Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

“What the hell is that, Rollie?”

“If you’re gonna kill yourself, be a man and do it quick. Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger.” He gestured to the empty bottles of Wild Turkey, lined on the counter like good little soldiers. “Save us who care about you the misery of watchin’ you kill yourself slowly with that shit.”

My reaction left a lot to be desired. I hadn’t burst into tears and thanked him for his concern. Instead, I got in his face and pushed back. “Maybe I will just end it. It’s not like anyone cares. Oh, right. Unless it comes to the cash I’m kicking into the Gunderson Ranch coffers every month.”

“You’re wrong, Mercy girl. Lots of people care, but you’re keeping them out. Let me take you to the VA. They can help you.”

“No. Way. So I can be labeled another PTSD freak and become medicated until I die of boredom? No thanks.”

“Then let me help you.”

“What can you do? Give me back my eyesight? My purpose? The life I had?”

No response.

“See? You can’t help me. And this little ‘come to Jesus’ talk is just pissing me off, old man, so leave.”

“Sorry. I ain’t giving up on you because I know where you’re coming from. Seeing your face is like lookin’ in a mirror.”

“Why? ’Cause I’m just another drunk Indian?”

His eyes hardened. “No, you’re just another drunk soldier trying to find your way back. You think you’re special? Guess what? You aren’t the only one to deal with this shit. We all went through it. Coming back from Vietnam wasn’t no picnic either. We all seen bad things, kola. ”

“You don’t know fuck all about what I saw or what I did, Rollie.”

“Yeah? How are the nightmares? Having flashbacks during the day?”

I glared at him.

Rollie’s gaze swept the counter. “At least you ain’t takin’ a mountain of pills.” He paused and looked at me challengingly. “Yet.”

I glowered even more.

“You think dousing them bad dreams with booze will make ’em go away?”

“Yep. Now why don’t you go away and leave me alone.” I turned around, and his next words froze me to the spot.

“If it were up to me, I would. But John-John wants to talk to you.”

“About what? He have a vision or something?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

Fucking Sioux woo-woo shit drove me crazy. Problem was, as a winkte, the Lakota word for two spirits residing in one body, John-John’s visions were usually dead-on. “Why didn’t he come here and talk to me about it himself?”

“He tried. Don’t you remember?”

An uneasy feeling flitted through me. “No.”

“You scared him. And he don’t spook easy.”

I vaguely remembered a crying jag, throwing empty bottles at the door and screaming. I wasn’t sure if the screams had been mine. Maybe I hadn’t thrown the bottles at the door. Maybe I’d thrown the bottles at John-John.

Rollie heaved a weary sigh. His gentle hands landed on my shoulders. Even with my super-duper stealthy military training I hadn’t heard him move. Yeah, I was pretty much a train wreck.

“I’m not your daddy, Mercy girl. But I do know what it’s like to come home to a place that ain’t the same as it was when you left. People ain’t the same. But mostly… you ain’t the same. Go talk to John-John. Please. For all our sakes. But mostly for yours.”

A day later I clocked in at Clementine’s for my first shift. John-John had shared his vision, something about fire and pain, watching my loved ones hurting, while I stood by and did nothing. I’d sort of tuned out the mystical gloom-and-doom forecast, because John-John always added a disclaimer about visions being subject to interpretation. But I knew it bothered him that this particular vision hadn’t materialized into reality. The only reality I cared about was that months after my niece’s arrival, I was still working as a bartender, unsure how to address my resentment over the situation at the ranch-or whether I even had a right to it.

Shoonga whined, bringing me back to the present. Sophie hated the “dog mess” so Shoonga’s meals were served on the porch. I dumped food in his dish, and my stomach rumbled. I kicked off my muddy shoes on the porch and entered the kitchen.

Jake, Sophie, and Hope stared at me like I should’ve knocked. Not exactly a friendly welcome. In my own damn house.

“Ah. Hi, guys.”

“Hello, yourself. You hungry?” Sophie asked.

“I could eat.”

“I’ll fix you a plate.”

“No, finish your lunch. I can do it.” After I washed up, I uncovered the pans on the stove. Steamy scents of chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and country gravy wafted out.

Sophie gave my heaped plate a wry look. “Save room for dessert, hey.”

Joy fussed. Hope murmured to her while trying to eat one-handed, which was ridiculous when a perfectly good high chair sat right next to her. But Joy rarely left her mama’s arms.

I didn’t blame my sister for her overprotective instincts. She’d lost her son to a murderer. She’d lost a baby in utero. But her “my baby” attitude and near-agoraphobia were wearing thin for everyone. I’d never even held my niece, though, granted, that was partially my own fault.

Jake pushed his plate aside. “I’ll hold her so you can eat.”

“I don’t mind,” Hope said crossly.

“I do.” Then Jake did a very un-Jake-like thing. He plucked the baby from Hope’s lap and said, “Now eat up so we can go.”

Hope watched father and daughter, chewing her lip instead of her food.

“Go where?” Sophie asked her grandson.

“It’s a slow day. Thought I’d take my girls for a drive. Get Hope out of the house into the fresh air. Tempt her with a sundae from the Custard Cupboard.”

Sophie and I exchanged an “oh crap” look.

“Joy has finally settled into a regular naptime,” Hope snapped. “I won’t screw that up to go driving around the countryside with you.”

“She’ll sleep just fine in the car seat.”

Wasn’t Jake’s way to push, especially not with an audience. The fact he was doing both indicated he’d reached the end of his rope with my little sister.

A feeling I was familiar with.

“Jake, you don’t know-”

“One afternoon, Hope. The three of us acting like a normal family.”

Jake’s voice was calm, but pure steel.

Impressive.

Hope continued to gape at him with a mix of confusion and alarm. I half expected she’d snatch Joy and stomp upstairs, and that’d be the end of it.

But Jake reached out, gently touching Hope’s cheek with a soft plea. “Please.”

She smiled, almost shyly. “Okay. Right after I feed her and get myself ready. I’m kind of a mess.”

“I’ll feed her. And you always look great,” Jake added.

Hope flounced upstairs, her step lighter than I’d seen in months.

Kudos to Jake for his well-played moves.

Sophie’s foot nudged mine under the table. Twice.

“What? You need help with the dishes?”

“ Shee, I think aliens done abducted the real Mercy and left this imposter who volunteers for chores.” Her strong, wrinkled hand briefly covered mine. “Ain’t it good to see things are getting back to normal around here?”

“Define normal.”

She harrumphed. “Such a smarty-pants. What are your plans for the day?”

I glanced at the clock. “Working. My shift starts in two hours.” I focused on Jake, murmuring to Joy, waiting for the bottle to heat. “I wanted to tell you that I saw a mountain lion yesterday.”

“Where?”

“Over by the prairie dog town in the northwest corner of the Newsome’s old place.”

“What time did you see it?”