She turned on the TV and flipped to CNN, waiting for any news on the troops.
Michael came downstairs, carrying Lulu, who was chatting animatedly about something.
“Oh, you’re up,” Michael said. He was already dressed for work.
“Put me down!” Lulu squealed, wiggling in his arms. As soon as she hit the ground, she ran over to Jolene, accidentally bumping into her residual leg. It hurt so bad Jolene cursed before she could stop herself.
Lulu stopped dead, her eyes widening. “You said a bad word, Mommy. Daddy! Mommy said a bad word.”
“Sorry,” Jolene said grimly.
“What does everyone want for breakfast?” Michael asked.
Jolene looked up at him. “I’ll make them breakfast and get them off to school.”
“That’s too much work for you, Jo. Take it easy. I’ll—”
“Please,” she said, hearing the pleading tone in her voice and unable to temper it. “I need this, Michael. I have to get into my life again. I can handle making my two girls breakfast.”
He eyed her as if she were a bomb that might go off. “If you’re sure…”
“Sure about what?” Betsy said, coming down the stairs.
“Your mom is going to make you girls breakfast and help you get ready for school,” Michael said.
“She is?” Betsy said, clearly suspicious of Jolene’s ability.
“Today’s definitely special,” Lulu said, eyeing Jolene as if she were unsure about this whole turn of events. “Cap’n Crunch.”
Betsy groaned.
“You sure, Jo? Because I can do it.” Michael asked again.
“I’m sure.”
“The girls catch the bus these days. They know the times,” he said.
Another change. It was just as well. Jolene could hardly drive carpool.
“Okay. I have voir dire today, so I’ll be in court most of the day. Mom is going to pick you up for PT in an hour. I’ll be home no later than six.”
“You never get home by six.”
“People change, Jo,” he said, giving her a pointed look.
“Kiss Mommy good-bye,” Lulu said when he picked up his coat.
Michael and Jolene looked at each other. Then he moved toward her, leaned down slowly.
The kiss he gave her was butterfly light. The kind of kiss a man would give an old woman, or a dying one.
From her chair, she watched him leave the house. When she heard his car start up, she snapped out of it. “Okay, girls, go get dressed for school. I’ll have breakfast ready in no time.”
She rolled into the kitchen, surprised to realize how small it was from chair level. There was barely room for her to maneuver, and the counters were too high; she couldn’t reach them easily.
She was still trying to figure out the logistics when the girls returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table. Jolene glanced at her calendar, the one she’d left for Michael. Today was oatmeal and wheat toast with sliced bananas.
She climbed out of the chair and clung to the counter with one hand while she tried to dig through the cabinet for a pan. The clanging of metal got on her nerves, made her think of gunfire and cement cracking …
“You want help, Mom?” Betsy asked.
“No,” Jolene said. “I can make a damn pot of oatmeal.”
“Well, excuse me,” Betsy said, stung.
“Mommy said a bad word again,” Lulu said.
Jolene found the pot, grabbed it, and looked over at the sink. There was no more than ten feet between her and the faucet, but the distance seemed to swell before her eyes. God, how she wanted to just walk over there like she used to, laughing with her girls as she cooked.
Instead, she gritted her teeth, lowered herself to the chair and wheeled herself to the sink. There, she climbed to her feet again, turned on the water, and held the pot under the faucet.
Blood spurted out, poured down the soldier’s face. Jolene yelled, “Smitty, get the medic, this man isn’t going to make it—”
“It’s seven fifty-seven,” Betsy said sharply.
Jolene came back to the present. She wasn’t in Iraq, flying a medevac mission. She was in her kitchen. She looked down; the pot was overflowing with water.
“Mom, it’s—”
“I know,” Jolene said. She turned off the water and set the pot on the counter. Pivoting on her foot, she repositioned the wheelchair.
“Dad has oatmeal ready by now,” Betsy added.
Jolene grabbed for the pot without thinking, using her right hand. It happened in an instant, her losing her grip, but she saw it in slow motion: the grab, the turn, the fingers failing her, opening, the pot falling …