Chapter 21
Chapter 21
I n a surprise to absolutely no one, The Major was a terrible patient. After they stabilized him at the base in Honduras, they flew him—unconscious—to Bethesda, Maryland where he had surgery. Though he was given only local anesthetic, he was still unconscious for the procedure, a fact he did not mind at all. When he came to, there was a tube down his throat he quickly yanked out. That got him a verbal tongue lashing from one of the nurses. The worst part of that was that his throat hurt too much to reply.
For two days he lay in silent misery. The pain annoyed him, but it was manageable. He hadn’t gotten where he was in life by allowing pain to slow him. Inactivity and helplessness, though. Those were the silent killers. He did not want to be in a hospital, least of all in a bed. And then there were the nurses.
They scurried around him looking petrified. He had no idea why, unless word had spread about him. So far he had refrained from yelling at any of them, realizing they were simply doing their jobs. Maybe he glared a bit, but if they knew how much restraint he showed by not lashing out, they would be warmer and friendlier, not dash by his doorway like he was the boogeyman and any sighting might turn them to stone.
Juniper wouldn’t be afraid.
And then there were those unwanted thoughts, provided by his traitorous brain. Apparently it hadn’t gotten the memo that they were letting go of Juniper because it kept providing thoughts and memories about her every few seconds. It had made a new game of comparing every other woman he encountered to her. Unsurprisingly, every other woman came up short. But it was true: Juniper would not be afraid of him, would not speak in hushed whispers or spill the water because her hands were shaking from being in the same room with him. She would tell him exactly like it was, and then she would take care of him, far better than these mousy women ever could. Perhaps she would crawl into bed beside him and…
He forced his brain to cut off that line of thought, as he had been doing every time it began. His entire miserable existence now revolved around lying in bed, ignoring the pain in his chest, ignoring the thoughts in his head, ignoring the pangs in his heart.
On the third day he stood, yanked all attachments from his body, got dressed, and walked out of the hospital.
“You can’t go,” one of the bolder nurses yelled at him, trotting to keep up in her squishy nurse shoes.
“Watch me,” he growled.
“You’ll be AMA. You’ll get court martialed,” she threatened, at which point he stopped short and whirled to face her.
She stopped short, too, nearly toppling over in her haste to avoid a collision. “What did you say, Lieutenant?”
A shudder ran through her, and she seemed to rethink her hasty threat. “With all due respect, sir. You haven’t been released.”
“I’m releasing myself,” he said.
“That’s not how it works,” she said, stamping her squishy foot on the concrete. “Major, please come back inside before you catch cold.”
He looked around, realizing for the first time it was winter in the states, and cold. A southern boy, he’d never acclimated to cold weather. Still, he didn’t care. He was done with the hospital, hopefully forever. Next time he set foot in one, he’d better be dead. “Lieutenant, no.”
“But…” she began, annoyed in the extreme with his disobedience. “You’re not done yet.”
“I’m done. I am so done. Don’t worry, I’ll clear it with my superior officer.”
“Who is your superior officer?” she demanded.
He waved her away and turned his back on her. He was at that stage where he didn’t have many, which was both a comfort and a concern. The buck crept closer and closer to stopping with him. “As you were, Lieutenant.”
“Major. Major ,” she screeched. “I know what you’re wearing. You don’t even have underpants. ”
That shouldn’t have made him laugh, but it did. And, again, it reminded him of Juniper. She would find it hilarious, would dimple and giggle and probably fall over from laughing, as she did whenever she laughed too hard. I’ll have to tell her next time I see her, he thought, and scowled. He wouldn’t see her. Once again he’d have to purge himself of Alabama and home and people. He’d done it once before. Why did the prospect of doing it now hurt so badly?
I need closure. It was one of those newfangled words the army psychologists were always trying to foist on him. The men need closure, closure from their injuries, their assignments, their families. John thought it was all ridiculous nonsense. What the men needed was to grow up and be men, to stop coddling their blasted feelings all the livelong day and embrace their assignments. And he was no different. He did not need closure . He needed to repay a debt, to settle an old score. He owed the Dunbars, both an explanation and his gratitude. He was overdue on both. And if he happened to catch word about Juniper’s whereabouts while he was there, so be it. It wasn’t like he was looking for her, not specifically. He was merely making good on his word.
With that decided, he caught a taxi and went straight to the airport, not bothering to stop and grab clean underpants. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. And absolutely no one would know the state of his undergarments, or lack thereof. Life was easier when he traveled lightly, both with clothes and people. He’d see the Dunbars, cross that from his list, and then he could get back to doing what he did best—being alone.
J ohn had no idea what to expect when he reached his former hometown. He didn’t know if it would look the same, smell the same, feel the same. He hadn’t hated the town. He’d hated who he was when he was there, hated the weight of shame and pity that followed him everywhere he went. But the people had always been kind. No one said anything in his presence. Perhaps they didn’t say anything behind his back, but he doubted it. Knowing how small towns worked, he thought he was the object of speculation wherever he went.
