All of You (A Carrington Family Novel Book 2)

by Sarah Monzon

  The USS Theodore Roosevelt teemed with life in the Persian Gulf. Night or day, every second of every twenty-four-hour period, the navy carrier was actively on guard. This was war. The moment you relaxed, the enemy struck.

  Adrenaline flowed through Finch’s body, much like the Ichnetuchnee River back home in Florida, constant but building in its intensity. He strapped into the pilot’s seat, Geyser behind him spouting off about something. His friend was always a little too enthusiastic about missions. Give him time though. He’d learn. Dropping bombs meant taking lives. That fact drenched the fire of anticipation.

  The shooter signaled, and they catapulted into the air, soaring above the choppy water. Tiger sidled up to their left wing, and Finch settled in for the six-and-a-half-hour bombing run toward Islamic State targets in Iraq.

  It was a coin toss whether they’d make it back to Mother still heavy with munitions. Most of these runs, they merely loitered the skies, the risk of civilian casualties too high to drop the bombs attached to the Super Hornet’s wings. Not like the missions for air support for troops on the ground, when the sky lit from fiery explosions—anything to get their men and women out safe in those situations.

  “Enjoying the ride back there?” Finch spoke into the com in his helmet.

  “Sure. It’s like a Sunday afternoon drive with my sister.”

  “Your sister cruises at eleven hundred miles per hour?”

  Geyser chuckled. “Just about.”

  They flew over the Tigris River, the city of Baghdad jetting up from the desert floor. Modern clashed with tradition as skyscrapers neighbored domed mosques with brightly tiled roofs.

  Finch circled, Tiger close to his wing. They waited for the command to drop Sidewinders on the target. The buildings blurred beneath him as they flew past, speeds so fast it was impossible to maintain focus on any of the people strolling the dusty streets. Even if he couldn’t see them, he knew they were there. He willed them all to turn. To run away as fast as they could in the opposite direction. Collateral damage was too real and haunted him if he allowed his mind to venture down that road.

  As a serviceman, he trusted his government and the men in command, the ones making the hard calls. He followed the orders given him, believing in the bigger picture and confident his work made the world a better, safer, and more peaceful place.

  “Any aircraft…taking heavy fire…casualties…five klicks…Baghdad.”

  Michael sucked in a breath and jerked awake. His breath came in short gasps as his mind worked to extricate itself from the edges of the dream. He squeezed his eyes shut and flung his forearm over them. The dream had been too close to reality, his subconscious mixing memories with his fears. There wasn’t time to let the dream cling to him, however. If he didn’t get to the seaside gym for physical training soon, the chief would chew his backside. He flipped the covers back and sat up, pausing a moment to hang his head and stretch the muscles in his neck. Must have slept wrong, as every muscle in his body ached.

  The whole world tilted as soon as he stood. Gravity pulled him down on his right side. He flung out his arms for balance, the edge of the nightstand punching his tricep, the floor powerhouse kicking his hamstring. Pain exploded, and he let out an expletive that would make even the sailors he’d lived with blush.

  He squeezed his fist until his nails bit into the flesh of his palm, the action only adding more pain instead of warring it off. Couldn’t combat his stupidity either.

  Not on board a carrier. No missions in Super Hornets. No physical training drills on the flight deck. No arm. No leg. No dreams. No purpose.

  He evened his breathing, the knifing pain subsiding to a constant throb. Leaning forward, he grabbed the bottle of pills from his nightstand. It took some maneuvering, but he finally popped the top, tipped the bottle to his lips until two capsules slid onto his tongue, and swallowed them dry. He rested his head against the mattress behind him and closed his eyes.

  Reality took a 180-degree turn in a second, but it was taking longer for his brain to catch up. Too often his mind jumped to the next mission, subconsciously going through the steps of a preflight check, only to get slammed against the wall when he remembered that wasn’t his life anymore. Technically, yes, he was still a lieutenant in the United States Navy, but for how much longer? He couldn’t serve his country. They would never let a double amputee behind the controls of a multimillion-dollar aerial weapon. The doctors at Walter Reed had already submitted the medical forms. Discharge papers would arrive soon. And then what?

