Jack's thoughts turned to his father. Malcolm had been a well-respected man even before his retirement, when he signed on as an associate pastor with Christ the King Lutheran Church. As expected of all military members, Malcolm had been very involved in his community, no matter where he'd been stationed, but his efforts were multiplied by his position as chaplain. Now, he not only continued his community activities, but he continued to support the military personnel who made up a large portion of the city's population. His church not only had a strong association with the Disabled American Veterans and Disabled American Veterans Auxiliary (DAV/DAVA), showing them as much support as they could, but many of the congregation members were military members themselves.
Waiting for the elevator doors to open, Jack sighed heavily. I enlisted to get away from my dad and his need for perfection. I can't believe I agreed to come back. But he had agreed. He'd agreed to return home for the sake of his mother and because, despite all the difficulties between them, he knew he loved his father too. He shuffled onto the lift, resolved to follow through with the promise he'd made his mother.
When the elevator opened again, allowing Jack to hobble into the baggage claim area, his mother squealed with joy. “Jack! Jack, honey, over here!”
Though Malcolm remained reserved and aloof, Shonda rushed to greet her son. Tears welled up in her warm brown eyes and overflowed with relief and sorrow. They followed the little lines under her eyes and ran along the grooves which encircled her mouth, drawing Jack's attention to the changes in his mother's appearance. Has her hair always had so much silver in it? The sight of years coloring her face startled him, bringing back the stupid burn, which tightened the corners of his eyes again.
“Hello, Mom.” Jack smiled at his emotional mother as his father peeled her back from him, trying to return her to some sense of decorum. “Dad.”
“Son,” Malcolm said in his deep rumble of a voice. He jutted his hand out expecting to shake in welcome, but once Jack grabbed a hold of it, he pulled his father to him, embracing him. “Oh, hey!”
“Dad, no one cares if you hug me,” Jack reminded him. “It's been three years…”
His father nodded and lost all his hesitation, tightening his hold on Jack, hugging him to his massive body. “Right, sorry. Welcome home, son.”
“It's, ah, it's weird to be here,” Jack confessed, “But thank you. I'm glad to be home.”
Shonda's confluence of emotions erupted all over her husband and son. She beamed with delight that Jack was there, but her eyes strayed, resting on his wounded leg. She whimpered, her breath catching in her throat. Embarrassed, she covered her mouth and turned away, trying to hide the tears she could no longer contain.
“Mom,” Jack reached out, grasping her shoulder with his hand tenderly. Jack knew this was hard for her and he had expected her reaction. “Mom, I'm okay.”
“I'm sorry,” Shonda apologized in a strained voice. “I didn't want to do this, not here.”
“It's fine,” Jack reassured her. “I don't mind.” Then giving his father a critical look, he added, “no one minds.”
Malcolm cleared his throat and supported Jack by saying, “It's only natural for you to feel this way, honey.”
Shonda turned and crushed Jack to her. “I thought we were going to lose you.”
And no wonder. You almost did, though I'll never admit to it. I'll spare you the hurtful truth that my wound did more damage than it should have. I've lost more than you know, more than I can tell you. He'd never be the same again, living with chronic pain and a permanent limp. And other, even more painful losses…
“Shonda,” Malcolm placed his hand supportively on his wife's back, rubbing gently, showing the compassion which made him a good pastor. “Honey, everything okay; God provided and brought our son home to us.”
Shonda stepped back from her son, looking at her husband as she wiped the tears from her eyes. “You're right. We should be celebrating, showing our gratitude.”
“That's my girl,” Malcolm leaned over and kissed his wife on the forehead. “Which bags are yours, Jack? Let's grab them and get headed out. Our friends have put together a potluck at the church to welcome you home and we shouldn't keep them waiting.”
“Oh, Jack,” Shonda gushed, “everyone's so happy you're here. The entire congregation has been praying, especially Elena.”
“Elena?” Jack asked, surprised to hear the little girl's name.
