Home to Montana

by Charlotte Carter

  “Hey, Jake.” He greeted the handyman who had returned to work and was sitting at a table in the back eating his dinner. “How’s it going?”

  Jake, a man in his sixties with a deeply tanned face, touched two fingers to his forehead in a salute. “Glad to be back. Spokane is too big for me.”

  “I hear ya.” Nick grabbed a white jacket, slipped it on, then joined Hector at the prep table. He checked the orders to be filled. “We don’t look too busy yet.”

  “The rain will keep the locals away. Tourists will still come. They’ve gotta eat.”

  “Right.” Nick started on the day’s cream of chicken soup, a pretty basic recipe but a popular item on the menu. On a chilly night like tonight, they’d get lots of orders for what could be a full meal, heavy on rich cream, light on spices.

  He chopped up onions, carrots and celery, and dropped them into the pot to cook covered for a few minutes. While that was going on, he got bags of cooked, diced chicken breast from the refrigerator and broth from the pantry. As he worked, he hummed to himself.

  Jolene put up an order for blackened steak penne, shrimp alfredo and a hamburger plate. Nick started on the pasta while Hector tossed steak, shrimp and two beef patties on the grill.

  As he was working, Nick heard a distant rumble. Tensing, he glanced up. Nothing to worry about. Just the storm coming.

  He turned back to his work quickly. From the corner of his eye, he caught a reflection. Orange and red flames engulfing the room.

  Squinting, he refocused on the boiling water, the pasta simmering in the steaming bubbles. Nothing is happening. It’s only a memory. You’re safe. He touched the rubber ball in his pocket but kept on working.

  He plated the pasta, added alfredo sauce and passed the plate to Hector to add the shrimp. Then he did the same for the steak penne.

  He reached for the next order. The flames had moved. They licked at the fragile slip of paper, scorching the corners.

  It’s not real, Carbini. There is no fire!

  His hand trembling, he grabbed the order. He didn’t get burned. Everything was okay.

  Another rumble echoed outside.

  An order for two bowls of chicken soup. Nick plucked up soup bowls from a stack behind him. He dipped the ladle into the pot. His vision blurred. Scenes from the past reappeared. The soup in the ladle seemed to change from creamy to blood red.

  A scream lodged in his throat.

  He dropped the ladle onto the counter. It rolled off onto the floor, spilling a red liquid that spread like blood over the tile floor. Screams. Dying. Dead.

  A flash as bright as a floodlight lit the kitchen. The roar of a cannon followed on its heels. Alisa arrived to pick up the steak, shrimp and burger order. She put the dishes on a tray and hefted it on her shoulder.

  Then another flash. Another boom. The lights went out.

  In that last flash, Nick was transported back to Afghanistan and the outlying post which had been attacked.

  “Incoming fire!” he screamed. “Down everybody. Get down!”

  In the darkness, he saw the figure of one of his buddies. Still standing.

  “Get down, Hank!” He dove for his friend. Knocked him down. Metal crashed around them. Dishes shattered. Burning chunks struck Nick’s back. Ripped into his leg. Hank screamed, a high, shrill sound of pain. He’d been hurt. Dear God in heaven, don’t let him die!

  Hands grabbed him from behind. Insurgent hands. He fought the intruders but he wasn’t going to let go of Hank. Don’t die, Hank. Don’t die!

  * * *

  After Nick tackled Alisa, sending the tray of orders flying, she screamed and struggled with him on top of her. Protecting her? But from what? The storm had knocked out the electricity. Nobody was going to die. Who on earth was Hank?

  “Let go of me, Nick! Let go!”

  “Keep down,” he ordered. “They’ve overrun the defenses.”

  “Who’s overrun what defenses?” She tried to flip him off of her body, but he held on tight. Too tight.

  In the light from the emergency lamps, everything was cast an eerie shadows, turning ordinary objects into unfamiliar shapes. The blue-red glow of burners on the stove. Figures moving. Hector trying to pull Nick off of her.

  “I’ve got you, Hank. Keep your head down.” Nick shouted.

