by Kelli Estes
Maybe that was a side effect of her mother’s profession. Kat McKinnon Bennett had founded and ran a successful skin-care and cosmetics business. Her entire identity was wrapped up in how she looked.
Kat had always hated that her only daughter didn’t care one tiny bit about wearing makeup or painting her nails or wearing the latest fashions. Except for on prom night and a few other times in her life, Larkin had never been interested in that stuff. She clipped her nails short, kept her boring brown hair in a style requiring the least amount of upkeep and satisfying Army regulation, and usually wore nothing more on her face than lip balm. A fancy night out might warrant a swipe of mascara and lipstick, but that was it.
And to make matters even worse, she’d chosen a dirty, smelly, and dangerous career. To her mother, she might as well be an alien.
Her dad tried to change the subject. “We’ve been so worried about you, Lark.”
Larkin swallowed a retort and plastered on a smile. “I’m still in one piece, despite what they might have told you.”
Her mother let out an unladylike snort of disgust. “They told us you nearly died in the blast and that at Landstuhl you tried to kill yourself. We were all set to fly over to see you, but they said you refused.”
A stab of regret shot through Larkin as she saw the hurt in her mother’s eyes. She looked away and sipped her wine, trying to come up with a response that wouldn’t ignite more pain nor reveal too much. Outside the wall of windows, she could see the lights of Kirkland shining across Lake Washington, as they always had. The view calmed her, and she was able to turn back toward her mom. “I knew they were sending me stateside. There was no reason for you to go all the way to Germany. And then, when I got back, I went straight into inpatient treatment for six months. There wasn’t time.”
Mom leaned over and laid a hand on top of Larkin’s. Kat’s hand was pale and unlined, her nails gently rounded and lacquered in the red color she’d always favored. Larkin’s hand, though thirty-one years younger, was marred with scars, sunspots, and the beginnings of wrinkles from all her time in the sun. She slowly pulled her hand away and hid it under the table on her lap.
Dad tried to say something, but his voice failed him and he covered it with a cough. He averted his eyes from Larkin and stared out the windows.
Mom waited a beat. “Why did you try to kill yourself?”
A sudden, familiar rage engulfed Larkin, and she wanted nothing more than to leave. Every muscle in her body strained to stand and walk out of this house, far away from this conversation and every reminder of what had happened. Far away from her mother’s questions and judgments.
But the look on her mother’s face told her that if she did, her mother would march after her and harass her until she got some answers.
Larkin shot a look at her dad, hoping he might help, but he looked like he was about to cry. His watery eyes were a punch to her gut.
She studied the crown molding as she searched her brain for words to explain the one thing she didn’t want to talk about at all.
Her dad prompted, “Maybe you could tell us about the day of the bombing?”
Larkin snapped her gaze to meet her father’s. “No. I won’t discuss that.”
Surprise flashed across his face. He nodded. “Okay. What can you talk about?”
“For heaven’s sake, Christian. She’s not a baby.” Mom set aside her fork and leaned toward Larkin, staring her down. “We know they sent you to Landstuhl, Germany, for surgery and that you were supposed to return to your unit in Kandahar once you healed, but that something happened and they instead put you on psych watch and eventually gave you a medical discharge. What did you do?”
The question—what did you do?—echoed in Larkin’s brain. Her parents knew she’d tried to kill herself. They knew how she’d tried to do it. So the only thing her mother could be asking, she figured, was what had she messed up so badly that it led her to take such drastic action. Mom didn’t ask what happened to her; she asked what Larkin had done, as though there were no other explanations. The only possible reason, in Mom’s mind, for Larkin trying to kill herself was because she’d messed up in a big way.
And, of course, her mother was right.
They deserved the truth. As much as she could voice.
For several moments, Larkin concentrated on drawing air into her lungs and releasing it along with the tension in her body, as her therapist had taught her to do. When her heartbeat had slowed to a pace that no longer made her feel like throwing up, she started talking, directing her words to the food on her plate to avoid the emotions she knew she’d see in her parents’ eyes. “Like I said, I won’t talk about the…the bombing. But like you said, I was injured, and I was flown to Germany where I was patched up. They said I could return to my company once I’d healed enough, but then they told me about Sarah and the others, and I started having nightmares and things.”
“Things? What sorts of things?”
Another deep breath. “Visions. Hallucinations. Outbursts.”
Mom must have heard the anger in Larkin’s voice because she didn’t ask anything else. The silence stretched over them.
“Go on, Lark,” Dad urged. “You’re safe.”
Unexpected tears surged up her throat, and she looked down at her lap to hide them. The only sound in the room was the music on the sound system. She cleared her throat. “I managed to get my hands on some drugs. I don’t even know what they were, but I figured if I took the whole bottle, they’d do the job.”
Mom gasped. Dad made an anguished sound.
