by Sarah Monzon
A punishment for sticking up for a friend? No other explanation as to why he’d singled her out. She squared her shoulders and opened her mouth to respond.
“She can’t.” Teresa’s voice squeaked beside Alice.
The vile man’s jaw ticked. “Why not?”
“The Wellington is a twin-engine bomber, and Miss Galloway is only cleared to fly single-engine planes.” Poor girl was a bundle of nerves. Her hand twisted in the outer seams of her trousers.
“What about you?” He ground the words out, making them sound like three separate sentences.
“Me?” Her voice broke at the end.
He swore, causing color to rush to many of the ladies’ cheeks. “Why does the RAF make me put up with this?” If possible, he grew, looming over the room. “Can you fly a Wellington?”
“Yes.” Even in the quiet room, her breathless affirmative was hard to hear.
“Then do it. Now.” He pivoted on his heel and barreled out the door. A strained, tension-filled silence hung on the air in his wake.
Teresa’s attempt at a reassuring smile wobbled. Her hand raised an inch from her side. “I’ll see you all in a little bit.”
Alice wanted to rush after her. Convince her to disobey orders, go over the guy’s head, and report him to his commanding officer. Did the pilots and officers in the RAF have the authority to issue orders to the ferry pilot squadrons? Alice had no idea, but she would inquire about the procedures with Commander Gower. She didn’t want to find herself derelict of duty and insubordination, but she also didn’t want to swallow the marked harassment she’d seen today.
With heavy steps Alice followed the others out to the awaiting air taxi. She watched as Teresa and the Wellington took off from the runway. The rest of the squadron would only be minutes behind her. The fact gave Alice some comfort, although she didn’t know why. Maybe the thought of Teresa being entirely alone unsettled her.
Within minutes they were in the air. Conversation swirled around her, but she didn’t feel like participating. Her mind was too full, her heart too heavy.
The large bomber banked, and she watched it out the side window. Something wasn’t right. Teresa was losing altitude fast. Smoke and flames swirled from the exhaust stack.
Pull up. Pull up. As if the Wellington would obey her instructions, Alice gripped an imaginary yoke and pulled back, willing the bomber back into the right flight pattern.
It still dropped. Trees rushed up to meet the plane’s belly.
The other women in the air taxi held their breaths, tension and fear bred in the air until Alice was afraid they’d all suffocate on it.
Jump out. Jump out. Eyes glued to the small window, she willed Teresa’s body out of the bomber. If only a parachute would materialize in the sky, Alice could take a deep breath.
The plane seemed to stall, and so did time. The Wellington fell into the copse of trees, splitting in half at the fuselage near the rear cockpit. An explosion rocked the air, flames shooting into the sky.
This can’t be happening. Numbness overtook Alice’s limbs. She closed her eyes and shook her head, but when she opened her eyes again, the vision was the same. The plane she had been commanded to fly blazed in pieces below them.
Chapter Twelve
Present Day, Maryland
Michael hated the blasted hospital gowns. Seriously. Couldn’t he have worn shorts and rolled up his shirt sleeves? There was no reason to don the paper-thin gown, subjecting him to this breezy humiliation. One would think the lack of privacy in the military would have cured him of all modesty, but he still clung to the tattered threads left of his dignity.
He expelled a breath and trained his mind to look on the bright side. Count his blessings. Man, that was hard. It was so much easier to dwell on what he’d had before. He could easily lose himself in the memories of the camaraderie found in a uniform, the rush of adrenaline triggered by shooting off an aircraft carrier’s deck, blasting through the sound barrier. But those memories brought a bittersweet escape. He could momentarily forget his handicapped predicament, but when reality came rushing back, so did a flood of resentment that fouled his mood.
It took a lot of self-control, but he’d been training his thoughts in another direction. Whenever he was tempted to abandon the present for the past, he listed his blessings. Cliché? Perhaps, but it seemed like the Christian thing to do. The Bible said many times to count his blessings, and even though his feelings and inner thoughts weren’t quite on board yet, he figured they’d submit under strict discipline. Pity couldn’t thrive in a heart of gratitude.
