by Lyn Cote
“I will, but I can take care of Grandma.” Nate, it’s time I accepted responsibility for my family. “I’ll be right back.”
Late that afternoon, back on the good highway, Carly saw the U.S. troop area da> on the horizon. Within ten minutes, Bowie pulled the truck into the garage and Haskell was waiting for them. His hands were on his hips and he was trying to look disgruntled. But Carly could read the relief in the lines of his face.
“You sure took your sweet time,” Haskell growled predictably. “That’s what I get for putting the woman in charge of navigation.”
Carly walked over to him and put her hands on her hips. “An accurate map might have helped me.”
“I gave you the map I was given.” He shrugged.
“That’s what I thought you’d say.”
“You could all use a shower,” Haskell commented, wrinkling his nose. “Report for duty as usual tomorrow.”
An impromptu cheer went up from the squad. And before Haskell could change his mind, they all jogged off toward their quarters.
“I’ll come and walk you to mess for lunch,” Bowie called to her.
She nodded and waved, already anticipating the feeling of being in a refreshing shower, shampooing her hair. As she neared her barracks, she wondered about the vast difference between the night of terror and this sunny, warm day back at what she called home. She was more exhausted by these widely divergent and heightened emotions than by the lack of sleep. And this was definitely one experience she wouldn’t be writing home about.
A radio nearby was playing “I Want to Know What Love Is” as she walked inside her tent and saw three letters lying on her pillow. One was from Alex. One was from her great-grandmother. And one was from her birth father. She sat down and, forgetting about the shower, tore open her father’s letter. Would he tell her his name this time?
After Chloe had been wheeled upstairs to her room, Leigh dialed her mother’s phone number. She got the answering machine and left a message, telling Bette about Chloe’s pneumonia and her room number at the hospital.
Outside, as Bette fumbled with her key at the back door, she heard the phone ring. She made it inside just as Leigh hung up. She’d caught the words “Chloe” and “pneumonia.” Pneumonia? Bette quickly took off her coat, hat, and gloves and hung them up. She reached for the phone but before she could dial, it rang again. “Hello?”
It was her doctor.
After he ended their brief conversation, Bette stood holding the receiver. Her mind stuttered on his frightening words like an old-fashioned phonograph needle stuck in a groove of an old record.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Saudi Arabia, January 2, 1991
Perched on the fender of an HEMTT, Carly leaned over the side of the mammoth truck, her head under the raised hood. She was painstakingly taking out spark plugs, cleaning them and putting them back, sand-free. Her life seemed similarly clogged. The days since returning from the supply mission had been a tangle of emotions.
She had to find a way to sort everything out, put her uncertainties into perspective. Saddam Hussein’s UN deadline was only thirteen days away—along with her mother’s arrival. But as part of four hundred thousand soldiers, she might not see her mother. A hot war to deal with might even stop her mother’s meddling. But Carly felt all of the turmoil would be easier to cope with if she could settle her nerves.
So far, she’d made no progress. After the night in the desert, she’d returned to those three letters on her cot. Chloe’s letter had been the usual cheery, chatty note. But her father’s letter had contained a promise, one both welcome and disturbing. He would come to meet her when she returned from Saudi—if she wanted him to. Her insides had buzzed at that promise and its qualifier. She wanted to meet her father, but how would that affect her already rocky relationship with her mother? Why was her life so complicated? Other people had mothers and fathers without all this craziness added on. She looked up and out of the small window nearby.
Outside, the desert daylight was muted by a sandstorm in progress. The soldiers had closed the doors and windows of the garage, but that didn’t keep out the insidious, swirling sand. Carly breathed through her nose to filter out the sand ambient in the air. She could still taste its grit on her tongue.
And the third, Alex’s letter, had asked for advice. Still stateside, Alex was attracted to a guy in her company who seemed nice. But Alex was still going to counseling. Should she tell him that? Carly wondered why Alex wanted her advice. What did she know?
