“Oh, man!” Sam replied. “That's rough.”
“Yeah, no wonder you look like shit,” Mike commented bluntly.
Nice try, bro, but I don't think anyone is going to laugh right now.
Jack leaned back in his chair, picking at the kolache he'd tossed on the table, pinching bits of breading off the side. “We shouldn't talk about this. Jorge was…”
“Our friend,” Sam finished his sentence.
“Yeah, and your best friend,” Jack pointed out. “So we shouldn't be discussing my relationship with his wife.”
“Widow,” Mike corrected him, drawing the attention of both Sam and Jack. “Marithé isn't a wife anymore and she hasn't been for quite a while now.”
“He's right,” Sam agreed, surprising Jack with his response. “Look, if I'm learning anything in therapy, it's that you have to live in the moment.”
“What do you mean?” What is he trying to tell me?
Sam took a sip from his Styrofoam cup, hot cocoa if Jack remembered his friend's preference correctly. “Jack, look man, Jorge… Jorge's gone and he's not coming back.” Sam took a moment, obviously struggling with his emotions about the loss of his best friend and brother airman. “If he could have anyone step in to take care of his family, to love them… like he would… I have no doubt it'd be you.”
Jack blinked and his mouth opened slightly, just enough to part his lips. He wasn't sure what his friends could read in his expression, but whatever it was seemed to encourage Sam to continue. “Jorge always liked you, respected you.”
“Hell, we all did and still do,” Mike concurred. “Well, except for Ray, but he doesn't really count.”
Jack scoffed and Sam added, “He'd want you to – we all want you to – be happy; not just you, but Marithé and the kids as well.”
“That's great and I appreciate it, but did you forget the part about Marithé rushing out of here?” Jack tried to remind Sam as to the conclusion of the date.
Sam shifted in his seat. “Look, not all… wounds, let's say, yeah… not all wounds are visible, man. And not all injuries occur on a battlefield.”
“Amen to that, brother!” Mike cheered as he got up to snatch another pastry, a glazed doughnut this time.
Sam smiled approvingly at Mike and then returned his attention to Jack. “Marithé's wounded, same as you… same as me. And just like your leg or crotch, whatever you actually messed up, she's going to have good days as well as bad days. Sometimes her pain will be too much, but there isn't a painkiller powerful enough to ease her hurt. You just need to give her a little time, some space.”
Jack nodded in acknowledgement and comprehension. “I get it. I hear what you're saying, but I have to ask…”
“Anything,” Sam told him sincerely.
“When did you become so good at this touchy-feely shit?” I've never heard Sam say anything so profound or mature… ever!
Sam chuckled, tossing his hand in the air in a carefree manner. “Therapy. Lots and lots of therapy.”
Chapter 13
By Monday, while some of Marithé's wild panic over her behavior had subsided, she still felt acutely embarrassed. She was grateful that Shonda had suggested she take the day off. She was certainly not ready to face a group of people for any reason, let alone endure Shonda's questions or concerns. After driving the kids to school and daycare, she returned to the apartment, thankful for a little time alone. She sank wearily onto the sofa, burying her head in her hands.
I wish I knew what to do, she thought, misery coursing through her. Should I give Jack up completely? She knew it wouldn't be fair for her to retain a close relationship with him knowing how he felt for her. That would be awkward since we work so closely together… and his family… they're everywhere I go. If I break up with Jack, I'll have to quit. I mean, I wouldn't be able to face them… not after breaking Jack's heart.
Her own heart ached at the thought of cutting ties with the people who had worked so hard to help her continue living after Jorge's death. Though they had once been strangers, now they were friends. No, they're so much more than that… they're family. Even Andres thinks Malcolm and Shonda are his actual grandparents. And then there's Elena. A picture of the little girl rushing into Jack's arms flashed through her mind. She's already lost her father… what would it do to her to lose… him?
As her thoughts turned painfully towards Jack, a sniffle escaped as she verbalized her question, “What would it do to me?”
