Beyond it were her class As—dress uniform: a jacket, knee-length skirt, and white blouse. She pulled it out, stared down at the jacket with its gold detailing, surprised by the emotion that washed over her.
“Jo?” Michael said, coming into the room. He was bare-chested, wearing a towel wrapped low on his hips; his hair was still wet. “You’re crying,” he said.
“Am I?”
He came over, took the uniform from her. “Let me help you get downstairs. Mom should be here by now.”
“I can’t do this.”
His gaze was steady, warm. “You can.” He held on to her arm, steadied her as she moved through the bedroom and went down the stairs, where Mila was waiting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee.
“I came to help you get ready,” she said gently.
Jolene felt as empty as corn husk, hollow, dried-out. She was shaking when her mother-in-law took her by the elbow.
Mila helped her into the shower. When Jolene was done, and wrapped in a big, thick towel, Mila positioned her on the toilet, then brushed and dried her hair. Her residual leg stuck out like a baseball bat, still swollen and decorated with bright-pink stitch marks. Mila wrapped it expertly in the elastic bandage and then covered it with the gel sock.
“A little makeup would be nice today, don’t you think? You’re pale and you’ve lost so much weight…”
Jolene nodded but didn’t really care.
“Sit up straight and close your eyes.”
Jolene closed her eyes when asked, opened them when prompted, and pursed her lips. She couldn’t have cared less how she looked, but neither did she have the strength to protest.
“There. All done. Let’s get you dressed. Here.” Mila knelt in front of her, holding the waistband of the skirt open.
Jolene lifted her left foot and guided it through the opening, gritting her teeth when her mother-in-law slipped the skirt over her stump. Then she stood dutifully and sat again, zipping her skirt before she opened her arms for the blouse, fixing the smart dark neck tab at her collar.
Mila talked the whole time, about gardening and recipes she’d tried and the weather. Anything except the thing they were getting ready for. “Okay. All done. How did I do?”
Jolene lifted the skirt and put her prosthetic limb on. Grabbing the handrail by the toilet, she got to her feet. Turning with care, she faced the mirror on the back of the door.
In her crisp white shirt, dark neck tab, and jacket decorated with honors and trimmed in gold, she was a soldier again.
We’re graduating, flygirl, stand up straight …
Mila took Jolene in her arms, holding her tightly.
Jolene drew back. She couldn’t be touched right now; she was like fine antique china. The smallest pressure in the wrong place and she’d crack. She limped out into the family room, where Betsy and Lulu and Michael were waiting, all of them dressed in black.
When she looked at them, the membrane between what had happened and what could have seemed as fragile as a spider’s web. She was lucky to be here. It could easily have been her funeral that had made them wear black. They were thinking the same thing; she could see it in their eyes.
She managed a smile, wan though it must be, because it was expected of her.
Her family came forward, bookended her. She knew that Michael had already loaded her crutches and wheelchair into the SUV. He also knew how much she wanted to walk on her own today.
Perhaps he thought she wanted to look whole, unharmed, soldierlike. But the truth was that it hurt her to walk still, and she wanted that pain today, welcomed it. It was proof in some sick way that she’d given her best that night, that she had barely survived.
She walked—limped, really; she’d gotten new blisters on her trip to the courthouse—out to the garage.
She climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat of her SUV and forced her prosthesis to bend at the knee. The ugly ankle boot on the clunky foot hit the car’s rubber floor mat and stuck there.
She knew she should say something to her family now. They needed her to put them at ease and let them know she was okay.
But she wasn’t okay and they knew it. They were afraid of her now, afraid she’d blow up or start crying or yelling or maybe even that she’d hit someone.
She didn’t even care. The numbness was back, and this time, she was grateful for it.
Michael started the engine and opened the garage door. It clattered up behind them.
Outside, rain fell in broken threads, strands so slim and pale you only knew it was raining because you could hear it pattering the roof. Michael didn’t even bother to turn on the wipers.