11 Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (2 page)

The wheels made the faintest squeaking noise after she passed, and she glanced back to see him following her down the path toward the parking lot. Maybe she should have offered to push. He wore an olive green T-shirt and a matching pair of slacks, though they were cut up the side of the large cast encasing his right leg from mid-thigh to his toes.

He—
Joe, he said his name was Joe
—met her gaze and gave her another easy smile. His eyes crinkled at the corners and the dimple in his cheek deepened. The sidewalk widened and she eased back her hurried pace to let him catch up.

“I’m sorry. I’m not the best company this morning.”

“No worries, ma’am. Little ones take a lot out of a body.” The buttery softness of his voice washed over her like a soothing balm—like the night before when he knocked on her door and introduced himself. He scared the hell out of her because she liked talking to him. A total stranger and she’d enjoyed five minutes of banal conversation.

I must be tired. I have no idea what I’m feeling from one moment to the next
. As if summoned by the thought, fatigue wavered through her and she stumbled. The diaper bag swung down her arm. She couldn’t catch it and hold the baby at the same time. Joe stopped the bag’s arc, and gave her a chance to catch her balance.

“May I?” He offered, hanging onto the linen satchel.
May he what
…? He wanted to carry it for her and she winced. It was heavy and he…. “I have plenty of room and then you don’t have to worry about it taking you off balance again.”

The sound logic quashed her natural objections. She shifted Libby carefully and let the strap fall off her arm. Her internal alarms sounded. Giving him the opportunity to help didn’t give him some kind of power over her, but her gut tightened at the surrender of her possession.

He settled it against his lap and nodded encouragingly. “Point me to your car….”

“Oh, I don’t drive. Well, I do but I’m not driving here. I’m actually only staying here for a few weeks and I’m waiting for the shuttle.” She tacked the last on with a grimace. “And apparently I’m as muddleheaded for real as I feel. Sorry. Thank you. The shuttle is scheduled to pick us up here in about….” She couldn’t see her watch.

“Two minutes.” The captain supplied. “I’m waiting for the same shuttle.” His warm brown gaze turned studious. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s for Libby…they have great specialists here. You?” She could have bitten her tongue for the question.
The man is in a wheelchair for crying out loud
.

“Time for my weekly checkup, ma’am.” If he thought her an idiot, he didn’t show it. They arrived at the curb where the shuttle would pick them up and waited. The sixty degree temperature offered no chill and only the slightest of breezes to stir the muggy air. Overhead, deep gray clouds hid the sun. In fact, the only real sign of winter lay in the lack of leaves on the tree and the yellow grass.

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Captain Joe pulled her attention back to him.

“What is?”

“The weather.” He canted his head, following her skyward gaze. “It looks like it’ll storm….”

“…but it’s not going to.” She nodded. “It’s been like this for the last couple of days. They keep warning about possible freezing temperatures.” She tried to keep the scoff out of her voice.

Captain Joe didn’t bother. He snorted. “Yeah, sixty is nowhere near freezing.”

“No. It’s not. It snowed at home today.” She couldn’t quite contain the wistfulness from her voice.

“It’s a balmy twenty at home today for me.” His sigh echoed her sentiment.

She couldn’t stop herself. “Where is home?”

“Upstate New York. Been a while since I was there, but I remember the shoveling….”

“Snow angels.”

“Snowball fights.”

They both laughed and Libby stirred at the muted sound. Melody eased her grip and hummed until the baby’s wrinkled face smoothed. “I miss it.”

“Me, too. Where’s home for you?”

“Philadelphia.” Not that she’d spent much time there in the last six years. She moved whenever Tuck received a new assignment, always on her own, always in a new place, never quite fitting in—never daring in case anyone found out. Her brief respite of laughter died.

“Hard to be far from home.” He lifted his hand as though about to pat her arm. Her heart froze in her chest and she held her breath. The captain hesitated and tapped the chair instead. She let out the breath slowly.

“Yes.” Tremors shook her and it took effort to keep a calm expression. “I’m used to it, I’m afraid.”

“Me, too.” Of course he was. The dog tags, the Marine green, the tight cropped black hair dusting his rich brown head. The wheelchair and cast didn’t disguise the Marine in the man sitting next to her. She stole a glance at his left hand.
No ring
.

