Ilena clasped Carly’s hands in hers, stilling the ring-twisting. “I kept some of Juan’s stuff—his dress uniform, a couple of his favorite shirts, a pair of the god-awful holey socks that he wouldn’t let me throw away. And you know what, Carly? Giving away the rest didn’t make a big difference. It didn’t make me miss him any less or any more. It didn’t make the house seem any less empty. There wasn’t any closure, but there haven’t been any regrets, either.”
Regrets. Carly echoed the word silently after saying good-bye to Ilena and continuing to the aisle that contained shipping material. She had plenty of sorrows, but not many regrets. Other than putting off having a baby, she wouldn’t change anything she’d done.
She finished her shopping, checked out, then battled the afternoon wind across the parking lot to the car. One thing she could say for Oklahoma: no matter how hot it got, there was usually a breeze. Unfortunately, that went for no matter how cold it got, too.
At home she carried the storage tubs into the guest room, then spent the next hour divvying the Easter goodies, signing cards, stuffing pastel gift bags, and packing them into shipping boxes. Tomorrow after work, she would mail them to Lisa, letting her play Easter Bunny on the big day.
That done, she stood at the kitchen table a long time before slowly walking down the hall to the guest room. It wasn’t particularly inviting: a small room with two windows facing the street and a closet behind louvered doors. The walls and ceiling were white, dingy after so many years without touch-ups. The double bed was inexpensive, the night tables hand-me-downs from Jeff’s uncle. Only one thing hung on the wall, a needlepoint Mia had given them, and a plain spread in pale blue covered the bed.
The bright orange tubs popped against such drabness.
She opened the closet doors, clasped her hands and stared at the uniforms. Old fatigues in woodland green and desert camouflage and newer digitized ACUs hung next to Class B and dress uniforms. Pushed to one end by itself hung Jeff’s dress blue uniform that he’d worn for their wedding. She fingered the material, remembering how handsome and impressive and happy he’d been that day. He’d never had a moment’s nervousness or doubt, no last-minute jitters.
He’d been that certain about everything—even going to war. He’d been so positive everything would turn out just fine that she had, too.
She’d just never thought that fine could mean his dying. Granted, he was in heaven with God. That was about as fine as life could be for him. But for her…
She was doing okay. She was healthy and hopeful and falling in love again. She was way better than okay.
Carefully she closed the louvered doors, turned off the light and left the room and the house, heading for The Three Amigos. This time she wasn’t first to arrive. Fia sat at the table, her back to the wall, eyes closed, head down. Carly slipped into the chair beside her and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Hey, kiddo.”
Fia was smiling when she looked up, but the lines of fatigue etched at the corners of her mouth and around her eyes lessened the impact. “Hey yourself. How are you?”
“Good,” Carly said. And she truly meant it. “How about you?”
Fia’s smile weakened as she straightened her shoulders, then shoved her hands through her hair. “I’ve been better.” Quickly, though, she went on. “I just have a headache, and my shoulder’s sore. It’s nothing. It’ll go away.”
For a personal trainer who could outrun, outlift, and outlast just about everyone, Fia had had some tough days in the past month, Carly reflected. She’d always been slender—body fat around 18 percent—but this evening she was looking a little gaunt. The healthy glow to her skin was gone, and there was a faint tremor in her hand when she picked up her margarita.
“When’s the last time you had a checkup?”
Fia’s laugh sounded as genuine as ever. “Don’t worry, Mom. I saw the doctor last week, and he said there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve just had a run of bad luck with pulled muscles. That happens to active people, you know.”
“Actually, I’d—”
Fia chimed in. “You don’t.”
They both laughed. “What can I say? If God had intended me to be athletic, He wouldn’t have birthed me into a family of scientists. My family would never set foot outdoors if it wasn’t necessary to get to their labs.”
