River's Recruit (The Sanctuary Series) Page 6

  “It’s not that important. Sure, it pisses me off, but it’s just stuff. It’s not like…” The rest of that sentence hung in the air like a foul odor…it’s not like someone died.

  Jonathan swallowed the lump in his throat but he couldn’t disguise the pinched sound of his voice. “Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? Who knows why she did it, but if clearing out my stuff helped Mom feel even a little bit better, it’s worth it.”

  Dad wrapped his arms around Jonathan, avoiding his stump. “Have I told you just how proud I am of you?”

  Jonathan didn’t want to lose it in front of Dad but his control was slipping. “I’m really tired.”

  “Do you want me to sleep in here tonight? It’s easy enough to set up the inflatable bed.”

  Dad had been with Jonathan in the hospital during his entire stay, only leaving his room when Jonathan had visitors and even then, he only went to the cafeteria or the chapel.

  Jonathan was tempted to accept. Franklin’s funeral was the next day. He didn’t know how he was going to get through the night; but he was a soldier, not a baby. “I’m fine. Besides it’s been a long time since you slept with Mom.” Jonathan blushed when he realized the double meaning of his words.

  Dad’s chuckle didn’t help. “I know you might want a little privacy yourself, but your mother and I are still worried about you. We bought a nursery monitor—”

  “Are you kidding me?” That was too much. “I am not a baby that needs his diaper changed four times a night. I’m sorry Dad, but there is no way I’m going to allow you guys to spy on me like that.”

  “It’s more for our peace of mind. We need to know you’re okay. Please, just for a few nights, indulge our paranoia.”

  The idea insulted and embarrassed Jonathan, but guilt held him ransom. He couldn’t deny his parents anything that might give them even the slightest degree of comfort. “Fine. But I’m turning it off until I’m ready to fall asleep.”

  “Thank you, Jon-Jon.” Dad hugged him again, kissed his forehead and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Jonathan turned off the nursery monitor then yanked the plug out of the socket.

  A blank spot on the wall drew his attention. The paint was slightly darker, calling attention to the fact that something was missing. A poster-sized photo used to hang there.

  Jonathan palmed the wall and pressed his cheek against its cool, lightly textured surface. He closed his eyes and pictured the moment captured by the camera three years ago…

  He and Franklin stood center stage at the Disney World Sports Complex, hoisting a huge trophy above their heads. The packed arena, energized and cheering, had thrilled him beyond anything he’d ever experienced before. They had both placed in individual events, but together they won the synchronized forms and weapons class. They’d always performed better as a team than they had as individuals.

  Jonathan felt drained and heavy at the same time. He used to be so full of life he couldn’t keep his feet on the ground. How ironic. Now it took all his energy to cross the room and lie down on top of his bed.

  He drew his knees to his chest ignoring the pain that shot through his ribs. The tears that leaked out of his tightly shut eyes did nothing to relieve the pain of his combined grief and guilt. They did however, dissolve the last of his self-control and like a cracked dam, Jonathan could no longer withstand the pressure of holding everything inside. He grabbed one of the decorative pillows and buried his face into the soft satin attempting to muffle his primal screams of agony.

  It was dark when Jonathan finally pulled the sodden pillow away from his face. He switched on his bedside lamp and pulled a fistful of tissues out of the box to dry his eyes and blow his nose. He was numb and completely drained. Unfortunately, his bladder was not.

  He dreaded entering the shared bathroom that joined his room to Franklin’s. Jonathan was almost certain that Franklin’s toothbrush and razor would be gone. Either way, it would hurt. It would be better to remain in the dark.

  Jonathan managed to pee without hitting his feet, something he didn’t always accomplish even when he still had two hands and a light.

  He hurried back to his room, stripped down to his boxers and turned the nursery monitor on. He tried not to glare when he looked into the tiny lens of the video camera. “I’m going to sleep now.”

  That was a lie, of course. There was no way Jonathan would be able to sleep. Not even with the help of narcotics. Pain meds dulled the constant ache of his wounds, but did nothing for the gaping hole in the middle of his chest.

