He didn’t see awein this room, and he didn’t need a lap rug or someone talking down to him. What he did need was to pee from all the hydration they pushed in him, but he couldn’t use his jug with her oohing and ahhing over his card collection.
“This is nice too.” She stretched her arms wide to show him a purple and gold Salito High banner. Hundreds of people had signed it, covering the fabric with wishes that for some corny reason made his eyes blurry. “Maybe I can loop it over the curtain rod.”
The one-sided conversation continued while she climbed a chair to knot the corners.
If she were his hometown sweetheart, it would be perfect, with her tight jeans at his eye level and her chatting about people they both knew, but they were strangers. She didn’t know him, so the reason she was here was pity—plain, simple pity. He’d earned respect, a Purple Heart and a pension, but not pity. He rejected patriotic do-gooder pity on principle.
“You. Done.” The order came out clearly through his teeth.
“Not yet,” she chirped. She’d misunderstood and thought he wanted to know if she’d finished. If they were truly engaged, he might care, because when she stepped down she’d hold his hand and it would be hearts and flowers and puke, but Grace was competing in the Miss Red, White and Blue pageant. The contest used to require bigger boobs, dyed hair and a willingness to screw around, but apparently after an injury they sent B-list contestants.
“Go.”
She wiped her hands on her jeans and smiled, almost to her eyes. “You want me to take you somewhere? Is that why you’re in the—” The expression on his face must have penetrated her congeniality armor, because she shut up.
“This.” He waved his arm to indicate the unpacked decorations. “For you.” He pointed at her, then lifted curved fingers as if gripping a stick and raising it. “Flag. Not me.”
She paled, then flushed. Shock and anger, he assumed. Good. The emotions would carry her away from him.
“Go.” He pointed at the door. “Go!” Let no one ever say a one-word guy couldn’t deliver the goods loud and clear.
Grace ran to theladies’ room for toilet paper to blow her nose. The truth stung, but he’d provided her with an escape. She could return to Seattle secure that she’d delivered the gifts from the good citizens of Salito. Leaving wasn’t fleeing, it was doing what he wanted, which was good enough.
Emerging from the restroom, she recognized Petty Officer Boichek next to a desperate-looking older woman.
“Ma’am!” The escort waved her closer. “You must know Sergeant Cruz’s mother.”
Mrs. Cruz was heavier than she remembered from the snack stand at football games, and her cheeks sagged beneath dark eye-bags, but the familiarity clicked.
“Madre de dios, me siento tan aliviado de verte. ¿Cómo está mi hijo?” Mrs. Cruz wore black sweatpants and a long patterned blouse, and she wheezed as if she had trouble breathing or was fighting tears when she pulled Grace into her chest. “¿Mi hijo? Quiero saber cómo está mijo?”
Grace could neither free herself from the shorter woman’s hug nor wrap her arms all the way around her, but she squeezed Mrs. Cruz back. They were the only connections each had in this place, and years of being a good daughter didn’t disappear with someone else’s mother.
“I’ll call a family interpreter,” Boichek said as she dropped a suitcase on the floor. “Can you take her in?”
Three minutes ago Rey had pointed at the door and shouted.
“He kicked me out,” Grace said.
Boichek rolled her eyes. “They all do at some point.”
The urge to laugh at times like this was undoubtedly a sign of dysfunction, but the thought struck her that she’d been too worried about being labeled a fraud. Probably if she told people she’d never met Rey until yesterday, they’d offer her a cookie and a pat on the head.
There was one thing to do. Take a deep breath and think of salmon. If they jump waterfalls to return home, she could face one angry man in a bed. Explanations would have to wait until he could communicate, or until someone who knew what had happened in Afghanistan arrived, but she could help Mrs. Cruz.
Chapter 7
“Good morning?”
Cruz couldn’t see around the nurse, but he recognized Grace’s voice and the tone of her question, as if she wasn’t sure of her welcome. He pictured her dark hair swinging loosely to hide her cheeks as she ducked self-consciously. He hadn’t expected her to return a third day, and not so early when he was being washed like a baby, but at least the sheet covered his junk.
“Where’s your mother?” Grace looked at him, not the nurse, so he’d answer for himself.
“S-s-sleep.” She’d spent the night in the chair beside his bed, comforting him each time he thrashed, until 0500 when he’d sent her to rest.
The nurse sponging his neck motioned to Grace, who stood as if she didn’t know where to put her hands while her gaze flitted between the vital signs monitor, the dark television screen and the window. The pause gave him time to notice that instead of the ugly black fleece she’d worn for two days in row, this morning she wore a silky-looking white T-shirt and a shortsweater in that yellow-green color women liked. The neckline dipped, showing a silver necklace and a sweet amount of skin. The sweater looked touchable. Maybe she’d dressed up for him.
“How was last evening after I left?” she asked.
