Scars Like Wings

by C. B. Stagg

  I pulled away, hoping that her scent wouldn’t linger on my dress for the rest of the day. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mother. It’s not as if Gareth gave me much choice now, did he?” I maintained my friendly expression, but my tone had a bite she couldn’t ignore. That was new for me.

  She looked me up and down, her face pinched like she’d just sucked on a lime. “The press is here, dear. Did you forget?” She checked her watch. It was white gold and positively dripping with diamonds. I couldn’t help but wonder what she’d done to earn that. “Well, we have a few minutes, and Bianca probably has something you could wear.”

  Ugh. Bianca. My brother Joel married her six months ago. She claims to love him, but I’m pretty sure she’s in love with his bank account and he’s in love with her silicone implants. That was the only blessing in my accident. I got to miss that gaudy fiasco. There was no way in hell I was letting one stitch of that glorified call girl’s clothing touch my skin. I’d rather be naked, and that’s saying something, especially now.

  “No, Mother, I’m just fine as I am. Gareth wants an all-American girl and that’s what the press expects, so that’s what they’re getting.” I brushed past her and into the back doors of the most spectacular house I’d ever seen. And though the house was already brimming with people, I’d never felt more alone.

  I stood in the entry hall, standing by my man, shaking hands with each person as they left the bar area to eat dinner. Cocktail hour, or hours, was officially over and those lucky enough to be deemed worthy were summoned into the dining hall for a feast fit for a king. Of course, in a cordoned off area, tucked into a corner, was a small press crew covering the event. No doubt, my face would be all over the papers tomorrow. When word of Gareth’s and my relationship was leaked to the press, they’d done everything shy of breaking and entering to photograph us together. That task had become increasingly difficult since he’d moved to Cambridge. Before yesterday, we hadn’t seen each other since the night of my accident. Because of course he’d been too busy moving to Massachusetts to visit me in the hospital… even once.

  I was quickly learning that acting would be a terrible career choice for me. Every ten minutes or so, Gareth or my mother would—through gritted teeth and a plastered-on grin—remind me to smile pretty for the cameras. I thought I was doing an okay job, but apparently they didn’t. I was even getting the side-eye from Gareth’s mother, Helena, who eventually whisked me away under the guise of wanting to share a few family recipes with me before we all settled in to eat.

  But recipes were usually kept in the kitchen, and instead of turning right, she hooked a hard left and soon we were in her personal office. She closed the door quietly, threw the lock into place, then turned around and leaned back against the cool mahogany.

  “Mrs. Johnson?” I was confused. We’d never been close. We’d hardly said a word to each other since her son and I had become official.

  “You can stop smiling now, it’s just us.” She shook her head quickly and a few hairs fell out of her perfect French twist. She crossed the room, soundless on the high pile carpet, and sat on one of the two chairs in a small conversation area off to the side. I followed and sat beside her.

  “Everything smells wonderful. I look forward to learning about the family recipes.” Awkward? Yes, but I had no idea what was happening.

  “I didn’t bring you in here to talk about recipes. I wanted to ask you a question.” Oh.

  “Okay, ask away,” I said, summoning a confidence I in no way felt. Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to. My mother’s voice ran through my mind.

  “Jillian, do you love my son?”

  Oh. Shit.

  “I think Gareth and I will have a happy marriage. We have so much in common and I’m sure that, once we’ve—”

  “That’s not what I asked you.” She cut me off, but it wasn’t hateful. Nothing about her demeanor said she was angry or suspicious. She was asking just as simply as if she were inquiring about finals or if I’d chosen a major. Which I had not.

  “I’m not exactly sure what you want to hear.” When in doubt, tell the truth, and that was the real truth. But I needed to proceed with caution. I had no desire to let my feelings fall out of my mouth for my future mother-in-law to file away for ammunition later.

  “I’ll be frank, since we haven’t much time. I’ve been watching you. I don’t think you love my son.”

