A Hero to Come Home To (25 page)

She wasn’t home yet, but a light shone in the hallway. He sat down on the top step, the concrete rough and chilled, and he closed his eyes and waited.

He couldn’t remember the last person he’d turned to for comfort. His wounds, other friends’ deaths, the end of his marriage, his father’s death—he’d been pretty much on his own. There had been people around: doctors, nurses, fellow soldiers, his mother, Sheryl. He just hadn’t gotten much comfort from any of them.

An engine cut into his thoughts seconds before headlights flashed across him. He watched Carly get out of her car and walk toward him with long strides. She didn’t give the sense of rushing, but she closed the distance between them quickly.

She sat down beside him, resting her arms on her knees, then gently bumped her shoulder against him. She didn’t ask for details or even say anything at all. She just waited.

It seemed a long time before he found any words to say. “His name was Ed. We were in Iraq and Afghanistan together. He was six, maybe eight years older than me. Practically a father figure to the young kids. Real concerned with keeping his people safe. He did more tours than anyone I know because he felt obligated to see these guys through.”

Dane talked on, about Ed’s family in Maine: parents, a brother, a sister, two daughters, and a son. His marriage had ended between the first and second tours. Something about the military and combat tended to have a bad effect on marriages. But his kids were well cared for and well loved, and when he’d retired after his last round in Afghanistan, he’d intended to make up to them for all the time missed.

He told her about the emails, always optimistic, like Ed himself, passing on information about guys doing well and not so well. He’d included resource information—for counseling, for jobs, just for connection. He’d talked about not being too proud to ask for help, about how any problem could be resolved if you just asked.

“He sounds like a great guy,” Carly murmured when he finally fell silent.

“Yeah. Except he didn’t follow his own advice.” He stared into the darkness a long time. Lights illuminated the houses across the street, and the streetlamps added their own yellowish glow. Most of the people on the block were families, most of them Army. Probably all of them had done at least one year in Iraq or Afghanistan. Except for Jeff, they’d all come home, maybe truly okay, more likely not so much. The worst wounds, Ed had always said, were on the inside, where no one could see them, but God, you could feel them.

For a long time, Dane had believed otherwise. He was one of the few among his buddies who hadn’t been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. Sometimes he’d thought, given a choice, he would prefer PTSD over amputation. Psychological wounds could be resolved with the right help; he couldn’t regenerate a limb.

But a missing leg wasn’t going to kill him.

“In the hospitals, the medical holding companies, the transition units, everyone keeps a close watch on us. They say these guys—us guys—can go downhill really fast, from coping and even improving to suicidal in no time. There’s just something about the combination of the trauma to the brain and the body and the loss of hope. The suicide rate of returning veterans is high. So is PTSD, homelessness, joblessness, depression. Everybody’s lost something—friends in combat, wives who got tired of waiting, parts of themselves. The thanks of a grateful nation is nice, but it’s not enough when you need jobs, health care, places to live, understanding, help.”

He glanced at her and laughed weakly. “Sorry. Thinking about Ed seems to bring out the soapbox in me.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re absolutely right.”

“Soldiers are supposed to be tough. Our job is protecting our country and its interests, which means witnessing and committing a lot of acts of violence. Combat’s not for the faint of heart or stomach. When your friends get killed in battle, you can’t even take a moment to grieve because the guys who killed them are looking to kill you. You’ve got to be able to compartmentalize and be strong and professional and deadly.”

“And it’s not easy to be all that one day and then admit that you need help holding it together the next.”

He sighed deeply. He hadn’t even been sure where he was going with that topic, but she’d arrived at the destination with him. She understood. His relief was huge, but at the same time, he felt fragile. Exposed. And all he really wanted to do was withdraw into himself until he was firmly back in control.

It had gotten uncomfortably cold, he realized when she shivered beside him. He slid his arm around her, and she did the same, her small hand resting at his waist on his right side.

“Ed was good at protecting and looking out for his guys,” she said quietly. “He was encouraging and passed along advice that he failed to take himself.