They chatted until the rest of the group drifted in, two and three at a time. Once everyone had arrived and their dinners had been ordered, Marti called for attention. “Don’t forget Lucy’s birthday dinner this Saturday at KariOkie. We’ll be leaving here at five thirty. I’ll drive, and if we have more than my truck can hold, Therese will take her van, too.”
Jessy raised her hand. “I’ve slept since we decided this. Refresh my memory. It’s a karaoke bar without the bar, right?”
Carly hadn’t forgotten. It was one of the few notations on her practically empty social calendar. The restaurant, located south of Tulsa and named for its owner, Kari, who was, of course, an Okie, was known for its food and incredible desserts. Lucy had heard raves about the caramel cake and thought the whole Saturday-night karaoke thing would be too much fun.
It would be the first Saturday night Carly had spent without Dane since they’d met. She would have a lot of fun, as she always did with the club, but she would miss him.
It was a nice feeling—missing that was temporary.
Pizza, mozzarella, hot pepper shaker, pop, napkins, and crutches. With everything in place, Dane sat down on the sofa, unfastened his prosthetic, set it aside and began eating while his laptop booted. There’d been a time when he was technology obsessed. Television, cell phone, computer, game systems—he’d had the latest and best. With combat pay, he’d made good money, and without Sheryl, he hadn’t had anything else to spend it on.
For months now, he’d rarely bothered with the computer. Whatever buddies had still emailed him after he’d come back to the States had pretty much stopped when he never answered. He should have—he knew that. No one had so many friends that he could afford to lose them for no reason other than self-pity.
But he’d gotten pretty good with self-pity.
There was more spam in his mailbox than actual mail. He deleted the junk, opened a few brief how are you and where are you notes from friends, then paused the cursor over the last one.
On the surface, it looked like two dozen others he’d received over the past year: same sender, same subject line. It was from Ed Rowan, one of his buddies in the 173rd. Ed kept in touch with other buddies, some still in the Army, some back in the civilian world, and shared news with them all. The first email Dane had gotten had been an update on a friend’s injury. The second had detailed Dane’s own injury.
Guys had called him, sent him emails. One had driven with his wife from Fort Bragg to Bethesda to visit him a couple times. More than his own mother had visited.
The emails were usually encouraging, sharing good news, offering shoulders to lean on, ears to listen. Ed firmly believed there was no problem so great that Sky Soldiers and hope couldn’t deal with it together.
A lot of times Dane had thought hope was a fragile thing—when he’d first seen his leg, each time the doctors had said “We’re going to have to amputate,” when physical therapy had beaten him down, when his mother had looked at him with revulsion.
But if the past year had taught him anything, it was that there was nothing fragile about hope. No matter how many times he’d thought he’d lost it, it was still there, the most resilient thing in his world.
Ed understood that.
Finally Dane clicked on the email. It wasn’t the same as the others. It was short, to the point, written by a stranger.
I’m Ed’s brother, Lenny. Ed shot himself last night and died at 3:22 this morning. You guys meant the world to him. He wanted to help you all, but he couldn’t help himself.
The service will be Friday in Bangor, Maine.
Dane stared at the screen, tears seeping into his eyes. His mother had done her
best to teach him that men didn’t cry, not for anything, but his first combat experience had undone that. If a man couldn’t cry while he helped gather the remains of what had been a friend a few minutes earlier, or while he tried to hold pressure on a wound so devastating that the guy’s face was unrecognizable, if he couldn’t cry at the loss of lives that had meant something to him, he wasn’t a man, just a machine.
Hands shaking, he tried to type a response to the email, but he kept hitting the wrong keys. Finally, swiping one arm across his eyes, he closed the computer and tossed it aside, then reached for his cell.
The phone rang twice before he realized it was Tuesday night. His finger was on the end button when Carly’s voice came through. “Hey, how are you?”
If he hung up now, she’d just call him back, so he cleared his throat. “Sorry. I forgot it’s Tuesday.”
