21 Marine Salute: 21 Always a Marine Tales (66 page)

“Okay. Please.”

“On it.” He made her a fresh one, like the first and claimed his own cup. They sat together and she drank the hot, fresh brew with a sigh.

“You must think I’m crazy.”

“Nah. I know crazy. You’re a mom and you’re exhausted. Thanks for letting me help.”

She blinked slowly. “Should I be the one thanking you?”

“No, ma’am. You can thank me for the pizza and the game later. Football can really change the world.”

She couldn’t help it, she laughed again. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

And he stayed with her until the nurse came back to say Libby was ready. She didn’t focus on it too much, but she felt better.

A lot better.

It was another two hours before Mrs. Carter and her daughter were ready to leave the hospital. Joe stayed with them the whole time. The taut air of fragility clinging to Melody’s face lightened when they talked about the most banal of subjects. She liked sports, but she didn’t really pay attention to them. She preferred more intellectual activities like Sudoku and crossword puzzles. She'd graduated high school, had a few college credits, but didn’t want to talk about why she hadn’t finished, or her husband, or anything involving the years leading up to her daughter’s birth.

Her wedding ring wasn’t on her left hand, but a faint tan line told him that she’d worn one until recently and hadn’t spent enough time in the sun to erase the permanent impression. Exhaustion wore at her voice, sanding down any remnants of her Philadelphia accent. Frankly, she could have been from anywhere. He wanted to press her for answers but knew without even attempting it would be a mistake. She reacted to every stranger passing by—particularly male strangers. She withdrew tightly pressing back on the sofa, often turning to focus her attention on him rather than the nurse, doctor, or occasional patient and visitor.

Abuse
. Someone—most likely her husband—had created a well of fear, and she continued to drown in it.

But no matter how battered and bent she seemed, she wasn’t broken. The doctors returned to confer with her and they threw out words like laparoscopic, mitral valve stenosis, and valve repair. They showered her in medical terms—none of which sounded good—and her shoulders straightened, her chin came up and the shadows of exhaustion fled from her pretty hazel eyes. She nodded, asked questions, and mulled over their answers. When the nurse passed the baby back into her arms, she gave them a tight smile and agreed to bring Libby in Monday morning.

Surgery. Her baby needs life-saving surgery. Where the fuck is her family
?

His would be everywhere. When he woke in the hospital at Bethesda, his entire family, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews and grandparents were all in attendance. His mother stayed with him throughout the first painful days when he couldn’t even sit up for fear of damaging his back further. She and his brother flew with him to Dallas, settled him into Mike’s Place for rehabilitation, and left only when they’d exhausted all their sick time and vacation leave.

But his mom called damn near every day, and he texted with his siblings regularly. If he didn’t check in, they called him.

So where the hell is
her
family
?

Outrage and cool fury on her behalf settled in his gut, but he buried it. She needed calm—not anger. She wouldn’t react well to it. Call it instinct or observation, but whoever put that fear in her eyes hadn’t destroyed her—she was a survivor. However, survivors relied on fight or flight and she was most assuredly a flight risk.

“Captain?” Her soft voice intruded into the tangle of thoughts rioting in his mind and he dragged himself back to the present.

“Joe. Please, Mrs. Carter.”

A swift smile lit up her face so quickly it reminded him of twinkling Christmas lights, bright and brief. “Thank you for waiting with me, Joe. We’re ready to head back if you are.”

“Absolutely.” He eyed the diaper bag on her shoulder and held out a hand. “Would you like me to carry that for you?”

Surprise and rebellion argued for purchase in her expression, but she nodded rather than argue. Adjusting the baby, she slid the bag down and passed it over to him. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” Settling the bag on his lap, he released the wheel brakes and led the way through the corridors to the exit. He wanted to introduce her to James. He’d bet a hundred dollars for every pastry she’d consumed earlier that he didn’t know about her or he would be there providing support.

His gut jerked. If James were there, she might not need or let Joe help out. Still, the psychologist could help. Maybe he could wrangle an introduction. He planned to chew on that thought awhile.

