The Top Gun's Return

by Kathleen Creighton

  Remorse and helplessness overwhelmed her, and she lowered her forehead into her hand and closed her eyes. I don't know enough about this, she thought, thumb and forefinger rubbing desperate circles over her temples that didn't ease the ache behind them. Tris, I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help you. I wish I did…

  And then, as if those words did have the sort of magic fairy tales so often ascribe to them, it came to her that she did know how she might be able to help Tris. Maybe.

  She sat up straight. Yes, she thought. I'll do it. He's not gonna like it, but…too bad. Taking her pocketbook from the bottom drawer of her desk, she set it on her lap and opened it. Took out her wallet, and from it extracted a business card. Gazing at it, she drew the phone toward her, lifted the receiver and punched in a number.

  She didn't expect anyone to answer. She expected voice mail, or a recording instructing her to dial her party's extension, or press one for this or that option. Instead, after three rings, she heard a vaguely familiar voice say briskly, "Cory Pearson."

  * * *

  "It looks worse than it is," Tristan muttered, squirming under Jessie's unwavering gaze. She hadn't said a word to him, yet, just stood there in the doorway of his E.R. cubicle with her hands tucked in the pockets of her smock and looked at him. He'd expected her to be upset-angry, or crying, maybe-but as far as he could tell, she wasn't any of those things. He couldn't read her at all. Once he'd been able to, like a book. But now he couldn't. He'd have better luck trying to figure out what a stranger was thinking.

  But then, he reminded himself, that's what she was now. A stranger.

  She came toward him, her face calm…almost serene, and he found himself experiencing rather childish twinges of pique. He'd been in a motorcycle accident, for God's sake, she ought to be a little bit upset. Then he was instantly ashamed of himself. What she ought to do, he told himself, is kick your butt.

  "You look like you tried to break up a cat-fight." She reached out to carefully finger the hair back from his forehead, uncovering one of his more spectacular contusions. She examined the neat and tidy little bandages that held it together, then let the hair fall back over it. Her touch felt cool…impersonal. Something inside him squalled in protest of that, like a child with a skinned knee. "So…what happened?"

  "Ah, some idiot cut me off. Didn't have time to stop, so I opted to ditch…so to speak." His lips twitched themselves into a smile. Sort of. "Still have my flying reflexes, anyway."

  Her eyes were quiet and dark. "What shape is the bike in?"

  He made a face, as if he'd felt a twinge of pain-which he had. His brand-new bike. Jeez. "I don't know. Didn't look too bad, what I saw of it before they carted me off, anyway. Damn," he added mournfully.

  "You were lucky," she said in a shaking voice. He saw her throat move with her swallow, and remorse wrapped him in its clammy blanket.

  "I've had a hell of a lot worse," he growled, and when her eyes flicked toward him, glossy with pain, he wanted to throttle himself. He must be more shaken-up than he realized, to have said something that dumb.

  "Well," she said stiffly, "I guess I wouldn't know about that." Her mouth had a wounded look, and he felt dismal and misunderstood. She didn't have a clue what he was doing for her. What he was saving her from by not telling her how it had been for him. Probably, he thought, with a cold gray sense of futility, she never would.

  "So," he said, "when are they gonna let me out of here?"

  She took a lifting breath, like a mark of punctuation, accepting the change of subject with what he was certain was relief. Like turning our backs on the damned elephant in the room, he thought. So be it.

  "You're gonna have to ask the doctor about that," she said, cool and impersonal again, looking past him with her hands in the pockets of her smock. "They've got you scheduled for X rays…some other tests…just to make sure you haven't got any internal injuries…" And he saw the way her throat kept rippling, and how tight her mouth looked, and he realized she wasn't as unmoved as she'd tried to appear.

  His feelings for her welled up in him like a pot boiling over-nothing he could do to stop it. He called softly to her, and his voice made a gravelly sound. "Jessie-honey." He held out a hand and she hung back from him for a long, angry moment, as if touching him was about the last thing she wanted to do. "Come on, Jess-please…" his torn, wretched voice pleaded, and she gave in with a breathy whimper of defeat. As she let him take her hand he could see her fighting back tears. He reeled her in so he could get his hand around the back of her neck, then closed his eyes and with a gusty sigh, pulled her close and tucked her face into the curve of his neck and shoulder. "Honey, I'm all right…I'm okay."