She was silent a moment, but the noise level in the background changed, the women’s voices fading, replaced by the soothing splashing of water. He could imagine her sitting on the edge of the tiled fountain in the restaurant lobby, and he felt a little soothed himself. “They won’t miss me. Are you okay? You sound…”
He cleared his throat again. “Yeah. No. I just found out…a friend of mine…” The lump in his throat wouldn’t let him continue.
“Where are you? I’ll come over.”
He glanced at his crutches, leaning against the coffee table, and his prosthetic, standing on the sofa cushion as if it were a guest. “Thanks, but no. You’re busy. I know you look forward to this time with them. I really did just forget. I’ll talk to you—”
“Dane.” Her tone was sharp to get his attention. “I’ll tell them I have to leave early. It’s not unusual. People do it all the time. Do you want to tell me where you are or would you rather come to my house?”
He became aware of some emotion, warm and comforting, settling through him. Sure, people left the Tuesday night dinners early, but not Carly. She had no other claims on her time, no other priorities greater than her friends. But she was making him a priority.
He hadn’t been anyone’s priority for a long time.
“I’ll see you there.”
“Be careful.”
Maybe he’d been too careful, he thought as he replaced his leg. Maybe if he’d talked more, if he’d been more open and receptive to Ed’s emails, maybe he would have known Ed needed help. Maybe—
Grimly he shut down that part of his mind. The rest—putting away the leftover pizza, putting on his jacket and driving—could be done on autopilot, exactly what he did. When he found himself in Carly’s driveway, he couldn’t remember the route he’d taken there, if traffic had been light or nonexistent, if he’d caught a single red light.
She wasn’t home yet, but a light shone in the hallway. He sat down on the top step, the concrete rough and chilled, and he closed his eyes and waited.
He couldn’t remember the last person he’d turned to for comfort. His wounds, other friends’ deaths, the end of his marriage, his father’s death—he’d been pretty much on his own. There had been people around: doctors, nurses, fellow soldiers, his mother, Sheryl. He just hadn’t gotten much comfort from any of them.
An engine cut into his thoughts seconds before headlights flashed across him. He watched Carly get out of her car and walk toward him with long strides. She didn’t give the sense of rushing, but she closed the distance between them quickly.
She sat down beside him, resting her arms on her knees, then gently bumped her shoulder against him. She didn’t ask for details or even say anything at all. She just waited.
It seemed a long time before he found any words to say. “His name was Ed. We were in Iraq and Afghanistan together. He was six, maybe eight years older than me. Practically a father figure to the young kids. Real concerned with keeping his people safe. He did more tours than anyone I know because he felt obligated to see these guys through.”
Dane talked on, about Ed’s family in Maine: parents, a brother, a sister, two daughters, and a son. His marriage had ended between the first and second tours. Something about the military and combat tended to have a bad effect on marriages. But his kids were well cared for and well loved, and when he’d retired after his last round in Afghanistan, he’d intended to make up to them for all the time missed.
He told her about the emails, always optimistic, like Ed himself, passing on information about guys doing well and not so well. He’d included resource information—for counseling, for jobs, just for connection. He’d talked about not being too proud to ask for help, about how any problem could be resolved if you just asked.
“He sounds like a great guy,” Carly murmured when he finally fell silent.
“Yeah. Except he didn’t follow his own advice.” He stared into the darkness a long time. Lights illuminated the houses across the street, and the streetlamps added their own yellowish glow. Most of the people on the block were families, most of them Army. Probably all of them had done at least one year in Iraq or Afghanistan. Except for Jeff, they’d all come home, maybe truly okay, more likely not so much. The worst wounds, Ed had always said, were on the inside, where no one could see them, but God, you could feel them.
For a long time, Dane had believed otherwise. He was one of the few among his buddies who hadn’t been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. Sometimes he’d thought, given a choice, he would prefer PTSD over amputation. Psychological wounds could be resolved with the right help; he couldn’t regenerate a limb.
