He saw the physical therapist coming his way. As usual, Conny was dressed in baggy pink scrubs and his gray dreadlocks swung with every step, sort of like the alien in Predator.
“Hello, Conny,” Michael said. “How’s Jolene doing? I’ll bet she’s keeping you busy. ”
“Hardly. ”
“What do you mean?”
“She won’t get out of bed except to go to the bathroom—and she hates that because she needs help. She refuses to learn how to care for her residual limb. She won’t even look at it. That’s not unusual, of course. Acceptance can take years. But she won’t even try. ”
“Jolene won’t try?” He frowned.
“She’s hurting,” Conny said, “and not in her missing leg. I get it, but it’s been ten days. She needs to get started on her PT. ”
Michael nodded. Turning away, he walked down the long, bright hallway to Jolene’s room. There, he knocked once and opened the door.
She sat up in bed, staring blankly at the TV screen. Her long blond hair was tangled, uncared for, dark at the roots. He saw how pale she looked, how thin. Weight loss had sharpened her cheekbones until they looked like knife blades, and her full lips were colorless and chapped. The violet shadows beneath her eyes attested to sleepless nights. He didn’t even notice the flat place in the blanket. He looked at her, his wife.
She was scared; he saw that now. And depressed.
“Conny tells me you won’t start physical therapy,” he said, closing the door behind him and moving toward the bed.
“Get out of here, Michael. ”
“You don’t give up, Jo. ”
She threw back the covers, exposing her bandaged half leg. It was still huge and swollen. “I do now. ”
He heard the tremor in her voice and felt so sorry for her it was an ache in his heart. He wanted to tell her that, make her understand how deeply he felt her pain, but they’d grown so far apart. She wouldn’t even hear him.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I love you, Jolene. ”
“Do you think I can’t see the pity in your eyes right now?” she said. “Do you think I don’t know that you’re standing here because you have to? I’ve become your duty. ”
He swallowed hard. He had earned this anger, and he would have to take it. For now, there was something more important than their broken marriage to think about.
Don’t let her push you away.
Cornflower was right. If Michael wanted his wife back—and he did—he was going to have to fight for her. And it wouldn’t be pretty.
“Enough,” he said sharply. “This isn’t just about you. This is our life. You’re being selfish. ”
“How dare you say that to me?”
“You can’t just lie here and grieve for what’s gone. ”
“What’s been cut off, you mean. Say it. Look at it, Michael. ”
“You wanted to fly. You, Jo. You wanted combat and war and to be all that you could be. Well, you got it, and this is who you are now. ”
She paled. “Shut up. ”
“I remember all your boot camp stories and your flight school stories. And how about all those times men climbed into your Black Hawk, saw your ponytail, and got out, saying they wouldn’t fly with a woman. You told me you made them eat their words. You said you were tough. ”
She picked up the blue plastic water pitcher by the bed and threw it at him. It missed his head by inches and cracked against the wall, splashing water all over him. “Get the hell out of my room. You’re the last person on earth who can help me. ”
“Jo—”