by Lori Wilde
The enemy.
His stomach roiled and he had to pull over the truck and empty his stomach. He bent double, an animal moan rolling from his throat. He leaned against the truck, wiped his mouth, wiped his eyes with a sleeve.
This anguish he felt was about much more than the tablet incident. It was about the men who’d lost their lives on that desert ridge amid sheets of gunfire and rocket propelled grenades. It was about the finger that had been blown from his hand. The shrapnel that had embedded in his throat. It was about his sister and her madness and his inability to change any of it.
Hutch stared down at his hands. They were the hands of a killer. This was in his nature. The way he’d been trained. The Unit believed there were very few world problems that couldn’t be solved with a well-placed bullet or a high explosive, and he’d bought into that mindset. He had no choice. It was part and parcel of being a counter-terrorist operative.
No wonder Jane had been terrified of him. He was capable of terrible things. But he would never ever intentionally hurt her or the kids. He’d take himself off the face of the earth first.
The scars on the backs of his knuckles were healing, but they were reminders of the anger he did not fully have under control. He’d been trying to stem his emotions on his own, but it wasn’t working. Teamwork had been instilled into him from his first days at boot camp, all through Ranger training, to his schooling in The Unit. Instilled? Hardly. The concept that he was part of a team, and no longer an “I,” had been drilled home with the impact of a pile driver. Teamwork. Every other word he heard. Teamwork. Teamwork. Teamwork. Never go it alone.
He’d been trying to tackle this alone. That’s where he’d been stumbling. That’s why he’d failed. Teamwork. He’d lost his team, and with that loss, he’d forgotten the most basic military tenet. Teamwork.
He needed help.
Suddenly, he looked over and saw the Twilight Fire Department across the street from where he’d parked. His gaze traveled to the men loading toys into an enclosed trailer. Men he recognized. Hondo. Nate. Gideon.
The men who’d reached out to him.
Had his subconscious mind, desperately in need, driven him here?
They were loading the truck with toys that people had brought to the fire station for the annual Angel Tree distribution for needy families in Hood County.
Hondo stopped, met his eye. Nate stopped beside him. Then Gideon. They all raised a hand in greeting.
Gathering up his Magic Slate, his truck keys, and his shattered pride, Hutch crossed over to his salvation.
The children were inconsolable over Hutch’s absence. For the entire weekend, they moped around the house, not even tempted by the game console when she told them they could play video games for thirty minutes.
Honestly, Meredith missed him too. She’d grown accustomed to having him there, not just for helping her take care of the children, but for the comfortable camaraderie they shared over household chores. She missed knowing there was a man in the house who could protect them. She missed the masculine smell of him and the way he looked at her as if she were something truly special.
Hutch was only human. He’d made a mistake, but she was leery. She’d been through too much to take chances. She’d set boundaries. Made it clear from the beginning what her rules were. He’d broken them, and she was well within her rights to throw him out.
He broke a rule when he touched you, danced with you, and that didn’t bother you.
Okay, call her two-faced for enforcing the rules with negative consequences while letting rule violations with pleasant results slide.
How much of an anger issue did Hutch have? Could she in good conscience let him back into the house?
Was she painting him with a dark brush because of her experiences with Sloane? Was she being unfair or smart? Her mind, the useless thing, waffled.
“First Mommy goes away and now Unca Hutch.” Kimmie sighed mournfully as Meredith tucked her into bed beside her on Sunday night. “You won’t go away too, will you, Auntie Jane?”
“Her name’s Mommy,” Ben said from the other side of the bed.
“Can I call you Mommy too?” Kimmie asked. “At least till my mommy comes back.”
“Yes.” Meredith kissed the top of Kimmie’s head. Oh, Ashley, where in the hell are you?
After the children fell asleep, Meredith couldn’t sleep. She got out of bed and tried to call Ashley, as she had several times a day since Ashley had taken off to Mexico. And as it had every time, the call went to voice mail.