“Yeah, she has really taken a shine to you,” Shonda beamed, her eyes sparkling at the news. “Marithé said she talks about you constantly. Apparently, Elena has been planning what she wants to do when she finally sees you and she insists everyone at school says a prayer for you. On Sundays, she makes your father say a prayer for you as well. She said you're the friend her daddy sent home to her because he couldn't be there anymore.”
“She's a very determined little girl,” Malcolm added with a chuckle.
“That's so sweet.” Jack grinned, touched.
* * *
The murmuring of a dozen conversations in the fellowship hall of Christ the King Lutheran Church sounded surprisingly quiet to Jack. Considering the amount of people milling about, he'd expected a roar to echo on the white floor tiles before reflecting up to, and then bouncing off of, the equally white ceiling, but none existed. After so many hours being subjected to the drone of the airplane engines, he was pleasantly surprised by the soft hum of subdued voices.
Glancing around the space, a warm, comfortable feeling of home washed over him. Though it had been years since he'd been there, it still felt soothing to be within the walls of a church. Scanning the familiar room in which he'd attended numerous events during his last years of high school, he couldn't help smiling. The autumn decorations of turkeys made out of brown paper cut in the shape of children's hands, crafted by the Sunday school classes, brought back a flood of memories. The adornments of colorful leaves of tissue paper, accented with pumpkins and acorns, reminded him of the holiday season just around the corner. The browns and oranges warmed the white on white room.
The people also had on warm, rich colors. He noticed Mrs. Schuster, though well into her upper 80s, still tottering along without a cane, wearing one of her famous fall sweaters with a pair of polyester pants and a crinkled smile. She gets along better than I do now, Jack thought, and his smile turned into a grimace.
All around the room, children ran giggling, scolded by harried mothers who worried about them crashing into the elderly folks who stood here and there, sipping coffee while they waited for the event to get started. Jack didn't recognize any of the children, but quickly realized that was because they'd been babies when he'd left, the smallest not yet born. Why did I think no one would age while I was gone? Life doesn't stop when you're on deployment, no matter how unreal it feels while you're there.
He scanned the crowd again, and sure enough, Mary Alice sat at a table nearby, a plump, cocoa-skinned baby propped against her shoulder, her adoring husband digging in a blue plaid diaper bag. I wish I hadn't let her go. That baby could have been mine. Now it's too late. But even as he acknowledged the bitter thought, he realized how selfish it was, and he flushed with shame. C'mon, Jack. You didn't love her enough for that, but it's obvious he does. Look how they smile at one another. And he knew he'd done the right thing ending his relationship with her. It would've been wrong to have denied the happiness which radiated from her now.
For a moment, Jack wanted to leave. The sight of so many happy families made something in the vicinity of his heart ache, but then he made the conscious choice to be happy. Everyone was waiting to welcome the 'hero' home, and while he didn't embrace the title, he had to give his family… and his church family their moment. I refuse to feel sorry for myself. I have to believe that God has a plan for me. Besides, everyone has worked so hard to put this dinner together and I won't be the one who disappoints them.
Steeling himself, Jack limped further into the room, wishing he had left his cane in the car, not
wanting to look more broken than he already did. His awkward gait and the burning pain, which set his entire leg on fire, was more than enough to remind him of his dependency on the stupid thing. He sighed deeply, both in frustration and acceptance.
“There he is!” shouted a female voice, and the assembled congregation turned as one and greeted him home with a round of applause.
Jack plastered the most genuine smile he could muster on his face, but he still felt like a fake. He couldn't stifle his negative thoughts from chastening him. What do they see when the look at me? Certainly not a hero! I didn't do anything heroic and I don't feel like I saved anyone either. All I gave to the cause was a pound of flesh because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn't give my life bravely the way Jorge did or to save another the way Radar did. I went. I fought. I got hurt. I came home. I'm not worthy of their kindness. But he kept his smile in place and his bitter thoughts inside his head, where they wouldn't hurt anyone, save himself.
