricades, many of them wearing the uniforms of the various services. A military band was playing something she couldn't identify because of all the cheering and shouting. American flags were flying everywhere, and farther away behind a high chain-link fence, more people in civilian clothes waved flags and red, white and blue balloons and school children held up signs that said, "Welcome Home, Tristan," and "America Loves You." In another roped-off area, members of the news media pointed microphones and cameras of every size and kind and jostled each other for the best position.
My God, Jessie thought, this is all for Tris. My husband is famous-a celebrity. How will we ever get our lives back? Are things ever going to be normal for us again?
And then she guiltily reminded herself, But we have him back. That's all that matters.
Someone-Lieutenant Commander Rees-was touching her elbow, gently guiding her toward the waiting dignitaries. Ahead of her, with one arm still around Sammi June's shoulders, Tristan was making his way down the line, shaking hands, saluting, listening, nodding, saying something to each one, while off to one side Max waited, staring fiercely into the sunlight and occasionally dabbing his nose with his white handkerchief. In a daze Jessie barely remembered shaking hands with the secretary of defense, the secretaries of the various services, numerous generals and admirals, and the vice president of the United States. And then they were being escorted down a long red carpet and into a cavernous hangar that had been decorated with American flags and red, white and blue bunting and balloons.
Tristan, Jessie, Sammi June and Max followed the dignitaries onto a bunting-draped stage. Seated in folding chairs, they watched while the crowd from outside, including the band, poured into the hangar. The media people followed and were herded onto a platform behind another rope barricade. After an i
nterminable period of whispering, shuffling preparation, one of the high-ranking officers-an air force general, Jessie assumed-stepped up to the lectern. As if that were the signal they'd been waiting for, the band struck up The Star Spangled Banner.
I'm not gonna cry, Jessie thought, holding her breath as she squinted into the lights. I'm not gonna cry. She didn't dare look at Tris, and she couldn't see Sammi June, standing on the other side of her grandfather. Beside her, Max Bauer stood stoic and iron-jawed with his hand over his heart.
When the last notes of the national anthem had died away, another officer-the base commander-spoke a few words of welcome, then introduced the secretary of defense, who also kept his statement mercifully brief. He then introduced Tristan and kept shaking his hand and beaming while cameras flashed and the crowd cheered and roared. After that, another officer, this one an admiral in Navy dress blues, presented Tris with the National Defense Service Medal, the POW Medal, and the Purple Heart.
Please don't let me cry, Jessie begged, as she felt her heart swell and quiver inside her. Beside her, Max swiped unobtrusively at his nose with his big white handkerchief.
Then it was Tristan's turn to speak. He stood quietly at the lectern, not smiling, looking out over the crowd as he waited patiently for the cheering to stop, while Jessie's heart pounded so hard it hurt. Then he ducked his head toward the microphone in that rather awkward way she'd seen him do at the press conference in Landstuhl, and said quietly, "I've got just one thing to say…" He paused, then in a louder voice, hoarse with emotion: "It's great to be back home!" He thrust both fists into the air and grinned-and it was his old familiar Tristan grin, with his teeth showing and comma-shaped creases around his mouth and fans of smile wrinkles at the corners of his eyes-while the crowd went wild.
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