"I want to be just like you when I grow up." Granny laughed and then slapped her leg as if Ally had made a good joke.
"First of all, you don't know what you're talkin' about. You're done grown up and we both know it. Your childhood ended when your mama died. As for wantin' to be like me, no, you don't. My womb was barren, and my eyes aren't nothin' but plugs for the holes in my head."
Ally covered Granny's hand with hers. "No, ma'am. You're wrong about some of that. You may not have born a child, but there's not a child on this mountain who doesn't love you as if they were your own blood. As for your eyes, I think you see more than anyone. You don't need eyes to see into our hearts. You are precious to all of us, Granny. Don't ever doubt that for a minute." Ally could tell that her words had pleased the old woman, but she didn't comment other than to let go of a small smile.
"About that corn bread..." Granny said.
"What about it?" Ally asked.
"There's four corners in that pan and I'd like to have one of 'em. It's got more crust, and I like the crust best."
This time Ally giggled aloud. Granny sure did like her food.
"I'm cutting it now," Ally said.
"And the butter...don't forget the butter," Granny said.
"Who's doing this...me or you?" Ally said.
Granny slapped her leg and giggled.
"Danged if you ain't right. I'm sorry, girl. You fix it just like you like it, and I'll swear it's the best I ever had."
"Of course you will," Ally said. "You cooked it."
Granny was silent for a moment, then picked up her fork. "That I did. That I did."
Four
Nine months later
A short busybody of a nurse used her hip to shove the door to Wes Holden's room inward. Upon entering, she set a stack of fresh towels and washcloths on the end of the bed, then moved to the windows, pulled the curtains back and patted the mound of covers over Wes's feet as she headed for the sink with a washcloth. She noticed as she worked that Colonel Holden's eyes were open, but he neither acknowledged her nor behaved as if he even knew she was there.
"Good morning, Wesley. Did you sleep well last night? I didn't. My knee hurts like a big dog. I swear the weather is going to change. Mark my words. It'll rain before nightfall."
She dunked the washcloth beneath a stream of warm water, wet it good, then wrung it out and headed for the bed.
"Let's wash that sleep right out of your eyes, what do you say?"
She swiped the warm, damp cloth across Wesley's face as a quick wash and wake-up, ever aware of his blank, sightless stare.
"After breakfast, I'll give you a shave. It will make you feel like a new man."
She pushed buttons and plumped pillows, then readjusted Wes's posture until she finally had him sitting upright in bed. What was driving her crazy was that in all the time he'd been here, she had never seen one moment of life in his eyes.
He opened his mouth when she told him to, and chewed when food was put in his mouth. He was shaved and bathed and wheeled about as if he'd lost the use of his legs, when in reality it was his mind that was lost. She knew his story, but he wasn't the only soldier who had lost a loved one in the commissary bombing, and that had been almost a year ago. She figured this stemmed from something deeper. She knew what the doctors said about his PTSD, and she'd also heard the rumors that they were convinced he might never return to reality. But she was in the business of helping to save people's lives, and in her opinion, he was a man worth saving.
Once she was through washing his face, she pulled the guardrails down from the bed and swung his legs off the mattress, letting them dangle.
"Okay, mister. Bathroom for you. Get up."
Somewhere inside the shell of Wes Holden's mind, he was still able to respond to orders. He stood.
"Go do your business, soldier. When you come out, breakfast should be here."
She pushed gently, aiming Wes toward the bathroom. A short while later, he exited. She made him wash his hands, then sat him in a chair near the window, rather than back in his bed.
"Breakfast is served," she said, and pushed the small table with his tray of food in front of him. She put the fork in his hand. "All right, soldier, I'm too damn busy to sit here and feed you every day. Eat up."
But Wes didn't respond, and she was afraid to leave the food with him. Something told her that, if it was up to Wes, he would gladly starve and that death would be welcome. She patted his back and pulled up a chair.
"It's okay, honey. I'm not that busy, after all."
She took the fork out of his hand, scooped up a bite of scrambled eggs and aimed them at his mouth.
"Open wide."
To her undying relief, he not only chewed, but swallowed.
After months in the psych ward, the nurses had gotten used to Wes's inactivity, and for her, it was just another day.
When she'd finished feeding him, she got a basin of warm water, shaving soap and a razor, and began their morning routine. For a while, there was silence in the room, with only the occasional sound of the razor being swished through water and the soft notes of a song she was humming. Just as she was pulling the razor up the sharp angle of his right cheek, a loud clap of thunder suddenly rattled the windows. She jerked and flinched, and when she did, the razor nicked a spot on Wes's cheek.
"Oh, honey...oh, darn... I'm so sorry," she said, and grabbed the wet washcloth from the bed rail, pressing it firmly to his cheek. "It was the thunder. I told you it was going to rain, didn't I?"
She dabbed at the cut over and over until it began to clot, then dropped the washcloth into the shaving water.
"I'm going to get some antiseptic. I'll be right back."
Wes's unfocused gaze was turned toward the window as she left. Suddenly a shaft of lightning hit the parking lot just outside the window. The flash was violent and bright, and followed by another clap of thunder so loud that it sounded like a bomb.
Wes threw up his arms. As he turned to throw himself onto the floor, he saw the basin of bloody water. Then he froze, his gaze fixed as he stared at the red stain. It was only seconds, but for Wes, it seemed like an eternity. In the time it took for his breathing to resume, he was aware of everything. The sound of his heartbeat was so loud that the throb hurt his ears, and he was shaking from the inside out.