Never seeing him again would be even harder. I've come to care for him so deeply… deeper than I thought possible. Image after image from the last few months floated across the surface of her mind. Jack helping her hang Halloween streamers, of getting her approval on his house – that took on new meaning in the face of his sudden declaration – of him accepting a handful of weeds from her daughter without showing any consternation. And along with a hundred tiny examples of his kind nature, she experienced an increase in her pulse and a quickening in her breathing.
Her senses seemed determined to parade before her evidence of all the things she tried to suppress. His powerful physique excited her, kindling desires she thought were buried with Jorge, while his injury awakened her maternal instincts. The warmth and humor in his sparkling brown eyes made her feel comfortable and relaxed despite his imposing size. And how strong are his arms? Strong enough to hold you together. Then, there was his scent, his taste and his touch… each had sunk deeply into her soul and could not be uprooted.
“But what does that mean?” she asked herself aloud. “I can't love Jack. I love my husband. I love Jorge and I always will. I made a mistake, but that doesn't mean Jorge is gone from my heart.” But what does it mean?
Desperate to feel some connection to Jorge, she ran down the hallway, avoiding the humped and threadbare patches of carpet as she made her way into her room. Along one wall, boxes stacked floor to ceiling showed how much smaller her new life had become. Crouching down, she reached under the bed, dislodging a dust bunny that danced along in the breeze from a nearby heat register. Hmmm. Looks like I let the cleaning get away from me, she thought idly as her hand closed on a hinged wooden box. Touching it hurt, with a physical pain to her gut, and her eyes stung, but she pulled it out anyway, propping the object on her lap.
Making no attempt to stem the tears streaming down her cheeks, she ran her fingertips over the glass on the two-sided shadow box. On one side, displayed against a background of black velvet, a colorful rendering of the Virgin of Guadalupe smiled, extended hands spilling roses. Marithé gulped. Surrounding the Virgin, medals of the different saints shone dully in the dim light. At the top, his wild hair flying in an imaginary breeze, St. Adrian stood, sword in hand, engulfed in flames, guarding the contents.
“You didn't protect him,” she accused the silent saint, suddenly angry for all she'd suffered. But then, no one protected you either, did they? Or Jesus for that matter… “Why is there so much pain and confusion in the world?” she mused aloud, sorrow consuming her.
No answer emerged from the quiet apartment. The refrigerator hummed softly and the heater clicked off, leaving a deep sense of hollowness in the wake of its soft whoosh. Sniffling, she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and flipped the shadow box over to view the other side. This was the side that would be the most heart-breaking for her.
There, a folded American flag divided the square into three triangles. To its left rested a small collection of rectangles, each composed of a series of colorful bands. These were the medals that told of Jorge's military accomplishments. To the right, three bullets took center stage, empty shells from the 21-gun salute performed at Jorge's memorial service. The casings were surrounded by commemorative coins, 'Challenge Coins' she remembered Jorge calling them. Each bore the insignia or emblem of the various squadrons and commands he'd been attached to.
Marithé's anger increased. “Is this all you have for me then?” She demanded of the box. “My husband gave his life for you. His children will never
know him. They won't even remember him. He'll be a picture and a story their whole lives, and what do I get in return, a folded flag and a bunch of trinkets? I want Jorge back, damn you!”
She shook the shadow box, tempted to slam it against the wall, as she squeezed it in her hands. Unable to crush it as desired, she shoved it back under the bed and flung herself on top, pulling the crumpled sheets around her body and wept. As she cried, she beat the pillow with her fists in impotent rage, needing a release from the darkness that pressed her down.
“It's not fair!” she wailed in anguish. “Why Jorge? Why?”
For the first time in eight months, the urge to be strong and stoic, to keep putting one foot in front of the other and hold it together shattered. Marithé, at last, let grief take her and sink her in its black, consuming maw.
“I want to be with him,” she whimpered in agony. The emotions surging through her gave her an urgency to do something, be somewhere, but she remained still. Instinctively, she realized she had nowhere to go and that there was nothing she'd be able to do that would change the course of history that had led her to this moment. “I don't want to be alone anymore.”
