He scrunched his good eye shut…trying to block out the flashback of the way Flynn died.
He would never forget them, or their accomplishments. They were his brothers.
His eyes grew heavy, his memories hazy. Jake couldn’t remember much after the medics loaded him onto the helo.
No recollection of talking to doctors nor of receiving treatment. And yet the images of faces and white jackets whizzed by in a slow-motion blur.
“You’re awake.” A pretty blonde reached for his wrist. Once satisfied, she then checked the IV attached to his left arm. “Welcome back.” She smiled then flashed a skinny flashlight in his eye, made notes on his chart, before moving on to the next bed.
Jake lifted his head and looked round, not recognizing anyone on either side of him.
The guy on the right was covered in bandages, head to toe.
Burns.
A nurse was helping the one on the left into a wheelchair. He was missing both legs, just above the knees.
Jake’s heart stopped at the sight.
Between the shock and lying flat he was overwhelmed by nausea. He swallowed then reached for the side panel and pressed the button to raise his head as bile rose up his esophagus threatening to choke him.
Nurses rushed around the ward, checking patients, writing notes, and in general being of service to the injured. Glancing down at his right ankle, he was stunned to see the heavily wrapped limb. He threw off the covers and tried to wiggle his toes.
Nothing.
He pressed the red call button.
The same nurse as before came to his side. “Can I help you?”
“Ah—” Jake’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, he pointed to the pitcher of water on his bedside table.
The nurse held the cup as Jake sucked in through the straw. “Wh—what’s wrong with me?”
The nurse blinked once, twice, check the clipboard at the foot of the bed and said, “I’ll get the doctor.”
Something in her face gave him pause. He shivered, pulling the covers higher as the shakes took over his body. He squeezed his good eye shut and focused on his breathing, willing a calm he badly needed.
An older man approached, wearing a white coat, stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck. “Sergeant Lassiter. I’m Doctor Billings. Are you up to a conversation?”
Jake nodded, unable to find words.
“You sustained significant injuries. We’ve removed the glass from your eye. It’s covered to rest it. You shouldn’t have any significant loss of vision. We’ve stitched your cheek. And your ear is healing nicely.”
Jake pressed his palm to his injured face. His cheek was hard. Stiff suture threads scraped against his fingers. His skin was warm and swollen.
“We’ve done surgery to repair the punctured lung. That said, our sole concern at this point is your leg.” The doctor flipped through the chart reading notes.
“My leg,” he repeated.
“You sustained a broken ankle during the blast. It was a compound fracture. We did the best we could, but you developed an infection. I’m afraid it’s not healing.” The doctor’s gaze bored into him. “Gangrene.”
That one word said it all.
“We need to perform another surgery to remove the infection, and we need to do it soon.”
“Meaning—” He didn’t know why he said it, he knew the outcome.
“We need to remove the ankle, at best. The knee depending on the damage once we get inside,” the doctor said in a matter-of-fact attitude.
My leg.
“We have to act fast, before the infection spreads.”
He nodded, remaining silent.
The doctor handed him a clipboard, with a form held in place. “This gives us permission to perform surgery to remove the damage.” The doctor then handed him a pen.
He read the form, noted the details, and signed, handing the clipboard and pen back.
Reeling from the revelation, he tuned out the doctor, trying to absorb it all as best he could.
What would happen to him now?
Breathe in.
What would he do?
Breathe out.
What could he do?
Breathe in.
He owed it to the guys he lost to make the best of it.
Breathe out.
He was alive. Would that be enough?
“I’ll schedule the O.R. for later today. You made the right decision, son.” The doctor nodded and walked away.
The whole conversation was as bland as if he’d just ordered dinner from a burger joint.
One of Garcia’s horrible jokes came to mind.
If the Army wanted you to have legs, they’d issue them to you.
“Thanks, Garcia.” He said a silent prayer for his fallen brothers.
The same nurse he’d spoken to earlier stopped by again. “Is there anyone you’d like to call?”
Carrie.
“No.” He couldn’t do that to her. Didn’t deserve the right to call her and unload. But, that’s exactly what he wanted. He couldn’t call his folks either. He could hardly speak now. Trying to spit out what was about to happen, would tear his mom apart. “Wait. Yes.”
He made a call to the one person who would understand what he was going through.
Boomer Jenkins.
The call was like a confession. A cathartic release. By the time the call ended Boomer knew what to do if he didn’t make it.
Fatigue, pain, and grief hit him in waves. He sighed deeply, his body feeling like he’d been in an explosion, which he had. And yet, he was torn, because his physical pain had nothing on the agony deep in his heart, abject desolation for the loss of his men. And Thor. How could he whine about losing part of his leg, when his team—
He breathed through the stabbing pain in his ankle.
A nurse brought him something to help relax him. He used the time waiting for surgery to make a promise to Porter, Garcia, Chang, Flynn, Mortenson, and even Thor, that he would make them proud. Live life to the fullest, for them.
Jake was groggy when an orderly showed up two hours later and wheeled him off to surgery.
