The first day of her new life. She sat up in bed, looking longingly at the crutches leaning against the wall. She wished she was ready to use them, but Conny had been adamant that she wasn’t ready for them in the house yet. Too many hidden dangers. She maneuvered into her wheelchair and rolled into the bathroom. Again, it was a struggle. She balanced on one foot and brushed her teeth and washed her face, then hopped over to the toilet. By the time she was dressed and ready for the day, she was tired. Settling into her wheelchair, she rolled out into the family room and found the remote.
She turned on the TV and flipped to CNN, waiting for any news on the troops.
Michael came downstairs, carrying Lulu, who was chatting animatedly about something.
“Oh, you’re up,” Michael said. He was already dressed for work.
“Put me down!” Lulu squealed, wiggling in his arms. As soon as she hit the ground, she ran over to Jolene, accidentally bumping into her residual leg. It hurt so bad Jolene cursed before she could stop herself.
Lulu stopped dead, her eyes widening. “You said a bad word, Mommy. Daddy! Mommy said a bad word.”
“Sorry,” Jolene said grimly.
“What does everyone want for breakfast?” Michael asked.
Jolene looked up at him. “I’ll make them breakfast and get them off to school.”
“That’s too much work for you, Jo. Take it easy. I’ll—”
“Please,” she said, hearing the pleading tone in her voice and unable to temper it. “I need this, Michael. I have to get into my life again. I can handle making my two girls breakfast.”
He eyed her as if she were a bomb that might go off. “If you’re sure…”
“Sure about what?” Betsy said, coming down the stairs.
“Your mom is going to make you girls breakfast and help you get ready for school,” Michael said.
“She is?” Betsy said, clearly suspicious of Jolene’s ability.
“Today’s definitely special,” Lulu said, eyeing Jolene as if she were unsure about this whole turn of events. “Cap’n Crunch.”
Betsy groaned.
“You sure, Jo? Because I can do it.” Michael asked again.
“I’m sure.”
“The girls catch the bus these days. They know the times,” he said.
Another change. It was just as well. Jolene could hardly drive carpool.
“Okay. I have voir dire today, so I’ll be in court most of the day. Mom is going to pick you up for PT in an hour. I’ll be home no later than six.”
“You never get home by six.”
“People change, Jo,” he said, giving her a pointed look.
“Kiss Mommy good-bye,” Lulu said when he picked up his coat.
Michael and Jolene looked at each other. Then he moved toward her, leaned down slowly.
The kiss he gave her was butterfly light. The kind of kiss a man would give an old woman, or a dying one.
From her chair, she watched him leave the house. When she heard his car start up, she snapped out of it. “Okay, girls, go get dressed for school. I’ll have breakfast ready in no time.”
She rolled into the kitchen, surprised to realize how small it was from chair level. There was barely room for her to maneuver, and the counters were too high; she couldn’t reach them easily.
She was still trying to figure out the logistics when the girls returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table. Jolene glanced at her calendar, the one she’d left for Michael. Today was oatmeal and wheat toast with sliced bananas.
She climbed out of the chair and clung to the counter with one hand while she tried to dig through the cabinet for a pan. The clanging of metal got on her nerves, made her think of gunfire and cement cracking …
“You want help, Mom?” Betsy asked.
“No,” Jolene said. “I can make a damn pot of oatmeal.”
“Well, excuse me,” Betsy said, stung.
“Mommy said a bad word again,” Lulu said.
Jolene found the pot, grabbed it, and looked over at the sink. There was no more than ten feet between her and the faucet, but the distance seemed to swell before her eyes. God, how she wanted to just walk over there like she used to, laughing with her girls as she cooked.
Instead, she gritted her teeth, lowered herself to the chair and wheeled herself to the sink. There, she climbed to her feet again, turned on the water, and held the pot under the faucet.
Blood spurted out, poured down the soldier’s face. Jolene yelled, “Smitty, get the medic, this man isn’t going to make it—”
“It’s seven fifty-seven,” Betsy said sharply.
Jolene came back to the present. She wasn’t in Iraq, flying a medevac mission. She was in her kitchen. She looked down; the pot was overflowing with water.
“Mom, it’s—”
“I know,” Jolene said. She turned off the water and set the pot on the counter. Pivoting on her foot, she repositioned the wheelchair.
“Dad has oatmeal ready by now,” Betsy added.
Jolene grabbed for the pot without thinking, using her right hand. It happened in an instant, her losing her grip, but she saw it in slow motion: the grab, the turn, the fingers failing her, opening, the pot falling …
It hit with a clang.
“You got water all over me!” Betsy screamed, scrambling back from the table. “Oh my God. I have to change—” She ran out of the room.
Jolene slumped into her chair.
“You made a mess, Mommy,” Lulu said, frowning. “The floor looks like a lake.”
Jolene just sat there, stunned.