“‘Ask for help,’ he always said. ‘When you’re down, when you don’t know what to do, when you can’t do it by yourself any longer. Don’t see it as weakness. Be strong enough to say “I need help.” ’” He bitterly finished. “He shot himself last night. He died this morning. All that damn preaching he did to us about asking, and he wasn’t strong enough to do it himself.”

C
arly could make excuses for Ed’s behavior. Sometimes when you were the one with all the answers, it was really hard to admit that you were hurting just like everyone else. Maybe he hadn’t wanted the guys who looked up to him to know that he was fallible. Maybe the despair had just been too deep.

Instead, she stood, moving in front of Dane, reaching for his hands. “Come inside. I’ll fix you some coffee. I’ll even share my chocolate caramels.”

His smile was thin and sad. “Coffee and candy don’t solve everything.”

“No, but they make it easier to deal with. Mia says so, and she’s had some troubles in her life, too.” She tugged, and he reluctantly stood, then followed her into the house. She led him into the kitchen, then removed his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair with her own.

He sat at the table, the overhead light showing the sorrow etched on his face. Swallowing hard, she turned to the task of making coffee and setting out cups, saucers and caramels.

Poor Ed and his family. His poor children. He’d retired. They must have thought they were safe because
he
was safe. No more deployments, no more combat. But the battle waging in his head was the one he couldn’t win.

She said a silent prayer for them, then carried the plate of candy to the table. “Feel honored that I’m sharing my Mags’ Mojos with you. They’re made by a woman in Tulsa who started them as Christmas gifts, and they were so popular that she began selling them. I order a box about every month to test my willpower and see if I can make them last longer than three days.”

“Do you succeed?”

“Most months. Though when I ordered the sea-salt caramels, the entire pound was gone in a day and a half. They’re dangerous to my health.”

She served the coffee, too, in sturdy, summer-bright mugs, before sitting next to him. “Are you going to Ed’s service?”

He was still a long time, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him, then he shook his head. “With most of my friends who died, I was still in the desert so I couldn’t attend their funerals. Even if I could have…The idea of lying cold and stiff in a casket, being lowered into the ground and covered with dirt…” His shudder finished the sentence eloquently enough.

She laid one hand on his. “That’s just the body. You know the spirit is someplace so much better.” At least, she prayed so for Ed’s family’s sake. “Jeff’s funeral was huge. Kalitta Charters made the dignified transfer from Andrews to Fort Carson. There were hundreds of Patriot Guards on their motorcycles, police officers, sheriffs’ deputies, and highway patrolmen in the caravan, and people with flags and signs lined the road for forty miles to the funeral home. There were so many names in the guest books for the visitation and the funeral itself—fa
mil
y, friends, veterans, dignitaries, strangers. It meant a lot to his parents that for those few hours, he was front and center in people’s thoughts.

“Most of his Army buddies weren’t there, though. Some were still overseas. Some sent flowers or cards. Someone, we never knew who, dropped off an envelope at the church that was full of pictures taken over there with him in them. Some guys we never heard anything from. Everyone has their own way to remember and honor those who have passed.” She picked up her coffee cup, warming her hands, but didn’t drink. “I can tell you from experience that it would mean a lot to Ed’s parents and especially his children if you’d write them a letter. Let them know he won’t be forgotten.”

She knew Jeff would never be forgotten, not by the people who’d known and loved him. But there were times she wondered if his sacrifice would be remembered by anyone else, or if he would become just one more casualty of a war that a lot of people had long since grown tired of. He’d given his life for his country, and she didn’t want everyone besides his family and friends to forget that. She didn’t want it to be for nothing.

Dane’s expression was grim, but he nodded. “I’ll do that.”

Silence settled for a moment as they drank their coffee and indulged in the chocolate-caramel candies. She did have willpower, Carly decided, limiting herself to only two a day. Just not enough to lose the extra pounds she was carrying.

“I’m sorry to take you away so early from the club.”

Carly glanced at the clock. The group would be breaking up about now, heading home to empty houses or hypertension-inducing stepchildren. She’d never missed a minute of their fun, had always met the end of the evening full of pleasure competing with regret that it was over. Tonight, when she’d heard Dane’s voice on the phone, she hadn’t given a second’s thought to regret. She’d had to go to him, plain and simple.