It was warmer that afternoon than the morning. Sunshine and eighty degrees—in autumn.
Strange. Freaky southern weather
. It should be cool and crisp with a bite of chill in the air, leaves turning varying shades. What his mother called hot-mulled-spice-apple-cider weather. Not balmy-why-aren’t-people-wearing-swimsuits-weather. The baby made a happy gurgling sound and he glanced sideways at mother and child. Of course, the warmer weather was better for the two of them, so he would keep his complaints to himself.

Thankfully the shuttle driver was an older man, retired Navy from the tats on his arms and had to be close to mid-sixties if not approaching his seventies. Solid white sparse hair and wrinkles in his face told of long hours in the sun. Mrs. Carter barely reacted to him, but she still sat in the last row near Joe.

He didn’t mind that one bit.

Libby seemed more active on the ride home. Her eyes opened and her deep blue eyes regarded him as she gurgled and waved her fists in the air. The little one was so damn tiny. Tiny, fragile, and perfect—like her mom.

Whoa, boy
. The possessive tinge to his thoughts raced far ahead of reality. He barely knew her, but his neighborly excuse grew flimsier with every passing moment. Her husband could be deployed and the last thing he needed was to pine after another man’s wife. Tension fisted in his gut, but her husband seemed the most likely candidate for putting fear in her eyes.

They were silent as she led the way up the walk. The wavering fatigue marking her steps when they’d left that morning diminished. He wasn’t sure whether it was the food or just sitting at the hospital and talking to him for a couple of hours, but she didn’t seem quite as exhausted.

At his door, she paused. But he motioned her to keep on going. He could follow her with the diaper bag before going to his place.

“Oh, I thought you might want to change or something before the game.” Her eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “When is the game?”

He ignored the internal fist pump that she’d remembered their plans. “We still have a couple of hours. But let’s get you two inside and then I can head back until we’re ready to start.”

“That’s silly. The door is a few feet. I can carry the diaper bag.” A hint of exasperation decorated her tone.

“Yes, it is, and I like to be useful. So use me.” He mulled over all the possible reasons she could call on to push him away.

Her mouth opened and snapped close. Yes, he used his wheelchair to remind her that he wasn’t a threat. Not his proudest moment, but worth every second for the easing of the shadows in her eyes.

“Okay. Fair enough.” She held out her hand to him. “My keys are in the bag, front pocket.”

Fishing them out, he passed them over and tried to ignore the sweet softness of her fingers brushing his when she took them. She unlocked the door and pushed it wide. With his first real glimpse of her apartment—it was a mirror of his own, right down to the coffee table and angle of the television. A playpen sat on the floor near the sofa, and she carried the baby over and settled her down amidst the blankets. Little arms and legs waved in the air, but the infant continued to make cooing, gurgling noises.

Her attention clearly split between him and the baby, she returned to the door to reclaim the diaper bag. “I’ll order the pizza if you like, a little before the game starts.”

“Sounds good. Order whatever you want. I can pretty much eat anything as long as it’s not anchovies.” Frankly, no one local made pizza like Bertinelli’s Pizzeria at home, but he’d survive. He rolled the chair around and headed for his place.

“Joe?”

Glancing over his shoulder, he found her stepping out onto the sidewalk.
Here it comes. She’s already having second thoughts
.

“Yes, Mrs. Carter?”

“Thank you.” She exhaled, surprising him. “And please, you can call me Melody.”

“You’re welcome and I’d love to call you Melody.” He liked the way her name rolled around his tongue. His body stirred and he punched the reaction down. He needed to fit her squarely in the friend category, not think about how he’d like to roll his tongue over other parts of her—
just stop
.

Her lips curved upward. It was a little smile, but it didn’t seem to take nearly as much effort as her earlier attempts. “I don’t think I’m very good at this.” She slid a hand into the pocket of her jeans and leaned against the wall next to her door.

Turning his chair around, he studied her. She desperately needed to get some sleep. The deep bruises beneath her eyes practically cried for rest. “Good at what?”

“Small talk. Polite conversation. I don’t get to practice it much. Talk to me about medical issues, feeding schedules and symptoms—I’m your woman.”