“Mommy? You made a mess,” Lulu said again, sounding scared. “I want my daddy.”
“Who gives a shit?” Jolene snapped.
Lulu started to cry. “I want my daddy NOW!”
Betsy came back downstairs, dressed now in jeans and a white hoodie. She picked Lulu up. They stared down at Jolene.
“Well?” Betsy said to her mother.
“Well what?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
Jolene felt bitterness well up. She wanted to hold it back, be a good mother, but she couldn’t stop herself. The anger and edginess overtook her. “What’s wrong with me?” She held back from screaming do you not see?
Outside, the school bus chugged up to the driveway, gearing down to a stop.
Betsy screamed and dropped Lulu, who hit the ground hard and started to cry. “She hurt me! She hurt me!”
Betsy ran to the kitchen door and flung it open. “Wait! Wait!”
But it was too late. Jolene heard the bus driving away.
“I’m late,” Betsy shrieked, stomping over to her. “Now I’ll have to walk into first period late. Everyone will stare at me.”
Lulu wailed. “I’m hungry. I want my daddy.”
“Well?” Betsy demanded. “Are you just going to sit there?”
That did it. Jolene grabbed the chair’s wheels and spun around. “What the hell did you say to me? Believe me, being late to school is not a tragedy, Betsy.” She lifted her residual leg up. It twitched upward; the empty pant leg did a little dance. “This is a tragedy. Make your sister breakfast. Yia Yia will be here in a little while. She can take you to school.”
“You said you’d be fine,” Betsy yelled, her cheeks pink. “But you’re not. You can’t even take care of us. Why did you even come back?”
“And you’re a spoiled brat.” Jolene gripped the wheels and rolled away from them. As soon as she was in the office, she slammed the door shut. Getting up, she hopped over to the bed and fell into it with a groan.
She wanted to call her best friend, say I just yelled at my daughter and she yelled at me. Tell me I’m not a bitch … tell me she is … tell me I’m going to be okay …
Through the closed door, she could hear Lulu’s crying. Betsy was trying to soothe her. They were probably huddled together, looking at the closed door, wondering who in the hell the woman behind it was. They knew their mom hadn’t come home from war. Not really. The woman who’d come home was a stranger to all of them, herself most of all.
I want my daddy.
When had Lulu ever wanted comfort from Michael?
It was yet another change. While Jolene had been gone, the heart of her family had shifted. She’d become marginalized, unimportant. Michael was the parent who comforted and cared for them now. The parent they trusted.
She heard a knock at the door and ignored it.
The door opened. Mila came into the room. She was dressed for work in jeans and an oversized denim shirt and the green canvas apron. Her black hair was hidden beneath a blue and white bandanna. She walked toward the bed, sat down on its edge. Leaning forward, she brushed the tangled hair from Jolene’s eyes. “A warrior doesn’t run to her bedroom and hide out after one lost battle.”
“I’m not a warrior anymore, Mila. Or a wife, or a mother. In fact, who the hell am I?”
“You’ve always been so hard on yourself, Jolene. So you’re having a hard time and you dropped a pan of water and you yelled at your daughters. Big deal. I yelled at Michael all the time when he was a teenager.”
“I didn’t used to yell at them,” Jolene said quietly, feeling a tightening in her stomach.
“I know. Honestly, it wasn’t natural.”
“They’re scared of me now,” she said, sighing. “I’m scared of me.”
Mila gave her a knowing smile. “We all knew it would be hard to have you gone, but no one told us how hard it would be when you came back. We’ll have to adjust. All of us. And you’ll have to cut yourself some slack.”
“I’ve never been good at that.”
“No, you haven’t. Now, get up and get dressed. We’re leaving for PT in twenty minutes.”
“I’m not going today. I don’t feel well.”
“You’re going,” Mila said simply.
Jolene thought about making a scene, getting angry, but she was too worn-out and depressed to do anything but comply.
* * *
Michael spent most of the day in court, questioning potential jurors. Of one person after another he asked probing questions, trying to get to the heart of bias. When court was adjourned for the day, he returned to his office and worked for an hour or so on his opening statement.
He knew the prosecutor’s opening in the Keller trial would be matter-of-fact. Brad would begin with the damning facts of the murder, repeating often how Emily had trusted her husband and loved him and how Keith had shot her in the head. He’d hammer home that Keith had never denied shooting his wife. He’d lay out the forensics of the case, layer fact upon fact until the jury would more than halfway believe that there was no reason for them to be there. They would be told that Keith’s memory loss was “convenient” and no doubt a bald-faced lie. He’d probably close with something along the lines of: “Who wouldn’t want to forget that he’d shot his young wife in the head? Well, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’ll tell you who won’t forget.” Then he’d turn to Emily’s weeping parents. “I don’t want to tell them their daughter’s murderer will go free. Do you?”