Blue Stars (30 page)

“What if—?”

“Yes?”

Ellen hesitated. “If there’s a big piece of news for him, a family situation, something that would change his life—which he doesn’t know about—”

“Good or bad news?”

“Hard to know.”

The therapist shouldered her bag, whose side pocket, Ellen saw, was thick with green pamphlets. “If it can wait, good. If it can be resolved without his involvement, even better. These violent tendencies … I’d be concerned about anything that could exacerbate them.”

Ellen let her move on to the next room, the next mother. Even though this brief and unsatisfying conversation confirmed what she had already decided to do, it still felt wrong. What she had planned. But that didn’t mean much, Ellen reflected, in this place where it all felt wrong, all the time.

20

“It’s me, isn’t it?” Jane lay on the bed they’d shared for the past week, curled up on her side. “I feel like I’m setting him off, or something.”

Ellen was afraid to look up from the pile of mail in her lap. Now was the time. “It’s everything, honey. He’s not himself. Yet.” She had scanned bills and statements until the numbers made no sense, and then simply began to drop them one by one in the wastepaper basket at her side.

“Yeah, but…” Jane rolled on her back. She put her boots on the bedspread. “I get the sense that the sight of me makes him crazy. Like he’s disgusted by me now.” Tears slid down her temples into her hair.

Ellen went over and sat by her side. “You need to focus on taking care of yourself. That’s your only job right now, sweetheart. Michael is on a long journey of—”

“Mom: ‘
journey
’? Really?”

You had to swallow it, the way she ricocheted from vulnerability to this withering sarcasm. Ellen took the opportunity to tap her daughter’s giant boots: “Take these off the bed, please. What I mean is, we don’t know how long it will take for him to recover. But you’re on a very specific timetable.” Jane stuck one leg up, then another, and Ellen tugged at the heavy boots.

“It’s not like I have anything to do, back home.”

“Other than prenatal appointments, setting up the baby’s room, filling out all that insurance paperwork I left you, taking the infant care class, the CPR one, the birth one, visiting those four pediatricians we lined up…”

“Oh my God.”

“And the emotional toll this takes, seeing him like this—well, it isn’t good for you. Lacey agrees.”

“Please. That would be your dream come true, if I had a spontaneous stress miscarriage.”

“I’m not even going to respond to that.”

“Do you think he can tell?” Jane rolled to face Ellen. “About the baby?”

“I’ll tell you what
I
can tell, which is that this is obviously Michael’s baby. And that you and he had a relationship,
some
kind of relationship. I don’t know whether it’s ongoing, or … But you did, in our house, without telling me.”

Jane stared up at her, a face full of
you can’t make me
.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Mom,
please
. I’m talking about what to do
now.
”

Ellen stayed on the bed, Jane’s knees resting against her side. She closed her eyes. How could anyone know what to do now?
Was
there anything to do? The combination of Mike’s amputation and his PTSD made almost every interaction fraught. Had she pictured this, she would have expected the pain and suffering, but not the thousand ways she was made to feel inadequate, unhelpful, and often simply in the way. Yesterday, when they were in to dress his stump, the group of residents and nurses must have temporarily blocked Mike’s view of Ellen, off in the corner. Or he had forgotten she was there. But when they parted and he saw her—fighting to keep her face blank as the raw, purplish, stapled skin was revealed—he let out a yelp of vivid surprise and displeasure, as if she’d burst in on him doing something private. “Get out of here!” he had shouted. And the day before, when she called his room around 9:00 p.m., while Jane was in the shower. (It was a habit to call and check that everything was okay, even if she’d just left him an hour ago.) “Oh,” he said, voice dropping in disappointment. “Thought it was Tom, ’cause he’s calling me back. I gotta go.” He’d hung up, without another word. It wasn’t Jane making it worse for Michael. It was as likely Ellen herself. It was everything, and nothing.

“Mom? Do you think he knows?” Ellen ransacked her memory for the last time Jane had looked to her so trustingly, so in need. Jane, who had slivered Ellen’s heart over and over through high school. Jane, who had screamed things in the worst of their fights it was pure misery to recall. Jane, with the underage drinking and most likely drugs and the late nights and the lies and the unerring ability to take the hardest path, always.

