Chapter 7
He truly hadn’t been hinting, but as Brian locked up the house behind them and wheeled his chair out to Kathy’s Volkswagen under the portico, he wouldn’t have cared if he had hinted his way into this time with her.
His spirits lifted at the sun on his shoulders. The breeze whipped his hair and carried the scent of sweet bay magnolia blossoms. “You really think you can get this big ol’ chair in the trunk of that thing?” He indicated the front of the Beetle.
“We’ll make it fit if I have to take it apart.” She waited while he transferred into the front passenger seat, then folded his chair and wheeled it to the front of the car. She popped the trunk open. Through the crack under the hood, he watched her rearrange the contents and lift his chair. The little car rocked as she tried to wedge the chair in.
After trying for a minute, she hoisted the chair again and set it back on the drive. Brian held his breath, fearing the trip might be over before it ever began. But she started hauling things from the trunk, stowing them in the back seat.
He felt like a heel sitting there watching her while she wrestled to fit everything in. She lugged a toolbox and a lawn chair, and made another trip with her duffel bag and some sort of homemade sign—heavy poster board nailed to a picket. He couldn’t see what it said—until the wind caught it like a kite, and it blew to the ground beside his car door.
He opened the door and leaned out to retrieve it for her. He stopped dead cold. For a moment he couldn’t move, could only stare at the angry words, scrawled in blood-red letters, dripping with hate.
BABY KILLERS.
Realization knifed him when he looked up and met her eyes.
“I’ve got it, Brian.” Her voice was cold, her lips pressed together in a tight line. She looked like he’d just caught her taking money from his wallet.
He looked down at the poster again. “What is that?” He knew exactly what it was. He’d chosen not to revisit too often his memories of the reception he and four of his buddies had received when they’d come off the concourse at Dulles, coming home on leave after their first tour in Nam. They’d tried to joke about it in the cab on the way to the hotel, but the gags fell flat with the protesters’ spit still staining their uniforms.
Kathy snatched up the picket and turned the poster away from him. “It…it’s nothing.” She rammed the sign behind his seat, slammed the car door, and went to the front of the Beetle. After loading his wheelchair in the now-empty trunk, she came around and climbed behind the wheel. Her face was ashen.
His stomach churned and bile rose in his throat. “It’s not nothing. Not to me.” He nodded toward the back seat. “Why do you have that thing?”
Staring straight ahead, she turned the key in the ignition. “It was for a rally…a protest.”
“A war protest?”
She nodded, still not looking at him.
“Baby killer?” Brian repeated the abhorrent phrase, aware of the incredulity stiffening his voice. Rather that than the disappointment tightening his chest. “Is that what you think I am?”
She turned to meet his gaze. “No, Brian. Of course not. Not you…”
“Who do you mean, then?”
“It’s just…a slogan. I’m just trying to do something…to help end this war.”
He jabbed a finger toward the back seat again. “And that’s how you’re doing it?”
“It’s just a sign, Brian. I’m trying to get guys like you home. Guys like John.” She held out the wrist that sported the POW bracelet.
He’d noticed it before, of course. Admired her for being involved as a civilian, supporting the troops—he’d thought.
She shifted the car into gear and started down the long drive.
Brian clutched at his door handle. “Stop the car.”
“What?”
“Stop this car.” He fought to keep his voice steady.
Kathy stopped the car at the end of the lane and turned to face him. “Brian, come on. You’re overreacting. It’s not person—”
“I’m overreacting? You call me…and my buddies who died in that hellhole…baby killers and I’m supposed to just brush it off?”
Her face reddened. “Are you going to sit there and tell me there’s no truth to it?” Pain filled her eyes. “What about My Lai? Babies and children were killed in some of those villages. I’ve seen the photographs, Brian.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You can’t deny it happened.”
Everything started to spin around him. His ears buzzed, and Kathy’s voice receded while the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire spit around him and the heavy jungle air filled his lungs. He knew it wasn’t real, but he couldn’t seem to turn it off either.
“Brian? Are you okay?”
He pressed his hands against the dashboard and forced himself to take deep breaths. He had to get out of this car. He wanted to run as far as his legs would carry him. But of course that wasn’t an option.
He pushed open his door and let the night air lave over him. But the giant lump in his throat wouldn’t seem to go down. “You remember me telling you about my buddy? Tim?”
She nodded, and he thought he saw fear in her eyes.
“Tim woke me up one night about a week after we were deployed. He was crying like a baby… Told me his patrol had come across a little kid in a rice paddy that morning. Said the boy couldn’t have been more than five or six. The kid yelled at the GIs, and when they came toward him, he pulled the pin from a grenade and lobbed it at them.”
Kathy didn’t move, and Brian held her gaze. “The bomb went off, and one of Tim’s guys fired back. They got out of there. Tim never knew if they hit the kid or not, but it haunted him. It’ll haunt him the rest of his life, Kathy. So yes. It happens. Horrible things happened over there. Are still happening.”
Her chin quivered, and she shook her head.