“Hi, if you’re someone good, leave a message,” said Ashley’s gleeful recorded voice. “If not, you can go to hell.”
Meredith had heard that message a hundred times over the course of the last two weeks, and while she’d found it off-putting, it hadn’t really dawned on her that this message showcased Ashley’s personality disorder and the way that sufferers of the malady divided the world into good or bad, black or white, angel or devil. She couldn’t help wondering if she had somehow crossed over Ashley’s internal delineation from good to evil.
When the woman finally did decide to come home, she was going to talk to Hutch about staging an intervention. Clearly, his sister needed professional help, and Kimmie deserved to grow up with a mentally stable mother. Since Hutch had told her about Ashley’s diagnosis, she’d done some research, and while therapy was expensive and intensive, if someone with the disorder was fully devoted to recovery, there was a chance she could beat it.
“Ashley,” she said. “This is Meredith. If you get this message, please, please, please call me.”
She hung up, feeling worse than she did before she called. Pacing the house, she wondered where Hutch was spending the night. She had overreacted. Making him pay for her troubled past.
Gnawing her thumbnail, she picked up her phone again and called Caitlyn Garza. Caitlyn answered on the third ring, just about the time Meredith had decided she was intruding and almost hung up.
“This is Mer—Jane Brown,” she finished quickly. “Did I wake you?”
“We have a toddler in the house.” Caitlyn laughed. “I’m rarely asleep. I was just putting a clean diaper on the baby and Gideon is at a veterans’ support group meeting.”
“He still goes after all this time?”
“Oh, he’s a group leader now. Helping other GIs in the same shape as he once was. Like your Hutch.”
He’s not my Hutch, Meredith started to protest, but let it go. “I wish Hutch would go to Gideon’s support group.”
“He’s there right now.” The other woman sounded surprised. “You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“Oops. I hope I didn’t give away something Hutch wanted to keep quiet. I just assumed he’d told you.”
Meredith said nothing for a long moment. How frank should she be?
“Are you still there?”
“I threw him out of the house,” Meredith confessed.
“Hutch? What did he do?”
“It’s nothing like what happened with Gideon. In fact, I worried that I made a mountain out of a molehill.” Slowly, she told Caitlyn what had happened.
“You’ve had a bad experience with an abusive man before, haven’t you?” Caitlyn ventured.
“How did you know?”
“I just got that vibe from you.”
She was giving off vibes? Meredith pulled her bottom lip up between her teeth. “So, was I out of line?”
“Did you feel threatened?”
Had she? “I didn’t think Hutch was going to physically harm me. It was more like I had flashbacks to before, you know?”
“You could have some PTSD yourself.”
Yes. Dr. Lily had treated her for PTSD and she thought she’d gotten past it, but when Hutch had lost his temper, she’d been jettisoned right back to that day when Sloane hit her the first time.
“I didn’t stay with him long,” Meredith said. “I want you to know I’m not a doormat.”
“I’m not judgi
ng.” Caitlyn’s voice was gentle.
“I was naïve. I thought I could change him. I thought—”
“You don’t have to justify yourself to me. Does Hutch know about this other man who hurt you?” Caitlyn asked.
“No,” Meredith admitted. “I can’t believe I’m telling you all this.”
“It’s okay,” Caitlyn assured her. “What you tell me goes no farther. I won’t even bring it up with Gideon. Thank you for trusting me with this.”
“I had to talk to someone.”
It was true. She’d had no one to confide in since Sloane had murdered Dr. Lily. She’d been terrified to drag anyone else into her torment for fear they would suffer the same fate. But Caitlyn had been so sympathetic and she understood what was happening with Hutch.
“I’m flattered you chose me.”
They made a date to meet for coffee the following week and hung up.
So Hutch was attending a support group. That was good news. A step in the right direction. Meredith smiled, and hope filled her heart. He was getting help. She was happy for him. And Kimmie.
Her cell phone dinged as a new text message came through. Could it be from Ashley?
