The guy who wasn’t going to Hawaii today rolled his eyes at the order to wait, but Grace didn’t notice.
He slumped on his pillow, left in solitude so sudden his head rang with the echo of their footsteps. The window offered the limited view of the bed-ridden: sky, clouds and jackshit to take his mind off how sick his mother was and his failures. She’d worked twenty hours a day to keep him and his little sister fed and dressed and with a roof over their heads after his father died. He’d sent her money from his paychecks, but he hadn’tbeen home much lately. Deployments and screwing around and hitting the beaches with Bama when he was on leave.
He hadn’t visited, hadn’t checked up on her, hadn’t done his half of being a good son.
She was older and more tired than how his heart pictured her, and he hadn’t known. She’d busted her health getting to Bethesda, stayed up with him all night and never said a word about her own needs. If she wasn’t going to complain, he wouldn’t moan about what had been handed to him either. As long as she was all right.
He followed the clock, the slowest broken time-fucker in the universe, for eighty-five minutes before Grace returned.
“They won’t let anything happen to her.” Grace’s quiet voice tried to reassure him, but the soft hand she wrapped around his fist mattered most. She looked faded again too.
“You okay?” There, he’d approximated human speech.
“You’re asking me?” She snorted. “Yeah, I’m okay. Confused, but okay.”
She was closer, and he didn’t know if he was pulling her or she was bending, but he could see the glitter of her eyes. He smelled that hint of rosemary, more fragrant than the apple juice they force-fed him. Even if he never saw her after today, this scent would belong to her forever.
“She’s being rehydrated, and she told the nurse about the diabetes.” Grace looked at where their hands connected. “She napped in a waiting room this morning and doesn’t have a place to stay. I told them she came on the train, so they think the main problem is exhaustion. They signed her into some place called Fisher House with free rooms here at Walter Reed for families. I came for her suitcase.”
He should have realized that his mother’s luggage hadn’t left the room. Stupid.
“Thank. You.” Why Grace came or why she stayed no longer mattered. Wise men never complained about what a good-looking lady did, and by helping his mother, she offered a hand. He was smart enough to take the assistance.
Chapter 8
Tonight the dream startedwith Kahananui laughing above him on the canal bank. “Give me a fucking hand.” He reached for his friend and scrambled for a muddy toe hold.
“Ancient Hawaiian proverb. ‘He who jumps in hauls his own wet ass out.’”
Then he was underwater. Red swirled like scarves, but he couldn’t wonder where the colors came from, because he had to get out.
He thought he was standing, but the water was deeper and he’d have to swim, although his body armor was too heavy. He waved his arms, moved the red ropes until they dissipated, but more kept coming. Binding him to the bottom.
Pain hit, and he couldn’t help himself, he screamed like a psycho as the movie in his mind sped until Kahananui and Bama Boy crouched over him.
Kahananui yelled into his radio, and Cruz knew with the portion of his brain that wasn’t consumed with absolute fucking agony that Bama was tightening the bands, like tying a bunchof asparagus. He’d stooped, sliced and tied each spring for extra cash, and now he was goddamned fresh spears himself with the quick tourniquets wrapped on his legs.
“One or two?” He yelled the question at Bama. “One or two?”
“You’re gonna make it, bro.”
“One or two?” Dreaming Cruz knew the answer, but Cruz on the ground wanted to know.
“Hang with me, Cruz, you hear me. Hang on. Dust Off’s coming.”
“Motherfucker. Tell me.”He reached for Bama’s throat, and his hand was there. Bloody, but still a hand, which was a fucking good deal.“One or two?”
“Shit, man.” Bama popped a drip in his big vein. He recognized the steps because he’d done them dozens of times. “Don’t go being a dick. It’s both.”
“My—” He choked on the hypothetical he’d never had nerve to ask. Facing life without the full package, would he tighten the tourniquets, or not? “Balls?”
“You’re the new poster for Kevlar diapers. Not skipping mine again.”
Then why did he hurt like someone had twisted his leg a one-eighty and jammed it up his nutsack? It took everything he had not to keep screaming.
“Sergeant, you’re safe.” The voice was a woman, not Bama. “This will help you rest.”
Warmth and darkness slipped through him, but he didn’t believe he’d died. Bama said he wasn’t dead, said it nightly, and dead guys didn’t dream about their balls.