But a missing leg wasn’t going to kill him.
“In the hospitals, the medical holding companies, the transition units, everyone keeps a close watch on us. They say these guys—us guys—can go downhill really fast, from coping and even improving to suicidal in no time. There’s just something about the combination of the trauma to the brain and the body and the loss of hope. The suicide rate of returning veterans is high. So is PTSD, homelessness, joblessness, depression. Everybody’s lost something—friends in combat, wives who got tired of waiting, parts of themselves. The thanks of a grateful nation is nice, but it’s not enough when you need jobs, health care, places to live, understanding, help.”
He glanced at her and laughed weakly. “Sorry. Thinking about Ed seems to bring out the soapbox in me.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re absolutely right.”
“Soldiers are supposed to be tough. Our job is protecting our country and its interests, which means witnessing and committing a lot of acts of violence. Combat’s not for the faint of heart or stomach. When your friends get killed in battle, you can’t even take a moment to grieve because the guys who killed them are looking to kill you. You’ve got to be able to compartmentalize and be strong and professional and deadly.”
“And it’s not easy to be all that one day and then admit that you need help holding it together the next.”
He sighed deeply. He hadn’t even been sure where he was going with that topic, but she’d arrived at the destination with him. She understood. His relief was huge, but at the same time, he felt fragile. Exposed. And all he really wanted to do was withdraw into himself until he was firmly back in control.
It had gotten uncomfortably cold, he realized when she shivered beside him. He slid his arm around her, and she did the same, her small hand resting at his waist on his right side.
“Ed was good at protecting and looking out for his guys,” she said quietly. “He was encouraging and passed along advice that he failed to take himself.
“‘Ask for help,’ he always said. ‘When you’re down, when you don’t know what to do, when you can’t do it by yourself any longer. Don’t see it as weakness. Be strong enough to say “I need help.” ’” He bitterly finished. “He shot himself last night. He died this morning. All that damn preaching he did to us about asking, and he wasn’t strong enough to do it himself.”
Chapter Thirteen
Carly could make excuses for Ed’s behavior. Sometimes when you were the one with all the an
swers, it was really hard to admit that you were hurting just like everyone else. Maybe he hadn’t wanted the guys who looked up to him to know that he was fallible. Maybe the despair had just been too deep.
Instead, she stood, moving in front of Dane, reaching for his hands. “Come inside. I’ll fix you some coffee. I’ll even share my chocolate caramels.”
His smile was thin and sad. “Coffee and candy don’t solve everything.”
“No, but they make it easier to deal with. Mia says so, and she’s had some troubles in her life, too.” She tugged, and he reluctantly stood, then followed her into the house. She led him into the kitchen, then removed his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair with her own.
He sat at the table, the overhead light showing the sorrow etched on his face. Swallowing hard, she turned to the task of making coffee and setting out cups, saucers and caramels.
Poor Ed and his family. His poor children. He’d retired. They must have thought they were safe because he was safe. No more deployments, no more combat. But the battle waging in his head was the one he couldn’t win.
She said a silent prayer for them, then carried the plate of candy to the table. “Feel honored that I’m sharing my Mags’ Mojos with you. They’re made by a woman in Tulsa who started them as Christmas gifts, and they were so popular that she began selling them. I order a box about every month to test my willpower and see if I can make them last longer than three days.”
“Do you succeed?”
“Most months. Though when I ordered the sea-salt caramels, the entire pound was gone in a day and a half. They’re dangerous to my health.”
She served the coffee, too, in sturdy, summer-bright mugs, before sitting next to him. “Are you going to Ed’s service?”
He was still a long time, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him, then he shook his head. “With most of my friends who died, I was still in the desert so I couldn’t attend their funerals. Even if I could have…The idea of lying cold and stiff in a casket, being lowered into the ground and covered with dirt…” His shudder finished the sentence eloquently enough.
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