  He could feel her nod. He could feel, too, the deep-down tremors that rippled through her every now and then. He rubbed the back of her neck gently, wishing he could immerse his hands in the warm, sweet-smelling softness of her hair. But she had it twisted up and fastened to the back of her head with some kind of clip, and he had to be content with savoring the velvety textures of skin and fine down on her nape, instead. "I am, you know. I'm gonna be fine," he said.

  "I know." She pulled away from him and straightened up, delicately touching at her eyes with her fingertips like someone trying not to smear mascara, though it was obvious even to him she wasn't wearing any. She took a restorative breath. "I have to get back upstairs. When they're done with you here, have somebody call me, okay? I can take off early, whenever you're ready to go home."

  "Yeah, I will." She nodded, hesitated, then leaned down to kiss him, a light, sweet brush of lips still damp and salty from tears she hadn't let him see her shed. She straightened again, and was on her way out of the cubicle when he remembered something. "Jess?" She turned, eyebrows lifted. "Don't tell Sammi June."

  Her lips curved in a way that let him know she hadn't forgiven him yet, by a long shot. "Too late," she said, on a little grace note of satisfaction, and left him.

  Tristan groaned, then settled back to endure another long day of waiting, of staring at a hospital ceiling and listening to the sounds of other people's crises. He didn't mind the pain he was in, so much; he'd learned to welcome pain for the message it carried, which was the assurance that he was still alive. In addition to that, he considered this particular pain justice, penance for the emotional pain he was causing Jess. He wished to God he could tell her he'd make it up to her, somehow, but the truth was, he didn't know how he ever could.

  Sometime later, he didn't know how much, but probably midafternoon-he'd been to X ray and then dozed some while he waited for the lab work to come back-he heard a light tapping on the glass of his cubicle. He opened his eyes, then pushed himself hastily into a more upright position.

  "God, you look awful," Cory Pearson said, pushing away from the door and coming toward him. "What did you do to yourself?"

  "Ah…shoot. Looks a lot worse than it is." Well, hell, it was a good line the first time-might as well use it again. Tristan held out a hand for Cory to shake, then winced; some of the worst cuts were on his hands and arms-probably from trying to break his fall. "What're you doing here?"

  Cory shrugged and looked guilty. "Ah, well. I was in Atlanta, actually. Taping a segment for CNN-follow-up stuff. You know-how does it feel, readjusting to life after being a POW? Since I was so close, I thought I'd-"

  "She called you, didn't she?"

  "Yeah." Cory's smile was only a little guilty. "The rest of it's true, though. About being in Atlanta-that's how I got here so quick. Your wife got me on my cell phone. And about the taping." He pulled a stool with rollers on its legs close to Tristan's bedside and sat on it. "Hell, you know, you're the one who should be doing this thing, not me. I was only there for four months. You're the one with the adjustments-make a helluva story." His eyes gleamed with a reporter's fervor.

  Tristan snorted and looked away, shifting restlessly under the blood-spotted sheet. Cory watched him in silence for a few moments, then said, "So."

  Tristan shot
him a look, anger flaring. "So what?"

  "So, how're you doing?" Tristan shrugged, and after a pause, Cory said quietly, "If you don't mind my saying so-and even if you do-you don't look like you're doing all that well."

  "For…Pete's sake," Tristan exploded, "I had a damn motorcycle accident. Some…jackass cut me off. It's got nothing to do with…anything."

  "Your wife apparently doesn't think so." Cory leaned back and laced his fingers together behind his head. "She's worried about you, you know."

  "Well, she shouldn't be."

  "So…everything's working out great for you? Everything's just…hunky-dory, is that it?"

  Tristan made an exasperated sound and jerked away from the reporter's gaze. No point in lying to this man. He could try, but they'd both know the truth. Four months or eight years, it didn't matter; this was somebody who'd been there. He knew.