Giving a soft grunt, Bowie called her back to the present. He was underneath the truck, changing oil and putting on another new filter. Having him near always gave her a good feeling. Joe’s radio was softly playing “Lean on Me.” She recalled Bowie’s statement to the Marine that she was his girl. “Bowie’s girl.” It sounded good. But was she just leaning on him?
Carly felt that might be true in a sense, but she did care for him. She also sensed Bowie still held back just a bit of his heart from her. He was protecting himself. Did he really believe that they were too different to be a couple? The memory of his stolen kiss in the shadows the night before curled her toes inside her desert combat boots. The man did know how to kiss.
Haskell had told them a few days before that the brass had decided that the two Iraqi tanks had been lost since they’d been seen only by their supply squad, and the Iraqis hadn’t fired on anyone. They’d just disappeared. And for some reason Carly’s nightmares had slacked off since her terrifying experience. She would have thought that a night spent in the desert with deadly enemy tanks lurking nearby would have doubled, tripled her fear. Did the waning of the nightmares mean her fears were ebbing? Or was this just a brief time-out?
Suddenly a siren sounded, droning over the constant swishing sound of the sandstorm. Haskell shouted, “Get on your NBC gear!”
Carly pushed the spark plug into place and jumped down. Her nuclear biological chemical gear was on the ground nearby. She pulled the mask over her head and then tugged on the pants, jacket, boots, and gloves. All around her, the guys rushed to do the same. When she was finished, she looked around. They looked back at her through their masks like outer-space monsters from a 1950s film.
The rubberized outfit shut off any air to her skin, which was its job, but this immediately caused Carly to break into a sweat. It was January, but it still hit a sweaty eighty or ninety degrees every day though the nights could drop to freezing.
Suddenly, memories of the gas chamber test during basic training gagged Carly. Desperately, she tamped down the urge to rip her mask off. I have to keep it on. This might not be a drill. Hussein might have really launched a missile armed with toxic chemicals. She tried to slow her rapid breathing, control her throat.
If she didn’t get a grip, she could easily hyperventilate and pass out. And wouldn’t her sergeant love that? Carly would never hear the end of it. Relentless, the sensation of being strangled from inside was fighting its way to the top of her consciousness. If it took over, she didn’t think she could keep it together.
Carly closed her eyes. God, help me out again. If I take my mask off and this is for real, I’ll die. Help me out just as you did on the desert that night, making the lost tanks miss us in the dark.
Minutes passed. “Okay,” Haskell ordered through his mask, “go on with your work until we get the all-clear.”
The sergeant’s order struck Carly as ridiculous. She looked down at the large, clumsy rubber gloves she wore. Work? How? She waved her hands at Haskell. “I can’t pick up a spark plug with these on.” Her voice came out muffled, and the effort to speak spiked her panic. “What should I do instead?” she gasped. The rest of the platoon nodded in agreement and also held up their hands. Haskell looked disgusted. His phone rang and he jogged to it.
Bowie came up beside her. She turned to him, his nearness welcome. Her pulse and breathing were still escalating. Her heart felt as if it were bouncing off her breastbone. She began hiccoughing inside the restric
tive mask. How long would this go on? Would she have to wear the mask for the rest of the day? How long before the poison gases dissipated in the strong desert wind?
A second siren sounded. “All clear!” Haskell shouted, his gas mask already under his arm. “It was just a test. Keep your gear with you at all times from now on. Intelligence suggests that we might have the real thing at any time.”
Carly wrenched off her mask, gasping for air. Anytime? Did he have to add that?
A strong hand gripped her shoulder. “You okay?”
She turned to Bowie and tried to smile. “I didn’t like the gas chamber in basic.” Make that: I freaked out.
“Well, who did?” Bowie tugged off his gloves and bent to pull off his boots.
“I’ll be fine.” As long as these are just drills. Would she panic, completely lose control, if it were the real thing?
“You want to go to church on Sunday?” Bowie asked in a low voice as he pulled off the second boot.
Carly stared at him. Where had that come from?
“I haven’t been since we got here, but I think it might be a good idea.” He glanced up.
