Cedar Ridge to ready the house for Mark passes in two whirlwind days. Lila and I replenish my kitchen, buy clothes and toiletries for Mark, and install hooks and nightlights. I spackle the bullet holes in my walls and dab new paint on them after she leaves Friday night. Saturday morning she surprises me with an unexpected trip to the salon, where she treats me to a cut, highlights, facial, and mani-pedi.
“You’ve not had the time or energy to take care of yourself. I’m making the time for you,” she says firmly when she pulls into the salon’s parking lot.
I shake my head. “I have too much to do, Lila.”
“We both do. Now let’s go. The longer you argue, the longer this is going to take. Besides, I have an appointment too, so unless you want to sit in the car and pout, come on.”
“You know, some people might call this being pushy,” I comment as we cross the parking lot.
Lila grins. “I prefer to think of this as an assertive act of kindness.”
During my foot rub, I confirm with Monica that Mark is still slated for discharge tomorrow, then verify our flights. I jot final to-do lists while my toes are painted a metallic burgundy and run through mental checklists while getting my hair cut and highlighted. Once home, I hastily complete my remaining tasks, toss a handful of things into my suitcase, and race to the airport at midnight, chauffeured once again by Tucker and Lila.
Tucker smiles and Lila kisses my cheek as they send me on my way. “We’ll grill steaks tomorrow night,” she promises. “Tell Mark we can’t wait to see him.”
I’m glad I’m on another red-eye flight. There are fewer passengers, so the seat beside me is empty, and as Lila pointed out, passengers tend to keep to themselves late at night, so the flights are generally quiet.
I glance thoughtfully out the window, comparing my mood on this flight to San Antonio with the previous one. Last time I made this trek, I was a wreck, terrified Mark wouldn’t survive or that I’d have to make a godawful decision I wasn’t ready for. This time, I’m excited to bring him home so his real healing can begin.
The pilot’s hushed voice intrudes into my thoughts. “Due to weather conditions ahead, we are adjusting course due east. We expect to land in San Antonio no more than twenty minutes later than our originally planned arrival time.” A few passengers rouse slightly, but for the most part, his quiet words go unnoticed.
I stare out the window, my eyes detecting an impenetrable darkness obscuring stars to the left of the plane. If I strain, I can faintly make out the edges of sinister clouds in the pitch-black night. The dark clouds suddenly glow deep purple, illuminated by a brilliant pinkish-white flash.
Lightning.
Lightning is nature’s way of exposing what hides entombed in the shadows. It arrives in tumultuous storms when opposing forces clash, twisting and writhing. It announces its presence in spring when cold and warm fronts battle for supremacy, and in summer when the sun beats down fiercely amid stifling humidity.
Lightning strikes lives, too. It struck my life, and it struck Lila’s. Now it’s struck Mark’s.
Behind my house stands a massive angel oak tree that was struck by lightning. I was home the afternoon it happened. A late spring storm boiled up, and strong winds whipped tree branches from side to side while torrential rains lashed the house. I was making southwestern tortilla soup, planning to curl up on the couch and read. A crack like a rifle shot sounded outside, and I ducked away from the windows instinctively. Finally I realized the noise had been a lightning strike, not a gunshot. I looked outside to see smoke rising from the tree, but no flames. After the storm subsided, I examined the damage up close. Lightning had carved a gash from the upper trunk to the ground, exploding bark out of its way and leaving a trail of burnt wood behind. I was positive my beautiful angel oak would die from its wounds.
To my utter shock, my tree survived.
Bugs ate away the charred wood over the summer. The opposite side of the tree kept its green leaves until autumn, when they changed with the season. The following spring, the tree leafed out as it always had. The only visible difference was the barkless vertical scar down its trunk.
Trees die every year from lightning strikes, but mine thrives in spite of its damage. The scar is part of the tree, but it doesn’t limit it, because the tree is more than just its barkless scar.
Rather than apply this insight to my own life, I consider how to use that imagery to help Mark accept his changed body. He’s in worse emotional shape right now than I am, or so I tell myself. I lean back and close my eyes, and though it’s not my intention, I fall asleep.