“I don’t know, honey.”
Do it now.
“The doctors say he—”

“The
doctors
.” Jane waved them away, irritated. “Mom, do you think he’s reacting against—this?” She touched her belly and for a moment they both looked down at it, covered in a ripped sweatshirt. “Not intentionally, or, like, consciously but … is it just one more thing about his situation he can’t handle?”

Ellen took Jane’s hand. “It’s a lot for you to handle. I’m sure it would be for Michael under any circumstances, assuming that … he’d be involved.”

“He once told me that he—”

“What?”

“Never mind.” She scooted to sitting, using Ellen’s hand to pull herself up. “Tell me honestly. Do you think I’m making it worse? By being here?”

If she leaves it’s best for her. It’s best for him.
“I don’t know,” Ellen heard herself say. “It’s possible.”

Jane stared, nodded once, and then wiped her face hard. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll have groceries delivered,” Ellen said, desperate. “From Willy Street, or whichever co-op you want. And I’ll come home in a few weeks. For next weekend, maybe! Wes will be there, back and forth from Chicago, and for Christmas we can—we can maybe … And you know the neighbors, Mrs. Easton? I’ll have her check in to see—”

“Okay, Mom. I get it.”

“There’s plenty of time before the baby gets here. By then maybe—”

“
Mom
.”

No matter how many times she’d heard that word, in that exact tone, meaning
enough already,
Ellen couldn’t help but feel that this one was different, worse, more knowing. She’d injured a tender and frail connection. And by doing the right thing, she’d gone wrong. What was it they said about this, the military? Collateral damage.

*   *   *

Lacey would have let Ellen in except for Lolo, how she was acting. It was like she couldn’t see how much Eddie had lost, up top. She babied him, she thought his giggle was sweet—
Oh, you think that’s funny? What’s so funny, baby?—
she was having the time of her life taking care of him. Right now she was trimming his neck on the nasty stained love seat while Eddie lolled his head around and burbled with pleasure. Otis was flopped on the bed with headphones on. And Lacey was going out of her mind.

So she made them stand in Building 18’s third-floor hallway when Ellen stopped by, after quickly introducing her to Lolo and pointing out Otis, who could care less.

“Sorry,” she said, leaning against the closed door. “But you don’t want to be in there, trust me.”

Ellen, who’d tripped on the ripped old hallway carpet earlier, wasn’t sure she wanted to be out here, either. “It’s … nice,” she said, and Lacey burst out laughing.

“Nice try. But it could be worse. I guess. How did it go, with Jane?”

Ellen touched her glasses lightly. “She’ll fly back tomorrow. Apparently she’d bought an open-ended ticket. On my credit card, of course.”

“Wow.” Lacey had no idea what that cost, but to Ellen it meant only a wry smile. “Well, it’s for the best.”

“Do you think so? Because I feel terrible.”

“Are you kidding? They think they want to be here, but they have no idea what it means, for real.” Lacey jerked a thumb backward at the closed door. “For her it’s all play time. She’s in pretending mode. Like he’s five again.”

Ellen nodded, unconvinced.

“Plus, do you really want your kid around … this?” Lacey pointed to a giant poster of Jessica Simpson taped to the opposite door, breasts spilling out of a tight minidress, and the bumping music from inside the room. Up and down the hall, women went in and out of doors, talking loudly on phones, often wearing nothing more than robes or boxers and T-shirts. Everyone had overflowing garbage cans set out, takeout boxes piled on top. The cafeteria was nearly a mile away and few of the guys could get there without major pain. Lacey didn’t even mention the cockroach situation, in the drains of the kitchenette sink and under the counters. Lolo was going to flip out.

“Gotta love the army,” she said, shooting for lightness. “If it’s possible to cut corners, they’ll find a way.” Yesterday, when she’d tried to have Otis tell Eddie about JV basketball tryouts, he’d kept his mouth shut and shook his head. In the bedroom later she started to chastise him and he cut her off with one sentence:
It’s not like he was ever my real dad.

“But—” Ellen looked truly disturbed. “How are you—”

“Did Michael get his rating yet?” Lacey switched topics quickly, not able to bear the direct pity. As usual, Professor Ellen had no idea what she was talking about. “Disability rating? From the P.E. Board?
Physical evaluation
.”

“Oh. No. That is, I don’t think so. I could ask—”

For Christ’s sake. “Well, you’d know if he did. It’s the amount he’ll get of his base pay, depending on how bad he is. They sent me to four different offices and I still can’t get anyone to give me a ballpark figure. But we’re hoping for at least seventy-five.”

