Facing Home (The Clover Series Book 4)

by Danielle Stewart

  “A woman’s role is to raise her family. She’s on this earth to feed them and teach them things like how to speak with respect around someone else’s table.” Corinne’s face is growing redder by the second.

  “Well then I respectfully disagree with that statement, and since I don’t think we’ll find common ground, let’s just move on to something else.” I don’t think anyone is accustomed to this kind of talk. “Tavia, Click tells me you’re a beautiful seamstress. I’m a fanatic when it comes to fashion and design. I would love to see some of your work.”

  “His name is not Click,” Corinne snaps as she takes two large steps toward me. I should be intimidated but I’m not. Somewhere on the ride over tonight I convinced myself it’s ridiculous to act different than I usually do just because Click’s family is challenging. If I do plan on being in his life then it won’t serve to be someone I’m not. They are either going to love me or hate me; I’m going to give them my authentic self and they can decide.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, not sure I heard Corinne correctly through her pursed and angry lips.

  “His name is Vittorino. Same as his father. We call him Vit, or V but we don’t call him Click. Because that isn’t his name.”

  “I didn’t pick it,” I argue back. “That’s just how he introduced himself to me and what he prefers to be called. So I respect that, and it’s what I’ll call him.”

  “Ma,” Click says, raising a hand up begging her to stop. “You know that’s the name my platoon gave me. We’ve had this conversation a hundred times. It’s my name. It’s who I am.”

  “It’s not. Maybe it’s who you were over there but you are home now, and it’s time for you to start acting normal again.”

  “Corinne,” Click’s father says with a warning tone. “Now is not the time. He’s home, it’s all over, let’s let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “Speaking of dogs,” Click says with anger in his voice. “Can we please talk about this dog? Why do you have him? You don’t even like dogs.”

  The oven timer dings loudly from the kitchen and breaks the tension for a moment. “Let’s just eat,” Corinne breathes out as she hustles toward her food before it burns. Everyone moves to the dining room and takes a seat. The silence is speaking volumes about the level of tension.

  Corinne comes out with serving platters of food in each arm and begins circling the table, slapping everything down onto the empty plates. I notice she skips over the women to serve all the men first. It’s archaic in my opinion, but to each his – or in this case, her - own.

  I turn my attention toward Mick as he begins to ask me a question. “So, Jordan, Tavia tells me you’re a Muslim. Don’t you have to wear one of those whole body sheets?” I watch in disgust as he uses his thumbnail to pry something from his teeth.

  I choke on my drink and try to process his ignorance. “You should know not all Muslims wear burkas. However, I’m not Muslim. I don’t practice any religion at the moment. I was born in Afghanistan but have spent the majority of my life in the United States. I’m as American as any of you.”

  “Well, I think Italian descent versus Arab descent would make us a little more American than you,” he replies, adjusting the Italian flag emblem on the pennant around his neck. “Our country isn’t blowing things up like a bunch of crazy people.”

  “No, the road to your heritage is just littered with the bodies of innocent people caught in the cross fire of the mafia. Your history is one full of racketeering, extortion, and intimidation.”

  “Yeah it is,” Mick says as he high-fives Tommy. The pride my intended insult creates only makes me more annoyed.

  “Mrs. Chenny called me again today,” Corinne interrupts as she takes her seat by her husband. This sounds like an innocuous topic of conversation but judging by Click’s visceral reaction, I can tell it has a deeper meaning.

  “Really, Ma, you’re going there again? I’ve told you I don’t want to talk to her. I didn’t know her son, and I don’t have anything to tell her.”

  “I don’t understand why you won’t talk to her. Though it shouldn’t surprise me, since you won’t talk to your own mother about the last six years of your life. You know how embarrassing it is when people ask me where you were deployed, what you did over there, and I can barely answer them? Do you know how that makes me look?”

  “If you were a little less concerned with how you look to everyone maybe you’d realize that it’s not something I want to talk about, and I have my reasons.”

  “Well, poor Mrs. Chenny lost her son over there. He was blown up so badly they couldn’t even have an open casket at his funeral. All she wants to do is talk to you about what it was like. She wants to know if you ever met him while he was there. I can’t believe you won’t even give her that.”

  “It’s not a mixer, Mom. You don’t just meet a bunch of people like on a cruise ship. I didn’t know him. If I had to bet my life on it, I’m sure I’d find out you called her; she didn’t call you. I’m sure you are driving this entire conversation. And there is a damn good chance it’s as intrusive and rude to her as it is to me.”

  Corinne takes the serving spoon from the salad and launches it across the room. While it’s not directed at anyone in particular, it still has me jumping. Who the hell does that?

  “You don’t tell me anything. I don’t know anything about what happened to you there. I try to ask and you get mad. That’s not fair to me.” Corinne’s face is blood red and her hand is slamming down on the table as she talks.

  “Corinne, maybe there isn’t anything to tell. Not every Marine sees action,” Click’s father says, and I can see what Click means about his father’s avoidance of the topic. What a toxic mix his parents must be when they argue about this. One begging to know more, the other pretending it never happened.