“War is ugly.” He tried to soften his voice, but his words shot out like bullets. And he suddenly didn’t care any more how they sounded to her. “Nobody knows more than I do that war is a hateful, evil thing. I thank God every day that I was never put in the position Tim was. I don’t know what I would have done. Nobody can know until they’re in the thick of it. But if my men were in danger…” He shook his head, unwilling to go on.
She held the steering wheel at ten and two, her knuckles turning white. “Brian…I’m sorry—”
He softened a little at the contrition in her voice. “No. Don’t be sorry. If you believe in what you’re doing, I can’t expect you to do anything else.”
“Somebody has to make people understand. This war is destroying us and nobody seems to care! People have to know the truth.”
“Then make sure you know the truth,” he spat. “You seem to think anybody in uniform is laughing it up, having the time of their lives over there.”
“No, of course not! It’s—”
He didn’t let her finish. “Well, they’re not, Kathy. A lot of them didn’t choose to go. You know that, I hope. But whether they enlisted or got drafted, they’re fighting because they believe they’re making this world a safer place. They believe they’re preserving the right for people like you to carry signs like that one you carry. And so your kids and grandkids can carry them, too, if they want to.”
“I don’t know what to say…”
He dropped his head, composing himself, before he dared meet her gaze again. “And I don’t know how to make you understand.”
She shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes, turning her irises the color of emeralds. “I don’t know if we can ever agree on this, Brian.”
In spite of the ire she’d roused in him, he longed to soothe the grief that threaded her voice now. “I think…” He forced his voice lower. “I think we both want the same thing, Kathy. We’re both fighting for peace.” He shrugged, attempting a smile and failing. “That probably sounds like an oxymoron to you.”
She nodded. “Yes, but…maybe you’re right. Maybe we just have different ways of going after i
t.”
His smile came easy now. “I’m willing to…to try to understand where you’re coming from if—”
She finished his sentence for him. “I’ll do my best to hear you out, too.”
Chapter 8
September 1972
Kathy paused in the doorway under the portico, waiting for Brian to lead the way to the exercise room.
But he headed toward the kitchen instead. “I made you some coffee.”
This was something new. “Well, that was nice of you.” She slipped off her shoes by the door and followed him. The gesture touched her, even if it did add another wrinkle to the guilt that garbed her. Too much of their time together these last weeks was stolen in conversation and laughter—and flirting. She always subtracted their “social” time from her billable hours, but still…
Since that day Brian had discovered her involvement with the Center for Peace, they’d spent the hours of his therapy sessions in their own sort of therapy—talking, often arguing passionately, but trying to work through their differences. As she learned to know Brian better, she’d seen a whole different side to the struggle for peace. She still didn’t necessarily agree with him on every point about the price of war and the best way to advance the cause of peace.
They would probably always attack the issues of war and peace from different perspectives—but maybe that was okay. Like Brian had told her more than once, “God gave us different gifts for a reason.”
They’d discovered some common ground, too. And each of them had softened a little. Because of Brian’s perspective, she’d convinced Charlie Morgan to tone down some of the approaches the center used in their rallies.
Her picket sign with the slogan that had hurt Brian so deeply had been relegated to the incinerator. Brian had painted her a new one that said, “Give Peace a Chance.” He offered to make another one that read, “Support The Troops,” but she thought that might be pushing it for Charlie.
The director was already a little put out with her. On account of Brian, she’d missed the St. Louis peace march last month, and she’d shown up two hours late for a sit-in Charlie organized over at the VFW post on Thursday—also on account of Brian. Charlie was starting to figure out that something was going on with her and “that Brian dude” and she didn’t look forward to explaining it. Not that she owed Charlie anything.
And not that she knew how to explain her relationship with Brian, even to herself. They were friends…but they’d become so much more. It frightened her to think too far into the future.
“I already lifted weights, so we can skip that today.” Brian’s voice was a welcome intrusion on her thoughts. He wheeled toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “You take sugar? Or cream?”
“No thanks. Black is fine.” She started after him. “You need some help?”
“Sure. You want something to eat? Eggs or something?”
She shook her head. “I stopped for a bagel on the way over.”
“Oh…and coffee, I bet…” Disappointment tinged his words.
“I only had one cup.” She took a whiff of the rich aroma coming from the kitchen. “And this smells good.”
“It should. It’s fresh from Colombia.”
“Oh? Did your parents send it?”
“Better than that. They delivered it in person.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“They’re home? I thought they weren’t due back until next week.”
He nodded and glanced at his watch. “They had a breakfast fundraiser this morning, but they should be back before you leave. They’re looking forward to meeting you.”
She glanced down at her blue jeans and sleeveless peasant blouse, wishing she’d dressed a little more professionally. Oh well, the Lowes would just have to take her as she was. “So what did they think? About your progress?”
Brian was now able to bear his weight for five or six seconds at a time. He was a long way from walking, but it was progress.