After a five month stay at Walter Reed Medical Center, Jake boarded a commercial jet for the next to last leg of his journey home. Boomer would meet him in Denver for the final leg, the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Hopeful.
The flight was six months to the day he’d been injured in Afghanistan.
He’d taken a taxi from Walter Reed Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport to board the domestic flight.
The first to board, he shuffled his way to the back of the plane and fastened the seatbelt securely. Ear buds in place, he zoned out on hard rock. Early on during his recovery, Jake made an astonishing revelation when he discovered that crowds filled him with a sense of dread. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tuned out the world.
In fact, the mere thought of going home raised his ire to the point his white-knuckle grip on the edge of the arm rest sent his hands into cramps. Flexing his fingers to release the spasmodic contractions in his extremities also brought with it the beginning of a nasty headache. He could feel blood pumping in his temples. His neck was in a kink. Things were getting worse as sweat broke out on his upper lip. Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, he tried to control his respiration, to transfer his angst from his rapidly building rage with each passing mile. He was practically hyperventilating.
What was it about the mere thought of going home that incited such an intense physical reaction deep in his gut?
Allowing his mind to wander into the abyss of his subconscious, there must be some rationale, some plausible reason, why the thought of going home brought on the same intense reaction as thinking about the insurgents who massacred his team.
Home should equate to peace, but it didn’t.
This train of thought was totally illogical.
Why?
Prompted by the need to understand
, he dissected his memories.
Mom and Dad would worry. He was their kid. That was logical, but Mom would pity him.
Reason number one: Pity.
He was functional, for the most part. Decent balance, unless he was tired. But with exhaustion came a short temper. He’d had an occasional, uncontrollable bout of anxiety, where he literally saw red.
Reason number two: Rage and fury.
His buddies would welcome him home. Treat him normally, until the first time Jake stumbled. He’d always been the hot shot. Big man. Total athlete. Not anymore. At least, not right now. Things were coming back slowly. In time, he would probably be able to do most anything. Because he had the Cadillac of legs now, or so the prothesis tech had said, he was like the Six Million Dollar Man, they’d joked. Which was probable more like the Six Billion Dollar Man these days. Only he didn’t have the sexy tech mods to the brain. Just a scarred face. At least his injured eye worked again. But that would also mean relearning just about everything, while coping with balance, and not falling flat on his face.
Reason number three: Sympathy.
Carrie would be his stability. He never doubted that she would understand.
But…
Would she still look at him the same way? He almost chuckled at the memory of their time together while home on leave for Boomer and Erica’s wedding. It was right before the wedding started. He was complaining about how tight the neck of his shirt was, tugging on the collar until he popped the button.
Carrie’s response: “Stand still, while I sew the button back on.” When it was done, she found a rubber band and made an extension, so it wouldn’t choke as much. Then she patted his cheek and said, “Man-up, Buttercup.”
He’d snorted as she walked away, hips swaying, making his pants suddenly two sizes too small.
God, he loved her sass. She never held back.
Upon their descent, the head flight attendant recited her scripted spiel for the passengers to remain seated until the plane came to a stop.
He took a deep breath and blinked, pressing his spine into the upright seat as the pilot landed the plane. His body vibrated, his brain troubled by anxiety, and his heart palpitated with uncertainty. The uneventful non-stop flight touched down three minutes shy of five p.m. local time.
Admittedly, Jake lived in a gloomy state of mind ever since the day the physical therapist announced he was about to be released. At least when he was deep in the throes of grueling exercise, massage, and hydrotherapy, he lived for the goal for recovery. Now that he’d achieved his goal, he was lost.
Completely empty.
He was hit by an overwhelming pensive mournfulness, absorbed by reflection that for all his extensive training and skill, he now amounted to…nothing.
No future.
No passion.
No hope.
He’d been so intent on recovery that he hadn’t taken the time to figure out what he wanted to do. How was he going to support himself? This train of thought sent him into a panic.
The only emotion that comforted him was anger. His most recent experiences on the field of operation filled him with rage that Porter, Garcia, Chang, Flynn, and Mortenson would never go home to their families. Coming home in a flag draped pine box didn’t count. And now that his time in the Army was over, he flip-flopped from rage and fury to shame, making a pit-stop at regret, that he hadn’t been able to seek retribution for the loss of his men. He’d failed them.
He’d never be able to face his family if he didn’t mellow out. Instead, he tried to dig into his reliable supply of self-control, only this time he came up empty.
For all his military training, nothing prepared him for this empty, soulful pain.
Empty seemed to describe the entirety of his being.
As the plane touched down, hitting the tarmac, he tried to compartmentalize his agitation, despair, and grief before facing his family.
He shouldn’t have come home. He wasn’t ready for this.
He wouldn’t be able to cope with the looks of pity and sympathy, hovering friends and family, trying their best and failing miserably to welcome him home, as if all his pain and suffering should disappear simply because he was home. They would never understand.
Maybe he’d blow off his homecoming and head to California. For the sun and surf, he’d heard so much about. If only he could.
He’d put off coming home for as long as he could, ignoring every suggestion that perhaps he’d heal better at home.
Wrong.