A uniformed officer in a white lab coat pulled back the privacy curtain. He looked up from his clipboard. “Nice to see you again, Lieutenant.” The crow’s feet around his eyes deepened behind his square-framed glasses. “How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain.” He could, but it didn’t change a single thing.
“Let’s take a look at those sutures, shall we?” Dr. Emerson pulled over a roll-away chair and sat beside the cot where Michael was perched. Cold hands touched his arm and raised it to eye level. The doctor’s fingers poked and prodded. He made noises of approval in the back of his throat.
“Everything looks fantastic.” He picked up a bottle from the counter behind him. “I’m going to take the stitches out now.”
The smell of antiseptic caused Michael to wrinkle his nose. If germs could smell, they’d all keel over from the stench. Huh. Maybe that was how the stuff worked so well.
After Michael’s wound received a healthy dose, Dr. Emerson retrieved a pair of tweezer-like things. Michael felt the tugs at the base of his arm, but it didn’t really hurt. The wound was cleaned again, and then adhesive strips were placed along the base of his arm. It took a bit more time to repeat the process for his leg.
“What’s the next step, Doc?” He probably should have addressed the man according to his rank, but he had to start somewhere with assimilating himself back to civilian life.
“Lieutenant Commander Orville will come in a moment and demonstrate a few more exercises to work into your daily regimen. These will help prepare your limbs for prosthetics. And it just so happens that Mr. Montgomery, the prosthetist, is here today. I’ve asked him to stop by and take an assessment so he can fit you with the elastic stocking we affectionately call a stump shrinker. That will start shaping your limbs for the prosthetic socket.”
Cut to the chase. “When will I be able to walk again?”
“If all continues as it has been, you can be fitted for your prosthetic in a month and begin physical therapy to learn how to walk with your new leg.”
The relearning how to walk grated on Michael’s manhood, but he swallowed his pride. Time to count another blessing. He gritted his teeth and pushed down the resentment twisting his gut. Thank you, Jesus, for modern technology that will allow me to walk under my own strength. Eventually. Okay, so that last thought seemed to distract from his gratitude, but he was keeping it real with the man upstairs. Jesus could handle a bit of Michael’s sarcasm, couldn’t He?
A middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache, a polka-dotted tie, and a ready smile entered the room.
“Ah, here is Mr. Montgomery now.” Dr. Emerson removed his latex gloves and tossed them in the trash. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
The curtain hooks rattled on the rod as Dr. Emerson retreated from the room.
Mr. Montgomery extended his hand. “Lot of scuttlebutt about you around the amputation ward, Lieutenant.”
“Oh?” Whatever for?
“Did an arresting cable really sever your arm and leg clean off?” Mr. Montgomery’s eyes gleamed with excitement. Michael wouldn’t put it past the man to start jumping up and down and rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
Unnerving, to say the least.
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
A little of the light dimmed from Mr. Montgomery’s countenance. “Oh.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh and rubbed his forehead. “Sorr
y about that. I’m usually more professional, but there’s a debate on whether an arresting cable snapping can cut a person in half. Sailors have claimed they’ve seen it happen, but there have been experiments done disproving the claim.”
Ah. That explained the macabre sense of glee. Sort of.
“Anyhoo…” Mr. Montgomery did rub his hands together this time. “Shall we get started then?” His handlebar mustache bounced as he talked.
Measurements were taken of Michael’s residua, and Mr. Montgomery left and then returned with four white shrinker socks.
He held the larger of the two up. “These must be worn at all times and washed every day. That’s why I’m giving you two of each. For your leg, you’re going to want to put it on just like you do a sock. Make sure the seams run in the front and back.” He handed the shrinker to Michael. “Go ahead and try.”