Carly slowly nodded. “Yeah, I’ll go with you.” Had this chemical warfare drill done the same number on Bowie? God, I need you. This is all too scary and too real for me to handle alone. And wasn’t that what Chloe always told her? She heard her great-grandmother’s voice saying, “We can’t do this life without God, honey.”
“Yes,” Carly said. “Bowie, remind me. I’d like to go and take communion.”
Ivy Manor, January 2, 1991
Leigh and Nate rode in the front seat and Grandma Chloe, pale and weak, in the back. She’d just been released from the hospital after her strenuous bout with pneumonia. She would be on antibiotics for another week and required careful nursing. Her own eyelids drooping, Leigh was exhausted from spending most nights sleeping in the chair beside her grandmother’s bed. Chloe had begged her to go home, but Leigh hadn’t felt right about it. Chloe had been dangerously ill, and Leigh wouldn’t let her slip away without a family member there. A spasm of fear jerked through Leigh as she tried to appear unconcerned.
“Chloe, Michael is really looking forward to seeing you at home again,” Nate said as he turned onto the road to Ivy Manor.
“I love that little boy.”
Her grandmother’s breathless voice tightened Leigh’s nerves another notch. “Me, too.”
Nate moved his right hand over until it covered Leigh’s resting on the seat. She turned her palm up and gripped his comforting hand. She’d miss him so when she left for Saudi Arabia later that month. “Mother is supposed to meet us at home,” she said.
“Bette has been looking tired,” Chloe said.
Leigh nodded. Her mother had looked more than tired. Bette looked distressed and preoccupied. Could it be that man she’d brought to Christmas dinner? Was he pressuring her mother into a relationship she didn’t feel ready for? Leigh smiled to herself. No matter how handsome Dan Greenfield was, he’d find out her mother was never easily persuaded.
Ivy Manor loomed da> of Leigh. The January clouds parted and sunlight flowed over the old house. It needed a new coat of white paint. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? Someday the house would be her responsibility. It had stood for nearly three centuries and been owned that long by her family, something very few American families could say. Love for Ivy Manor and for the woman who was synonymous with it expanded inside her heart. I love you, Grandma Chloe. And you’re going to get better.
Bette was waiting at the back door for them, along with Rose and Michael. “Mother,” Bette said as Nate carried Chloe inside, “are you sure they should have released you from the hospital?”
Leigh noticed that her mother’s hair wasn’t styled as it usually was. It was a mess. What was that all about?
“I was sick of the food and dreary room,” Chloe said in the breathless voice that spoke of lingering lung congestion.
“Well, that don’t surprise me or anybody else,” Rose replied. “I got a pot of homemade chicken dumpling soup on the stove for you.”
“I feel better already.” Chloe sniffed the air. “And I bet Michael would love those dumplings, too.”
“Hi, Grandma Chloe, I’m glad you got to come home.” Little Michael patted her forearm as he ran to keep up with his father as he carried her through the dining room.
Soon they were all upstairs in Chloe’s faded bedroom, still the way it had been the day Roarke had died. Nate settled Chloe onto her bed. After switching on the multicolored Tiffany bedside lamp, Bette and Leigh lifted away her coat and scarf and helped her lie down. “I’m sorry, children. I think I’ll need to rest a few minutes before I come down for lunch.”
“I can bring it up on a tray,” Rose offered.
“No, I’d like to see if I can come down and sit with the family for a meal.”
“You ring that bell. I don’t want you walking those steps without someone with you,” Rose ordered.
Chloe replied with a nod.
“Can I lay down with Grandma Chloe?” Michael asked.
“Yes, please,” Chloe said, touching his shoulder.
“Just for a moment,” Leigh said. “When she tells you it’s time to leave, you go to your room or come downstairs. Promise?” Michael nodded earnestly.
Rose smoothed Chloe’s pillow and checked her forehead for fever, then followed the rest of them out of the room.