“The nurse found me right away, and they pumped my stomach. A few days later, I was informed that I would not be returning to Afghanistan and would instead be flying to Memphis for PTSD treatment.” Relieved she was finally near the end of the story, Larkin lifted her chin. “After the six-month inpatient program, I returned to Fort Leonard Wood where I was outprocessed and officially given a medical discharge.”
“Did they give you a pension or any benefits for all your years of service?”
Larkin’s mouth dropped open. “Seriously, Mom? That’s your question?”
Mom sputtered an explanation, but Larkin cut her off. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” She started eating again to signal the end of their conversation, though she no longer tasted the food.
“Are you in counseling?”
Larkin avoided looking at her mother. “Yes, I have a therapist I call once a week until I find someone local.” They didn’t need to know she hadn’t called her therapist in two weeks and she had no plans to look for a local doctor. She was tired of talking about her problems and ready to be normal for a change. Ready for a fresh start.
“Do we need to worry you’re going to commit suicide? Because that would kill Grams to find you, you know.”
Larkin gritted her teeth. Was her mother really more worried about Grams finding Larkin’s body than about Larkin herself? “No, Mom. I’m not going to kill myself.” She folded her napkin and placed it on the table next to her plate, no longer hungry.
“What about—”
Larkin held up her hand to cut off her mother’s next asinine question. “I should have let you guys come see me, or at the very least called you more often. I’m sorry I didn’t, and I thank you for worrying about me. I needed time. I still need time to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. I thought I was going to be in the Army forever. I loved my job. It gave me purpose. Now I don’t have any purpose, and all I seem to be good at is disappointing people. But I’m trying, okay? I’m trying.”
She refused to break down. Already, she’d opened herself up more than was comfortable. Without giving them a chance to respond, she pushed back from the table and carried her plate to the kitchen where she dumped the food in the trash and stood over the sink taking several deep breaths. Her chest still felt hot, so she grabbed a glass from the
cupboard, filled it from the tap, and drank the whole thing without pause.
“We have sparkling water in the fridge if you’d prefer.”
Larkin carefully placed her glass and plate in the dishwasher. “No, I’m fine.” Forcing a wide smile, she looked at her mother, who had propped one hip against the kitchen island, wineglass in hand. “Thank you for dinner, Mom. I really appreciate it. I’d better get going, though. It’s been a long trip, and I’m tired.”
“Already?” Mom left her half-full wineglass on the counter. “I have something for you. You’ll be looking for a job, and I found a website that has all kinds of ideas for people with psychology degrees—”
“No.” Larkin cut her off and put a hand on her arm. “I’m not ready. Please. I just need time.”
Mom’s face filled with such confusion that it would have been comical had Larkin not been so emotional already. She was in a place where most mornings it took all of her energy to get out of bed. Someone like her mother—who had been driven toward success her whole life and for whom everything had fallen into place—could not comprehend what this was like.
Her father came into the kitchen, and Larkin went to him. “I’m heading out, Dad.” She stepped into his embrace. “I’ll see you later,” she said, not willing to commit to anything more concrete.
When she stepped away from her dad, her mom was there, and this time, she opened her arms to Larkin. Larkin hugged her and felt like the little girl she’d been who’d wanted so badly for her mother to love her, but who could never figure out how to make that happen. “Bye, Mom. Thanks again.”
In the car, she backed out of the driveway and murmured sarcastically to Sarah, “That was fun.” As she turned onto the main road, she added, “Grams’s house will be different.”
A sense of peace filled the car, and Larkin knew Sarah understood. Anytime they’d talked of home while on deployment, Larkin had always talked about her grandparents’ house in Woodinville. Finally, she was going home.
Chapter Four
July 1861: Wilson Family Farm, Stampers Creek, Indiana
The first letter Emily and Ben received from Pa had come a week after his and David’s departure with the proud announcement that they were both mustered into service in the 9th Indiana Infantry regiment. They were to spend a month training at what had been the old state fairgrounds, now given the official-sounding name of Fort Morton, before shipping out to the front lines.
The second letter came from David nearly a month later, telling them to be proud of Pa, for he had been elected first lieutenant of their company. David went on to describe how their regiment had been chosen to march in review for Governor Oliver P. Morton and General George McClellan before boarding a train bound for Grafton, Virginia. They were the first regiment to leave Indiana. On the way, residents throughout Ohio waved and cheered for them as their train passed.
The last letter Emily and Ben received had been written by Pa. In it, he described their first battle at a place called Philippi in western Virginia and made it sound like a grand adventure. Emily could tell Pa was not telling them everything so they would not worry, but she worried anyway. She missed her father and older brother, and every day with them gone felt more difficult than the last.
And then the letters stopped coming. The more time that passed without word, the more Emily worried and fretted. One Sunday in mid-July, as the sun blazed hot from the moment it rose above the horizon, they’d all gone into town for church, as was their custom. Before his sermon, Reverend Daniels read from a newspaper clipping given to him by Mrs. Chambers, who had received it from her sister in Terre Haute. The Terre Haute Star, dated July 11, reported that Union forces, among them their own Indiana boys in the 9th Regiment, battled against Confederate forces led by Brigadier General Robert S. Garnett in a place called Laurel Hill in western Virginia. Emily found herself shaking. As Reverend Daniels bowed his head to pray for their boys at war, Emily quietly slipped from the pew and went outside.