Michael took the shrinker and set it at the end of his stump, making sure the seam was on top. Inch by inch he went around the hem, tugging. He’d get one side up only to have the other side slip off. Frustration built inside him like the pressure in a piston. If he didn’t get this dadgum sock on soon, he’d explode. And why didn’t Mr. Montgomery do anything to help him? Maybe the man really was as insensitive as he’d seemed at first.
“You’re doing great. Try pulling it high on one side, then stretching the material out when you pull it up on the other.”
Like I haven’t already tried that. But Michael did it again, and miracle of miracles, the shrinker stayed on his stump. He shimmied it the rest of the way up until it covered his entire thigh.
It was like getting a bear hug from a boa constrictor. On steroids. “Is it supposed to be this tight?”
“It should feel very snug, yes.” Mr. Montgomery ran his hand along the elastic sock. “Looks good.” He held out a smaller one. “Now your arm.”
It took half the time the second go around, and Michael couldn’t help but feel a hint of pride. Which was ridiculous. Proud of putting on a stupid sock all by himself? Preschoolers could do that. And toddlers can walk, but you’ll be relearning that as well.
Where was the nearest wall he could bang his head on?
Blessings, remember? Ugh. Sometimes that grateful thing was h-a-r-d.
Mr. Montgomery sat on the roll-away chair and crossed his legs. “Tell me what your goals are with your new limbs.”
Goals. Yeah, he used to have those. What did they look like now? Not a clue. “Walk?”
He received a deadpan look. Not even Mr. Montgomery’s mustache twitched.
So walking was an obvious answer, but right now, that was all he had.
“What sort of things did you like to do before the accident?”
“Fly F-18 Super Hornets.”
Mr. Montgomery interlocked his hands and cupped them around the knee of his crossed legs. “That was your job, yes, but what sort of things did you do for fun?”
Michael ran a finger under the shrinker’s seam at the top of his thigh. This thing would take some getting used to. “Flying wasn’t just a job. It was my life.”
“So you’d like to fly again?”
“I’d love to fly again, but that’s not going to happen.”
Silence hung in the air, every second that passed a nail pounded into the coffin of all his flying aspirations. Live without an arm and a leg, at least the ones he was born with, he could accept and deal with. The prospect of never being behind the instruments of a plane again, however, was an anvil around his neck. Throw him in the Chesapeake, because he wasn’t sure how he’d live without flying.
Drama much, Carrington?
“You’d be surprised. I haven’t really come across much that amputees can’t do. Given enough drive and the proper equipment, they can do anything anyone else can—participate in triathlons, scale summits, play an instrument. Your limitations are only in your mind.”
He’d heard of athletes with lost limbs, and that seemed reasonable. If you could train your muscles how to move and rely on the technology of your prosthetic, then any physical feat could be obtainable. But jets were huge machines that required more than exertion.
“Have you ever heard of an amputee pilot?”
Mr. Montgomery considered that a moment. “Not personally, no.” He rushed on. “But that’s not to say there aren’t any.” He paused again. “I’ll tell you what—why don’t we both do a little research, and when you come in for your socket fitting next week, we’ll compare notes.”
Should he allow himself to hope? Whether he allowed it or not, his chest expanded at the idea. Maybe some sort of rig existed that could be put together that would allow him to control the yoke and properly maneuver the pedals. Could a plane be manufactured with a hand rudder to compensate for his loss of a leg? Or maybe the physical therapists could train him to use his prosthetics in flying as well. A grin teased at his mouth. He’d never be allowed to take his old Super Hornet up again, but even a little Cessna would be better than being grounded.
***
From: Jack Rogers [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: 1940s WW II plane in need of restoration
Ms. Abbott,
My schedule is open after I finish the Piper Cub, so I could be available to you then.
Thank you for the pictures. They give me a good idea as to the extent of work that needs to be done. However, they also bring up two concerns. First, equipment. I have always worked on restoration projects in my own hangar because that is where I have all the tools and equipment I need to get the work done. Because you are in another country, shipping the equipment or acquiring everything necessary will be costly. Second, while the photos do give me an idea as to the condition of the plane, I do not feel comfortable giving you a quote without having actually seen and examined the plane.