“Seventy-five…?”

“
Percent,
Ellen. Of his pay? But this doctor requires this test, and then this guy needs something else, and then the file gets sent to the wrong place.” This was pointless. What would Ellen care? When it came to money, she had her head stuck in the sand. For a moment, Lacey even felt a surge of connection to Lolo, who at least had been following the rating office debacle with interest and verve. “So I should probably get back—”

“Can I ask a favor?” Ellen said, out of the blue.

“Me? Sure, what?”

“Michael’s PT aide says he needs to work on some upper-body strength. He has this bar, you know, above the bed—”

“The trapeze, right.”

“Yes. Well, it’s meant to be how he can get himself in and out, move from the bed to the chair. And even though he’s been doing these arm exercises, for some reason they think he doesn’t have enough strength yet overall. I’m not sure why.”

“Probably it’s a core issue.” At Ellen’s puzzled look, Lacey patted her own stomach. “His core. You need those ab muscles, and especially in his back, to be able to pull his own body weight up. Eventually”—she was warming to this—“he’s going to need to twist himself, right? To sort of swing himself out of the bed and onto the wheelchair? Yeah. That means a torque motion, where his obliques are going to need to take all that load.”

“Obliques.”

Lacey demonstrated, twisting her torso from side to side.

“Well, he doesn’t seem to be getting what he needs from the aide. And I don’t know a thing about it, obviously, so … what do you charge?”

“Excuse me?”

“What is your hourly rate, for private sessions? Would you have any time this week, and next? Maybe twice a week would be good.”

Lacey stared. This was a joke, right? But why did Ellen seem so serious, so straight? “You don’t need that. I’m sure the PT guy can—”

“No he can
not.
He specifically told me that Michael needs practice on the whole upper body, above and beyond what they do in therapy. I can’t get him to do much of anything, let alone any type of—” Here Ellen tried to mimic Lacey’s twisting sit-up move and they both had to laugh.

“But—” Lacey fought her inclination to argue. Could it be true? It wasn’t just a handout, was it? Not that she could afford to turn down one of those, either.

“How about one session, to start. You can assess what needs to be done, and then we’ll see about going forward. Totally around your schedule with Eddie, of course.” Not a glimmer of pity or embarrassment.

“Um … my rate is—was—seventy-five. An hour.”

“Fine. Let me know what times you have, either tomorrow or Thursday, and we’ll set it up.” Before Lacey could react, Ellen leaned in and gave her a brisk hug, and then was walking swiftly down the hall, stepping neatly around the garbage cans in her petite loafers. But then she hurried back.

“I almost forgot! The whole reason I came by. Here, take this.”

Lacey peeked in the plastic tote bag Ellen handed her. “CDs?”

“Audiobooks. For Eddie, I got two military histories and a new thriller by Michael Connelly. For your son, not as much choice, but there was a mom returning this right when I was checking out and she said it was great.”

Lacey held up
The Mark of Athena
by Rick Riordan. “He actually loves this series,” she said faintly.

“Perfect,” Ellen said, oblivious to Lacey fighting back tears. “To play them, they loan out that CD player, and there are headphones in there too. Seems strange they haven’t upgraded to MP3 players, but … Anyway, last one is for you.”

“Me? I don’t really—”

“I know, I know. But just in case. Sometimes a book can help.” Ellen reached over to pull it out of the bag and this time she
did
have a twinkly look, as if she had Lacey’s number. It was an actual book, hardcover, called
Birds of America,
by Lorrie Moore.

“Never heard of her.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Ellen called back, on her way down the hall again. “Short stories. Give one a try!”

Damn. Lacey grinned. The English professor couldn’t help herself.

*   *   *

It was raw and wintry-damp as Ellen hurried across Georgia Avenue, holding up a hand—
sorry, sorry—
to the wailing honks of passing traffic. She was smiling, even though Building 18 had thoroughly upset her. Why hadn’t Lacey mentioned the shoddy construction, those moldy panels in the front hall? The damp darkness of the stairwell, and of course the trash everywhere. She couldn’t help but feel relieved to be back on the main Walter Reed campus, where there was the relative luxury of Mologne House. Did anyone know? Who was in charge of the housing? Why were injured, recovering soldiers allowed to live in such conditions? Why were their wives and mothers?