Frowning at her thoughts, she stared at the parking lot, relieved—and a little disappointed—when she caught sight of the white shuttle.

“Saved by our ride.” His gentle humor eased the bundle of nerves knotting in her belly.

She still had to survive the ride to the medical center and fumbled for more words, but her tongue seemed to be stuck in neutral mode.

The van rolled up and the driver, a big man, hopped out. He gave Joe a quick handshake. She retreated back a step, keeping her distance. “Good morning, Captain Anderson, Mrs. Carter….”

She barely heard the rest of the words. Plastering a polite smile to her lips took every ounce of her energy. She waited while the driver set her bag inside and loaded Joe’s wheelchair with a hoist. Only after the two men were near the back of the van did she ease inside, choosing to sit in the third row closer to Joe’s wheel chair rather than the row right behind the driver.

Breathe
…. Repeating the mantra helped, and thankfully Libby slept through the whole ordeal.

“He’s a friendly,” Joe murmured when the van door closed. The driver was still outside.

“I know.” Her emotions screeched, denying the words. It didn’t matter. It was a ten-minute ride to the center. She could handle it.
I survived eight years with Tuck; I can survive ten minutes with strangers.

He’s a friendly. They’re both friendlies. No one is going to hit us
….

Chapter Two

Joe clenched his hands as the shuttle stopped at one of the medical center entrances. It wasn’t his exit, but Mrs. Carter seemed to freeze in place when the driver hopped out to open the door. She paled and kept looking down at the baby. While she didn’t quite gnash her teeth, refusal to move was stamped all over her expression.

The van’s design allowed for loading wheelchairs and securing the wheels, so patients didn’t have to juggle with moving into or out of the vehicle. All the better for his broken back.

“Hey Josh,” he called. “Can you come adjust the wheel? I think it’s loose.”

“Sure thing, Captain.” The former corpsman gave Mrs. Carter a quick grin and loped to the back of the van.

Mrs. Carter didn’t waste any time. As soon as Josh opened the back door, she slid over the seat and scampered out. The diaper bag banged her legs, but she double-timed it for the exit, still cradling her infant daughter in her arms.

Josh touched the wheel. “Captain, its fine.”

“I know. But you made her nervous as hell.” Her reaction said a lot about what was going on in her head. “If you have to give her a ride back, just open the door and keep your distance.”

The corpsman looked from Joe to the medical center entrance and frowned. “I didn’t do anything….”

“I don’t think you have to.” And he left it at that. It wasn’t his business or place to explain, but he couldn’t ignore the tangible fear in her eyes or posture.

“Okay.” The bewildered driver double-checked the wheels and closed up. Fifteen minutes later, Joe wheeled into the cheerful little room—otherwise dubbed the seventh circle of hell with its blue chairs, donuts, coffee and uncomfortable guests—for his sixth group session since beginning rehabilitative therapy.

He still wasn’t impressed.

A number of familiar men and women strolled, limped, and crutched their way through the doors. Three newcomers already occupied seats in the inner circle—two with their own mode of transportation.
Amputees
. A fist wrapped around his heart. The younger of the pair was missing both legs from the knee down, and the other boasted a prosthetic and a crutch.

“Hey, Captain.” Gunnery Sergeant Jasmine Winters breezed past his chair, giving his shoulder a light squeeze as she strolled over to grab a blue chair and flip it around. She straddled it, the defensive posture one she assumed every week. Like Joe, she faced a lot of choices in her life and while most of her scars remained on the inside, the faint droop to the corner of her mouth and one eye revealed a deeper, more devastating injury.

“No Logan today?” Joe wheeled himself over to sit next to the Gunny.

“Nope. He’s helping Zach out at the field. I had to make up for missing the last group session.” She made a face, but the easy humor lit up her eyes. “What’s your excuse?”

“Week six. Time to talk.” He grimaced and pretended not to see her nod of sympathy. The doc held them to only a few hard and fast rules. The first demanded they listen to every member of group when they talked, whether they had something to offer or not. The second, they show up for their sessions or make it up if they couldn’t. The third was that by week six, participation was no longer voluntary.

