The Marine (Semper Fi; Marine)

by Cheryl Reavis

  “Mom, I just told you. He said he thought you’d gone. So . . . where were you?”

  “I needed to talk to Kinlaw.”

  “Why?”

  Grace looked at her inquisitive child and decided to err on the side of too much information.

  “Josh’s wife came to see the baby. Things went downhill from there.”

  “Ex-wife,” Allison said. “Almost.”

  “Allison, you think you know everything,” Lisa said as they walked outside.

  “Well, I know that.”

  “So what did she want?” Lisa said, clearly interested in the situation herself.

  “Use your pouf brain, Lisa. She’s an almost ex-wife. She’ll never be an ex-mother.”

  The conversation ended abruptly because it was dark outside and windy and miserable. They had to make a dash through the rain to the car. The questions didn’t start again until they were nearly home.

  “Mom, is Elizabeth going to be all right?” Allison asked.

  “I don’t know,” Grace said, because she didn’t. And she had never given her daughters false reassurances, not even when they were waiting for news about Trent.

  “She’s really sick, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Grace said.

  “It wouldn’t be fair if something happened to her.”

  Life isn’t fair, Grace thought but didn’t say, despite her penchant for the truth. Her girls already knew how unfair life could be, and so did she.

  Grace turned down their street, and she was glad she’d left the lamps in the living room on. The house looked warm and safe and inviting. They would finally have their soup and cheese toast and then . . .

  Grace had no idea what she should do next. Nothing, she supposed, regardless of how involved she had become.

  The meal was actually peaceful for a change, and both girls went upstairs as soon as they’d eaten. Grace sat at the kitchen table a long time, thinking. She was suddenly aware of one aspect of this situation—not once had she considered what Trent might think or do. The problem was hers alone, and she was handling it accordingly. Little Elizabeth was sick, but Grace wasn’t going on a quest to find Sandra Kay. Not yet, not when she didn’t know if Josh was actually Sandra Kay’s son.

  She got up and went to the computer in the den. It didn’t take her long to find the information she needed. It took much longer to try to understand it—mitochondrial DNA.

  After a time, she gave up, and went to bed late enough to oversleep. Allison and Lisa were both dressed and eating breakfast when she came downstairs.

  “Mom, I called the hospital,” Allison said.

  “What did they say?”

  “Nothing,” Lisa answered for her. “Duh! They don’t ever tell strangers what’s going on.”

  “I’m not a stranger.”

  “You’re not family, either.”

  “Yet,” Allison said. “Are we getting tested, Mom?”

  “I don’t think so,” Grace said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s up to Josh, Allison. If he doesn’t want to find out if we’re related, that’s it.”

  Allison sighed and bit off a corner of toast. “Are we going back to the hospital?”

  “No.”

  “Mom!”

  “Allison, he doesn’t want us there.”

  “Yes, he does. I know he does.”

  Lisa abruptly stood up. “I’m ready to go, Allison. Hurry up!”

  “Hurry up? I’ve been ready. You’re the one holding things up.”

  “Goodbye, my lovely children,” Grace said. “Have a good day. Do your best.”

  The phone rang as they were heading out the door.

  “Is it the hospital?” Allison called back.

  “Allison, they don’t know our number.”

  “Yes, they do. I gave it to them.”

  “Go!” Grace said. “Before you’re late for school.”

  It wasn’t the hospital. It was Joseph Kinlaw.

  “What’s wrong?” Grace asked immediately, because she had no doubt that it was something. She could hear it in his voice.

  “It’s Elizabeth,” he said. “Josh wanted to know if you’d come.”

  “Is she worse?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Grace?” he said when she was about to hang up.

  “What?”

  “It was hard for him to ask.”

  “I know,” she said. “Tell him I’m on my way.”

  She hung up and took the time to scribble a note for the girls, telling them where she’d gone and that they were to stay put and not come to the hospital. Thankfully, the rain had stopped. The sun was shining brightly, and she concentrated on that instead of the reason for the trip. It took her a few minutes to find a place to park, and when she reached the pediatric unit, she didn’t see anyone at the nurse’s station. She walked to Elizabeth’s room and opened the door slightly. Josh was sitting in the straight chair by the bed this time, holding onto Elizabeth’s small hand, humming the same hillbilly song Allison had sung.

  Grace stepped inside, hesitating a moment before she said anything. He heard her and looked around. He was so tired, too tired to talk, too tired to do anything.

  Grace didn’t suggest he try to sleep this time. She was fresh out of suggestions. She went to the other side of the bed and touched Elizabeth’s hand. The little fingers closed for a moment around hers.

  Hospital personnel came and went, among them a chaplain accompanied by a volunteer military spouse who Grace suspected had the same job description as Kinlaw and who said the right things and brought coffee. Josh did sleep a little from time to time, nodding in the chair while still holding Elizabeth’s hand. Someone brought another chair for Grace. She lost all track of time.