There was blood in the water.
There had been blood all over Margie.
It thundered again. He looked down at his hands, then up at the window. Wind was blowing the rain against the glass. The turmoil outside was as wild and violent as the feeling inside his chest. Kill or be killed. That was what a soldier was taught. Someone had killed his wife and little boy. He'd killed one of them, but there could be more. Trust no one. The enemy could be hiding anywhere.
"Here we are," the little nurse said, dabbing some antibiotic on the cut, then quickly applying a small circle-shaped plaster.
Wes shifted his gaze to a corner of the floor and willed himself not to scream. The way his heart was hammering, she was bound to hear.
"I'm really sorry about this," the nurse said, then gathered up the shaving utensils and wet towels, and quickly left the room. Thanks to this mess, she was already behind.
Wes exhaled slowly, then got out of the chair and crawled into bed, pulled the covers up over his shoulders and closed his eyes.
When the next nurse came in and found him in bed, she just assumed that the first nurse had put him there. Days passed, and as they did, Wes regained more and more cognizance, but with it came memories.
The fish on Wes's hook suddenly flopped out of the water, but before he could land it, it came off the hook and dropped back in the creek.
His daddy laughed. He wanted to cry. It had been a really big fish. But his daddy's laughter was contagious.
Before he knew it, they were both in stitches. Besides, he was ten years old—far too old to cry over losing a fish.
Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light in Wes's eyes, and that quickly, his daddy was gone.
Damn it.
The part of him that had learned how to live in the past had disappeared. It didn't matter that his father had been dead for years, because when his mind would cooperate, he knew where to find him.
Trouble was, it was becoming more and more difficult to stay gone. Once in the night he'd awakened, and when he opened his eyes, he had known immediately who he was and that he was in a strange place. But the worst of it came after he remembered why he was here.
The pain that had come with the knowledge was engulfing, and he leaned over the side of the bed and threw up. A passing night nurse had heard the commotion and hurried to his aid. In the business of cleaning up both him and the floor, she had completely missed the fact that Wes had come to himself enough not to throw up in bed.
Thinking that he was coming down with some stomach bug, they had given him a shot to stifle the nausea. It had served the purpose, but had also given Wes the necessary path to find his way back to limbo.
The next time his eyes had opened, he was safe at home with his six-year-old brother, Billy, asleep beside him.
There was frost on the windows, and he could smell gingerbread. It was Christmas morning!
"Billy! Wake up. It's Christmas!"
His younger brother rolled from his side of the bed while his eyes were still shut, stumbled, then fell. Wes threw back the covers and jumped, down to help Billy up. Then they raced to the bathroom before heading down the stairs. They were halfway down when they heard their mother call up.
"You boys better not be coming down these stairs barefoot. You know how cold these floors are, and I don't want both of you sick."
They groaned in unison as they ran back for their robes and slippers. When they finally came down, they were wild.
"Oh, Mom! Dad! Bicycles! Santa left us bicycles!"
Patricia Holden threw up her hands in mock disbelief and then grabbed the camera, anxious to capture the expressions on their faces.
"Boys! Boys! Look this way!" Patricia called.
Seven-year-old Wesley was standing beside his bicycle. He turned toward the sound of his mother's voice and then laughed from the pure joy of the moment.
Someone was laughing. There was a yearning within Wes that almost made him turn and look, but he didn't. He was pretty sure there was a reason why he shouldn't laugh, but for the moment, he couldn't remember why. Within seconds, the notion passed and, with it, Wes's sense.
Some time later two men entered his room and stood on either side of his chair as he sat by the window. He'd known the moment they'd entered the room because
he'd smelled them coming. One needed to change his deodorant, because what he was wearing had quit working. The other smelled of smoke and peppermints. Wes's heightened sensitivity to sounds and smells had come from Special Ops survival training—that same training that was urging him to drop, roll and shoot.
Only he didn't move. He wasn't armed, and he wasn't sure where he was, and running would be futile unless he knew the way out, so he settled within the silence of his mind, waiting for them to finish their foray, then get out.
Dr. Avery Benedict finished his physical examination of Wesley Holden, slipped his penlight into his pocket, shifted his stance to an "at ease" position, then clasped his hands behind his back.
Wes's psychiatrist, Dr. Marshall Milam, glanced down at Wes, then back to Benedict.
"Do you concur with my decision?" Milam asked.
Benedict hesitated. "I don't know. Physically, he's fine. In fact, damned fine."
"It's not the physical side of the man I'm concerned with. He's been here for nearly a year. I've been unable to connect with him on any level, and while I'm not willing to say he's incurable, I do think that another doctor, maybe one with a different approach, might be able to do what I can't."
Benedict glanced at Wes again. "Medical discharge?"
Milam sighed. "Other than the deceased wife and child, does he have any next of kin?"
Benedict flipped through Wes's chart. "Parents deceased. One brother, also deceased. Oh, wait...says here there's a stepbrother, Aaron Clancy, in
Milam nodded. "Notify the stepbrother. I'll start the paperwork."
Having made their decision, they walked away from Wes as if he were nothing more than a potted plant they'd stopped to view. It wasn't personal, it was just part of their process.