by Faith Potts
“I’m so tired,” he confides, so quietly I can hardly hear him. “Of physically hurting, of the nightmares and the memories… I can’t do it anymore. This is the only way out.”
“You’re right about one thing, James.” Kellon slowly walks the rest of the way to him. “You can’t do this—not alone. But there are other ways out of the darkness you’re in.” He sinks to his knees on the sidewalk, bending down to see James’s face. “Do you know how much you’re loved, James?”
James scoffs, his breathing harsh and rough. “You’re crazy, man. Who would love me?”
It seems they’ve both forgotten I’m here. Maybe that’s for the best. I clench my hands tightly together and ask God to give Kellon the words he needs to say.
“Jesus does,” Kellon begins, and now his voice threatens to crack with emotion. “Loves you so much that He willingly left heaven to come to this sinful earth and die for you—for all mankind.”
James lifts his eyes and looks at Kellon, just stares as time ticks by. As if he wants to believe, but he can’t bring himself to take the leap.
“Why don’t you just hang around here for a few days? You don’t have to figure anything out tonight.”
After a long moment, during which I hold my breath and pray that James will agree, he slowly nods. “Okay.”
I release my pent-up concern and drop my hands to my sides. Kellon looks my way and grins, then turns back to James.
“Will you let us help you?” Kellon asks.
The Marine nods slowly, allowing my brother to pick up the backpack and then pull his single arm around his shoulder. I quickly snatch up the fallen crutch before following Kellon’s lead and sliding my arm around James’s waist.
At Kellon’s cue we stand, James between us, quiet and defeated. We start slowly across the deck, the fellows leading.
It feels strange for there not to be an arm brushing against me on this side of his body. I try to keep from nudging the end of his shoulder with mine, not knowing how healed he is. My heart squeezes at the reminder of his pain. Why do I have to care so much?
When we reach the stairs, I reach ahead and grab the hand-railing, and we continue our descent. No one says a word, but the silence isn’t terribly awkward. Words aren’t important right now.
We’re halfway down to the main level when I realize I’ve been crying—really crying. When was the last time that happened?
|| ~* || ~* || ~* ||
The energy and racket of what I refer to as hospital buzz—minimized by the lateness of the hour—continues around us as I stand outside James’s door with my back to the wall. Kellon arranged for James to stay here at the hospital for a few weeks of rehab, provided James remains willing.
Kellon steps out of the room and closes the door. He grins when he sees me, crossing his arms and mirroring my position. “Tired?”
I nod. After a shift of volunteering and then the emotionally taxing results of the past hour, tired isn’t the word for it.
“Kell?” I speak softly into the air.
“Yeah?”
“Have you had the same thought I have? That God allowed us to be here tonight, to maybe make a difference in his life?”
He nods solemnly. “Yes, I have. Thank God you looked up and saw him and thought fast enough to do something about it before it was too late.”
Kellon wraps his arm around my shoulders and draws me to his side. I let him, not minding his brotherly affection for once. Not to mention I’m too exhausted to argue.
He releases me, speaking parting words against my shoulder, and then meanders on down the hall toward a night shift in the ER.
“I’m proud of you, sis.”
|| ~* || ~* || ~* ||
|| James
I sit on the edge of the bed in the semi-darkness, pondering all that’s happened in the past few hours. Kellon arranged for me to stay the night at the hospital, saying we could talk prosthetist appointments and what comes next tomorrow. Which is fine by me—I don’t care anymore. I don’t want to care, to feel, to hurt.
To be hurt.
I draw in a shuddering breath, snatches of heated words with my father flitting through my mind. Is he wondering where I am tonight? Or do they even care that I left without a trace?
Probably not. Who would care? Except…
The story Kellon and the young woman told me of a Living Savior gave me hope. A God who cares about me? A God who understands my hurt and wants to know me? I used to think Christianity was just another cult, but now… I have to wonder.
Tears spill from my eyes and down my face, but I make no move to brush them away.
In the darkness, I reach for my shirt buttons with trembling fingers and carefully work my way through them. I pull my arm out of the sleeve—my one arm—and toss the shirt onto the chair by the bed. It lands on my backpack of belongings, just a change of clothes and…
I swallow hard and glance away, knowing what else it holds.
I stop mindlessly rubbing the end of my stumb arm and bend down to yank off my boot. One shoe, one shirt sleeve. It’s been three months, but these little reminders still sock me in the gut when I’m least expecting it.
Scooting back, I lift my leg and stump onto the squishy mattress and grab the blanket. I flop back against the pillows and pull the thin hospital linen over my head.
Rolling onto my side, I stare out the window into the dark night sky, broken only by a scattering of stars. The familiar night sounds of a hospital swirl around me, drawing my mind back to the days and nights I spent in a similar room a few months ago. Where I learned I was no longer whole. Where I cried out my questions to the ceiling and was answered with silence. Where I faced rejection of the no-longer-enough creature I’d morphed into.
I squeeze my eyes shut, searching for sleep…and dreading the nightmares that I know will come.