  “Nick! What’s happening?”

  “He’s gone crazy, Miz Alisa,” Hector cried. “I can’t hold him.”

  “Let go of me,” Alisa repeated.

  Her heart thundered in her chest. She fought back a building panic. “Someone get a flashlight.”

  Moments later, a tunnel of light swept the room and landed on Alisa. She squinted. Jolene had come to their rescue.

  Alisa and Nick were a tangle of arms and legs, laying on the floor amid broken dishes and spilled food. Hector was trying to drag Nick away from the pile. When she wiped her hand across her forehead, she felt blood oozing from a cut.

  Jolene stepped into the middle of the melee. “Nick! Let go of Alisa. What’s gotten into you?”

  “Get down! The insurgents are overrunning the camp!” His eyes were wide and wild, black as coal. “Has anybody got a gun? They’re coming in the kitchen! Stop them!” A thunder clap shook the diner. “Grenade launchers. Get down!”

  His flailing arm grazed Jolene’s cheek.

  Alisa feared for her safety and for Jolene’s. It tasted bitter in her mouth. Knotted in her stomach. Weakened her knees. The reality of Nick’s hallucination, the cause, slammed into her chest, taking her breath away.

  “Nick. Look at me! I’m Alisa.” She clamped her hands around his face. Creamy chicken soup had splashed all over him. Bits of wet pasta were stuck in his hair. “You’re in Bear Lake. You’re home. Not Afghanistan. You’re safe. No one’s trying to hurt you.”

  His thrashing slowed. He looked at her but without recognition.

  “Let me go, Nick. I’m all right.”

  He relaxed his grip. Alisa sat up. Hector backed away.

  “That’s good, Nick. You’re going to be fine now.” Tentatively, she brushed the pasta from his hair.

  “Hank?” His voice sounded bewildered. On the verge of tears.

  She swallowed hard. “Hank’s not here. You don’t have to protect him anymore.”

  “Hank’s my friend. He wanted to be a chef. Like me.” Nick sat up, his knee bent. Looked around the darkened kitchen.

  Whatever had happened in Afghanistan, Nick’s wounds went far deeper than a titanium rod and a few screws in his damaged leg. They went soul deep.

  “I know Hank’s your friend. You took care of him as best you could. You were trying to keep me safe, too.”

  He shook his head. “No! I let him down. There was blood everywhere. I couldn’t stop the bleeding.”

  “Shh, now,” she crooned as she would to Greg if he’d been hurt. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “Nooo,” he sobbed, burying his head on his arm that he’d braced on his bent knee. His back shook as he made a terrible keening sound that sliced through Alisa’s heart.

  The overhead lights flickered then came fully on. Alisa looked around and found Hector standing nearby, his face pale.

  “I don’t know what happened. The lightning, thunder. The power went off.” Hector shrugged helplessly. “Nick, he went a little crazy, I think.”

  More than a little, Alisa suspected. The memories that must have haunted him since the day he was wounded had flooded his brain with remembered terror. For Nick, the sudden darkness, the sounds of the storm, had been as real as though on a battlefield.

  Jolene handed Alisa a towel, and she held it to her forehead. A red mark had appeared on Jolene’s cheek. “Are you hurt?” Alisa asked.

  “I don’t think he meant to hurt me. It was just a wild swing.
”

  Continuing to stroke the back of Nick’s head, Alisa nodded. “He was trying to help his best friend in Afghanistan. I think he lost him in the war.”

  Alisa tried to think of what she should do first. “Hector, could you get the burners turned off and clean up this mess? We’re going to have to close.”

  She glanced toward the swinging door where Tricia, a high school senior who worked part-time as a waitress, was standing looking aghast.

  “Tricia, I need you to ask everyone out front to leave and lock up after them. Doggie bag whatever they want and no charge for any of the meals. Tell them there’s been an accident in the kitchen.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” After one last troubled look, Tricia turned to do as she’d been asked.