“Let's pray.” His father's booming voice cut through the din, and as one, the young mothers grabbed unruly children by the shoulders. Heads bowed. Eyes closed. The conversation died down to a few whispers, and Malcom Nelson intoned solemnly, “Dear Lord, we come before you today in thanksgiving for bringing my son, Jack, home safe from the war. Please heal his injuries and help him to adjust, making him a useful member of our loving community. Lord, we pray your protection for those who remain in harm's way all over the world. Please comfort those who have lost loved ones, heal the injured, and bring peace to those warring nations so no more of our people suffer. In Jesus' name, Amen.”
“Amen,” murmured the congregation in unison.
Without waiting for an invitation, the hungry diners made their way to two long tables set up at the front of the room. A grand display of steaming crock pots, bowls filled with an assortment of chips, and platters of cheese and fresh vegetables filled the room with tempting scents. Jack's stomach growled at the smell of some of his favorites. Five alarm chili. Spaghetti with meatballs. Enchiladas. But he made no move towards the table. Let the families go first, before the hungry urchins start to riot. He smiled as a mother ushered two excited children past him. There's plenty there to feed an army.
Despite the expressions on the faces of the growing collection of mothers, herding their children into serving lines, the hungry kids continued to engage in loud discussions and silly antics. Though Jack recognized the weary annoyance the mothers exhibited, he couldn't bring himself to see the children as anything other than cute and funny. If I had kids, I'd never let them get me down. I'd laugh all day long, thankful for the blessings they are.
The sound of little shoes pattering on the tile drew his attention away from the tableau of gluttony and towards a small girl with hair like coffee and medium brown skin, whose striking hazel eyes seemed to capture his. Something about the child seemed familiar, but he couldn't seem to identify what it was he recognized. Is this Anita's daughter? What was her name again, Rosie? Wait. How old would she be now?
“Are you Jack?” she asked in a nervous, hesitant voice, and her little hands twisted in her orange skirt.
He nodded, not sure what to make of the little girl. No, this can't be Rosie. I think Rosie is a little older than this little darling. This girl must be… what, five, maybe?
“Elena,” a female voice called, pronouncing the name with more than a hint of a Spanish accent, “I told you not to bother him!”
Elena? Could this be THAT Elena?
Jack raised his eyes to take in the approaching mother. The slender woman with shoulder length hair, light brown in color, looked to be in her early 20s. Her vibrant hazel eyes matched the little girl's and only the chubby cheeked toddler perched on her hip, giggling as he reached towards his sister, could call his attention from them.
“Marithé?” he asked, arrested by the sight of her delicately arched eyebrows, her smooth, light skin, her full, curving lips. I never realized she was beautiful. Actually, I never thought about what she might look like. Wow…
She nodded, seemingly unable to speak. Without a word, Jack stepped forward, ignoring the protest in his thigh, and extended a hand in greeting. His eyes followed her as she set her son, Andres, on the floor and then touched her palm to his. The warmth of the touch seemed to electrify him, and she must have felt the sizzle too, if her stunned expression was any indication. He blinked in awe.
Suddenly, a sharp pain jolted him back to reality. Little Elena, impatient and no longer willing to wait for her friend's attention, had wrapped her arms around his bad leg. She hugged him tightly, looking up at him in earnest, a bright smile warming her angelic face. He gently peeled her off and knelt before her, ignoring the pain reminding him he was due for another dose of his Tramadol, and gave the little girl a proper hug.
“I'm so happy to meet you all,” he said, pleasing Elena and making her smile grow. Glancing over at Andres as he moved to offer a hug to Jack, imitating his older sister's actions, Jack filled with warmth like he'd never known before.
I'm home, he realized at last, letting it sink in.I'm finally, truly home.
Chapter 2
Jack woke to the sizzle of frying eggs and the smell of bacon permeating the house. Gingerly opening his eyes, he could see his mother moving about the kitchen through the door of the little room he was occupying. He smiled, anticipating the meal.