  I gulped. “I don’t know that your son loves me yet, either. I—”

  “Let me finish, but please let this stay in confidence between us.” I nodded. “I am unable to have children. Of course, we didn’t know that until after we were married, so we just decided not to have children. Then, one of Tom’s special friends fell pregnant. In an elaborate scheme, I was whisked away to a wellness tour of Europe and voila, I returned just in time to have ‘my’ baby.”

  “Gareth?” She nodded.

  “Yes. He’s not mine. There is no part of me in that young man. He was conceived by a selfish bastard and a money-grubbing whore, and every one of their wicked traits were passed down to him.” My eyes bulged and my mouth had dropped open at some point during her incredible story.

  Helena leaned forward and took my hands in hers. “If I had it to do over again, I would have married for love, and the moment Tom started stepping out, I should have run for the hills.” Sighing, she let go of my hands and leaned back, slouching in the chair. It was most unladylike and made me want to hug her sweet neck for the wasted life she’d led.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, fighting tears. What else could I say?

  “Yeah, me too. It’s too late for me, but it’s not too late for you, ya know.” She straightened her spine and smoothed her pretty brown suit, looking more like the dignified lady I knew her to be, rather than an old, washed-up diner waitress.

  “But, my father—” I pleaded. It was more complicated than that. Wasn’t it?

  “No.” She stood and now I detected anger. What the hell, it wasn’t like she was the one constantly being interrupted. “Don’t bring him into it! This is your life and you need to live it on your own terms. I love my husband because I was told to, and in some small way, I love Gareth because I’m supposed to, but that’s on me. I didn’t make myself a priority and I see you traveling down the same dark and dangerous road. You need to live for you. Tell me about the young soldier you’ve been spending time with?”

  “Umm, I… he’s just… “ I stammered. This feeling that I’d walked into an exam without having ever seen the material was growing in my gut.

  “Gareth keeps an eye on you, especially since the soldier came into the picture. He was displeased that you’d been socializing with him. In fact, he had him checked out, hell bent on destroying him, but you know what?”

  I shook my head and reminded myself to blink.

  “He found nothing. His records show a sad and lonely childhood, but from what I read, he’s overcome great obstacles to get where he is. The soldier is the kind of man you should be with. Not Gareth. And not any other man your parents would approve of.” When she smiled, I did too. “What happened to your hand?” She pointed and I looked down. My left hand was turning purple and was definitely swollen.

  “Oh, would you believe I hit it on a can of green beans?” I laughed, but sobered instantly at the memory of my last conversation with Bennett.

  “It’s perfect.” She clapped her hands under her chin like an excited toddler. “He was planning to propose at dinner, but he can’t now because your finger is too swollen. And a purple hand, ring or no ring, raises questions that no run-in with green beans will satisfy. So he’ll have to divert to the original plan and propose in Aspen. It’s the only obvious choice.”

  I nodded, digesting the deluge of information she was throwing at me. “An obvious choice.” I had no words, so I repeated hers.

  “That gives you less than three weeks to make a decision. And dear girl, pray or meditate or do whatever it is you kids do, but dig deep inside your
heart and ask yourself if you’re prepared to live the next fifty years with a man who you share no affection with. Because, darling, those fifty years will feel like five hundred.” Her bright blue eyes were watery and, without a thought of propriety, I pulled her into a tight hug.

  “Thank you,” I said so softly, she may not have even heard. She pulled away and held me at arm’s length.

  “I’ll be struck with an unfortunate and ill-timed migraine right before dessert is served. I’ll be helped up to bed and won’t be back down before you leave.” She started toward the door and I’d followed, but she paused with her hand on the polished brass doorknob. “And I mean this in the best possible way. But I truly hope I never see you again.” She popped a sweet, grandmotherly kiss on my right temple and swept out of the room, standing tall and proud, a picture-perfect Southern hostess preparing to smile and serve her guests.