He puffed out one cheek. “Mom seemed pretty happy about it. My old man reacted about like I expected.” He tapped a rhythmless staccato on the side of his wheelchair. “He tried not to let on, but it’s obvious he’s disappointed I’m still dependent…on the chair.” He shrugged and looked away.
She put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Brian. I’m…anxious to talk to him. Help him understand the progress you’ve made. He should be—”
“Don’t waste your time.”
She took a step backward, the bitter tone in Brian’s voice catching her off guard. “I don’t get it… Is everything okay?”
He blew out a breath. “Never mind. It’s…not like I was expecting anything else.”
“But he hasn’t been here to see how hard you’ve worked. How much progress you have made.”
He shrugged again. “Forget it. It’s no big deal.”
“I think it is,” she said softly. Brian had never failed to do her prescribed workouts, never failed to give her one-hundred-and-ten percent. She would make it a point to tell Jerald Lowe just that. Her jaw clenched, thinking about what a jerk the man must be to express anything but pride and admiration for his son.
The truth was, Brian’s work ethic threatened to render her unnecessary. Of course, she wouldn’t tell that to the man who wrote the checks. Still, if not for the fact that Brian needed someone to help with the resistance exercises and parallel bars, and to assist with the hydrotherapy, she’d be out of a job here.
She was more than a little curious about Jerald and Madeleine Lowe. How they could remain so uninvolved in their son’s life was beyond her. Right now she just hoped she could refrain from giving the man a piece of her mind. Brian was so different than she’d expected the boy who grew up in the mansion on Cranberry Hill to be.
How had Brian remained unaffected by his wealth? There was something about his strength that drew her. Confined to his wheelchair, unable to do physically what most men did without a thought, he was still somehow stronger than any man she knew. And the closer they’d become, the more it became clear that he drew his strength from his trust in God—a faith that had somehow survived horrors she could scarcely imagine.
Knowing that, she didn’t like the bitterness she saw in his eyes now. It didn’t fit with what she knew of him. She didn’t blame Brian though. Instead, she despised his father for inducing that kind of resentment.
She feared that, under the same testing, she might find her love for God, her trust in His goodness, wavering. Did she dare examine her own faith under a microscope?
“Hey you…” Brian’s low voice tugged her from her reverie. “Are you just going to stand there all day?” He wore a thin smile, a brave face for her sake, no doubt. “I could use a little help with the coffee.”
She smiled and followed him back to the kitchen. He poured coffee and she carried the two steaming mugs into the exercise room.
They joked around, chatting while they finished their coffee, then worked on the mats for twenty minutes, before moving to the parallel bars.
In spite of his steady progress, Brian had grown frustrated with how slowly things were moving. He still couldn’t bear enough weight on his left knee and foot to take anything that he would allow himself to count as a step. Lately, they’d concentrated on getting his other leg strong enough that he could maneuver on crutches for a few minutes at a time. She held out hope that one day the muscles and tendons in his left leg would become strong enough to bear his full weight.
She didn’t push him on the bars today. In silence, they went through the routines they both knew by heart. Several times, she caught him watching her, an expression she couldn’t quite decipher on his face. She wished there was something she could say to get him out of this funk he was in. She wanted to get back the smiling, joking Brian she loved.
Loved? Where had that come from? It was a strong word. One they hadn’t used with one another, thought she suspected Brian might have entertained where she was concerned.
But the word had
come to her mind as clearly as if she’d spoken it aloud. Love. She stole a glance at him, almost afraid he’d read her thoughts. But he was still in a mood, his shoulders hunched, merely putting in his time, his heart obviously not in what he was doing.
After ten minutes, she walked over to the whirlpool and started the water running. “Why don’t we finish up here?” She glanced at her watch. “You said your parents will be home before I have to leave?”
He lifted one shoulder. “They said they would.”
“Okay.” She filled the tub while he stripped down to his swimming trunks and T-shirt. Here, too, they had a routine they both knew by heart, and she helped him into the tub with minimal effort.
While he soaked his legs, she massaged his shoulders, wishing she had some magical bag of tricks that could have him walking by the time he got out of the tub and dried off.
Before she had to face his father.
She hoped she’d have an opportunity to talk to Brian’s dad alone. To impress on the man how important it was to encourage Brian, to not expect too much too soon. Even to prepare him for the possibility that Brian may never completely regain the use of his left leg.
She would never take that hope away from Brian, of course. And she knew him well enough by now to know that he wouldn’t appreciate most of what she planned to say to his father.
She rubbed the taut muscles in the back of his neck, brushing his damp hair out of the way, struggling to remain clinical. It was a struggle that had become more difficult as the weeks went by. Working her fingers in circles on the warmth of his skin, she pushed that word—love—to the back of her consciousness. She didn’t dare examine her feelings for this man—for her client—too closely.
Chapter 9
Brian leaned forward in the whirlpool, forcing himself away from the gentle touch of her fingers. “That feels…incredible,” he said, not daring to look at her. “But you’re going to put me to sleep if you don’t quit it now.” It felt incredible all right, but drowsiness wasn’t exactly his real reason for asking her to stop.
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