But she was alone. The silence of her soul felt lonelier than it ever had and it was devastating. It was numbing in its overwhelming consumption, like a scent so overpowering it becomes unnoticed. Her hands formed claws as the pain raged through her chest, searing hot and maddening in its pursuit to burn her to ashes, to turn her to nothing.
It wasn't until much later, when she had cried herself dry, that the voice returned to whisper in her ear again. It said, “You're not alone. You've never been alone.”
“I wish I could believe that,” she answered without thinking.
“I know it hurts and sometimes… I know you want to die too.” She knew the voice was her own conscience talking to her, but it didn't matter. She wasn't sure if anything mattered anymore. “Don't die, Marithé, it's not your time and you know it. You have a future, if you choose it. And your babies need you. Jack… he needs you too.”
She shook her head. “How can I replace Jorge? Jack is wonderful, but…”
“He wouldn't be replacing anyone. You can love Jorge the rest of your life and still love Jack too. It's no different than the love you feel for each of your children. Loving Andres doesn't take anything away from Elena, does it?”
Not sure where these rational ideas had come from, she answered the question nonetheless. “It's not the same. They're my children. I could love a dozen as easily as two. It's different when it's a man.” Isn't it?
The voice didn't answer, but being forced to reason with herself had broken through Marithé's darkness a little. She felt able to rise, walk to the kitchen and make herself a cup of coffee. The warm liquid quickly chased away her painful lethargy, but left in its wake a sort of nervous energy. Those dust bunnies could use tending, she thought. And the toy box is a mess, not to mention, those DVDs. Content as she planned how she'd work to spend some of her tensions doing something constructive, she sat in numbed silence, sipping her coffee as though it was liquid life, sufficient to chase away her shadows.
As she drained the last cooling dregs, mentally cataloguing where all her cleaning supplies had been stashed away during her move and subsequent uses, the chirping of her cell phone penetrated her foggy mental state. Rushing back to the living room, she dug frantically into her purse and retrieved the device, pushing a button. Damn it, the battery is almost dead.
“Hello,” she said, as she hurried into the kitchen and plugged the phone into its charger. I hate standing still on the phone. I feel like a caged tiger.
“Mari!” an accented voice shouted among crackling static.
“Ray?”
“Si, how are you, chica?”
Marithé blinked. It must be the middle of the night in Europe. What's up with him? “Did you need something?”
“Nah, I just wanted to say hi. I was still up, so I thought I'd give my favorite prima a call. It's been a while.” The static eased, and suddenly Ray's voice sounded perfectly clear.
“Too long,” she commented, mentally counting the months since she'd heard from the last relative she still had contact with.
“Don't be like that, chica,” Ray urged. “I've been getting settled in. It's not easy to relocate to another country.”
“I suppose not,” she replied, rolling her eyes.
A relationship with Ray was, at best, one-sided and a bit superficial. It's all he wanted or knew how to give in return. Good thing not everyone's like that, she thought, and an image of Jack, his eyes darker than ever with passion, etched its way into her mind. Now that's a man who knows how to be real, to love and be loved. It occurred to her that her time with Jack was probably over, and she had to stifle the urge to cry out, surprised by the depth of loss she felt. The hollow he'd leave in her heart was only rivaled by the emptiness left by Jorge's death. Her next breath sounded like a sob.
“Damn, Mari, are you crying again? Don't tell me you've been at it all these months. You need to move on. Go on a date or something.”
“I've been on a date,” Marithé replied sourly. Typical Ray to assume every woman he knows is eager to get laid, except his cousin the nun. She recalled how very much unlike a nun she had been the other night and bit her lip.
“Oh?” Ray asked, surprised, “how was it?”
“Beautiful,” she replied, and then sighed, forgetting the tangle of emotions and recalling, for the first time, the intense pleasure and deep connection she'd shared when she and Jack made love.
“Beautiful?” Ray repeated the word incredulously. Oh shit, did I say that? Ay, Dios mio! Clearly, Ray had caught her unintentional slip. “Beautiful is not a word to describe a date, Mari. It's a word for sex.”
