Even as she had the thought, she hated herself for it. Smitty was dead, for God’s sake, and Tami lay in a hospital bed far away, fighting for her life. What right did Jolene have to bemoan a lost career?
“Jolene, I know you’re awake.”
She lay perfectly still, trying to slow her breathing. She didn’t dare look at him, not tonight, when her sense of loss was as deep as a mountain cavern, bottomless.
She kept her eyes closed until finally—finally—he left her alone.
Twenty-Five
For the next week, Jolene hid from her family. It was surprisingly easy to do. She spent days at the rehab center, working hard, becoming increasingly self-sufficient, and then she came home, begged Mila for help, and disappeared into her bedroom. Wine and sleeping pills dulled her pain enough that she could sleep. Night after night, she heard her family beyond the door—talking, laughing, watching TV. They were going on with life, living it without her, and at each bit of laughter, she felt herself fall deeper into this sweaty darkness, until she began to have trouble even imagining a way to crawl out.
She lay in her solitary bed, cut off from everyone and everything, knowing she was giving up, giving in, but unable to change. What could she reach for? Who would help her to stand in her newly precarious position? Her children were afraid of her, and she was afraid of herself, afraid of her own crumbling, unreliable mind. Tami was too sick to offer help, and that was another of Jolene’s sins. No matter how often she told herself the crash wasn’t her fault, guilt was always there with her at night, a vulture waiting to pick at her bones. She called Germany often, talked to Carl, but they both knew his wasn’t the voice she wanted so desperately to hear. Their conversations had become stilted lately; hope had worn thin.
Michael scared her, too, perhaps most of all. He kept saying the right things, words she’d longed to hear, but he didn’t really love her. How could he? He had stopped loving her when she was at her best; how could he possibly love her now, at her worst?
She was terrified that if she let herself believe him in a moment of weakness, it would ruin what small bit of pride was left to her.
Every morning, she vowed to do better, but each night found her back in her room, taking sleeping pills to help her sleep. And still she had the nightmares.
“You’re going to court with me today,” Michael said one morning in mid-October, coming into her bedroom without even knocking.
“No, thanks,” she said.
He walked over to the nightstand and picked up the empty wine bottle. “You can walk or I’ll carry you.”
She sat up in bed. “I haven’t come to court with you in years.”
“You will today. Mom said she’ll handle the girls. We’ll need to be on the seven fifty boat.”
“But, Conny—”
“Has agreed.”
She stared at him. “Fine,” she said at last.
It took her a long time to get ready—naturally—and when she was done, she returned to her bedroom and looked at herself in the full-length mirror.
From a distance, she would probably draw no attention. It wasn’t until you came near or saw her walk that you noticed the ugly plastic prosthetic foot.
“You look beautiful,” Michael said from the doorway.
She pivoted awkwardly on her good foot.
His gaze swept her from head to toe, taking in the hair that fell free to well past her shoulders, the green boatneck sweater that showed off just a little skin, and the black pants that covered the part of her that was gone.
“Maybe I’m not ready to go out in public,” she said.
“You’re ready. Conny says so.” He offered his arm. She clung to him, let him steady her as she made her slow, hitching way into the family room, where the girls and Mila were waiting. It broke her heart all over again to see how warily her children stared at her.
Mila rose at her entrance. “You have her pills, Michael?”
“I have everything,” he said.
Mila came forward. Jolene couldn’t help noticing that the girls hung back.
“You can do this,” Mila said.
Jolene felt a rush of remembrance at that, a sweet longing for her life before. How many times had Mila encouraged her over the years, and then stayed by her side? It had been Mila who had told Jolene, over and over again, in the barren years after Betsy, keep trying, there’s always hope. You’ll have another baby, I know it. An old, ragged desire to make her mother-in-law proud rose up in Jolene; it was tattered and torn, but there, and it felt good. “Thanks, Mila,” Jolene said in a hoarse voice.