Downstairs they all gravitated to the kitchen, warm and fragrant with chicken soup. Nate and Leigh sat at the table. “Mother looks really weak,” Bette said, wringing her hands. “I’ve never seen her this frail.”
“I’m sorry I’ve got to go back to New York today,” Nate said, “but I have to be on duty tonight.”
“Me, too,” Leigh added, watching her mother’s hands with apprehension. “I’ve got to clear my desk before I go to Saudi on the thirteenth. And Michael starts school again in three days.”
Bette stared at them, her hands frozen. “We can’t leave Mother alone.”
Leigh looked at Bette. “I thought you were staying,” she balked. “I thought that’s why you came today.”
“I can’t.” Bette wrung her hands almost frantically. “I have to be back to Virginia today, this afternoon before three.”
Leigh gawked at her. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes, I have to.” Bette paced in front of them. “I’m sorry.”
“You can’t leave,” Leigh objected. “I’ve got to go. I was supposed to be in the office on the twenty-eighth.”
“I can’t stay,” Bette repeated, drawing toward the back door.
“Well, I’ll be here,” Rose said, “but I’m not family, and Miss Chloe needs family now. Losing Miss Kitty has really taken the stuffin’ out of her. She needs family.”
“Mother, Nate and I are both working.” Leigh stood up. “I stayed with Grandmother at the hospital practically night and day. You came for two short visits. Is Dan Greenfield keeping you so busy—”
“I can’t explain. Something’s come up.”
Leigh gazed into her mother’s pained but stubborn face.
“Leigh, I know you need to get back,” Nate said, “but your schedule is more flexible than mine. I’ll take Michael home with me—”
“No!” Michael yelled from the doorway from the dining room. “I don’t want to go home without my mama!”
Nate rose and went to him. “It’ll be okay.”
Michael ran around his father, straight to his mother. “I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you and Grandma Chloe.” He wrapped his arms tightly around Leigh’s waist. “I don’t want you to go!”
Leigh looked to Nate. He came over and put an arm around her shoulders and a hand on Michael’s. “Calm down, son. Tell me: what’s the matter?”
Michael clung harder to Leigh. “I don’t want to be away from my mama. I don’t want to.”
“Mother,” Leigh said to Bette, “Nate, Michael, and I need to g
o home together. You have to stay with Grandma.”
Bette looked wildly at them and then hurried toward the back door, grabbing her gray wool coat as she went. “I can’t. I just can’t.” A sob punctuated her words.
Dumbfounded, Leigh stared as the door closed after her mother. What was going on? Bette wasn’t acting anything like her calm, self-possessed mother.
Nate put his reassuring arm around Leigh and murmured, “You’re going to have to find out what’s upsetting her.”
“You got that right,” Rose agreed.
Saudi Arabia, January 10, 1991
After taking communion for the first time since her visit to Ivy Manor, Carly sat beside Bowie in a tent church, the shammal blowing as usual, ruffling and billowing the canvas. Beside them sat Lorelle and Sam. Carly felt an ease she hadn’t experienced since she arrived in Saudi. Taking communion had fed her spirit, made her feel a part of God’s power and love in a fresh way. She noticed a few others from her platoon, whom she’d not thought religious, were present, too. Maybe being in a combat zone heightened everything, made every emotion—the good and the bad—sharper, deeper. Perhaps this drew many back to faith.
At the front of rows of soldiers on folding chairs, a uniformed chaplain was preaching on 2 Corinthians 4:6-9. He read:
For God, who commanded the light to shine out of the darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us. We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.
Carly couldn’t remember ever hearing this text preached on before. She had no trouble seeing herself as a plain, earthen, probably cracked, vessel. She’d never felt secure or whole. Never.
And after the kidnapping, these insecurities had grown. Not even taking tae kwan do and karate for seven years, or running marathons where she put herself to the test physically, had soothed those deep, nagging fears. Did this all go back to not knowing her father? Could that be what made her feel isolated, orphaned? She thought wryly of Alex’s concern over telling the guy who liked her about going to counseling. Maybe I’m the one who needs counseling.