  Click stands and grabs my hand so I stand as well. “You want to know what the last six years of my life were like?” he asks, and Corinne’s face lights up with a hopefulness.

  “Yes.”

  “Somehow, even though it was a warzone, it was quieter than this house. Even though I wasn’t related to a single person, they felt more like family to me than any of you right now. I risked my life on a regular basis and I was more relaxed than I am tonight. Bianca is fighting to keep her head above water, and she’d rather drown than come back to this house and deal with this chaos. So if you’re worried about anything, worry about that.”

  Corinne howls like a wounded animal and clutches her chest as though she might die. Click has me by the wrist and we’re barreling toward the front door. I don’t want him to leave like this, but I also agree with every word that has come out of his mouth. When we step on the porch he slams the door so forcefully the windows rattle.

  I’m too shocked to say a word as we fall into the car, he throws it in drive, and we skid down the road.

  “I’m so sorry, Click,” I whisper, my eyes still wide with disbelief. “I shouldn’t have been argumentative. I didn’t realize it would turn into that.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for. It’s me who should be apologizing. They were insulting to you, and you deserve better than that. They don’t know anything about your culture except what they hear on television. Spin that against the fact that I was over there and it’s twisted itself into something ignorant. So I’m sorry.”

  “I couldn’t care less about that. I’m worried about you. Your mother was very upset. You were completely in the right, but still. I don’t want to see this ruin your entire relationship. She’s still your mother and—”

  “I forget sometimes that not everyone grows up like this. That argument, while not that common for my mother and me, considering I haven’t been around much, is still a very normal occurrence around that table. It’s either Bianca allowing Daphne to play soccer instead of a girl sport, or it’s how Tommy won’t eat my mother’s chicken parmesan because he doesn’t like the way she pounds out the chicken. Something gets thrown and someone storms out. It happens, and i
t happens frequently.”

  “And then what happens next? How do you work it out?”

  “We don’t. We show up the next week and passively snipe at each other until the next blowup. That argument replaces the last. It’s how they work.”

  “That sounds awful,” I bite my lip as punishment for blurting out something so insensitive. “I mean, that seems like a really hard dynamic to live in.”

  “It is. My mother wants me to sit down and bare my soul to her. She wants to save me. It’s her badge of honor to wear. Before I went to boot camp I was a mama’s boy. If my heart was broken I turned to her. But she doesn’t understand this is a different kind of heartbreak. It can’t be fixed with cannoli and threatening to beat the hell out of the girl who wouldn’t go to the snowball dance with me.”

  I hear the word heartbreak and bank a clue to what Click is really feeling. He’s not transparent about much, so I’ve been gathering up the little bits and pieces, trying to understand what he’s feeling. Heartbreak wasn’t on my radar. But I suppose seeing what he’s seen would break your heart, I just hadn’t thought of it that way.

  “What if you just told her a little bit. Just the basics.”

  “That’s like feeding a drop of blood to a shark. She won’t stop until she’s gotten every last piece of me. I don’t have it to give right now.”

  “What do we do now?” I ask, as Click races down the dirt road leading away from his house.

  “We go back to the hotel and wait to hear something from Luke. All I want to do is track Jonah down, get some answers, and put this place in my rearview mirror again. I mean, look at it here—there is nothing. There are only fields and farms. Nosy neighbors with nothing to do. It’s exhausting.” As Click turns to his left to look over the freshly plowed farm I see a flash of something dart out from the trees on my side of the car. I scream, but it’s too late. Even though Click’s foot comes down heavy on the brake, we make impact. Hard impact.

  Chapter Seven

  Click

  I reach to my side to get a hold of my weapon but it isn’t there. The blast must have sent it airborne. I’m sure I still have my knife strapped to my ankle unless my leg’s been blown off. At least if there are insurgents here I should be able to defend myself. But my men—are they hurt? Are they dead? I know I need to fight to stay conscious, to open up my eyes and assess the situation, triage, and radio for medics. No matter what pain my body is enduring, I need to fight through the fog to do my job.

  I reach toward my backpack for my radio, but that’s gone too. Where are my supplies? I can feel just the material of a cotton T-shirt, not my camo. What’s happening? Am I dead?

  I crack open my eyes and look down at my hands. They are covered with blood. Fumbling for my seatbelt, I have to exit the vehicle and secure the situation. That’s my training. Though the world is spinning around me and thoughts are darting back and forth from the corners of my mind, I will my body to move. I throw my sore shoulder into the door of the Humvee and, as it swings open, I plummet to the ground. I was wrong. My knife isn’t on my ankle. I have no weapons. Such vulnerability in a hostile zone fills me with primal adrenaline. I must protect my men until help can arrive. I need to find my radio to call medevac to come get us out of this hostile territory. I start to yell the names of each of my men as I hear a voice over my shoulder.

  A man I don’t know is there, and with all the strength I can muster, I reach up and yank his body to the ground next to me combat style. He’s gasping for air as I wrap an arm around his neck and my legs around his body. If there are more insurgents coming, my only hope will be to arm myself with this man’s weapons.

  As his body begins to weaken I hear a woman’s voice. She’s screaming my name. Begging me to stop. Her face has come down to my level and her nose is nearly pressed to mine.