He could never tell if being with the Dunbars had elevated his status or made him more of a spectacle. To be sure, being the lone orphaned survivor of a scandalous murder-suicide was bad. But had it been better to be the ward of those loony Dunbars? Though they had been liked and respected, they hadn’t fit in, not by far. Dustin Dunbar was the only PhD for miles, had more education than most of the town put together. He hadn’t put on airs or held himself above anyone. On the contrary, he’d been warm and friendly, overtly outgoing. But he’d been different, nonetheless. He was the quintessential absent minded professor, always wearing a sport coat and carrying a book, usually with a child or three in tow whenever he ran errands in town. And the children hadn’t fit, either. Most of the locals were farmers, meaning their children were farm children—hale, hardy, and hard-working. All of the Dunbars had a dreamy quality about them. You could tell whenever you met them that their heads were in the clouds. They talked about things no one else could understand—high literature and philosophy, routinely weaving those topics into everyday conversation so the neighboring farm children stared at them like they were from another planet. John used to, too, before he lived with them. He used to pile on with the other children, rolling his eyes at Those Dunbars.
And then he became one, and it was no longer weird to discuss Plato at lunch and Dante at supper. The more enmeshed he became with the Dunbars, the more people in town started to look at him differently. From pity and suspicion to awe and respect. He’s one of them now, educated and high-minded.
The Dunbars had to know they didn’t fit, but they never let on. It would have been easy for them to keep themselves apart from everyone, to not rub shoulders with the uneducated rabble in the town. But they hadn’t. They had immersed themselves in every aspect of town life, from church to funerals to everything in between. Juniper’s mother, Jane Dunbar, was an excellent cook and baker. For her, that was enough of an entrée to be accepted. She provided cookies and pies and cakes for every major event. Dustin was so outgoing and affable, people ended up loving him, even if they couldn’t understand most of what he said. His mind was on another plane, but his heart was big and pure and people responded to it.
They were really quite a wonder, John realized as he drove through town and saw how much everything looked the same. That they had chosen this place and made a home for themselves among humble farm people was a testament to their character. Dustin could have gone somewhere like Oxford or Cambridge. He had that kind of mind, a brilliant one. But he hadn’t wanted that kind of life, for him or his children. He’d had the wisdom to understand he wanted to be surrounded by real people who did real living, salt of the earth people. People like John and his family.
I had the best of both worlds, he thought. He’d been raised by blue collar parents, bestowing values like hard work and a stoic, uncomplaining nature. And then he’d been given a glimpse into the other world, the thinking man’s world. And he’d absorbed Dustin’s ability to see the world as a whole, to make all the parts come together. Dustin had loved the symmetry of everything, had routinely pointed out to his brood the mathematics of everyday life. Literally he saw the Fibonacci sequence in everything. For him music wasn’t merely music—it was the ultimate combination of mathematics and poetry. He had taught his children to see the world that way, with all the parts tangled up together, John included.
He intended to go straight to the Dunbars’, certain their house would also be exactly as it was. But the cemetery caught his interest instead. He parked and walked the familiar path to his parents’ gravestone, pausing to regard it. He stooped and cleared a few weeds from the edges of his mother’s side and then lingered in a crouch, staring at the date. It was and would always be the worst day of his life, but it hadn’t been an ending. It had been a new beginning, at least for him. Living with the Dunbars had started him on a new trajectory, his current path. Without that awful event, he wouldn’t be where he now was. And he liked where he was, who he was. Reconnecting with Juniper had shown him a lot of things, namely that he wasn’t as broken as he’d always believed. He was a soldier, yes, and sometimes he had to do things because of that. But he wasn’t half a man as he’d always thought. He hadn’t died that day with his parents, hadn’t lost the ability to love or be loved in return. He’d merely chosen to put it away for the sake of his career.
Is that still what you choose?
It was a terrifying question, and the first time he’d ever asked it of himself. What if…
But no. He had already chosen. No need to revisit that choice. He was a soldier for life, for however long he had left. Let Juniper have her life with her family and her scientist. She would no doubt be happier that way, living with people who could love her and be loved in return, with people who could be there . Even if John miraculously healed the mangled parts of him, he would still spend most of his life away. That was no way for her to live, on her own, always waiting and wondering if he’d come back again.
He blinked, seeing his parents’ tombstone again. If the Dunbars were there, they would encourage him to say something to them, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t within him to speak to the dead. But he had come, had showed up and paid his respects. That was something, he supposed. And he had put to rest some old ghosts. Juniper helped him see things anew, to give his mother the respect she was due. For so long John had blamed her for being weak, for remaining with his father. But what choice did she have? She with an eighth grade education and no skills, save homemaking. Where would they have gone? How would she have supported him? And then there was her last act of bravery and courage. Of love. She had done the best for him she could, with what she had to work with. He could now forgive her the weakness and admire the bravery, could appreciate all the love, affection, and protection she gave him. He gave the cold stone a gentle pat and stood, turning and walking away. It was likely he would never come back, and that was okay. He had put old ghosts to rest. He had found closure.
He grimaced, shaking off the thought. Surely there had to be a better word, one that did not put him on level ground with the mealy mouthed little psychologist they were always foisting on him. Dustin will know the exact word, he thought and felt a sudden urgency to see the surrogate father he hadn’t seen in fourteen years. Picking up the pace, he practically trotted to his car, heading toward the Dunbars. Heading toward home.