I awaken when the plane starts its uneventful descent. Tired passengers stumble down the steps and stagger into the relatively quiet airport. I take an Uber to the hotel and finish packing, eager to take Mark home. By daylight, I’m back at the hospital, ready.
After all our hurdles to get Mark well enough for release, his discharge is surprisingly uneventful. Fat packets of information regarding treatment plans, medications, physical therapy, and appointments with the VA in Pueblo are reviewed at length. An on-site pharmacy delivers his prescriptions directly to his room. Stubbs even stops by to see us off. His huge arms crush us together in a bear hug, promising to keep in touch, calling us Pretty Boy and Green Eyes. An Uber meets us outside the hospital, and after a bit of finagling, we fold Mark’s lanky body into the compact car. Then it’s off to the airport, and just like that, we’re whisked back to Colorado and into a slightly larger Uber vehicle that shuttles us home to Cedar Ridge.
After all this time, all this pain, we’re home.
Mark examines the exterior of my house appraisingly as he waits for the driver to remove my bags from the trunk. In spite of my worries, he makes it up my outside stairs without difficulty, though I maintain a firm grip on his waistband just in case. He waits patiently, looking around while I grab our luggage and clamber up the stairs.
“It’s gorgeous here,” he admires, gazing at the mountains. Snow covers their peaks, but in the lower elevations, trees are budding, and a fresh carpet of spring green mingles with the darker rocky mountainside. The mid-April breeze is crisp and fresh, the late afternoon sky a perfect cloudless blue. “I’ll bet those are amazing to hike –” His voice breaks off and his expression tightens.
“Hey,” I say encouragingly, “Dr. Paxton thinks you’ll be healed enough to have your osseointegration surgery in a few months. Be patient. We’ll hike them together.”
He smiles automatically, but it doesn't reach his eyes. I pretend not to notice, unlocking the door. “Come on in,” I say, holding it open before locking both locks and the chain behind us. “I’ll give you the grand tour of the downstairs.” I open the foyer table drawer and retrieve my handgun, tucking it in the back waistband of my jeans.
Mark raises an eyebrow. “Dangerous neighborhood?”
“Habit,” I say lightly, then change the subject. My hand lingers near my gun, but I force myself to leave it. I’m not doing a full-security sweep. I’m not alone. Besides, I don’t want Mark to know how screwed up I am. Not yet, anyway. It’s not like I’ll be able to hide it from him for long.
“Off here to the left is the living room,” I say, leading him into the long room. In the center, two large beige sofas and a matching loveseat form a U. They face a stone fireplace topped with a chunky reclaimed-wood mantle and a wall-mounted television. Along the left by my front windows, two cream chairs flank a low bookcase. On the opposite side of the room is the wide doorway to the kitchen with a rustic desk to the right. Crimson throw blankets add splashes of color, as do sprawling green plants that have only survived my absence due to Lila’s tender care. “The sofas recline, and Lila’s made sure anything you can possibly need is within reach. She even put in mini fridges.” I point below an end table and grin at his raised eyebrow. “At last count, I saw three. Apparently, she’s extremely concerned about your hydration.”
He looks around. “Gas fireplace?”
I nod. “I’m too lazy to build a real fire most nights. I do have a firepit for the patio, and both gas and charcoal grills, but in here, gas is easier.” I point to the basket on the end table. “It even has a remote, in case you’re kicking back watching TV one night thinking, 'God, if only there were a fire to go with my beer from the mini fridge while I watch football'.”
Mark studies the fireplace wall and the ceilings. “The rockwork and exposed beams are nice.” His eyes halt on my freshly patched and painted bullet holes. The hardware store had assured me the paint was an exact match for the color I’d bought before, but it’s lighter, making the wall appear freckled. I should have just painted the whole damn wall. I keep moving, hoping to distract him.
“The kitchen and dining room are through here. I’m a decent cook, mostly because I enjoy eating. Lila’s a much better cook than I am. But there’s always stuff for sandwiches or soups or pasta if I’m feeling lazy.”
“You know I can cook, right? I’m not here for you to wait on me. I just need time to get things sorted out.”
“I didn’t bring you home out of pity like some stray dog. You’re my person, Mark. You can stay forever if you want to.”