  He opened his eyes and stared at the designs in the textured ceiling. What are Your plans here, God? Sure would be helpful if You filled me in. The air conditioner kicked on, but no voice from heaven. I don’t need a burning bush, a handwritten edict on a wall, or a prophetic vision, but for crying out loud, give me something! The silence that answered his prayers drove him mad. Every day not knowing what his future looked like induced a frantic need. He’d never been patient. Wasn’t good at sitting on the sidelines. Give him a battle plan, and he’d execute it. Any day now, God.

  A groan rumbled in his throat as he pushed himself off the floor, shuffling his foot to maintain balance while grabbing the crutch by the bed. One thing was for sure—it wasn’t anybody’s plan for him to sulk on his bedroom floor while the black fingers of depression threatened to shackle him.

  He hobbled into the bathroom, turned on the sink, and swiped his toothbrush under the faucet. The tube of toothpaste unscrewed easier than it had the day before, and Michael squeezed some onto his toothbrush. Moments like this he wished he was left handed. Or ambidextrous. Everyday routines—brushing his teeth, eating a meal, writing a letter—had become awkward at best. Driving with his left foot pushing the accelerator proved challenging as well. He should probably look into Maryland driving laws regarding amputees. Surely they wouldn’t take his license away though, would they?

  He wedged his container of shaving cream in between his arm and chest and used his chin to press down on the top. White foam oozed out, and he caught it in his hand. At least this brand he didn’t have to lather up. He patted the foam on his cheeks, chin, and neck, rinsed his hand, and picked up his razor. Steady. Didn’t need any more nicks. Yesterday had produced enough polka dots on the lower portion of his face. It took twice as long as it would have before the accident, but he finally finished with only one small piece of toilet paper stuck to his jaw.

  His laptop trilled from the other side of the foot of the bed. The familiar sound put a sad smile on his face. Skype was a lifeline in the military. The way to remain connected to your family when you were thousands of miles apart. The too-brief video conversations raised sinking spirits and reminded them all what—and whom—they were fighting for.

  Michael reached over for the laptop and lifted the screen, settling the computer on his thighs while he leaned back against a couple of pillows propped in front of his headboard. He accepted the call, his screen dividing into four sections. Adam in a tailored suit steepled his fingers against his chin as his elbows rested on a shining desk in his downtown office. Trent sat with a whiteboard behind him with names and dates scrawled in blue marker, an American flag pinned to a wall constructed of white cement blocks. But the ones that gave a bittersweet pain were Mom, Dad, and Amber huddled around the kitchen table with steaming mugs of coffee. His own image in the lower right-hand corner, hair slightly longer than military issue, dark circles under his eyes, made up box number four.

  “How’s it going, bro?” Adam asked.

  Michael focused on his older brother. A big-shot defense attorney with an astounding acquittal record, Adam’s direct gaze was focused on Michael through the computer screen. Adam, the human lie detector, would tell if Michael answered with anything but the absolute truth.

  “Are you doing okay? Getting enough to eat? The physical therapist isn’t pushing too hard, is he?” His mom twisted her hands, her face scrunched in concern. “I wish you’d have let me stay there and take care of you.�
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  “He’s fine, Mom.” This from Trent. He winked from his new position as a history teacher at Fort Lauderdale high. “How could he garner the sympathy of all the cute nurses with his mommy hovering over him?”

  Amber rolled her eyes behind Dad’s shoulder.

  Michael took a deep breath. “I’m…” He was what? Fine? Not really. More like floundering like a fish on dry land. He didn’t want his family to needlessly worry about him either though. “You can pray for me.”

  “Thank you, Jesus,” Dad breathed.

  Michael’s lip turned down. “Excuse me?” Not exactly the response he’d expected.

  Mom covered Dad’s hand on the table. “We were worried about you, son.”

  “They were afraid you’d start blaming God like I did.” Trent tapped a pencil against his desk.