“Whatever,” she replied tersely, a sense of defensiveness spreading through her.
“Don't you 'whatever' me! What did you do?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” she mumbled, not wanting to discuss it.
“Bullshit, Mari!” he shot back. “You totally went out and got laid!” He scoffed and continued with an air of superiority. “When did you turn into a slut? Was it before or after Jorge died? You know, I'm ashamed of you, puta.”
Heat flared in Marithé's heart. Her eyes burned and her breath caught. If Ray had punched her in the stomach, she couldn't have been more hurt. “If I'm a slut, Raymundo, what does that make you? You've probably had more partners in just the last week alone than I've had during my entire life.”
“You're a girl,” he snapped. “It's different.”
“No, you're wrong,” Marithé said in a calm, even voice. “The difference has nothing to with gender, Ray. The difference is that Jack is special to me, very special. It's not a one night stand or a cheap fling. It's more than that. It's something you never could understand.”
“Oh, really?” Ray's voice dripped with derision. “And what's that?”
“Love! Jack loves me,” she exclaimed loudly. And that love matters more to me than I've been willing to admit.
As the flaring anger incited by her domineering cousin faded into a new understanding, Marithé's contemplation deepened. You've been happy to take Jack's love… to use it to fill up the empty places in your heart, but at the same time, you've held your heart back from him. He knows it's broken, yet he wants it anyway. And deep down, you want to give it to him… you already have. You're just afraid to admit it, and in your own selfishness, you're hurting him.
Stunned by her own revelation, she didn't notice how quiet Ray had grown, until he spoke in a frozen hiss. “The hell you say? Jack Nelson? Are you joking, Maria Teresa? Because if you are, I gotta tell you, it's not funny.”
“No, no joke,” she replied just as coldly. “And you know what, I love Jack too and I want…” her voice faltered. She took a deep breath, shored up her confidence and said, “I want to be with him too… forever.”
“Madre de Dios!” Ray cried. “I can't believe this. What the hell,
Mari? Jack's nothing. He's not even our kind.”
Marithé laughed contemptuously. “Jack's nothing? What do you mean? He's a hero of war who's served his country.”
“Yeah, just like me, Mari,” Ray reminded her bitterly.
“Not like you, Ray,” Marithé replied through clenched teeth. “How dare you even try to compare yourself to him? He's lost so much, and yet he still faces life with the courage of a soldier. And he didn't get hard or jaded, like you did. He's a gentleman who cares about what he has instead of constantly scheming in order to try to get more. And as far as 'our kind', Raymundo, last time I checked we were all human. So what are you trying to say?”
She could hear her cousin's sharp intake of air as he sucked it deeply into his lungs. “I'm saying he's not even a real man,” he said in a chilling voice. “Something you should know since you're fucking him!”
“Oh…” she opened her mouth, her tongue resting heavily on her molar, her eyes closed as she tried to curb her fury. “Not that it's any of your business anyway, but I can assure you, he is a real man. I have irrefutable evidence.”
“Don't say it, Mari,” Ray choked. “I don't want to know.”
“Oh, really? Then why did you bring it up?” Marithé demanded, unrelenting. “You can't call me a puta one minute and then suggest my lover's impotent in the next.”
“It's just I heard… you know, that he lost his manhood or something,” Ray sounded more uncomfortable than he'd been in all their shared existence.
“Uh, no,” she shot back sarcastically. Lost his manhood! Not likely. He filled me up just right. She refrained from saying so to her cousin, however. But the poor guy did say he was sterile… Still, rumors are something else.
“Mari,” Ray whined in frustration, “what will the family say?”
He sounded desperate, and she knew he'd run out of arguments. After a lifetime of kowtowing to Ray and his parents, being treated more like a slave than a relative and accepting their cruelty for fear of being tossed out on the streets, her patience had finally been exhausted. She'd never stood up to him this way before, and it felt good. As Jorge always told her, it was far over-due and feeling assured that both Jorge and Jack would be proud of her, she decided not to stop.
Justifying Jack (The Wounded Warriors Book 2) Page 14