Yawning, he stretched his body out along the single bed. He couldn't suppress the groan that escaped his lips when his hip popped and his damaged leg protested his careless movement. The acute pain which gripped him encouraged him to climb out of bed, address his personal needs, and dig out one of his pain pills. The rich scent of the dark roast coffee his mother had brewed only helped to encourage him in his endeavors.
“Good morning,” Jack greeted his mother groggily.
“Oh, good morning,” Shonda smiled in salutation. “I hope you're hungry. I made a big breakfast, just like when you were younger.”
“Mom, I appreciate it, but you didn't have to go to all that trouble just for me.”
“I told her that,” Malcolm croaked without looking up from his paper. “She didn't listen.”
Excitedly, Shonda added, “The bacon and hash browns are ready. Get your coffee and I will make your plate just as soon as your eggs are done.”
Jack shook his head indulgently. Nice to see some things never change. “Do we have cream?”
“Of course, dear,” Shonda replied, pointing to it on the table. “I've already set it out for you.”
“Never did get a taste for black coffee, did you?” Malcolm remarked with a smirk. Jack ignored his comment and sat in the chair beside his father, mixing his coffee with cream and sugar as his dad folded up his paper and sipped from his own mug. Shonda approached the table with two hot plates in hand, heaping with food. Sliding one in front of her husband, Malcolm offered her an appreciative grin, saying, “thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” Jack remarked as his mother slid a similar plate in front of him. “It looks and smells great!”
“Of course, it does,” Malcolm boomed and Shonda rolled her dark eyes in mock irritation as she turned to make herself a plate. “Your mother made it.”
Jack sighed, saying nothing as he reached for the ketchup bottle his mother had placed in the center of the table. Patting on the bottle to cover his hash browns in the red sauce, his father tsked at him. Closing his eyes a second and trying to contain his building frustration, he heard his mother say, “Malcolm, please.”
“Please, what?” Malcolm ignored his wife's request. “He's ruining his meal by slathering it with that crap. I would have thought he'd have developed a more sophisticated palette by now. Ketchup indeed.”
“Malcolm, it's the way he likes to eat it,” she protested, trying to reduce the tensions, regarding her husband with stressed eyes. Turning to her son with an embarrassed expression, she apologized by saying, “you eat it the way you like, honey.”
&nb
sp; “Don't tell the boy that, Shonda,” Malcolm bolstered. “Your cooking doesn't need all that crap distracting from it.”
“Dad, I'm not a boy,” Jack snapped. “I'm a man. I've been a man for a long time now.”
“If you're such a man, why are you living with your parents again?” Malcolm scowled. “Huh? What are your plans now, man?”
“Malcolm! Enough!” Shonda shot to her feet. “He's just gotten home!”
“No, Mom, it's okay,” Jack rose and placed his hand softly on his mother's shoulder. She gave him a pleading look, worry rolling off of her in tangible waves. “Really, it's fine.” Jack waited for his mother to relax and take her seat again before he turned to address his father, whose indignation was etched in his impatience.
“Why is it your mother always seems out of sorts whenever you're around, huh?” Malcolm growled. “We never say a word in anger unless you're involved.”
“Look, Dad,” Jack tried to stay calm, drawing on his military leadership training for control, “I don't want to fight. I've had enough fighting to last a life time, and I'm not moving in here.”
“What are you doing, Jack?” Malcolm couldn't hide his surprise from showing, but Jack wasn't sure if his dad was surprised to hear he wasn't moving in or at Jack's audacity in confronting him.
“As I explained to Mom, I only plan to be here until I can get a place of my own. I'm meeting with a local VA rep about my disability compensation and I'm looking for a job. As soon as I have some sort of income in place, I'll get a place of my own.”
“So, you do plan to work?” Malcolm asked.
“Don't sound so surprised, Dad,” Jack scoffed. Wow, what does he take me for? Does he really think so little of me? “It's nice to know you think I'm so lazy. Thanks.”
This time it was Malcolm's turn to flush and his cheeks burned with shame. “Son, that's not what I meant.”
Justifying Jack (The Wounded Warriors Book 2) Page 2