“Jessy and Marti were in top form, trading stories about their families and themselves. No one missed me.” Not entirely true. She hadn’t told them why she was leaving, just that she was meeting Dane. Therese, of course, figured something was wrong and told her to take care of him, and everyone else had said good-bye, but there’d been a few looks, a you’re-choosing-him-over-us sort of thing. It wasn’t that at all. He’d sounded so vulnerable, and they’d been laughing nonstop. It was a simple choice: who needed her more.

While she would give anything if his friend hadn’t killed himself, there was something awfully satisfying about being needed.

“Jessy’s always in top form, isn’t she?” he asked drily. “And Marti…black hair? The one who announced that Ilena is preggers?”

“That’s her. She can be a real drama princess, which is fair, I guess, since her mother is the East Coast’s reigning drama queen.”

“How are they all doing?”

She blinked. Most people assumed that because they had each other, they were fine, all the hurts were healed over and life was moving on. They were better than they’d been six months ago, but instead of healing, some of the hurts had merely formed scabs, and scabs could break.

“I worry sometimes,” she said honestly. “Therese’s stepdaughter is a major pain—sorry, Therese says she’s
in
major pain, which makes her behavior okay. Fia’s looking worn down, and Jessy seems to…to drink too much.” She hesitated. Of all the problems people didn’t talk about, substance abuse headed the list. It seemed disloyal to even think the thought, much less say it aloud, but she went on, curious about Dane’s impression. “I don’t know, maybe she doesn’t drink the rest of the week, but she has three or four margaritas with dinner every Tuesday, and you’d never guess it. She never slurs, stumbles, or anything. And maybe that’s because it’s all right. Because I’m imagining a problem where there’s not one.”

She didn’t realize she was looking hopefully at Dane until he shook his head and disappointment welled inside her.

“I spent too much time drinking too much booze after the divorce. If she’s drinking that much and not showing any effects, my guess would be either the drinks are pretty weak or she’s pretty tolerant—and places popular with soldiers tend not to sell watered-down drinks.”

She sighed. “I hate to say anything, but how can I not? I’ll just have to figure out what and how and when. Fia says she saw her doctor last week and he says there’s nothing to worry about, so hopefully she’ll be better soon. And poor Therese…I don’t think her situation’s going to get better until she smacks some manners into that brat, Abby. We tell her she needs to make both Abby and Jacob behave, but none of us are parents, so what do we know? And it’s tougher since she’s just their stepmother and she feels really, really sorry for them.”

“Jacob seems like a good enough kid.”

“He was with you. He’s just sullen and rude with Therese. He locks himself in his room with his video games and ignores the world.”

Dane grinned. “You just described half of the ten- to eighteen-year-old guys in this country.”

“I know. But when it’s
your
kid, like it is for Therese, it’s just one more thumbs-down on your parenting skills.”

“I take it she’s tried counseling.”

“She has. Abby hated it so much that the therapist actually suggested they take a break. She’s grieving her parents, of course, but on top of that, she’s spoiled and self-centered and the most obnoxious child I’ve ever known.”

“Maybe Therese can get her a new stepfather. One along the lines of a Marine Corps drill instructor.”

Carly chuckled. “Oh, I’d hate to see a Marine cry.” After a moment’s silence, she laid her hand over his. “I’m glad you called tonight.”

His smile was faint and awkward. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it, right in the palm, then wrapped his fingers tightly around hers. “So am I.”

Therese was carrying an armload of hanging clothes to her room Saturday morning when a rustle inside caught her attention. She frowned at the reflection of blond hair, streaked with turquoise at the moment, in the mirror over her dresser but didn’t say anything, instead waiting for Abby to notice her.

There wasn’t even a hint of guilt when the girl did. Her upper lip curled and her nose wrinkled, but she continued rooting through Therese’s jewelry box.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for some earrings.”

Her movements tightly controlled, Therese laid the clothes on the bed, then walked to the dresser, nudged Abby’s hand away and closed the lid on the wooden box with a thud. “No.”

Abby tried to open the lid again, but Therese refused to move. Heaving her well-practiced sigh, Abby clenched her hands on her hips. “What’s the big deal? It’s not like you have anything expensive. Most of it’s just junk.”