  “Jolene, you’re shaking. I want you to call your husband to pick you up. I don’t want you driving home alone. Then would you please call Pastor Walker. Ask him if he could come over.” She knew the pastor did some counseling at the VA clinic at Kalispell. Surely he’d know what to do.

  Alisa hooked her arm under Nick’s. “Come on, Nick. I’m going to take you upstairs. Get you cleaned up.”

  With an effort, he got to his feet. He shrugged her off like a drunk who wouldn’t listen to reason, insisting he was all right to drive.

  “I’m okay.” Unsteady, he backed away. His gaze darted around the kitchen as though he wasn’t sure where he was. “I don’t need any help. Leave me alone.” He backed all the way to the door, pushed it open and stepped out into the steadily falling rain.

  Alisa followed him as far as the door. She watched him walk through the rain, still wearing his white chef’s jacket, to the motel and climb the stairs. A moment later, the light came on in his room.

  “Oh, Nick. Why didn’t you tell me how troubled you really are?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nick woke to a blistering headache, a mouth that tasted like burned feathers and a whining dog.

  He opened one eye. Rags stared back at him, his eyes filled with accusation.

  “What’s wrong?” His voice slurred. He hadn’t been having a nightmare. Rags would’ve been up in his face licking him silly if that was the case.

  Rags whined again.

  Slowly, Nick realized it was light outside. Morning. He was lying on top of the bed, fully clothed. With his white chef’s jacket still on. And he didn’t remember how he got there.

  With an effort, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, planting his feet on the floor. He speared his fingers through his hair. Crazy images popped staccato fashion into his head, making the throbbing ache even worse: incoming rocket shells, Hank screaming, Alisa bleeding.

  Rags went to the door and scratched it.

  Someone knocked loudly enough that it made his headache worse.

  He groaned. Unless the place was burning down, he didn’t want to know who was on the other side of the door.

  Whoever it was knocked again. “Nick, are you all right?”

  Alisa. What could she want so early in the day? Why had he seen her bleeding? A dream. It had to have been a dream.

  He staggered across the room and opened the door a crack. He squinted into the bright sunlight.

  “What’d you want?”

  “I was just checking to see if you were okay.”

  Except for the mother of all hangovers, he was fine.

  His thoughts stumbled to a stop. He hadn’t been drinking. There wasn’t an ounce of booze in his room, and he sure hadn’t gone out in that storm last night.

  “Hang on a minute.” He started to close the door, but she pushed it open.

  Rags zipped out past her and ran down the stairs, his escape urgent.

  “You slept in your clothes?” Alisa asked.

  That seemed pretty obvious. It wasn’t like he was dressed to go to work, not in this wrinkled mess. “I’ve gotta throw some water in my face.”

  In the bathroom, he locked the door. The water revived him to a point. But when he looked in the mirror, he saw a stranger. Heavy five-o’clock shadow. Red-rimmed eyes with dark rings beneath them. Hair that looked like someone had taken an egg beater to him.

  That’s pretty much how he felt all over.

  He ran a brush through his hair. Gargled some mouthwash. Yanked off the white jacket and tossed it aside. For the moment, that was the best he could do.

  Alisa was still standing in the middle of the room, the door wide open. In the sunlight, he noticed a bandage on her forehead. His stomach lurched.

  “What happened to you?” he asked.

  “It’s nothing.” She touched the bandage with her fingertips. “I was worried about you when you didn’t come in for breakfast.”

  He glanced at his watch. After eight o’clock. He must have slept like the dead.

  Images hopped-skipped through his head. Not Afghanistan. Here. The picnic. The race back home through wind-chopped waves. Starting the prep for dinner. Lightning. Thunder like the sound of a howitzer.

  Memories slid into place. Explosions. Screaming. Blood.

  Stumbling, he sat down hard on the end of the bed. “What did I do?”

  “My guess is you had a really bad flashback.”

  “I hit you?” No, he couldn’t have done that. He wouldn’t have hit her.