  ~***~

  Jonathan fingered the crease of his Army blue dress pants, pinching it where it broke over his knee cap. He sat on the front row of the chapel and stared at the flag draped over Franklin’s coffin. All it held was a small urn of ashes, Franklin’s dress blue uniform and his dog tags. Or at least that’s what the funeral director claimed. Who knew what was really in there. It was a closed coffin.

  Once the Army figured out that the dog tags someone shoved into Jonathan’s front shirt pocket weren’t his, they were able to identify some of Franklin’s remains with DNA testing. By the time they got it all straightened out, Jonathan was out of the ICU. Dad offered to postpone Franklin’s funeral for a couple more weeks, but Jonathan wanted to get it over with while he still had access to high doses of pain killers.

  Bishop Thorne droned on and on about the plan of salvation; as if he were trying to convert everyone instead of directing a funeral. But as soon as he started talking about Franklin, Jonathan wanted him to stop and start preaching again—or just shut the hell up.

  “Franklin McKnight’s time on earth was short, but he accomplished so much while he was here.”

  “Bullshit.”

  A collective gasp, followed by a buzz of indignant murmurs, snapped Jonathan out of his daze.

  He hadn’t meant to say that out loud—even if it was true. Franklin had a plan for his life. A plan that did not include getting blown to pieces and scattered all over some insignificant dirt road in the middle of Afghanistan.

  Jonathan blinked then laughed. He knew it was inappropriate, but he couldn’t help it.

  Strong arms wrapped around Jonathan’s shoulders. “It’s okay, son. It’s okay.”

  Jonathan jerked away from Dad. His vision tunneled as he crashed through the double doors and took off running. He stumbled and tripped over his own feet as if he were drunk—which he probably was. He’d taken an extra dose of pain meds when the funeral home’s limo pulled into the driveway that morning, but his wrist still throbbed with each beat of his heart.

  A car rolled up beside him, matching his pace, but he didn’t recognize it. The window hummed as it rolled down.

  Dad put a hand on the passenger seat and leaned towards Jonathan. “Get in the car, son.”

  Jonathan slid into the unfamiliar car and pulled the door shut. “Whose car is this?”

  “Bishop Thorne’s.” Dad didn’t say another word until he parked at the cemetery. He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “You aren’t the only one grieving.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to participate in the dove release ceremony.”

  Jonathan shook his head. He didn’t want to be there at all. And he sure as hell didn’t want to participate in any bird ceremony. Mom had forbidden the firing of any weapons, so instead of a three volley salute to honor Franklin’s service and sacrifice, he was getting a flock of doves. The stupid birds would probably shit on his casket.

  Dad put his arm around Jonathan and led him towards the crowd standing on the hill. People stepped back and made a path that led to Franklin’s open grave. Dad nodded at the bugler. The poignant notes of “Taps” squeezed Jonathan’s chest, but it didn’t thaw the icy numbness surrounding his heart as he watched the honor guard fold the flag from Franklin’s casket.

  Tears streamed down Dad’s cheeks as a soldier knelt in front of him and handed him the flag. But Jonathan’s eyes remained dry. The numbness
spread to his fingers.

  A man in a black suit led Mom and Dad to a large, wicker basket. Music from a portable sound system filled the air as they opened the lid and released twenty white doves; one for each year of Franklin’s life. The man reached into a much smaller basket and pulled out a single bird then tried to give it to Jonathan.

  “I’ve only got one hand.” Jonathan lifted his bandaged stump.

  “It’s okay.” The man handed the dove to Dad then took Jonathan’s right hand and placed it on the dove’s back. It’s feathers felt like silk against his palm.

  Mom and Dad kissed the dove’s head, but Jonathan just stared at it. The man recited some poem about the dove symbolizing Franklin’s spirit ascending to Heaven then said, “Let him go.”

  Jonathan’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces as he watched the lone bird race towards the circling flock overhead. When Franklin’s bird joined the others, they circled once more then headed west, towards the Sawatch Mountains. Jonathan continued to stare at the distant peaks, long after the birds disappeared.

