One Year Home

by Marie Force

  “See you soon.”

  “Safe travels.” I no sooner end that call when my work phone rings with the tone I programmed in for my boss, Marcie. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “That’s what I want to know. How was the meeting with Captain West?”

  “It was good. He signed the retainer. I’ll be meeting with him again soon to start prepping him. That’s going to take some doing.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s a little… rough around the edges, you could say. It’s going to take some coaching to make him ready. I’ll start booking him toward the end of next week so we have a little time to get him ready.”

  “Should I send reinforcements? If he needs media coaching, we might want to go with an expert.”

  “I don’t think he’d welcome that. He’s barely tolerating me.”

  “He sounds like a real winner.”

  I immediately feel defensive of a man I didn’t know before this morning. “He’s been through a lot, Marcie. More than most people realize.”

  “What does that mean?”

  This is where things get dicey. She has no idea that my new sister-in-law is John’s ex. No one knows about Ava, and if I have my way, no one ever will. Marcie knows only that I was brought in by a referral from a friend of the captain’s. She never asked me who the friend was, and I didn’t volunteer the information.

  Do I really need to spell this out for her? Apparently, I do. “In addition to being deployed for nearly six years, he lost his leg and his two closest friends in the raid, not to mention he’s lost his anonymity since the video was released. It’s a lot on top of a lot.”

  “I’m concerned about you being able to handle a situation of this magnitude on your own, Julianne.”

  “I appreciate the concern, but I’ve got it covered, and I’ll ask for help if I need it.”

  “Please do. I don’t need any unpleasant surprises on something this high profile.” In the background, I can hear her crunching on Tums. She eats them like candy, while the rest of us speculate on how long it’ll be before she suffers a heart attack or stroke. The woman is stress personified, and it’s actually a relief to be on the other side of the country from her for a while. Being around her stresses me out.

  My stomach aches the way it almost always does when I talk to her. “Captain West’s assistant is calling me. I need to take this.”

  “Go ahead and keep me posted.”

  “Will do.”

  I end the call and take a series of deep breaths to decompress from talking to her. She makes me crazy. When I told her I was referred by a friend to Captain West, her mouth fell open in shock. She tried to convince me to pass the referral to one of our more senior staffers, but I insisted on handling it myself.

  Am I in way over my head with this situation? No question. Am I determined to pull off a huge success for myself and my firm? Absolutely.

  Now I just have to get my cranky client to get with the program.

  Chapter Four

  JOHN

  I never had nightmares before the raid. Now I have them almost every night. I wake up in a cold sweat after reliving the horror of watching Tito and Jonesy get gunned down. I don’t dream about my own injury. I dream about the two men who were by my side for years. We survived SEAL training and celebrated holidays together when we were on duty.

  Losing one of them would’ve been horrific. Losing them both is unbearable.

  My eyes burn with unshed tears that I don’t dare give in to out of fear that once I start, I’ll never stop the flood. Tito. Jonesy. Ava. The only three people I’ve ever truly loved are gone, and the pit of emptiness gnaws at me like an empty belly that won’t be satisfied by all the food in the world.

  I’ve never felt so alone, and for someone who spent most of his life alone, that’s saying something.

  I sit up and swing my legs toward the side of the bed. Every single time, I have to remind myself that my left leg is gone. I reach for the prosthesis and fumble my way through putting it on so I can get up and take a leak without relying on the crutches.

  I lied to Julianne yesterday. I have no business going on a press junket when I’m still trying to regain my strength. The most basic things are a huge struggle for me. But I want it done. I want to do whatever I have to in order to retire and return to a life of anonymity. So I’m going along with her and the demands from my chain of command with that one goal in mind.

  I’ve graduated from physical therapy. They’ve done what they can for me, and the rest, as they said, is going to take time. My doctor told me it could take a year to fully recover from the infection that nearly killed me. At least I’ve gotten to the point where I can bear the prosthesis and can put weight on it without excruciating pain from the stump. Due to pervasive weakness, I continue to use the crutches so I won’t fall and make everything worse. Losing my leg would’ve been bad enough, but the infection that led to thirty days immobile in a hospital bed made everything a thousand times worse.

  I pull myself up, take a minute to make sure I won’t fall over and then make my way slowly and carefully to the bathroom and then to the kitchen for ice water that I drink standing by the fridge. Carrying it would require having a hand available, which I don’t. Muncie got me a water bottle with a handle, but that’s in the bedroom, and it would take too much effort to get it. So I drink the water before moving to the recliner in the living room. I turn on the TV, looking for something mindless to help pass the time until dawn.

  This has become my routine since the nightmares started. Once I’m awake, there’s no going back to sleep, so I don’t bother to try anymore.

  I yearn for Ava. I can’t think about where she is or what she might be doing with her new husband, so I force myself to remember how she was with me the way I did during the six years of my deployment. I thought of her constantly then, and it’s a tough habit to break now that I’m not allowed to think about her that way anymore.

  She’s married. Maybe if I keep repeating those words to myself over and over again, I’ll finally get my head around the fact that she actually married someone else.