  “Thanks,” Josh said at one point. “For coming back.”

  “You’re welcome,” Grace answered, wondering how much Kinlaw had to do with her being here. But that was as close as they came to addressing the fact that she had come when he asked.

  Josh Caven’s baby girl slept on, and the hospital’s business continued around them. Grace could hear equipment rattling past in the corridor, people talking, a PA system search for specific personnel. Every now and then, someone laughed.

  “Josh,” she said, and he looked at her. “I think I know how she must be feeling—Angie—regardless of what she did. If—”

  “No,” he said.

  No.

  Grace didn’t say anything more. She did the only thing she could do. She waited.

  “I TALKED TO Allison,” Kinlaw said.

  “What?” Grace said, looking up just in time to keep from walking into him. She was so tired, not physically so much as emotionally. She was no longer surprised to find him in unexpected places. He had come by more than once to see if there was anything Josh or Elizabeth needed.

  “Allison called my cell to ask how Elizabeth was. She didn’t want to call yours.”

  “Well, as long as she wasn’t in a bar,” Grace said.

  “She’s very . . . resourceful, your Allison. She’d make a good Marine.”

  “Oh, please. I’m not over the bar thing yet.”

  Kinlaw actually smiled. “I told her I’d find out how Elizabeth was doing and see if you knew when you were coming home.”

  “I’m coming home now,” she said.

  “Is Elizabeth doing any better?” he asked, walking outside with her instead of going wherever he’d planned.

  “No. But she’s not any worse. ‘Holding her own,’ I think is the standard response. Josh is . . . being Marine-like. He’s exhausted. Some of his friends came to sit with him so I could go home. I think one of
the girls has a crush on him. What?” she asked, because of the look on his face.

  “I’m beginning to think you’d make a good Marine, too. Being able to read people is a highly prized skill in the Marine Corps.”

  “Is it? Why?”

  “Because it saves a lot of trouble and heartache in the long run. Is there anything I can tell Angie?” he said as they continued toward the parking lot. There was a good stiff breeze blowing and it felt wonderful. For a moment she turned her face into it, savoring the coolness on her skin, the non-hospital smell.

  “Josh hasn’t changed his mind.”

  “You know that for sure.”

  “Well, he certainly didn’t want to hear my two-cents on the subject.”

  “Which is?”

  “Regrets are hard to live with.”

  “Damn straight,” he said.

  He didn’t say anything else until they had reached the lot.

  “Drive carefully, Mrs. James. You’re a little rough around the edges.”

  “You, too, Mr. Kinlaw,” she said, because he needed to shave and because she’d seen his adventurous style of motorcycling.

  “Joseph,” he reminded her. “Mrs. James . . .”

  “Grace,” she interrupted because he had already called her that earlier—when he telephoned to tell her Josh wanted her to come to the hospital. “What?” she asked when he didn’t continue.

  He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said and walked away.

  She stood and watched him go. He was right. She was a little rough around the edges. It took her a moment to find her car, and all the while, she was careful not to process any of the worry that threatened to overwhelm her. She managed to stay detached until she was behind the wheel. She put the key into the ignition, but that was as far as she got. Her eyes welled with tears suddenly and spilled down her cheeks. Her throat ached from trying to hold them back. After a moment she stopped trying. She simply sat there for a time and cried.

  Then she drove home—carefully—and answered all the girls’ questions as best she could. She showered, ate day old vegetable soup. She couldn’t seem to process the information necessary to make cheese toast. She had told Josh she would be back first thing in the morning, after the girls had left for school. Then she went to bed, expecting to sleep. But she couldn’t. After tossing and turning for a while, she got up again and walked past the girls’ closed doors to the kitchen, her mind going around and around with thoughts of Josh Caven, Elizabeth and Sandra Kay.

  And Kinlaw. She hated unasked questions, and clearly he’d had one.

  Eventually she went back to bed again, and she slept this time, waking a little before the girls got up. She lay in bed looking around the room. It was barely visible in the early morning daylight. She wondered if other widows had done what she did. Grace had completely changed the bedroom after Trent died, swapping their bedroom furniture for the vintage 1940s bedroom suite she’d bought at a charity auction to use in the guest room. She spent hours steaming off the wallpaper then painting the room a soft yellow—she had always liked yellow. She took down the custom-made drapes and put up old-fashioned, ruffled organza tiebacks and window shades instead. It was as if moving into another era of home furnishings made her situation all more bearable somehow. The room was no longer permeated with Trent’s memory. It was her room, the Grace Justin James room, and she still felt guilty about it.

  The telephone rang, and she reached to answer it.

  “She’s better,” Josh said immediately. “Her fever’s down and she’s hitting the applesauce.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Grace said. “I’ll be there in a little while.”

  “No, could you . . . wait until Allison and Lisa get out of school? Maybe bring them with you? If they want to come.”