  Something brushed Jonathan’s cheek then fell onto his chest, over his heart. It was a tiny, white feather, as light and delicate as a snowflake. Jonathan plucked it off his uniform, stared at it for a moment, then put it in his pocket.

  ~***~

  Later that night, Dad knocked on Jonathan’s door then entered without waiting for an invitation. “Do you still have the feather you put in your pocket?”

  Jonathan pressed his lips together and nodded. He hadn’t removed it, and Mom hadn’t taken his uniform to the dry cleaners yet so it should still be there.

  “Go get it.” Dad pulled a tiny glass vial full of sand out of his jacket pocket. He uncorked the vial and emptied it into the trashcan next to Jonathan’s desk.

  Jonathan handed the feather to Dad. He poked it inside the vial then slid the thin silver chain attached to it over Jonathan’s head. “I hope this reminds you of the peace you felt when we set Franklin’s dove free.”

  Jonathan had felt grief, guilt and physical pain when he let go of the bird; but no peace.

  Maybe he would someday. Maybe, sometime in the distant future, he would be happy again. That fragile thread of hope was the only thing keeping him alive. That and the thought of what his suicide would do to Mom and Dad—especially Dad. He’d wear the feather around his neck as a reminder of that hope…and that burden.

  ~***~

  Jonathan couldn’t move. Each breath launched waves of pain through his chest, but he pushed through it. Small caliber fire spit puffs of dust into his face. He tried to raise his weapon, but someone was holding him down. “Hang on Frankie! I’m coming!”

  He got his arms free and landed a right cross to his enemy’s jaw; followed by a left jab. His hand shattered on impact. Bits of bone and flesh flew through the air like broken glass. He screamed and cradled his throbbing wrist against his aching chest.

  “Jon-Jon, wake up. You’re okay, it’s just a dream.”

  Jonathan’s eyes flew open. Dad was leaning over him, shaking his shoulders, tears streaming down his face.

  Mom stood in the doorway, backlit by the light in the hall, biting the back of her fist and sobbing silently.

  Tremors shook Jonathan’s body. His heart raced. His left arm felt as if he’d plunged it into a vat of molten lava. He’d never get back to sleep.

  Dad placed his palms on the crown of Jonathan’s head. “Do you want a priesthood blessing?”

  “No.”

  Dad gave Jonathan and Franklin blessings before they deployed. He’d promised them both that God would watch over them and protect them if they obeyed His commandments. If some soldier hadn’t requested a priesthood blessing, Franklin and the chaplain wouldn’t have been on the road. They wouldn’t have hit that IED. They wouldn’t have died. Jonathan couldn’t think of anyone less likely to break a commandment than Franklin. A lot of good it did him.

  Jonathan didn’t want a blessing. Even if he did, he didn’t deserve one. “I’m fine. Go back to bed.”

  He waited until he was sure Mom and Dad were asleep then unplugged the nursery monitor and threw it in the trash.

  ~***~

  Jonathan fought his pillow and his sheets for an hour before giving up on sleep. He wandered downstairs and fixed a bowl of Shredded Wheat, but couldn’t eat it. He was empty, not hungry. He’d been avoiding the basement sparring room ever since he’d gotten home. Maybe he’d find a small amount of peace where he and Franklin had spent so many hours together.

  He grabbed the door knob, but it refused to turn. That was new. The door had never even had a lock before. It didn’t take long to pick it.

  He flipped on the light. There wasn’t enough space left in the sparring room to turn around, much less workout. Franklin’s entire room had been disassembled and moved down there, even his bed. But it wasn’t just Franklin’s stuff. Jonathan spotted the tip of his competition bo staff poking out from behind a pile of boxes. As soon as he felt the familiar grip of his staff warming within his fist, it felt as if a part of his soul had been restored.

  It took him most of the night to push everything out of his way. He still didn’t have much room, but it was enough.