“You don’t have to make small talk with me.” He smiled. “And if you want to talk medical stuff, we can. But I think taking it easy and cutting yourself a break is fine, too.”

“I don’t think I know how to do that anymore.” She sighed and dragged a hand along her braid, and pulled it free. Combing her fingers through her hair, she cast a look behind her into the apartment, checking on her daughter. “And I have no idea why I’m unloading all of this on you. You probably want to go and take a break from my drama.”

He nudged his chair forward and shook his head. “I have four sisters. Trust me, I know drama. You’re not that bad.”

The dry statement dragged another laugh out of her. She really didn’t laugh enough. But at least that one didn’t sound so dry and dusty from ill use. “Four? Do you have any brothers?”

“Two.” He chuckled. “One older, one younger. Same with the sisters only it’s two and two.”

“Wow. You’re the middle kid.” Her eyes widened.

“Yes, ma’am. I kind of like it. Had sisters to spoil me, sisters to drive me nuts, a brother who looked out for me, and one I could do the same for. Lots less pressure that way.”

He wouldn’t trade his crazy ass family for anything. Not that all of his siblings were actually siblings. Two were cousins adopted into the brood when their parents died young, but his mother never met a child she would turn away from her door. She told them she planned to be swimming in grandbabies and they all had to give her at least one. His sisters were way ahead of the curve with two, two, three and one. His brothers did their damndest to keep from adding to the number.

Until now
. The thought crept out of nowhere and surprised the hell out of him. Little Libby would benefit from the zaniness of a huge family surrounding her with love. And his momma loved to shower the affection on.

It wouldn’t hurt Melody either.

“I wasn’t.” Her mouth twisted. “I mean, I wasn’t the middle child. I’m the oldest.”

“How many siblings?”
And where the fuck are they
?

“Two, both younger and both sisters and both—” A hint of wistfulness drifted across her face. “Both are really busy.”

Keep it cool
. “And since you’re the oldest, they don’t check on you. You check on them.”

“Yep.”

“Do they know you’re here?” Yeah, he couldn’t keep that question to himself anymore.

She shook her head. “I didn’t want anyone to worry. They didn’t like Tuck and—”

It was like a window slammed shut, cutting off the words and leaving her expression frozen. Tuck must be the husband or boyfriend. Joe gave her a small smile. “Siblings can be judgy, but I’m sure they would want to know what you and Libby are going through.”
And be here to help you out so you don’t look ready to collapse
. “Speaking of which, you should go inside and sit down.”

Bobbing her head, and not quite meeting his gaze, she pushed away from the wall. “I guess. I—”

“Melody.” He went for soothing, burying his irritation with her family because he didn’t know the whole story. Not that he needed to know much more than a baby who required heart surgery should be surrounded by love, and her mother should have it every bit as much as that infant. “I’ll go clean up and be right back over if you like. We can play some Scrabble or something.”
Scrabble
?
Do people even play Scrabble anymore
?

“Really? I don’t know if I have any, but I have cards.”

“I love cards.” He canted his head to her apartment. “Inside, lock the door. I’ll wait right here ‘til I hear it click. I’ll knock the wall once when I’m on my way back over so you know it’s me.”

Gratitude flared in her eyes, but she turned away too quickly for him to respond to it. “I’ll go ahead and order the pizza then.”

He gave her a thumbs-up and waited, as promised, for the door to close. As soon as the locks tumbled into place, he wheeled around and got himself into his own apartment. A bathroom break and a phone call later, he stacked a six pack of beer onto his lap but didn’t head out.

Tuck Carter, a private first class, died in Afghanistan seven months before. IED. He left a widow, Melody, and an unborn daughter. Carter’s jacket had two citations for conduct unbecoming and insubordination, both kept quiet out of respect for the family.

The information sat like a stone in his belly. He paused, chewing the information over. Fishing out his cell phone, he dialed home and his mother answered on the second ring.

“Hey baby, how you doing today?”

“I’m good, Momma. But I need your advice….” If anyone would know what to do, his mother would.