  Jordan?

  Nothing makes sense as two worlds collide in my mind, and I realize I’m not where I thought I was. This man is not who I thought he was. Nothing is as I believed. I release the man who I now see is dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. He scurries away from me on his hands and knees, keeping an eye on my movements. He’s clearly afraid I could strike again.

  Jordan’s hands are clamped down on my shoulders as tears streak down her cheeks, cutting a path through the blood flowing from a gash on her forehead. I blink hard, over and over again, trying to focus on where I am. She’s still screaming my name, slapping lightly at my cheek.

  “I’m okay,” I whisper as I regain my grip on the present. “What happened? What did we hit? Are you hurt?”

  “A deer, a big one. Like with antlers,” Jordan says with a whimper. “It came out of nowhere and we hit it. What happened to you? Why were you strangling that guy?” Her eyes are wild with a storm of concern.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to her and then to the man who still looks terrified. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where I was for a minute. I was somewhere else.”

  He nods his head, but I can tell he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what I mean. But I focus back on Jordan. “You’re cut.” I reach out and touch Jordan’s forehead but she pushes my hand away.

  “So are you. I think your nose is broken. You hit your head. We need to get to a hospital.”

  “I’ve already called; they should be here any minute,” the frightened man says as he gets back on his feet and moves a few steps away from us. “The buck is hurt bad. He needs to be put down. I’m going to get my gun.”

  “No,” Jordan cries, her face crumpling and her tears coming even faster. “You can’t just shoot him. Please. Can’t a vet come out and at least look at him?”

  “He’s in too much pain, listen to him.” The deer is groaning and panting in agony, an eerie and ominous sound.

  Realistically I think the man has more than one reason for wanting to get his gun. I nod at Jordan to let him go. She falls into my arms, sitting down beside me and shaking with emotion as the deer’s pained cries grow louder.

  I peer at the car and am astonished by the damage. The whole front end is crushed, the windshield smashed, as the vehicle hisses and creaks. After staring at it, right before my eyes, it morphs into a Humvee.

  I see the carnage of a familiar scene and the bodies of my friends scattered around. Though my ears have not been damaged in this accident, here with Jordan, I suddenly can’t hear. I know Jordan is talking to me again, I know she’s screaming my name again but I can’t hear her. I close my eyes to try to right myself but nothing feels real anymore. I lay my body down on the grass behind me and cover my ears as I wait for it all to disappear, and, with a flash of darkness, it does.

  Chapter Eight

  Jordan

  I’ve had stitches before. In the explosion that took my sister’s leg when we were children, a piece of shrapnel became lodged in my thigh. I still remember the pain as they removed it and sewed the wound. This cut on my forehead becomes an interesting metaphor for how my life has changed. As a child I was carted off to our province’s makeshift hospital in the back of a truck that had previously carried goats. There had been no lidocaine, no specialist, no rubber gloves: just a man with a sewing kit and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Even now, if I smell that, I cringe. But today, after a relatively comfortable ambulance ride, the instant delivery of pain medication, and the handiwork of a trained plastic surgeon, I’m all patched up and cared for. Well, physically anyway. Mentally I’m a wreck. I can’t process what I saw out there.

  It’s all troubling. The shooting of an injured deer. My own blood pouring down my face. But nothing is as unnerving as what I witnessed in Click. I can’t reason my way out of it. I can’t make excuses. He was having a flashback. He didn’t know where he was, and he could have easily killed someone if he hadn’t snapped out of it in time. He could have killed me.

  I haven’t seen him since we were put in two different ambulances back at the accident scene. He was unconscious when they loaded him up, but I saw the man who he strangled giving an account to the p
olice officer who arrived. I know they know what happened. What I’m not sure of, is what it means for Click.

  A light knock on my door sends me jumping. I cringe at the pain radiating through my back. “Come in,” I call out, convinced it’s the police wanting an account of Click’s behavior. I’ll lie for him. I never thought I’d be that person, but for him I would.

  I’m relieved and shocked to see it’s Click, his nose bandaged and his eyes black and swollen.

  “Are you all right?” he asks in a sad voice that breaks my heart. “They told me you got stitches, but they did a great job and you shouldn’t have a scar.”

  “I’ll be fine, how about you?” My voice is threaded with a concern that goes deeper than his physical injuries.

  “Broken nose, but that’s it. Some bruises from the seatbelt. A mild concussion.”

  He says it so casually I wonder if he forgot what happened back at the car. Does he not remember he nearly strangled a man to death? “What do you want me to tell the police?” I ask in a hushed and urgent voice.

  “I already talked to them. It’s going to be fine. It was an accident. They’re used to this kind of thing down here by the woods. Deer are wild animals; it’s bound to happen occasionally.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. You attacked that man and he told the police about it. He could press charges against you.”

  “He’s not going to. It’s fine.”

  “How is that fine? Tell me what happened. Why did you attack him and why is it fine?” My voice is high and my words are coming frantically.

  “I took a hit to the head, I was disorientated. The cop on the scene, he’s a former Navy Seal. He found out my background and smoothed it over with the guy. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Why did you attack him? What did you think was happening?”