Surgery was a success, but he’d spent ten days in Germany before he was stable enough to be flown back to the states. Unfortunately, his broken ankle developed an infection that had spread. And despite losing his right leg just above the knee, he was slowly coming to terms with that loss and learning to adapt.
Sixteen weeks of intense physical therapy, which included learning to walk with the aid of a prosthetic leg, was the single, most arduous and exhausting mountain he’d ever climbed. Filled with ups and downs worthy of the biggest roller coaster in the USA.
He’d seen his folks once, early on, and pleaded with them to keep Carrie away. He wasn’t ready to face her yet.
He hated that he still needed a cane for balance, but the last thing he wanted or needed was for anyone to see him falter.
The plane pulled up to the gate moments later.
Boomer promised to meet him at baggage claim.
Jake remained in his seat until the last passenger disembarked. His body was stiff. Grabbing his cane, he used it and the back of the seat in front of him to leverage himself to stand.
He carefully negotiated his way along the carpeted surface, reminding himself of all the tips and tricks he’d learned during PT, focusing on width of his foot placement, monitoring each step, searching for a comfortable, confident stride, trying his damnedest to appear natural, not to lean on the cane. Unfortunately, his leg was sore where the prosthetic socket rubbed the nubby end of his leg. His limp was pronounced.
By the time he reached the escalator, his leg was screaming, his back ached, and he was developing a tension headache. The combination of exertion and anxiety hitting him hard as the escalator delivered him to the train that traveled between the terminals. He found a seat and endured the swaying as the small train whooshed through the tunnel to the main terminal. There he followed the crowd to the escalator that dumped them out by the fountain in the main terminal. From there he followed the signs leading to yet another escalator taking him down to baggage claim at last. Probably should have requested a wheelchair as he’d forgotten about the energy sucking altitude.
When he was tired like this, his footing took extra effort. He glanced down at his feet, willing one step after another. His head was down, focusing his will, as he made his way to the baggage carousel then stilled by the vision that met him.
“Shortcake,” Jake whispered. The long-forgotten nickname burst from his lips. He was dumbfounded at the sight of Carrie. Like a shot of good whiskey, warming him from the inside out.
Carrie smiled. Her long blonde hair was curled, framing her face, as her eyes lit up, filled with unshed tears. Her bottom lip quivered.
He leaned hard on his cane, struggling for balance as his tired legs barely held him upright.
She licked her lips and let out an audible sigh, blinking rapidly while pressing her fingertips to the hollow of her throat.
They stared at one another, totally immobile.
A minute later, Carrie stepped away from the rolling cart that held his military duffel bags and took one slow step after another right into his open arms.
The feel of her in his embrace sent a jolt of electricity through him.
He was home.
The static in their touch hadn’t changed. Not even a little.
He’d forgotten how short she was, the top of her head barely met him mid-chest. He carefully bent at the waist and gave her an awkward kiss.
Carrie pulled away first wiping her eyes. She gazed up at him, a
doration radiating on her face. Her fingers covered her lips as if their kiss had singed her lips.
While he’d expected Boomer Jenkins to pick him up, he couldn’t deny how happy he was to see her. The brilliant smile she gave him reminded him of high school and the worshipful gaze she always greeted him with. His eyes opened wide, drinking every inch of her in.
He’d forgotten how green her eyes were. She was still petite, tiny even, at five feet three inches. She looked fabulous, in skinny jeans, a turquoise cotton western cut shirt, and her old cowboy boots. Her figure had changed a bit and she’d grown a woman’s curves. He couldn’t stop staring at the smattering of freckles on nose and cheeks. She was still a country girl at heart.
She eyed him up and down, settling on his camo pants as if she were studying him for injuries. Her eyes never bulged or stopped at the scars on his face.
“It’s great to see you,” Jake said.
“Hi, yourself.” Her eyes glittered. “Boomer planned to come, but Erica asked him to go to her ultrasound with her. She hasn’t been feeling well.”
“That’s right…she’s pregnant.”
Carrie held up her phone, sharing the ultrasound image. “Twins.”
“What?” He chuckled. The thought of Boomer as a father tickled him in a way he couldn’t hide. “Wow.”
Carrie’s brows drew together, her forehead furrowed. She sniffed then edged away, retrieving the cart. Adjusting her purse, she turned leading the way to her car.
Jake longed to hold her again but settled for following at a slower pace watching the gentle sway of her hips. While he hadn’t added anything to his six feet, eight inches in height, the military added fifty pounds of well-proportioned muscle.
He was met with a moment of embarrassment when he tried to get into her vehicle. He blundered clumsily, folding his bulky frame into the front seat of her medium sized SUV. His gawky, klutzy motions reminding him just how ungraceful he’d become.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. She got behind the wheel, inserted the key, and turned it.
Jake fastened his seatbelt. “You know me, I’m always hungry. Nothing’s changed in that respect.”
“Good to know.” She let out a nervous chuckle, managing a shaky nod. Her shoulders bobbed. “As you probably remember, we have a long drive. Do you want to eat here, or can you hold out for Bob’s?”
Country Wishes Page 31