  What the hell did I expect her to do anyway? Sit around and wait for me forever? She did that for five years before she couldn’t do it anymore. More than almost anything else, that detail breaks my heart all over again. At the four-and-a-half-year mark, we’d nearly gotten Al Khad. We’d been this close, closer than we’d ever been up to that point, before he somehow got away from us again, leading to another six months of chasing our tails before we finally found and captured him.

  If only we’d gotten him that first time. I would’ve been home before Ava’s self-imposed five-year deadline, and she never would’ve met Eric. She’d be right here with me where she’s supposed to be—that is, if she chose to forgive me for the ordeal I’d put her through.

  I wish there was a pill I could take to redirect my thoughts from things that can’t ever be again. I harbor no illusions that Ava is going to wake up one day and suddenly decide she married the wrong guy. He was there for her when I wasn’t. I want to hate him for that, but how can I? It’s the truth, even if I’d give anything to have a different outcome.

  If only the doctors could’ve given me a timeline on how long it will take to get over the emotional wounds. Something tells me that’ll take a hell of a lot longer than the physical recovery.

  I find an old episode of Frasier and force myself to pay attention to the show, hoping the stuffy Crane brothers can help drown out the voices inside my head. I actually laugh a couple of times, which I take as a good sign that maybe there’s hope for me yet. As one episode becomes two and then three, I find my thoughts wandering to Julianne Tilden.

  I tell myself it’s better to think about her than Ava, but is it really? She’s Ava’s new sister-in-law, which is a little too close for comfort, if you ask me. But Ava assured me that Julianne is excellent at what she does and a really nice person, too. What was I supposed to say? No, don't send me your new sist
er-in-law? I need the help that Julianne will provide, and since Ava herself is unable—and most likely unwilling—to do the job, her recommendation of Julianne is the next best thing.

  I’m not so heartbroken that I failed to notice that my new publicist is gorgeous in a cool, patrician sort of way. She reminds me of the women who were married to the admirals. Like them, she was impeccably turned out with every blonde hair in place and makeup so artfully applied it appeared she wasn’t wearing any. Not only is she beautiful, but she’s also smart and efficient and committed to her work, qualities she shares with Ava. I remember Ava telling me about the clients she worked with and how much she loved helping them create a message that resonates with people.

  And I’m back to Ava…

  I really wish there was something I could do, perhaps a séance or a lobotomy or electric shock therapy, anything that would redirect my thoughts. If I believed any of those things would help, I’d do them in a hot second to get some relief from the painful memories that plague me.

  I force myself to pay attention to the TV and watch a few more episodes of Frasier, giving thanks for the talented actors who capture my attention and keep it for a few hours. The next thing I know, sunlight is streaming into the apartment, and I realize I dozed off at some point. I’m grateful for the additional hours of sleep, even if I missed my usual gym time. I’ll have to try to go later. As I sit up to stretch, I hear Muncie’s key in the door.

  He’s annoyingly punctual in reporting for duty each morning right at nine o’clock. “Oh, hey, you’re up.”

  “Have been for a while.” I take the coffee he hands me. “Thanks.”

  “You didn’t sleep?”

  “I did. Some.”

  “You need to call that shrink, Captain. They might be able to give you something to help you sleep.”

  “Don’t want it, don’t need it.” I quit taking the pain meds because I feared becoming addicted to them. After so many weeks in the hospital, the last thing I want or need is another doctor or pill. “The melatonin you got me helps. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “As you wish. Julianne would like to meet with you at eleven today. Does that work for you?”

  “Uh, let me check my schedule.”

  He gives me his trademark withering look. I get that look a lot from him, and it’s almost fun to say things that’ll bring it on. I have to get my laughs where I can these days.

  “I’ll tell her eleven is fine.”

  “You do that.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Nope.”

  “You need to eat.”

  “I’m aware of that.” We have this same conversation several times per day. My appetite is another thing that hasn’t come back to life. I’m told it will eventually. In the meantime, I force myself to eat so I’ll get stronger, but nothing really appeals to me.

  “I can get you one of those western omelets from the diner down the street. You liked that last week.”

  Because it will shut him up, I agree to the omelet even if my stomach turns at the memory of trying to choke it down the last time he got it for me. I don’t know why food has become such a problem for me. In my past life, I had a ravenous appetite for food and sex, neither of which is of any interest whatsoever to me now.

  One of the doctors told me my appetite will be off for a while because I spent so much time subsisting on liquid nutrition that my body forgot how to eat regular food. Just like I have to retrain my muscles, eventually my desire for food will return, too, or so they say. Hasn’t happened yet. I hope all my various appetites will return eventually, but for now, I don’t hunger for food or sex.

  Not that I can imagine ever wanting anyone but Ava, but I suppose eventually I’ll have to move on and try again with someone else, even if Ava will always have my heart.

  Just thinking about moving on from her makes my chest ache something fierce. The hope of a life with her kept me alive while we were apart. Without her, I feel like a sailboat that’s lost its rudder and is floundering in a hostile sea.