  “No, you tried to save me just liked you tried to save your friend Hank. The cut’s from a broken piece of dinnerware. It’s not your fault.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  He buried his head in his hands. His worst nightmare. He’d been awake, yet the memories had driven him back to Afghanistan. He’d lost Hank all over again. His buddy’s blood all over his hands. Blood and gore all around him. The rebels pounding the outpost with rocket-launched grenades and small arms fire. Turning his kitchen into a killing field.

  Except this time Alisa had been the one injured.

  He caught Alisa’s floral scent, which brought him back to the present. She stroked the back of his head just as she’d caressed him last night. Soothed him. After he’d wrestled her violently to the floor. He’d vowed he would never be like his father. He’d never hurt a woman. Now he’d broken his own sacred promise.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had PTSD?” She asked so softly, pain in her voice, that he could barely hear her.

  He swallowed the boulders of guilt and regret. They went down hard. “There isn’t anything you can do about it.”

  “I called Pastor Walker last night. He came over but you wouldn’t open the door. You told him to go away.”

  Nick didn’t remember that. He didn’t want to talk to the pastor. Or anyone else.

  “He says you need to talk to someone. You can call him anytime. He has helped other veterans. Or you can talk to me. I’ll listen, Nick.” Her voice trembled. “Let me help you.”

  “No.” He shot to his feet. “I’ve already hurt you once. You don’t want to be anywhere near me. I could lose control again. You aren’t safe around me. No one is.”

  “That’s not true, Nick.” She reached for him. “You were being a hero, in Afghanistan and last night. It’s your nature.”

  He turned her away from him. Pushed her toward the open door just as Rags trotted back into the room.

  “Get out, Alisa. Leave me alone. No one can help me. I’m no hero. I’m dangerous.” He closed the door behind her.

  Slowly he slid to the floor and curled up in a fetal position. God help him, he wanted to die. He should have died in Afghanistan with his men. Why hadn’t God taken him too?

  Rags nudged him with his cold nose and licked his face. This time it didn’t rouse Nick from the waking nightmare that had dogged him all the way from a tiny outpost in a barren land to Bear Lake where his journey had begun.

  * * *

  Back at the dine
r, Alisa sat down alone at the old duffers’ booth. She stared at the jigsaw puzzle. An English castle with crenellation on the battlement wall, parapets, arrow slits, a raised drawbridge over a moat.

  That was like Nick, she reasoned. His pain was so great, he hid behind the battlements only occasionally allowing a glimpse of himself through a small arrow slit. Even when he let down his defenses, he admitted no one to the castle keep. Or to his heart.

  A long siege was the one option that might succeed in getting him to lower the drawbridge. But Nick was too clever. He had a history of moving on before anyone could breach all the barriers he had erected.

  This time would be no different.

  She selected a puzzle piece, an iron-tipped spike in the portcullis meant to impale an enemy foolish enough to attack the castle, and slipped it into place. She could almost feel the spike being driven through her heart.

  Ever since Nick arrived, she’d been building castles in the sky. Now the mortar was crumbling as she’d always known it would.

  “Oh, Nick...” She covered her mouth with her hand. Please don’t hide in the castle keep. Let me in past the fortress you’ve built around yourself.

  Jolene, wearing street clothes, sat down opposite her. The bruise on her cheek had turned blue.

  Alisa frowned. “You’re not working the morning shift, are you?”

  “I came in to find out how Nick is. And you.”

  Shaking her head, Alisa said, “I went to his room. He looks terrible.”

  “What happened wasn’t that big a deal. Anybody can lose it sometimes.”

  “I don’t think he feels that way about his flashbacks.”

  Jolene reached across the table to take Alisa’s hand.

  “You’ve fallen hard for him, haven’t you?”

  “Once a fool, always a fool.”

  “You’re no fool, honey. And neither is Nick. There’s more between you two than you give yourself credit for. He’s crazy about you. Anybody can see that.”

  “I’m not so sure he can, and I’m scared to death he’s going to leave. Become a drifter again.” No telling how far he’d run this time, but Alisa knew if he left, he’d never come back. In time, she might be able to bear the pain. But what about Greg? Would he ever recover from such a loss?