  He let out a breath, but there was still a heavy weight sitting in the middle of his chest. "It will be. I just have to get back to doing what I do…you know? I'll be okay, once I get my flying status back. That's what I've been working on-getting in shape, getting my strength back. Studying…" He stopped when Cory leaned forward abruptly.

  For several seconds the reporter didn't say anything, just stared down at his hands, clasped between his knees. Then he lifted his head and as Tristan looked into those keen blue eyes, ageless and compassionate behind the rimless lenses of his glasses, he had the feeling of roles and ages flip-flopping.

  "You keep talking about going back," Cory said, his tone gentle…diffident. "Did you ever think maybe…you ought to be thinking about moving forward?"

  "I thought I was," Tristan growled.

  Cory shook his head. "No, man. Flying Tomcats-that's your past." His grin was crooked. "Hell-nobody flies Tomcats forever." Tristan didn't say anything but jerked away from that relentless blue gaze with an impatient hiss. "Well, do they?" Cory persisted. "Tell me this-if you hadn't been shot down, if you hadn't lost those eight years, you think you'd still be flying Tomcats today?"

  Tristan shifted uncomfortably and muttered, "Probably not."

  "So, what would you be doing? Think you'd have stayed in the Navy?"

  "Maybe-I don't know." He shifted again. Damn, but those cuts and scratches were starting to sting. Weren't the Chinese supposed to have invented something called the Death of a Thousand Cuts? Then he realized he was dangerously close to feeling sorry for himself, and closed his mind to the pain. "I do know I'd still be flying, though. Maybe something besides Tomcats, maybe commercially, but I'll fly as long as they'll let me. After that…maybe become a flight instructor…I haven't thought that far ahead yet." He scowled at his knees. "I'm still working on where I'm gonna live."

  "What does your wife have to say about that? I'm assuming you two have talked about it."

  "Tried to," Tristan growled. He felt a cold squeezing sensation in his chest. Cory, with a man's usual reticence about discussing personal matters, remained silent, and after a moment Tristan leaned back against the cranked-up bed and closed his eyes. "To tell you the truth, we hardly talk at all. Truth is, I don't know how to talk to her anymore." He opened his eyes and glared at the reporter, using anger to cover more humiliating emotions. "She's a stranger to me, Pearson. She's made a life here without me."

  Cory shrugged. "Did you expect her not to?"

  "No." He shifted uneasily. "No, of course not. I just don't know where I fit into it. It's like, the place where I used be isn't there anymore."

  Both men were silent, listening to the beeps and bells and voices and footsteps all around them. Then Cory drew a long breath and said, "Well, I don't think there's any doubt she loves you."

  Tristan's laugh was low and painful. "I'm not sure I'd agree with you, but even if it's true…you think that makes it easier? Because it doesn't. It only makes it worse."

  There was another silence, both companionable and difficult. Again it was Cory who broke it, leaning forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees. He began carefully, like someone entering a private space, not certain of his welcome. "What I said a minute ago-about looking to the future rather than the past? That goes for relationships, too, you know. Maybe…it's not so much that there's no place for you in her life, as you're trying to make her fit into the place she used to have in yours. And that's not going to work, because she's not the same person she used to be."

  Tristan tried to smile. "That she's not."

  "Then maybe what you need to do is work on getting to know the person she is now. I'm betting she's one helluva lady."

  Tristan's smile collapsed sideways. "Easier said than done."

  "Well, I'm no psychologist," Cory said, with a touch of exasperation, "but I'm always told talking's good. You said you two hardly talk at all." He paused, and getting no denial, added, "I'm betting you haven't told her anything, have you? About…what happened to you over there?"

  Tristan shook his head. He could feel his jaw tightening. "And I'm not going to, either. I'm not gonna lay that on her."

  "Well, you should." He held up a hand to shut off any arguments Tristan might have in mind, and to Tristan's own surprise, it worked. "And I'll tell you why. Best two reasons in the world-it's what you want, and it's what she wants."