  Will I ever find my way again? I don’t know, and the not knowing only adds to the hollowed-out feeling inside me.

  Muncie returns a short time later with carryout containers for both of us.

  We eat in silence—or he eats and I pick at mine with the usual lack of enthusiasm. He clears his throat. “The guys from the unit have reached out. They’d like to see you, if you’re up for visitors.”

  The men I spent six years with are like brothers to me, but none of them are as close to me as Tito and Jonesy were. Seeing the rest of them and not having my two best friends there would feel like acid on a festering wound.

  “Not yet.”

  “Might be good for you to see them.” He looks over at me. “I think they need it as much as you do, sir. They need to see that you’re all right.”

  I’m so far from all right that I could laugh at him saying that, but they were my men, and I was their commander, and he’s right. Muncie can be like a dog with a bone once he gets an idea in his head, and he doesn't seem to care one bit that I outrank him when he pushes me to do things I don’t want to do. Knowing that, I say, “Set it up for before we go to New York. Just the guys. No one else.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Is it my imagination or does he sound smug? Bastard. He’s lucky I need him so much.

  After we eat, I go in to take a shower, shave and change into clean sweats and a long-sleeved Henley. If I have to meet with Mary Poppins again, at least I’ll be clean and presentable. When I’m dressed and wearing running shoes, it strikes me that if someone didn’t know my left leg was missing from the thigh down, there’d be no way to tell that I’m an amputee unless I chose to share that. Only the crutches that I keep close indicate there’s anything amiss.

  I sit on the bed to wait the final ten minutes before Julianne arrives, depleted from the workout required just to shower and get dressed. I recognize the vicious cycle at work here—I need food to regain my strength but have no appetite, which makes the journey back to full health that much more difficult.

  I’m told I need to have patience, that things will get back to “normal” at some point, but that’s not true. My version of “normal” is gone, married to some other dude and off on her honeymoon, lost to me forever.

  I never knew until now how exhausting heartbreak can be, because I’d never been in love before I met my Ava. Now that I know what it feels like to lose the one you love, I hope I never fall in love again. It’s not worth the agony if it doesn’t work out.

  Muncie knocks on the door. “Are you decent?”

  “Yeah. Come in.”

  He opens the door, sees me sitting on the bed and takes a visual inventory, checking on me the way he does so adeptly. “Julianne is here. You ready?”

  “I guess.” I pull myself up and position the crutches while making a point to put weight on the prosthetic the way they told me to in PT.

  Today, Julianne is wearing a pink jacket with a black skirt and the same sexy heels she had on yesterday. Her hair is up, her smile friendly and welcoming.

  “Good morning,” she says.

  “Morning.” I’m determined to try not to be a total dick to her today since she’s doing the job I asked her to do, even if I don’t want to deal with any of it. That’s not her fault. And I don’t want her telling Ava that I’m an asshole, so I need to not be one.

  “I thought we’d spend some time today going over the questions you’re likely to be asked and preparing your replies. Would that be okay?”

  “Yes.” No, I want to say, it’s not okay. I don’t want to talk about any of it. I want to retire, buy a cabin in the mountains and be alone.

  “I’d also like to record this session so we can review it later and go over anything that needs to be tweaked. Is that all right?”

  “I guess.”

  Undeterred by my lack of enthusiasm, she sets up her iPad on a table to record me and then returns to her seat, crossing her legs. I h
appen to notice again that they’re nice legs, smooth and muscular, as if she played sports as a kid or is a runner or dancer.

  Why the fuck am I thinking about her legs? Maybe because it’s better than the other things that plague my addled brain.

  “I’m going to do these in no particular order, starting with the six-year deployment. When you joined the Navy, were you told it was possible you could deploy for that long?”

  “Not initially, no. That came later when I was assigned to an elite unit that trains for just this kind of mission.”

  “When you heard about the attack on the Star of the High Seas, did you know right away that you’d be deployed indefinitely?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “What’s that like, to be living a somewhat normal life that’s completely upended by something you had nothing to do with?”

  “It’s jarring and difficult, but it’s what we trained and prepared for. You hope that your training will never be needed, but when it is, you do what you have to do, no matter what it might cost you personally. It’s not about you in that moment. It’s about the mission until the mission is completed.”

  She gives me a thoughtful look. “That’s a really good answer. We should commit that one to memory.”

  “I don’t need to memorize the truth.”

  “Still, that’s the sort of thing we’re aiming for.” She consults her notes. “I know you can’t give specifics about the mission itself, but can you tell us anything about where you were and what you were doing for all that time?”

  “We were in the field, following the trail.”

  “Does that mean living in tents and eating MREs?”

  “Most of the time. Sometimes we took shelter in caves. Other times we were lodged with forward-deployed troops. We ate real food when we were in camp.”

  “Can you talk about what you remember about the raid on the Al Khad compound?”

  I’d prefer to never think about that night again, but that’s not an option. The Navy is holding up my retirement papers until I complete this media tour, so the sooner I get it over with, the sooner I can get on with my life, such as it is.