  Chapter 21

  Bennett

  KNOWING THAT post-traumatic stress disorder existed, and even understanding what it was, didn’t make sleep come any easier. With more free time now that I was no longer educating Princess Jillian about life outside her kingdom walls, I spent it learning more about myself. I’d researched the research, compared study after study, and listened to tapes upon tapes of interviews from soldiers whose experiences made my tour look like a vacation to Disney World.

  But when the dreams came hard and fast, within five seconds of my head hitting the pillow, none of that made a lick of difference.

  I was transported back in time, held hostage by my own mind as I relived the attack again and again. The horrors of that day were clear, a movie playing on a screen in 3D. How was it so easy to hear the shriek and hiss the missile made when it was airborne and feel the blazing inferno when it made contact?

  The putrid stench of charred flesh swarmed around me like angry bees, making the acid in my stomach churn. Everything within sight was engulfed in flames and my only saving grace was Chance, whose lifeless body shielded me from the catastrophic destruction that fell on all sides. I gagged, almost laughing at the irony that I would survive an attack of this magnitude, only to choke on my own vomit and die because I had a weak stomach.

  Each breath became more difficult to draw and I estimated only a few minutes, maybe less, before I succumbed to whatever injuries I incurred in the blast.

  It didn’t seem right, though. I watched as the men searched; dragging themselves from body to body, using every ounce of energy they had left to check each of the scorched bodies, but none had survived. Who could survive a blast like that? With the men of my unit forever branded by the hate and injustice of war, I watched life as I knew it die in that crumbled desert sand.

  “Man, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen prisoners of war come back looking better than you do right now.” Mr. Lowe, or Chance, what he now likes me to call him, just shook his head as he spoke. And he probably wasn’t far off.

  I ran my hand over my impossibly tired face. “I’d like to blame it on the brutal beating I took from the STAT final I probably just failed, but I looked like this before that.” I grabbed one of the tissues I’d stored in my coat pocket to wipe my ever-dripping nose.

  “Yeah, I noticed. I stuck some cold medicine in your room and Lillie made a few meals and such for you. I stuck them in your freezer. I hope you don’t mind that I went in there, but there wasn’t room for them in the break room.” I was shaking my head before he even finished speaking.

  “No way, are you kidding me? Mi casa es su casa… literally.” Chance smiled. I may have tried to, I’m not sure. The head shake had set off a domino effect of pain across the top of my skull and I grabbed the edge of the circ desk to steady myself.

  “Go to bed, boy. I’ll check on you tomorrow. But don’t forget, we’re headed out to Arizona on Friday to see Lillie’s family.”

  I may have grunted.

  “Yep, I know you’re jealous. I mean, who wouldn’t want to spend ten whole days with the same in-laws who spent six months trying to convince their daughter that she was too good for him?” Poor Chance. I found it hard to believe anyone could dislike him.

  “Well?” That time I did manage a grin.

  “Oh, yeah, I totally agree, she’s way too good for me, but I needed to get that ring on her finger before she realized it.”

  The first week of December was known as Dead Week, meaning classes were cancelled and, if you were responsible and studious, you used the time to study for final exams. I tried very hard to be that person, but found myself easily distracted.

  “Alright, bed for me. One final tomorrow, then two on Friday. I’ll see you.”

  That night, in my Nyquil-induced coma, I didn’t dream about the desert, the missiles, the blood, or the death. I dreamt about Jillian, but that was almost just as painful.

  How had I let myself become emotionally attached to someone from another world… one so far away from mine that I’d need one of those NASA telescopes to even see it? She was beautiful, smart, strong as any soldier I knew, and most importantly, she deserved better than the likes of me. Not to say she deserved an ass like Gareth Johnson, but someone in his league. She deserved someone who could give her the life she was used to, someone who could make all her dreams come true. Even a blind man could see that I wasn’t the man for the job.