  "Oh, for-"

  "Okay, forget you for a minute. Take Jessie. She's a nurse, right? By nature she's a mother, a nurturer, a healer. And here you are, one of the people she loves most in this world, wounded, hurt, in need of nurturing, and you-naturally, you're determined to be a hero-you won't let her. Look, she doesn't need you to be a hero. What she needs is for you to be honest with her. You think you have to protect her from the bad stuff? Forget that, man. She's tougher than you think she is. She's a woman, isn't she? Listen to me-you need to let her in. You need to tell her how bad it was. You need to cry, then let her comfort you. If you do that, maybe both of you'll be able to move on."

  He paused, and Tristan, thinking he was finished, growled, "I hope you get paid by the word."

  Cory laughed. "I wish. Look, sorry for butting in. I don't usually-unless it's family. Don't know why, but I…guess I, uh…I mean, you and I have a…" He stood up in a fidgety sort of way, clearly no more comfortable with expressing his emotions than Tristan would have been. And Tristan, who normally would have enjoyed seeing the reporter at an unprecedented loss for words, instead felt a wave of purely masculine sympathy.

  Cory started to turn away, then swiveled back, fingers to his forehead. "Look," he said, frowning, "this isn't from me-something the shrinks said. About grief? What happened to us-to you-it's like a death in the family. We've lost something precious to us-time, months, years…a piece out of our lives. We need to grieve for that…bury it, then move on."

  "Yeah," said Tristan, with an impatient wave of his hand, "they told me that, too."

  "But you haven't, have you?" Cory said softly. "You've never allowed yourself to grieve. Or Jessie, either."

  * * *

  Sammi June had been to the hospital any number of times. Normally she went in the front entrance, straight to the elevators and on up to the NICU. She'd never been in the E.R. before. She didn't even know where the bike rack was. Finally she chained hers to a handicapped parking post, and her hands shook so badly she almost couldn't get the lock snapped together.

  She was out of breath, hot and sweaty, and as she approached the E.R.'s sliding door she could see from her reflection that her face was beet red, and her hair every which way. Not that she cared. She combed her hair roughly with her fingers and gave it a shake to settle it, then strode quickly to the E.R. reception desk and gasped out, "Hi-I'm looking for my dad-Tristan Bauer?"

  The receptionist, a heavy-set young black man, consulted a chart, then pointed. "Third door."

  "Thanks." And she was already making for it, heart pounding as though she'd run all the way from her dorm instead of coasting downhill on her bicycle.

  Her thoughts weren't anything she could have related or explained,
just a jumble of guilt, fear, panic and remorse, centered on one identifiable concern: Daddy! The word screamed inside her head as she stormed through the E.R., becoming more terrified with every step, dreading what she might see beyond that door. The message her mom had left for her had said only that her dad had had an accident with his motorcycle and was in the E.R. A motorcycle accident! Oh God.

  She burst into the cubicle expecting…God knows what, something like what she'd seen on TV-beeping monitors, clanging alarms, frantic doctors…blood. Instead there was her dad, half reclining on a cranked-up gurney, one arm behind his head, relaxed…smiling. And the only blood she could see were some smears and specks on the sheet draped across his waist, and a lot of little cuts and scratches all over his face and arms. Nevertheless, momentum carried her to the bedside with a breathless, "Dad, are you-" Relief came a heartbeat later. And it was then that she noticed there was someone else there, too. Someone she recognized, and maybe the last person she'd expected to see just then. Probably ever.

  "Hey, baby girl," her dad said, stretching out his arm to her. Bemused, she let him take her hand. Shock had robbed her of her voice for the moment, and her heart had shifted into a new and unfamiliar rhythm. Thoughts tumbled into her mind like rocks in a landslide: Dad's okay! Oh God, he's here-my hair's a disaster and I'm all sweaty…I look a mess, and why do I care?

  She didn't know where she got it, the composure that allowed her to say lightly, with a cool and unruffled toss of her head, "Hey, Dad."

  "You've met Cory…"

  Manners drilled into her since birth overcame a bewildering reluctance to look at the man standing relaxed, arms folded, near the foot of the gurney. She threw a brief smile and a breathless, "Oh, sure. How're you, Mr. Pearson?" in his direction and saw his eyebrows shoot up as she turned back to her dad.

  "You didn't have to come," he said in a low, growly voice, shifting as if he felt uncomfortable on that gurney-which he probably did.