She hadn’t noticed before how your feet anchored you for sit-ups. Now, she was constantly moving, sliding, feeling unsteady on the ground as she went up, down, up, down.
“Two hundred, Jolene,” Conny said. “Don’t slow down.”
“Screw … you,” she said in between breaths. She wanted to give up, wanted it badly, but every time she considered quitting, she thought about her children, and her family, and how much she wanted to be herself again, and she kept trying.
When she finished, Conny wheeled her back to her room. “I’ll send an aide to help you shower,” he said, positioning her wheelchair by the window.
“Conny?” she said, looking up at him.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about your son.”
He gave her a slow, sad smile. “I’m sorry about your leg, soldier girl.”
*
For the next week, Jolene spent her nights battered by memories, and her days pretending she was getting better. She called her daughters every evening and let them tell her about their day; at night, she called Germany and talked to Carl about Tami. Most of all, she kept working. Every morning, when she woke, her first thought—in the split second when she hadn’t yet remembered the truth—was I wonder if it’s too cold to run.
By the time she opened her eyes, that question was gone, tossed onto the pile of lost chances that made up Before.
Now, her room was dark; the door was closed. She turned her head just enough to see out the small window. Beyond the glass, she saw a bare tree, its spindly limbs sporting puffs of green moss and a few tenacious, multicolored leaves.
She grabbed the trapeze and pulled herself to a sit. By the time she was upright, she was breathing hard. Tired again. She couldn’t believe how much muscle mass she’d lost in such a short period of time.
Today she would get fitted for her temporary prosthesis. Her new leg. She wanted to be excited about it, but the truth was that she was scared. The new leg meant that she would be up and around, that she would be walking, that she would go home, to her ruined marriage and her frightened children and a life that had no foundation. She wasn’t a pilot anymore, wasn’t a soldier, wasn’t really a wife. Who was she?
She wanted to talk to someone about her fears, but it had never been her way, and God knew it wasn’t the military way. Whatever new fears and ragged nerves and residual images she’d carried home from Iraq, she was expected to deal with them herself. Besides, she’d learned as a kid how futile words could be. With Michael she’d always held back, even in the best of times, afraid to let him see how damaged she was beneath the bold surface. It was a trick she’d learned young, in that house full of alcoholics. Say nothing.
Only with Tami had she ever been truly honest.
She lay back down and closed her eyes, thinking, Tami.
How are you, flygirl? Do you need me as much as I need you? You thought I was screwed up before—you should see me now. I can’t even trust my own mind and I can’t sleep without nightmares … God, I miss you … wake up …
Jolene sighed. As she lay there, feeling scared and （admit it, Jo） sorry for herself, she heard the sounds of the rehab center waking up. In no time at all, an aide had come with her breakfast, and another had helped her into the bathroom and in and out of the shower.
At nine o’clock, Michael showed up. He walked into her room without knocking.
She was almost afraid to look at him; she felt so vulnerable right now. “I thought you had a deposition today.”
“I didn’t want you to be alone for this.”
The easy way he said it was an arrow to the heart, as if they were Michael-and-Jolene again. Don’t believe it. “Thanks,” was all she could say.
Conny rapped sharply on the door and walked into the room. If he noticed the silence between them, he made no sign of it. “Good. You’re here, Michael. Let’s go.”
Jolene felt uncomfortable getting into her chair in front of Michael—it was all so pathetically difficult for her—but it quickly became apparent that Conny had no intention of helping her. So she grabbed the bar and hauled herself upright with her left hand, then scooted over to the side of the bed and swung her legs over.
It was still a shock to land on one foot, but she concentrated on keeping her balance. Michael started to roll the wheelchair into range; she shook her head and hopped one step, then grabbed the rubberized handles and sat down with a sigh. She could feel how red her cheeks were from the exertion, and she was breathing hard—again—but she had done it herself, and there was some small satisfaction in that.