  I’d hoped by taking the statistics final on Wednesday, I’d be getting the hardest of the four out of the way early. I’d also hoped, when the stress of that final was out of the way, I’d start feeling a little better. I was wrong on both accounts.

  And with Murphy’s Law in full effect, on the walk home that evening, the slight drizzle became icy rain. Gale force winds swept between the buildings, turning the sleet into projectile needles. The day had gone from gloomy gray to dark and sinister in a matter of moments, the temperature dropping dramatically in the process.

  But my whole body was trembling, dripping with sweat. I had a fever—there was no debating that fact—and I had for a few days. Just when I thought I was on the edge of death and couldn’t feel more miserable, the next day came and proved me wrong.

  I was never so grateful as when the front doors to the library came into view through the haze of winter. Every breath felt like a sword was splitting my lungs in two, and at more than one point in the mile-long walk, I’d been forced to stop to catch my breath. The eight stairs leading to the doors may as well have been the Matterhorn, but I set my sights on the book depository at the top of the staircase and soldiered on. I’d get in my warm bed, relax after the bizarre semester I’d had, and go home for Christmas in a few days.

  Chapter 22

  Jill

  MY MOTHER ALWAYS said, If you fail to plan, you plan to fail. On that point, we agreed. I was a planner by nature. I always made a grocery list in the precise order of the store before shopping. I always wrote down step-by-step directions before going on a road trip. I wrote them again, in reverse order, before coming home. Vacations were the same way.

  But with finals behind me, and Christmas break officially upon me, I found myself staring at my Louis Vuitton luggage, sitting empty on the floor of my bedroom, with no list in sight and no time to make one. I checked the time… 4:00. I needed to leave in three hours to arrive in Austin by midnight. The plan had always been to fly out to Aspen first thing in the morning. As far as I knew, nothing had changed. Packing for the eight-day ski trip should have been my top priority. So, of course, I decided to clean my kitchen.

  As I unloaded the dishwasher, my mind wandered to Bennett, as it had so many times in the last few weeks. The last communication I had from him was a nod toward the doors of the cafe, telling me in no uncertain terms, to stick with what I knew. That one simple action dismissed any ideas I may have had that Bennett saw me as I’d grown to see him. And it still ached like an infected wound.

  When I’d run out of distractions, I threw winter clothes and some other necessities into a few bags and loaded them into my trunk. What was wrong with me
? I hardly recognized myself anymore. I was going to Aspen! I needed to shake off the pity party. And I had the two-hour drive between College Station and Austin to do it, because in less than twenty-four hours I’d be hitting the slopes.

  Great, rain.

  The weather mirrored what was in my heart. I ran to the car and jumped in before the rain picked up. With the heater blowing at maximum capacity, I mentally ticked through my ‘leaving town’ routine.

  “Dammit, dammit, dammit.” I slammed my hands on the steering wheel with each profanity. There, on my passenger seat, mocking me, was the stack of books used for a report I’d written the week before. If I waited until after the break to return them, they’d be late and I’d have to pay a fine. And when I called in to check my grades, the automatic call-in service wouldn’t release them unless my library account was in the clear. While the former was of little concern, the latter would make my parents none too happy, so off to the library I went.

  Desolate roads and darkness, the result of an imminent storm, created a scene straight out of an apocalyptic novel. Campus was a ghost town. The wind picked up, rocking my car, as a slushy mix of freezing rain hit my windshield like miniature buckshot pellets. I prayed it didn’t stick on the pavement. I was beyond exhausted and had no desire to creep down the highway, fearing for my life.

  After sitting at the curb outside the library doors for more than a few minutes, I had to admit defeat. If anything, the rain was only going to get worse. It was probably best I just bite the bullet, run up the steps, and shove the books in the return box. Leaving the car running, I gathered the books inside my coat and darted for the box. Having to feed them in one at a time was excruciating, and by the last book, I thought I might freeze to death. I laughed inside as another sucker pulled up behind me. Good luck, buddy.