  “Oh, they’ll want to come. We’ll see you then. Call me back if you need me to bring anything.”

  “Grace, wait,” he said when she was about to hang up.

  But he didn’t say anything else. She waited.

  “I want to get a DNA test,” he said finally.

  Chapter Seven

  “I NEED TO TALK to Angie. And no, I didn’t tell Josh I was going to ask you to arrange it,” she added before Kinlaw could ask. It hadn’t taken her long to track him down; he was at the first place she looked—the fishing pier.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” she said.

  Kinlaw gave her a look then adjusted his fishing line. It was the kind of look she herself might have given someone who threw out a response like that, especially in an adult conversation. Still, it was the best she could do, under the circumstances—except that she found herself trying to explain anyway.

  “He doesn’t need to be in the loop—this loop—yet. Elizabeth is going to be discharged. The pediatrician doesn’t want her going back to the trailer until she’s completely well. He thinks it’s too full of dust and mold—and Elizabeth’s lungs are still too delicate. I’ve already had a family meeting with Allison and Lisa about Josh and Elizabeth coming to our house for a while. I’ve got a spare bedroom big enough to add a crib . . . Why do I get the feeling I’m telling you things you already know?”

  “I don’t know why you want to talk to Angie,” he said, tugging at his fishing line. “Hold on a minute.”

  Grace paused while he worked to bring in his catch, but not for long. “Look. It’s that Family Care Plan Josh needs. If he and Elizabeth come to my house, it’s a dress rehearsal for all of us—to see if we can make this arrangement work so he can finish his deployment. Angie is a complete unknown.”

  “Not really. You’ve met her.”

  “Briefly and under very stressful circumstances. I want to know what I’m getting into. Or maybe I just need to talk to her before Allison does.”

  “Talking to Angie at this point isn’t going to help.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s still reaping the whirlwind.”

  Grace looked at him, remembering that he’d used that same analogy the night he’d come to her house to tell her she was putting her daughters at risk by leaving them uninformed.

  “Josh won’t talk about her,” she said.

  “You’ve asked him, I guess.”

  “Yes, I’ve asked him. Now I’m asking you. I want to talk to her.”

  “And say what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Whatever you say, she’s only going to hear one thing—she screwed up as a mother and you’re taking over. It’s not going to help. Not now.”

  “Well, I’m not jumping into anything without knowing what I’m getting into.”

  “Sandra Kay got all the ‘free spirit’ genes, I guess,” he said.

  “We wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for her ‘genes.’”

  He looked at her. “If you want my opinion, I think you’ve got to bottom line this.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning Josh Caven is probably family, right?” he said, hunting through his tackle box for something. He pulled out duct tape. “And even if you’re not related, you’re still bonded in a way.”

  “What way?”

  “Whoever stole that wallet played a hell of a trick on both of you.”

  Grace considered that for a moment—it was annoying how often she had to do that in her conversations with him. It wasn’t just that he made her see other facets of a situation; it was that he was so subtle when he did it. A question here, an observation there, and suddenly her conclusions needed reassessment.

  “Were you a drill instructor?” she asked suddenly, because she wanted to have some idea whether this considerable skill of his came from his military training or if he was just a natural.

  “No.”

  “Is that why you don’t
yell more?”

  “I yell,” he assured her. “Yelling only gets you so far, though. It’s great for conditioning, when you want a response to be automatic and instant.”

  “Mindless obedience,” she suggested.

  “A means to stay alive,” he said. “But it’s not all that helpful when you’re dealing with something emotionally complex.”

  “Like?”

  “Like Joe-B and his brother.”

  “And?” she prompted when he didn’t go on, watching as he tried to decide whether or not he wanted to tell her.

  “Joe-B thinks I talked Danny into enlisting.”

  “Did you?”

  “It’s more that I didn’t talk him out of it. Danny Benton had a lot of questions. I answered them. He enlisted and it left Joe-B alone to deal with his alcoholic father. He’s mad at his brother and his dad and me. He’s got a lot of anger and he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he acts out. In this case yelling is not going to help. He gets enough of that at home. See?”

  “Yes,” she said—because she did. Again.

  She looked around at the activity up and down the pier. The banter and the laughter suggested that it was a good day to be a fisherman.

  “Do you fish, Mrs. James?” he asked, tossing another mullet into a nearly full cooler—one of two sitting nearby.

  Mrs. James. Apparently they were back to the formalities again. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I . . . like them better in the water. As opposed to on a plate,” she added for clarity.

  “You don’t eat fish?”

  “No. No fish. No water-dwelling anything.”

  “Isn’t that against some kind of coastal living law?”

  “Probably.”

  “So what are you doing for the next hour or so?”

  “Not fishing,” she said.

  “Want to come with me to make some deliveries?”

  She looked at him, surprised by the question.

  “What? Fish?”

  “Correct. Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle?”

  “No,” she said pointedly.