Even standing in full sun in the middle of the churchyard, she could not get warm. Pa and David had been in battle. Was that why she had not heard from them in so long? Were they injured? Were they dead?
After the service, it was all she could do to put on a brave act for David’s sweetheart, Nancy, who fretted about his safety. Emily, remembering her promise to David, reassured Nancy that he would return to her and that he asked about her in every letter home.
The following week was a long one. Emily startled every time the dog barked, and her gaze flew to the road to see if a messenger or neighbor was bringing word from the Army. The days passed, but Emily felt as if her life would not move forward until she received word from Pa and David telling her they were alive.
On Monday, Emily woke knowing she could not wait one day more. She was supposed to help with the laundry, as was their routine, but she thought that dull task might make her lose her senses.
“Aunt Harriet, may we delay the laundry until I’ve returned from Paoli?” The sun was peeking over the horizon, and Emily had caught her aunt returning from the outhouse before breakfast.
Harriet jerked to a stop when she heard Emily’s voice, her hand flying to her chest. “Goodness, girl! You gave me a startle.”
Emily dropped her chin. “I’m sorry, Aunt. I did not mean to. It’s just that I want to stop by the post office and see if there is any word from Pa or David, or, lacking that, I plan to ask around to see if anyone has heard news.” Stampers Creek had a post office but the postmaster had enlisted, so until a replacement could be found, residents would need to go into Paoli for their mail. Paoli was five miles to the west, and a much larger town than Stampers Creek. Chances were good that someone there knew something.
Aunt Harriet’s brows knit together. “I’m worried about them, too. Go on. I’ll get started without you.”
Moving quickly, Emily saddled her father’s mare and climbed on. Now that she was doing something other than waiting, she couldn’t seem to move fast enough.
The roads were quiet this early in the morning. She waved to neighbors in their yards feeding farm animals or heading to their fields early to beat the heat of the day. The nearer she came to town, the more activity increased until she arrived at Courthouse Square and found herself in the middle of a flurry of horses, wagons, and people, all either hurrying to their destination or completely unmindful of those needing to pass as they blocked the sidewalks and dusty street to share pleasantries with one another. The imposing building with Greek columns, from which the square had gotten its name, towered over everything from its perch in the middle, the rising sun blinding off the white paint.
The post office was located on the far street facing the courthouse, and Emily made a beeline there, arriving just as the postmaster unlocked the door for the day.
“Good morning, sir!” she greeted him, trying to hide the urgency she felt.
“Good morning, Miss…”
“Wilson,” she supplied as she followed him inside. “Emily Wilson from Stampers Creek.” They exchanged polite well-wishes for the Stampers Creek postman who had gone off to fight. Emily clenched her hands tightly together and forced herself to be patient.
“Wilson, you said.” He finally pushed through the swinging half door and took his place behind the service counter. “I do believe I have some mail for your family, if you would give me a moment.”
“I’ll also take anything you have for my uncle, Samuel Hutchinson.” Emily held her breath as she waited for him to disappear into the back room where mail was sorted. He emerged carrying two letters. Two letters! He handed them to her.
“Oh, thank you!” She recognized David’s handwriting on the first envelope and hugged it to her chest. The second was addressed to both her and Ben, but it was not written in Pa’s handwriting. She hurried through a few more pleasantries with the postmaster before escaping outside to tear open the mystery letter.<
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To the family of First Lieutenant Calvin Wilson, 9th Indiana Infantry, she read. It is with my deepest condolences that I write to inform you of First Lieutenant Wilson’s death in battle at Laurel Hill, Virginia, on the morning of the seventh of July. He was shot by enemy musket and died instantly. He did not suffer. Our forces, under Major General George B. McClellan, defeated the Confederates, and so it is my honor to tell you that your loved one did not die in vain. I, and our great country of the United States, thank you for First Lieutenant Wilson’s service.
Emily felt herself falling and could do nothing to catch herself. She landed hard on the ground in a pool of gingham skirts, causing her mare to skitter away from her. She sat there, her arms limp in her lap, the letter glaring up at her, mocking her with its simplicity.
Nothing was simple any more. Pa wouldn’t be coming home. Tears dropped unchecked onto the letter, but she could not bring herself to move to wipe them away, or to pick herself off the ground.
Pa was gone.
How could this be? Pa was stronger than anyone she knew. He could shoot better than anyone she knew. He was supposed to read the diary she’d been dutifully writing in every night for him. He was supposed to stay safe. He was supposed to serve their country and then come home.
“Miss, are you all right? Can I get someone for you?”
She looked up to find a man and woman on the sidewalk staring at her. The man bent down to hook his hand under her elbow. “Here, let me help you. You don’t want to soil your pretty dress by sitting in the dirt, do you?”