Chapter Two || Alex
The next morning, I slip into James’s room expecting to find him asleep. Instead, he’s sitting on the side of the bed, gazing out the window as the sun rises over the city.
“Good morning,” I say as I enter, not wanting to startle him.
He turns toward me, nodding in reply, his expressive eyes catching my every move. “Morning.”
I offer a bright smile as I approach. He’s speaking to me, which is definitely a good sign. “How does breakfast sound?”
He shrugs and I notice the way both shoulders lift, even though only one has an arm below it.
“Would you mind nudging my crutch over here?” He nods toward the chair where his crutch rests. “Relying on others is repulsive, but it seems I don’t have much of a choice lately. Ask for help or do without.”
Doing my best to ignore his negative remarks, I move around the end of the bed to the chair and pick up the crutch. He took a giant leap in the right direction last night by opening up to Kellon, but he still has a long way to go.
He reaches out and takes it from me, standing on his one foot and leaning against the crutch’s support.
I stand there awkwardly, unsure what to say. Kellon instructed me to try and obtain his parents’ names and contact information, but somehow I just can’t ask those questions right off.
He stares down at the floor, his eyes wrinkling. “Um… what’s your name again? Sorry, I know you probably told me last night.”
“It’s Alex.” I smile, setting my hands on my hips and rocking back on my heels.
“I really should apologize to you.”
I stop rocking, eyeing him. “For forgetting my name?”
He blinks, staring right back. “Oh, no. I meant… It’s just, I don’t know what I was thinking last night and, well…thank you for stopping me. That wouldn’t have been the right decision.”
Heart pounding, I shrug, more touched by his words than I let on. “I mean, I couldn’t just let you jump. Human life is too valuable to be thrown away like that.”
He nods slowly, still making eye contact with me. “Maybe you’re right.”
An eyebrow lifts. “Snarky, aren’t you?”
“When I want to be.”
He glances over me then, amusement in his eyes and a grin beginning to dance across his face.
I’m drawing an enjoyable fellow out from behind this mask—and I like it. A grin of my own surfaces. “Breakfast?”
“Yes, please.”
After declining my offer of a wheelchair, James follows me out of the room and down the hall. I try not to make him uncomfortable by watching the way he walks, while asking small-talk questions. How long he’s been in the military—three years. Why he joined up—to serve his country, duh. Where he calls home—to which he promptly informs me that the elevator has arrived.
When we enter the cafeteria, I direct James to take a seat along the wall while I fetch breakfast. I find him staring out the window at the parking deck when I return with a tray of food for him and coffee for myself.
I deposit the tray in front of him and take a seat across the table.
James looks at the food and then over at me. “Aren’t you eating?”
I shake my head and hold up my paper cup. “I don’t often do breakfast. Coffee is enough.”
Shrugging, he reaches for the plastic fork, but I stop him. “Grace first.”
“Over your coffee?”
“Over your food.”
He drops the utensil and leans back in his chair. “Go for it.”
“We always join hands at home.” I swap hands with my coffee to impulsively reach over and cover his hand in mine. He doesn’t pull away—which I expected him to do.
I ask a short blessing over James’s food and thank God for how things turned out last night. “Amen,” I finish, lifting my hand from the back of his.
“Thanks,” he murmurs. Then, while eyeing me, “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?”
“Nah, I’m good.” I take another sip of my coffee.
I’m aware of the way James keeps glancing my way as he begins his meal, awkward under his scrutiny.
“What is it?” I finally ask.
“I’m wondering why you won’t eat. Don’t tell me you’re trying to lose weight or something.”
I smile, warmed by his unpredicted concern. “No, I don’t do anything like that. Not anymore.”
He pauses mid-pancake and looks up at me. “Anymore?”
Bad word choice. “Long story,” I mumble, crossing my arms on the table before me. My gaze roams the energized cafeteria, searching for a change of topic. This is the last thing I want to talk about this morning.
“You see…” He points his syrupy fork in my direction, mimicking a college professor expounding on a point. “I have an opinion on that. Being healthy is a good thing, sure. But I think girls should be reminded that they’re beautiful no matter what, and their ‘size’ by the world standards doesn’t matter.”
I smile, swirling the remnant my coffee. “That’s very sweet, James. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.” A flat, one-word response.
“Well, you’ll have no trouble finding one with that outlook.”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look my way, his attention back on the food. My cheeks burn as I realize my own stupidity. Sure, a girl could easily fall for his endearing views on a girl’s size and weight. But too many women in today’s society wouldn’t give this double-amputee hero a second glance.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask, finding the exit from this growing-uncomfortable conversation.
“You just did.”
Seems I’m discovering his humorous side. “Now who’s snarky?”
He shakes his head, eyes laughing even as he struggles to keep the mask over his pain in place. “What’s the question?”
“Will you tell me your parents’ names and where they live?”
“Why?” He wants to know, not missing a beat.
I hesitate. “So that we can call them and let them know you’re okay. Have you had any contact with them since you came back?”