  “That’s not—”

  “True?” Trent held up his hand. “Mom. Please. You know it’s true.” Trent’s eyes shifted as he switched his focus between the squares on his own screen. “Look. We all know I blamed God for Trevor’s death. We were afraid you’d do the same, Michael. That you’d get angry with God and blame Him for the accident.”

  “Do you?” Adam’s lawyer stare was full force.

  Michael sighed. “No, I don’t blame God. Could He have stopped it? Sure. But right now I’m more concerned about what His plan is for my life from here on out. I thought I knew what He wanted. Military. Being a fighter pilot. Serving my country. Protecting my family. I’ve spent the last six years working toward that. Now?” He shook his head. “Now I have no idea what I’m going to do. What God wants me to do.”

  “Have you asked Him, son?” Dad’s calm voice soothed through the distance.

  “Over and over.”

  “And?” Amber looked hopeful.

  Michael’s shoulders slumped. “Crickets.”

  “Hang in there.” A school bell rang loud, and Trent glanced behind him. “Hey, I’ve got to run. Thirty kids are about to pour in here, and I’ve got to make them interested in dead guys that did things hundreds of years ago. You’ve got this, Michael. God won’t leave you drowning in the unknown. He has everything all worked out for you already.”

  Trent signed off, and Michael’s computer screen refigured to three squares.

  His sister whispered something under her breath that Michael couldn’t hear.

  “What was that, Amber?”

  “Jeremiah 29:11. ‘For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.’”

  His father picked up the recitation with the next two verses. “In those days when you pray, I will listen. If you look for me wholeheartedly, you will find me.”

  Everyone remained silent as the truth of those words sank into every desperate crevice of his being. He’d heard the scriptures referred to as a healing balm, but if that was the case, then this particular passage was like the medicine doctors warned you about before they administered it. It might sting a little was an understatement. But although the scriptures were like a slap, he had to believe them. Had to believe God had a plan. He always did, didn’t He? Even when that perfect blueprint brought about the sacrificial death of His own son.

  Too many questions left him spinning in circles, a dog chasing his own tail. Was his accident all a part of God’s grand scheme? A small glimpse of a bigger picture? Or had it truly been a fluke accident, the consequences of a scientific cause and effect?

  If you look for me wholeheartedly…

  Yeah. He’d done that. What else would his railings be called? His constant questions that were met with deafening silence?

  The worst part? In his mind he could respond with all the correct church answers and scripture passages. But none of those changed the feelings that assaulted him day and night. He knew that blessings were poured out on the just and unjust, yet a part of him was bitter that his years of churchgoing and following the rules hadn’t amounted to a hill of beans in the long run. The path he’d set for his life had been one of integrity. Why would God not bless that decision?

  A humorless chuckle rumbled through Michael’s chest. “You’d think if God hadn’t wanted me to be a fighter pilot, He would have redirected me half a dozen years ago.” He glanced at the drapes gently billowing from the cooled air being forced through the AC vents.

  “Who are we to say it wasn’t His purpose that you joined the military, learned to fly?” Mom took a small sip of her coffee, the mug doodled on with permanent marker. He’d made it for her for Mother’s Day when he was eight. She had three more just like it, one from each of her kids. “God uses us wherever we are as long as we’re willing to be His ambassadors.”

  “And those guys you shared Jesus’s love with.” Amber’s sapphire eyes sparked. “Griffin, Geyser, Tompkins. Because of you, they have hope. Even if you joined up just for them, wasn’t it worth it?”

  Hadn’t thought about it that way. Sounded a bit like consolation prizes at the moment.

  “Plans are hardly a straight shot, son. God puts us in places for a time and purpose and then moves us to where He needs us next. Perhaps your purpose in the navy concluded and now God has need of you elsewhere.”

  Michael ran a hand over his head. Didn’t want to be difficult and knew his family was only trying to help. They were only saying what his own brain had tried to tell him. He let out a sigh, wishing the disappointment and anger could be expelled as easily. “But where? And if God was done with me in the military, how come He couldn’t have just said so? Why’d he have to maim me in the process?”