Please do not misunderstand me, as I am beyond excited to work on a plane that fought during WW II (believe me—it’s been hard staying professional in these e-mails!), but I would understand if you decided to seek out someone more local to do the work for you.
Jack
Jack held the clipboard in her lap and stared down at the form. The county courthouse was relatively deserted at this early hour, and she could hear the clerk’s nails click on her keyboard as she typed.
Brett had forced a promise out of her to file a restraining order, and here she was. Only restraining orders were a thing of the past. Who knew? Apparently now there were orders of protection and peace orders. She needed the latter since Mitch wasn’t related by blood or marriage. Praise God.
Her eyes scanned the checklist of reasons for seeking protection from the respondent. All infractions had to have occurred within the last thirty days. Which meant the incident at the pub still counted. She put an X in the boxes next to slapping, harassment, and shoving. It almost sounded juvenile, like a kid tattling in a whiny singsong voice: Mitch pushed me. It was more serious than that, but compared to some of the other boxes—shooting, stabbing, rape—it sounded like she was blowing everything out of proportion.
I guess that’s up to the judge to decide.
The rest of the form was easy to fill out. No, she didn’t want Mitch to contact her. No, she didn’t want him showing up at her house or her workplace. No, she certainly didn’t want him to commit any of the acts they’d previously listed. Good grief. Who’d want that?
She capped her pen and handed the form to the clerk behind the counter.
The lady took the paper and scanned its contents. She looked up. “If you wait a moment, Judge Abernathy is in his office and may have a moment to look over your petition and determine your temporary peace order.”
Jack returned to her seat and rubbed her sweaty palms on her jeans. Would the judge cross-examine her in his chambers? If she’d known she’d have to see a judge, she would’ve dressed more appropriately. Thankfully the jeans she’d put on this morning didn’t have any holes in them, but the casual attire was hardly appropriate for the
occasion.
“Judge Abernathy can see you now.”
Jack swallowed her trepidation and followed the lady down the hall. She pushed open a large door and stepped aside so Jack could pass.
“Thank you.”
The door closed with a click. Judge Abernathy’s gray head bowed over a piece of paper. Probably her peace order petition form.
Should she come more fully into the room and take a seat? Shake the judge’s hand? Continue standing there looking like an idiot? Ugh. Why did she have to be the most awkward of the Roger siblings?
The judge looked up. “Come in. Come in. I promise I won’t bite.” He beckoned with his hand.
Jack took a few steps and lowered into a creaky leather chair.
“How are you doing?”
His droopy eyes radiated kindness, and Jack felt the sincerity of his question. He wasn’t asking for small talk. He really wanted to know.
She looked at her hands. “I’ve been better.”
He nodded knowingly. “No doubt.” He glanced back to the paper in his hands. “I take it you fear for your safety?”
A lump formed in her throat. She loathed this feeling of violation that left her nauseous. No one should have to live looking over her shoulder, wondering when her sense of security would be shattered. She hated it. Hated feeling weak. Vulnerable. Exposed. Most of all hated that those feelings couldn’t be hidden and kept private. Sitting in the judge’s office, possibly having to appear in court…everyone would know that she wasn’t enough. Not strong enough. Brave enough. Smart enough. Pretty enough. Fill-in-the-blank enough.
And because of her failings, she was now an inconvenience. She couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to pinpoint the underlying source of discomfort around Michael. Why she had pushed so hard for him to give up his stupid promise to her brother in the first place. It wasn’t so much her pride in needing to take care of herself, although that too. She hated being an inconvenience. On top of that, she didn’t know if the friendship they were forming was real or grounded on his commitment to Brett to keep her safe. If there had been no Mitch to threaten her and no Brett to extract Michael’s promise, would they still be friends?