Slowly, he nods. I witness the lightheartedness we’ve enjoyed slipping away, his face darkening. “They were with me in the hospital when I woke up, then all through recovery. I went home with them in December.” The slightest twist of his mouth—not even really a smile—cuts through his face. “Mom wanted me home for Christmas…”
He stops, shakes his head, glances down at his plate. “Let’s just say I’m not wanted there.”
My stomach twists in knots. Is it possible they really don’t want him? And if not, what could they have said to make him misunderstand that badly?
“Why do you say that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles around bacon and eggs, not even looking my way. I piled the tray with food, and it looks like he plans to eat all of it.
I watch him for a second, wondering how far I can push without angering him. I don’t want an explosion; I want answers. “It does matter. And I want to hear about it.”
“Fine.” He drops his fork on his plate and meets my eyes, his gaze cold again. “You really want the whole ugly story?”
I prop my elbows on the table and meet him head-on. “I can handle ugly. I won’t stand for silence.”
He ignores me and starts to speak. “On Christmas Day, my dad’s brother and his wife came over. It's a tradition for us to go to their house, but since I’d only been home a week or so and was avoiding people like the plague…” He clears his throat. “Well, anyway, we decided it would be best that way.”
I lean forward, listening intently.
“That afternoon, I stepped into the den for some reason, and I overheard Dad and Uncle Benjy talking. Dad was saying how lucky Benjy was because his kids were actually making something of themselves, turning out right. Working toward careers, bright futures, probable spouses, you know. Ideal offspring.”
I clench my jaw, realization striking me. “Implying you weren’t?”
James nods, breaking our gaze and reaching out his hand toward his water glass. He smears his thumb absentmindedly over the sweaty condensation. “I had suspected that he considered me a burden to him and Mom. The conversation I heard that day only confirmed it.”
“So what did you do?” I ask softly when he stops speaking. Even though I think I know the answer.
“Dad and I had words, furthering validating my fears. So I packed a bag and started wandering. I told him I’d kill myself if he reported me missing.”
I sit back in my chair, trying to process. Anger flickers to life within me and I suddenly want to give James’s father a piece of my mind. How could someone be so cruel? So heartless?
I draw in a deep breath, sliding my cup across the table surface, back and forth between my hands. “And your mom?”
James doesn’t even look up. “What about her?”
“Did you talk to her before you left? Does she have your father’s…viewpoint?”
“I don’t know. But he made the decision to evict me from his life. It was his choice to include or exclude her in that.”
I darken my gaze if that’s even a thing. “That’s not very fair.”
“Life isn’t fair,” he tosses back, and I see I’m getting nowhere like this. If I push too hard, he’ll harden even more.
Hashtag tactic swap. “Okay… Do you have any siblings?”
“A little sister. I haven’t seen her since eight months before this last deployment. Our parents kind of disowned her years ago for going to church with some friends and becoming a Christian.”
I must be making a crazy face, because James starts snickering.
“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Looking back, I should’ve been more supportive of her—even if I didn’t agree. But I was a teenager, bent on doing my own thing. I didn’t even try to stick up for her.” He shakes his head. “I mean, I checked up on her every so often between when she left home and I joined up. Making sure she was safe and had rent money, but communication has been pretty sparse sin
ce. I wish I knew where she’s living now.”
“You mean you don’t have a way to contact her?” I ask, thinking this would be an awesome person to help James along in his search for faith. And also, a family contact to appease Kellon.
“Unfortunately, no.” He seems truly remorseful for his relationship—or lack of one—with his little sister.
“What’s her name?” I ask next, tilting my head to catch his gaze.
“Callie.”
“Callie what?”
He eyes me questioningly. “She’s my full sister. Her last name is Greene.”
“Well, no kidding,” I toss back with loads of snark. “But if she were married…”
“Hey, I hadn’t thought of that.” Brow furrowing, he draws more squiggles on his glass with his finger. “Man, I should’ve tried harder to keep up with her.”
“This could still be a lead, though.” I stand from the table and add my paper coffee cup to the trash on James’s tray.
“A lead?” He repeats, voice tainted with suspicion. “What are you, an FBI agent? This place is just your cover job?”
“Pretty much. But seriously, if she can be found, Uncle Joe will find her.”
“Uncle Joe?” James stares up at me in incredulous wonder. “What are you talking about?”
I laugh, more at his face than anything else. “Sorry, the suspense wasn’t intentional.”
“Yeah, right.”
I lift the tray and motion for James to follow me. “C’mon, let’s walk and talk.”
“And the suspense continues,” he mutters, placing his hand on the tabletop to push himself to his foot. Once standing, he grabs his crutch and twists to face me.
Chuckling, I start toward the trash can. “I’m serious, it isn’t on purpose. But you keep interrupting.”
“Baloney,” comes from right behind me. He has a superb sarcastic side. Golly, this guy is tons of fun.
“Watch it, smart aleck.” I dump the trash, set down the tray, and turn to face him. “I was going to say that my Uncle Joe—I mean, he’s practically a miracle man—would be more than willing to look up your sister, if you wanted.”