  Tender ribs, phantom pain, and no left hand slowed him down, but it felt good to move. Jonathan began a modified, slow-motion version of the last synchronized weapons routine he and Franklin had performed together. He had to simplify all the moves and take out all the left handed grips. And it would be months before his body healed enough to attempt any of the gymnastics moves, but most of those didn’t require any hands at all. He wondered if he could still do a standing back layout with a full twist. Only time would tell.

  As he gained confidence, Jonathan moved faster. He was about halfway through the routine when he accidentally hit the corner of a box at the top of one of the piles, knocking it down.

  Letters, postcards and photographs fluttered to the floor. Jonathan swore at his clumsiness, then leaned his bo staff against the wall and got to work gathering the scattered memories.

  A faded photograph caught his eye. At first, he thought it was a photo of himself or Franklin, but he didn’t recognize the beautiful young woman or the dilapidated old cabin in the background. When he looked closer, he realized it was a picture of Dad—but that woman sure as hell wasn’t Mom.

  They were both facing the camera when the photo was taken. Dad’s chin rested on the woman’s shoulder. He had his arms wrapped protectively around her body, crossing beneath her breasts. She had one arm raised with her palm pressed against Dad’s cheek. They both looked incredibly content. Jonathan had never seen his father look that happy. In fact, “happy” didn’t begin to describe his expression. Blissful, ecstatic and euphoric weren’t adequate either. Who was this woman?

  “Jonathan, what are you doing?” Mom’s voice carried more than a hint of frustration. She was pissed.

  “I could ask you the same thing. Why is all my stuff boxed up down here?”

  “What happened?” Dad’s voice held only concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” The words were an automatic reflex. He was anything but fine.

  Before he knew what she was going to do, Mom snatched the photograph out of Jonathan’s hand.

  “What is this?” She gasped when her eyes focused on the picture. “You promised, Charles. You promised to burn everything.”

  Dad reached out to take the photograph, but Mom tore it in half.

  Dad’s nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed into slits. “Give it to me, Beverly. Now.”

  Dad hardly ever called Mom “Beverly” instead of “Bev.” When he did; it meant trouble.

  Mom’s hand shook as she handed the torn photo to Dad. She turned and ran up the stairs without a word.

  If she hadn’t packed his stuff up, as if he’d died too, Jonathan might have felt sorry for her.

  “Dad? Who’s the woman? Was she an old girlfriend or something?”

  Dad stared at the
photo. “She was my wife.”

  ~***~

  Six months later, Jonathan tossed his pack into the back of Dad’s Range Rover then slammed the hatch shut, rattling the glass.

  Dad flinched and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t feel good about you taking off all by yourself, especially this late in the season. Why don’t you let me go with you?”

  “I need to do this.” Franklin had wanted to go on a summer-long trek through the Sawatch Mountains after graduation with Jonathan. They’d enlisted in the army instead. “For Franklin.”

  He needed to do it for Mom and Dad, too. They’d done nothing but fight since the night he’d discovered that old photo of Dad and his first wife. Jonathan wasn’t so egocentric that he believed it was all his fault, but his presence wasn’t helping. Mom rarely even looked at him, and when she did, he could see the pain it caused her. She’d packed a bag last week and left. She said she needed to get away from all the ghosts in the house.

  Maybe if he weren’t around to remind her of what she’d lost, Mom would come home and try to work things out with Dad. Jonathan didn’t blame her for not wanting to look at him. He still missed Franklin so much it stole his breath every time he glimpsed his own reflection.

  Dad pressed two metal rectangles on a chain into Jonathan’s palm.

  He knew without looking, they were Franklin’s dog tags. “I thought these were buried with Franklin.”

  “That was your mother’s idea. I took them out of the casket.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought you might want them.”

  Jonathan slipped the dog tags into his pocket. He wasn’t sure how he felt about them. They were the source of the army’s mistaken identity fiasco. It was an honest mistake, but one that caused a lot of additional pain.

  “Be careful, son.” Dad wrapped his arms around Jonathan and hugged him to his chest.

  Jonathan returned his embrace, then held Dad at arm’s length. “I’ll be back in three weeks.”

  “Do you have extra battery packs for your iHand? You don’t want to run out of juice in the wilderness.”