No, the text came from Hutch’s phone.
It was a long text, meant to be a letter, but the server had broken it down into four text bubbles.
Dear Jane,
I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for flinging the slate at the wall. I never intended to throw it that hard. I’m still adjusting to life without an index finger and having trouble gauging distance and how much force to use. But I won’t make excuses. I was angry when I tossed that slate. Not at you. But at Ashley and at myself and I took it out on you. It was wrong, stupid, and immature, and you didn’t deserve any of that grief. My anger hurt you, and for that I am deeply sorry.
It kills me to see you and the children unhappy because of my actions. When our arrangement began I promised I would not display anger in front of you and the children, and I failed to live up to that promise. I failed both of us.
I know an apology is not enough. Anyone can say they are sorry, but I want to make amends. I’ve taken the first steps to getting my anger under control. I’ve joined a support group of local veterans and even though I can’t verbally share with them what I’m going through, I’m getting a lot out of the meetings.
I understand the gravity of the situation and I hope, for the sake of the children, that you can find it in your heart to forgive me and allow me to come back home. If you can’t bring yourself to do that, I understand completely. You deserve to live in a peaceful, harmonious house. Please text me if you’re willing to see me.
Hutch
She read the letter through twice. Sank down on the couch. Should she say no and keep him at arm’s length? Or should she give him another chance? It was his house, after all. Legally, he could have her thrown out if he wanted.
For a long time, she just sat there, practicing a variety of controlled yoga breathing and getting in touch with her inner voice.
Finally, she picked up her cell phone and texted Hutch.
I’m taking the kids to see Santa on the square tomorrow at three. You can come along if you want.
Nervous to the core, Hutch paced the town square, waiting for Jane to show up with the kids. To keep himself occupied, he got change for a ten-dollar bill at Ye Olde Book Nook and, pockets jingling, prowled the surrounding parking lots, feeding meters to benefit holiday shoppers, hoping to bring a smile to a few faces for the holidays.
By now, most everyone in town had heard that he’d lost his voice, so whenever someone stopped to say hello, the women would invariably touch him on the arm, while the men favored a light punch to his shoulder. The first thing out of their mouths was some version of “We heard what happened to your voice, we’re so sorry for what happened to you over there. Thank you for your service. You’re a true American hero.”
That last comment got him every time. He was no hero. In fact, he was the opposite of that. He was a killer. When he joined the military, he believed in shiny ideals of bravery, honor, and protecting his country from foreign invaders. It was only when his boots were on the ground in someone else’s country he realized that he was the foreign invader. In the heat of battle, philosophical arguments vanished, and it was all about survival. Heroism didn’t enter into it. Neither did honor or bravery. It was simply kill or be killed. Fact of life for anyone living in a war zone, no matter what side he was fighting for.
It was only later, when a fighter tried to integrate back into society, that the implications of his actions came back to haunt him. In Gideon’s support group, he’d learned everyone felt the same way he did. That they weren’t heroes, because they’d done bad things in order to survive. It was the psychological disconnect between how others saw them and how warriors saw themselves.
Forgiveness, Gideon told him, was his only hope.
Gideon had also given him an assignment. Go out among people wearing fatigues. Accept their praise. Accept his feelings about it. Don’t judge either as bad or good. Experience the feelings and let them go.
The minivan pulled into a parallel parking space at the curb on the north side of the courthouse. Hutch was standing on the west side of the square, having anticipated she would come into town off Highway 51. She must not have come straight from home.
He hustled around the square, hurrying to greet them. It wasn’t until Jane—wearing leggings, boots, short denim skirt, and gray faux fur jacket—got out of the vehicle, met his gaze, and smiled that Hutch realized he’d been holding his breath.
The kids got out of the vehicle on the curbside of the street and ran toward him.
He crouched to catch one kid in each arm and accepted the dual kisses they rained on his cheeks. In that moment, hell if he didn’t feel like a hero. Three days he’d been gone from the house. It felt like three years.