Buzzing started in Therese’s head, right in the spot where her temples always hurt, then spreading outward. Some of the pieces in the box
were
expensive, and none was junk. More important, they all held sentimental value for her. And even more important, that wasn’t the point. “No,” she repeated, half surprised by how deadly calm her voice remained. “It’s my jewelry, and you’re not taking any of it.”

Abby scoffed. “I don’t want to
take
any of it. I wouldn’t be seen in most of it. I just want to borrow a few pairs for the trip. I need something to wear with that red shirt, and I need those long dangly silver ones for my—”

“
No.
Don’t come into my room again without permission, and don’t ever take anything of mine—
borrow
anything—without asking first. Understand?”

The anger in her stepdaughter’s eyes was breath stealing, turning her from a beautiful pale angel of a girl to a raging mass of emotion. “You can’t order me out,” she said petulantly. “This is my father’s house, not yours! I have as much right to come in here as you do!”

“Your father and I bought this house together, and we invited you and your brother to live here. You have your own room, and you’re welcome to use the other rooms, but you respect Jacob’s privacy and mine. Do you understand?”

Abby’s shriek was so shrill that it made Therese’s ears ring. “You can’t tell me what to do! You’re not my mother, you’re not even my dad’s wife anymore! You’re just a stupid woman who married him for his money and I hate you! I hate you more than I hate him!” Her gaze darting wildly, she gave a sudden violent shove to the jewelry box and everything else on the dresser.

The box slid from Therese’s grip, crashing to the floor and spilling its contents, while perfume bottles, photographs, and other odds and ends tumbled down.

“Abigail Catherine!” Therese snapped, and Abby glared at her, then gave her a shove, too.

Therese caught her arms, both to stop her and to catch her balance, and Abby responded by jerking her right arm free, then swinging it back, her open palm connecting with Therese’s face.

Shock ripped through Therese. She stared, wide-eyed, her hand automatically rising to her stinging cheek. Her thoughts were a jumbled rush:
I can’t believe…oh God, that hurt…no one’s ever…I should slap her…

From the open door came a low, horrified gasp. “Abby! What did you—
Abby!
”

Her gaze jerked from Therese to Jacob, then back again as her eyes filled with tears. “I hate you! I hate you all!” she cried, running across the room, shoving past her brother, slamming her door a moment later.

Slowly Therese sank down on the bed, her hand still hovering a millimeter above her cheek. She felt the heat and knew she must have an imprint in the shape of Abby’s delicate palm. She was horrorstricken, furious, shocked, stunned and hurt. Oh, God, she hurt so much, not her face, but deep inside.

“Are you—” Jacob came a few steps into the room. “Are you all right?” Instead of coming to her, he went to the dresser, kneeling to pick up the items scattered in front of it. The jewelry box lid hung crookedly, and bits of gold, silver, gems, and enamel nestled in the carpet nearby.

Therese couldn’t answer him. All she wanted to say was
Dear God
, and all she wanted to do was cry. For the first time since Paul’s death, she was grateful he wasn’t there. Seeing his precious baby girl whom he’d adored so thoroughly strike his wife would have broken his heart.

She stared at nothing, nerves taut to the point of exploding, tears in her eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest, and the shock echoed like a rush in her ears.

When Jacob’s lean, strong hand touched hers, she flinched, and he hastily drew away. Just as quickly, she caught hold of his fingers. “I’m sorry. I—I—”

He was kneeling on the floor, having undone the mess created by Abby’s fury. “She didn’t mean— She’s just nervous about seeing Mom— She didn’t mean to do that, any of that, I swear. She’s— She’s—”

“I know, Jacob.”

He was out of words to describe—defend his sister’s actions. For the moment, so was Therese.

She was also out of empathy, sympathy, and everything else. Abby had threatened not to return from this visit to Catherine’s, and dear God, Therese hoped she didn’t. She prayed for it now, and intended to pray for it every hour of every day she was gone.

She didn’t care what Abby wanted, what Catherine wanted, or even what Paul would have wanted. As of this moment, she was done.