He studies me. “I appreciate this. You’ve been… much more than I deserve, Charlie.” Emotions boil in his pale blue eyes.
“Quit thanking me,” I say firmly. “You and I take care of each other. We have ever since that day when you stopped Corbin Holmes from bullying me. It’s what we do.”
Uncomfortable with his gratitude, I turn away to focus on the kitchen. White cabinets line my kitchen, and wide hardwood planks cover the floors. Vibrant blood-red pendant lights hang above a wooden island with black leather bar chairs, their lights reflecting off my sleek black granite countertops. Despite its contrasting colors, the room feels warm and inviting.
His gaze follows as I point out specific cabinets. “Plates, bowls, and glasses are there. Silverware is in that drawer. Snacks are there, coffee stuff is above the coffeepot, and liquor is in that cupboard.” I point past the dining table at the far end of the room. “The patio is through the sliding doors, and the stuff for the grills and firepit is stored inside the benches if you want to sit under the stars with a fire.
“This way,” I direct him out a doorway at the far end of the room, back into the hall. We pause at the door to my repurposed office, and I tap the door lightly with one newly-manicured nail. “This is Tucker’s big surprise. He and Tom – a good friend and your new physical therapist – did this, and it’s ‘important guy stuff’ ” – I form air quotes like Lila had – “so I’ll let him unveil this. He’s very proud of it, so be sure to act impressed.”
Mark trails behind me, balancing on his crutches as I stop again. “Here’s a half bath for the downstairs,” I say, opening the door to expose a small but functional neutral-toned bathroom. “Down this hall is the washer and dryer, and the glass door at the end leads across the breezeway to our clinic. That’s where you’ll be doing physical therapy and getting your massage and hydrotherapy treatments.”
I lead him back to the entry where we started, stopping at the door beside the foyer table and bench. “And this is your room.” I open the door and step aside. Mark enters, looking around. I cross the large room and open the drapes, exposing the magnificent floor-to-ceiling mountain view. The sun is beginning its descent, scattering its first hints of rosy color across the snow-capped peaks.
Mark nods approvingly, taking in the pale neutral walls, the driftwood-gray planked wall at the head of the bed, and the reclaimed wood furniture. “This is really nice, Charlie.”
I tug the pewter-colored sliding barn door aside to reveal the bathroom. “Tom knows a guy who remodels homes for wounded veterans. He modified the bathroom. There’s a shower bench and handrails, and everything is set up so you won’t have to lean over on crutches. Lila found that huge chaise so you can relax and put your leg up, and she stuck another mini fridge under your bedside shelf. It’s already stocked with water, soda, and beer. And I picked you up more clothes. They’re washed and put away. We can go shopping for anything else you want.”
I look at him, noticing for the first time the tightness around his eyes and the tension in his jaw. “You’re hurting, aren’t you? You’ve been up all day. Your leg’s probably swollen. Why don’t you rest for a while? It should be a couple of hours before Lila and Tucker get here.”
Mark studies me for a long moment. “I know you said no more thank you’s, but I owe you so much, Baby Girl. I can’t ever thank you enough for this. For everything.” He smiles. “I'd hug you, but if I fall over, you’ll make me wear that damn non-slip sock again.”
I laugh and step closer, careful not to bump his crutches, wrapping my arms snugly around his waist. He hugs me tightly with his left arm, leaning on his right crutch. “Don’t worry,” I tease, “it’s carpeted in here, so no non-slip sock required.” I stand on tiptoe to kiss his soft stubble and grin. “Unless you fall on your ass.”
He chuckles and kisses my forehead. “I’ll change clothes and then I’m going to check out that chaise. I’ll yell if I need help,” he adds when I open my mouth.
I relent. “Fine. Your clothes are mostly in the top drawers so you don't have to lean over. I’ll close your door, but I’ll have my phone if you need me. Do you need anything for pain?"
He shakes his head. "I'm going to elevate it and see if that helps."
I nod. "Call me if you need me," I reiterate, closing the door.
I start a load of laundry from our suitcase before carrying my toiletries upstairs. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It’s not flattering. My hair looks good thanks to Lila’s mandated cut and highlights, but my pale face draws attention to the huge shadows beneath my eyes.