“Aww,” said one passerby to another. “Isn’t that sweet. A daddy coming home from the war to see his twins for Christmas.”
Even if he could speak, he wouldn’t have corrected their assumptions.
Jane stepped up onto the sidewalk. The smile stayed on her face, simmering like hot soup on a cold winter evening. “Hello.”
He stood, both kids slipping their mittened hands through his. He smiled back, hoping he didn’t look as shy and awkward as he felt.
She led the way across the street to Santa’s Workshop set up on the courthouse lawn. A long line of children, waiting with their parents, snaked up the walkway. Nearby kiosks sold hot chocolate and roasted nuts. The smell of pine, and peppermint filled the air. An outdoor speaker played “Jingle Bell Rock.”
The children clung to his hands, chattering nonstop. Kimmie told Hutch about a picture she’d drawn for him, while Ben talked about the coolness of Thomas the Train.
Jane stopped at the end of the line. Hutch and the children came to stand behind her. She smelled of yeast and vanilla, as if she’d spent the morning baking.
Seemingly reading his thoughts, she said, “No one booked a massage for today. At the beginning of December, my schedule is jam-packed, everyone wants to de-stress before the holidays, but things are slowing down the closer we get to Christmas. So we’ve been baking stollen. My grandmother used to bake it every year.”
It was the first time he’d ever heard her mention anything personal about her family. He wanted to ask a million questions. Was her grandmother still alive? How about her parents? If so, what did they do for a living? Was she going to visit them for the holidays? Would they come here to visit her?
He wanted to tell her things too. Like one of the few things he remembered about his mother’s mother, who’d died when he was eight, was that she made fruitcakes every year and he loved to steal the candied citron from the ingredients she stacked on the kitchen counter. She never scolded him for it, and in fact, she was the one who first showed him how to cook. How much he missed her when she died because there was no longer anyone to
shield him and Ashley from their mother.
Hutch wanted to tell Jane how pretty she was, how he appreciated her help with Kimmie. And he wanted to ask her what she most wanted for Christmas and where she saw herself ending up a year from now.
But even if he could speak, Hutch wouldn’t have asked her these things. He was on shaky ground with her and he didn’t want to do anything that might tilt the balance out of his favor.
“I’m worried,” she whispered, leaning in so close that her breath warmed his ear, “that Kimmie is going to ask Santa to bring her mommy home for Christmas. She’s stopped asking about Ashley, but I know she’s still longing for her mother.”
Hutch shook his head. He hated what his sister was doing to her daughter. When Ashley got home, he was going to lay down the law. Either she agreed to treatment for her personality disorder or he was going to take her to court to get custody of Kimmie. On his own, he had little chance of gaining custody of his niece, but with Jane’s testimony, he stood a fighting chance.
Would Jane agree to testify in his behalf if he did go for custody?
It was a battle he wasn’t really ready to think about yet.
Kimmie sneezed. Jane dug a small package of tissues from her purse and passed one to her.
“Thank you, Mommy,” Kimmie said.
Jane shot him a meaningful look over his niece’s head.
The sky was overcast with temperatures in the mid-forties, nippy with a slight breeze coming in off Lake Twilight, but not uncomfortably so. Jesse and Flynn stood ahead of them in line with their daughter, Grace. They waved and the women called out to each other, having a conversation about something called Kismet cookies.
“Are you comin’ back home, Unca Hutch?” Kimmie asked.
He didn’t know what to tell her, so he took the easy way out and flagged down a passing vendor pushing a popcorn chart and bought two small bags of caramel popcorn for the kids.
Jane gave him a chiding look. “It’ll spoil their dinner.”
Sheepishly, he shrugged.
At the entrance to Santa’s Workshop, half a dozen elves greeted them, putting plastic candy cane garlands around their necks and ushering them inside the plywood building painted to look like the North Pole. Inside was Santa’s sleigh being pulled by nine animated, talking reindeer, Rudolph in the lead with his shiny red nose.
