Silence.
“Good.”
Michael stood, and the team did the same. As they walked out of the conference room, he repacked his briefcase and headed back to his office. For the next few hours, he worked at his computer, pulling up every case with a PTSD defense that he could find.
On the ferry ride home, he was still at it. He read Cornflower’s report again, specifically focusing on Keith’s telling of his own story.
In Ramadi, we used to bet on whose tent would be hit by mortar next … I was walking back from taking a piss when a mortar landed in our Howitzer … we couldn’t do shit … they burned up alive in there, screaming … And there was bagging—picking up body parts … legs, arms … we put ’em in bags and carried ’em back. It’s weird to grab your buddy’s arm …
Michael put down the report. What was happening to Jolene over there? What was she seeing? Once the question arose, he couldn’t ignore it. He thought about his wife, and for the first time he imagined the worst …
It was still light outside—lavender and beautiful—when he parked in front of the Green Thumb.
His mother met him at the door, looking worried.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
She brushed his apology aside with an impatient wave. “Betsy is upset. That girlfriend of hers—Sierra—called her an hour ago and told her that a female helicopter pilot was shot down today. I tried to calm her, but…”
Michael glanced past his mother; he saw Lulu in the corner, seated at a garden display table, pretending to serve her doll tea in a paper cup. “Where is she?”
“Outside, by the big rock.”
Michael nodded. “We’re going to the Pot for dinner. You want to join us?”
“I’d love to, but I can’t. Helen and I are changing the window display tonight. Labor Day’s coming up—the big sale starts.”
He leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Ma.” With a sigh, he headed through the store, past the shelves full of knickknacks and planters and gardening tools. At the back door, he paused for just a moment, gathering his strength, and then he went out to the parking lot that ran between the Front Street stores and the marina. A huge gray boulder sat on a patch of grass overlooking the docks. For as long as he’d lived here, kids had scrambled up, down, and around the rock. Now, he saw his daughter sitting on top of it, her blond hair tousled by the warm summer breeze, her gaze turned out to sea. Hundreds of boats bobbed on the flat calm waters below.
He came up beside the rock. “Hey, you,” he said, looking up.
She looked down at him, her pale, pimply face ravaged by tears. There was an alarming flatness in her eyes. “Hi, Dad. You’re late.”
“Sorry.”
As he stood there, trying to dredge up some words of wisdom, her watch alarm bleeped. Betsy yanked the watch off and threw it to the ground.
He bent over and picked it up, heard the beep-beep-beep that his wife was listening to at this very moment, a world away. For a moment, he imagined it, imagined her, looking down at her watch, probably feeling so far from home.
“Your mom’s fine,” he said at last. Honestly, all of this had been easier before the Keller case, when he could believe in Jolene’s optimistic letters and assurances of safety. Now, he knew better. How was he supposed to comfort a child when her fears were reasonable and he shared them? “It wasn’t her, Betsy.”
Betsy slid down from the rock. “It could have been.”
“But it wasn’t,” he said quietly.
Her eyes watered at that, her mouth wavered. He could see her composure crumbling. “This time,” she said.
“This time.”
“I’m forgetting her,” Betsy said, reaching into her pocket for the latest picture Jolene had sent, lifting it. “This … this isn’t her. She isn’t only a soldier.”
What could he say that wasn’t a lie? “Let’s go to the Crab Pot and look at the picture of her. That will make you remember.”
She nodded.
It wasn’t enough.
He reached for her hand. Sometimes holding on was all you could do.
*
After dinner, Michael led the girls into the house and watched them run upstairs. He felt drained. He should have known how affecting dinner at the Crab Pot would be. Jolene’s spirit had been so strong there. Lulu and Betsy had spent a good ten minutes staring up at the Polaroid picture of their mom tacked to the wall. Lulu wouldn’t even eat—she just held on to that little wings pin and cried.