  Adam looked up from the memo pad he’d been scrawling on. “Take it from someone who asks questions all day for a living—sometimes you never get all the answers you’re looking for. But don’t let that stop you in your tracks.” He leaned back in his chair, a smile playing on his lips. “I know you, Michael. Don’t believe the lie that just because you’re missing a couple of limbs that you’re handicapped. You have more drive and determination than any of us stubborn Carrington lot. If you put your mind to it, you can do anything.”

  “He’s right, sweetie.” Mom clasped her hands in front of her. “But if you need to come home for a while, regain your strength, let your mama—”

  Adam laughed. “We’ll always be her babies. Even after you’ve gone off and saved the world.”

  Mom smiled. “That’s right. No matter how big you all get, you’ll always be my babies.”

  Adam shook his head, his smile bright. “Well, this baby needs to get to court.” His mouth screwed tight, and the light left his eyes. “I’ve got to convince a jury my scumbag client didn’t rape a sixteen-year-old girl.”

  “Adam—”

  “I’ll talk to you all later.” Adam clicked off.

  Mom, Dad, and Amber filled the majority of Michael’s computer screen now. Something wasn’t right with his brother. Sure, a rape case sounded difficult, disgusting actually. But Adam had handled horrible cases before. It was part of his job as a defense attorney. This time though…Michael had never seen Adam quite so disturbed. A man of passion, he defended the justice system, upheld the wrongly accused, fought for the weak. If Adam thought his client was guilty though…

  Dad cleared his throat. “So now that you are no longer under the command of Uncle Sam, what have you been up to?”

  Mom swatted Dad’s shoulder. “He’s resting, George. Healing. That’s a full-time job.”

  “Any Florence Nightingales make you fall in love with them yet?” Amber giggled.

  Jacquelyn Rogers flashed in his mind. Although why, he wasn’t sure. Florence Nightingale she wasn’t. More like Joan of Arc. A woman with enough spitfire to roast a man. He grinned. She’d definitely lit a spark of some sort in him.

  Amber squeezed between their parents and put her face close to the screen. “I see that look. Who is she? One of the nurses at the hospital?”

  He scrunched his nose. “I’m sorry to disappoint your romantic heart, li
ttle sister, but I haven’t fallen in love with anyone.”

  Amber straightened and placed a hand on her hip. “You thought of someone though. Maybe not a nurse, but there is someone.”

  One of his shoulders lifted. “I may have made a new friend.”

  “Who?” Mom, Dad, and Amber all asked in unison.

  They were something else. “Noseys.” He adjusted the laptop on his lap, heat from the computer leaving red streaks across his thighs. “You can put your Cupid arrows away. Lieutenant Rogers asked me to keep an eye out on his kid sister when he shipped out.”

  Amber’s brows dipped. “Why?”

  “Dad, pull her ponytail for me.”

  Amber dodged their father’s hand.

  “It’s a big-brother thing, squirt. We have to look after our annoying little sisters.”

  Amber stuck her tongue out at him, and Michael laughed again.

  “Okay, thanks for calling to check up on me, but I better get going.”

  Mom blew a kiss. “We love you.”

  “Don’t give up, son. You can do anything you put your mind to.”

  Not anything. Even if he put his mind to it, the navy would never let him fly a Super Hornet again. “I’ll try to remember that, Dad.”

  His dad nodded. “And while you’re at it, try to remind yourself this isn’t the end of your life—it’s just the beginning of another chapter.”

  ***

  Jack stretched the leather over the padding and around the seat’s metal frame, pulling it as taut as she could before jamming the staple gun to the plywood underneath and squeezing the trigger. A loud pop echoed in the cavernous hangar. The material secure, she reached for another section, tugging again. The end of the project loomed near. Mr. McClaren would be pleased. One more chair to reupholster, a fresh coat of bright-yellow paint, and this Piper Cub would look like it had just come out of the factory.

  Already it hummed like the wing beats of a hornet, since she’d figured out the problem with the gas generator turbine. She’d taken the plane up at sunset the night before, and everything had gone smoothly. Except the springs poking her in her backside through the ripped cowhide covering the seat.