All seems quiet downstairs, so I race through a shower, anxious to rid myself of the grimy feeling being around strangers gives me. Afterwards, I dig through my closet and find black leggings and a sweater that matches my eyes. I apply makeup to conceal my exhaustion and add my favorite gold earrings.
Not great, but it’s definitely an improvement.
I listen briefly at Mark’s door, but his room is silent. Hopefully, he’s dozed off. I wander into the living room and flop on the couch, leaning my head back. I close my eyes, empty my mind, and feel my body relax into the cushions.
We’re finally home.
Charlie’s upstairs. She must be showering, because I hear water running. Lila said she showers multiple times a day. She can’t stand to feel dirty after being held captive in squalid conditions.
I rummage through the dresser drawers and find clothes, changing into a soft black shirt and dark gray sweats that I safety-pin up to accommodate my missing limb. I sink into the plush chaise with a bottle of water and stare at the breathtaking mountain view, seeing none of it.
I’m home.
And I feel more like giving up now than I ever have.
I lie there, my ruined leg propped up, stuffed like a sausage into a compression stocking from my upper thigh to its weirdly rounded tip. Supposedly, the stocking will reshape my residual limb and compress my burns to minimize scarring. Given the multitude of scars on that leg, it’s an exercise in futility. I rub my eyes as they suddenly sting. Despair so intense I can scarcely breathe floods my soul.
I’m a useless goddamn cripple.
I’m such a fucking idiot. I believed the hype they fed me at Brooke, swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. I convinced myself that by pushing harder, working my ass off, and doing everything they said, I could beat the odds. Not grow back a limb, obviously, but be – well, better off than this. This is living in a room in Charlie’s house, dependent on help from others, barely more than a damn invalid. From now on, friends and strangers alike will see me as a cripple first and a man second. That’s all I am now – a cripple. There’s no possible way a woman could ever see me as attractive or masculine or virile again. Hell, I can’t even stand without using crutches. My whole life, I’ve been strong, capable, and confident. Now I’m damaged goods. I can’t hide the fact I’m missing half a limb, like some jacked-up starfish.
I wasn't conceited before the explosion – at least, I don’t think I was – but I knew I was good-looking. Light blue eyes, thick sandy hair with a hint of curl, and tall, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist, giving me that enviable V-shape. I was athletic and formidable, a natural leader, an alpha male – all advantageous traits for my military career. I’ve enjoyed my share of women over the years while carefully sidestepping long-term entanglements.
I stare into the burgeoning sunset and snort. What good are blue eyes and broad shoulders when I’m half a man? At thirty-five, I thought I’d still have time to play the field. I figured I’d eventually settle down once I got out of the Army, maybe even have a family someday. Instead I’m missing a leg, covered in scars and wobbly as a newborn foal. I can’t approach a woman like this. I no longer have strength or athleticism to get by on, and I sure as hell can’t rely on my looks with this fucked-up body. The only career I’ve ever known was blown to hell, and leadership skills are useless with no one to lead. I lost everything because of that damn IED.
Dark thoughts return to rear their ugly heads, whispering enticingly.
That explosion could have killed me. It killed Rivers. He was right next to me. Thomas, Varnes, Carswell, and Dillon – they all died.
Maybe I’d be better off dead, too.
Instead of automatically dismissing the thought, I allow myself to consider it.
Giving up.
Giving in.
Letting go.
The idea seduces me.
No more pain.
No more misery.
No more self-loathing.
No more uselessness.
Just… quiet.
Nothingness.
Peace.
It sounds good.
But after a brief moment, I shove the idea from my mind. I can’t do that to Charlie. She’s lost too much already. All we have left is each other.
But rejecting that choice comes at a steep price. Without the option of death as a path to freedom, my only alternative is being trapped in this misery forever. The likelihood of years or even decades condemned to unending, hopeless torment crushes my heart in an invisible fist.
I close my eyes and throw my arm over my face, praying Lila and Tucker run out of gas or forget to come by. I just want to be alone.
The thought has literally no sooner crossed my mind than I hear the rumble of a diesel engine.
Fuck.