The last of their group walked in with the doc, a young man with an inner ear injury and a self-confidence problem. The kid needed to lighten up on himself, but the same drive to excel which made for an excellent Marine didn’t always communicate to an easy recovery.

“Good morning, everyone.” James Westwood followed the circle around, shaking hands, patting shoulders, and meeting each gaze with patience. “How are we today?”

“Running late,” Matt McCall quipped. The younger Marine grabbed the empty chair next to the Gunny.

“Well, so am I. But we’re here now, so let’s dive in. Who wants to get started?”

They began the same way every week. A casual atmosphere, a sense of jittery nerves, and an awkward silence as the newcomers, regulars, and part-timers took each other’s measure. Newcomers rarely said anything and today proved no exception.

Still, at week six Joe had a feeling his was the highest rank in the room, so he raised his hand.

The doc gave him an encouraging nod. “Captain Anderson.”

“Joe.” They were all equals there. They served, they got hurt, they came home and some would serve again—some never would.

“Thanks for kicking us off today, Joe.”

A couple of the newcomers winced at the doc’s choice of words, but Joe grinned. The best part about the doc was he understood loss and uncertainty, but didn’t pander to it.
Kicking it off
was simply a phrase and didn’t point to a lack of anything. They needed to get used to it—life sure as hell wouldn’t pause for them or pull its punches.

“Hi, I’m Joe.” Lame way to start, but it worked.

“Hi, Joe.” The others chorused in tones varying from wary to warm. They sounded a lot like an AA meeting, but it was an icebreaker.

“I’ve been in this wheelchair about six weeks now, and I have another six to ten in front of me, minimum. They are trying to get my leg to heal correctly, and my spine, but no guarantees on either front. They say I might not walk again, to which I say bullshit. I’ll walk. I’ll run. Then I’ll get my ass back to work.”

“Oorah,” a half dozen members of the group answered. Despite their mixed compliment of services, Marines still made up the majority of that particular groups’ numbers.

“It’s not easy. I’m still getting the hang of maneuvering, and there’s a lot I can’t do from this chair.” He cleared his throat. “Every day is a new trial. Sometimes, I get really pissed that I can’t be more positive about it. I get angry. I get really angry. I know we’re supposed to vent that frustration, make it positive, but I can’t always do that.”

An image of wounded eyes drifted across his mind’s eye. Fear tightened their corners, and her nostrils flared. Exhaustion draped around her like a too-large coat. He curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist. “But I discovered today that being in this chair can be a positive for someone else, and weird as it sounds, that’s my good thought for today.”

“Thanks, Joe.” The doc nodded. “Who’s next?”

And so they went around the room, to the soldier demonstrating he could walk unassisted on his new prosthetic, to the Marine who shared the challenges of recruiting while injured, to the Naval pilot who’d made it all the way to the cockpit before a panic attack hit him. Progress came in all shapes and sizes.

Unsurprisingly, the new arrivals said nothing. They only listened. Ninety minutes later, the group broke with several hurrying over to grab fresh donuts and coffee. Joe waited. The mad dash amused him—particularly when they always brought in enough for everyone.

“How you doing, Joe?” James Westwood dragged a chair over and sat next to him.

“Not bad, Doc. Not bad.” He studied the newer members. Like him, one waited for the crowd to thin around the table. His jaw didn’t relax and his expression never wavered from chiseled stone. “That guy will take some work.”

“Everyone does.”

He recognized that tone, the doc’s ‘we need to talk’ voice. “I’m fine, Doc.” Joe transferred his attention back to the psychologist. “Seriously, I’m fine.”

“Upbeat is good. Focused is good. But you went from zero, to pissed off, to almost relieved in a few seconds.” James tapped his hand against the side of the chair, counting off the ticks in the emotional ping-pong.

He didn’t want to talk about his emotional state. “Doc, what facilities does the medical center offer for children here?” It had bugged him most of the night and again that morning. Mrs. Carter wasn’t active duty, which suggested her spouse might be. She mentioned being there for her daughter, but the baby was so very tiny. In a facility where they treated war wounds, physical and emotional, could they have a pediatric wing?