Isabel Sharpe - Back in Service

“When are you going to talk to him?”

“When I can stomach it. His sister wants me to make it seem like I’m on official business and leave her out of it.”

“Smart. If my brother thought I was trying to force him into counseling, he’d refuse on principle.”

“Uh-huh. And honestly, I think he’s probably mortified. I mean, really, a cat?”

“Oof.” Lena started giggling again. “I know, I’m terrible. If it was anyone else it wouldn’t be so funny. Call me the second you finish talking to him, okay?”

“I promise.” She hung up and sat still for a moment, remembering Jameson in grade school, bringing up his wide, smug smile from her memory bank, that weird nervous snickering he did when taunting her, looking back at his hulking older brothers for validation and support.

In elementary school he’d tripped her in the halls, put worms in her lunch, glue in her hair. In middle school he’d spread rumors that she had mysterious rashes, that she was dating a cousin, that she’d had an abortion in eighth grade, that she was being medicated for a mental illness. In their freshman year of high school he’d asked her to the school dance as a joke—pretending he wanted to date the fatty, ha-ha-ha. Then without lifting a finger, he’d denied her the class presidency she’d worked so hard for.

Why was she even considering helping this guy?

Because she, at least, was a grown-up now. Because he was hurting. Because helping people in pain was her job. Because Kendra knew depression, knew how it could sap your ability to get out of bed in the morning, how the idea of having to live the rest of your life seemed an impossibility, how feeling anything but crushing pain seemed a distant dream, sometimes not even worth going after. Didn’t matter what caused the pain, the very fact of its existence meant conquering it should be imperative.

After she’d emerged from the worst of her own grief with the support and help of an amazing therapist Lena had dragged her to, Kendra had decided she wanted to help people out of that same darkness.

For her program, she used the techniques that had helped her the most, starting slow and simple—getting out of the house and back in touch with nature, then gradually resuming favorite hobbies and activities and introducing new ones that had no memories attached. And along with that, listening, compassion and a friendly shoulder—repeat as needed.

Could she offer those things to Jameson Cartwright in good faith? She’d need to make sure she didn’t just want to prove he hadn’t won. To show him how in spite of him and people like him, she’d emerged with self-esteem intact. To parade her slender self, no longer in thick-framed glasses or drab don’t-look-at-me clothes. To show him she had the strength to survive worse than anything he’d ever dreamed of dishing out, a tragedy that put his stupid pranks and arrogance into stunning perspective. To be able to confront him in a situation in which, finally, she held all the power.

Kendra would need to check her baggage and her ego at his door. If she couldn’t be genuine in her approach, she’d do neither of them any good.

A red-tailed hawk circled lazily over a fir tree growing partway down the hill, its uppermost needles at eye level where she sat. The bird landed on the treetop, folded its feathers and stood fierce and proud, branch rebounding gently under him.

When Kendra was in elementary school, she’d found a baby hawk on the fire road below their house—how old had she been, seven? Eight? The creature had broken its wing and lay helpless to move, to fly, terrified of the sudden vulnerability.

In spite of his feeble attempts to peck her eyes out, she’d gotten the creature to the house; her mother had helped her transport it to the Humane Society. Kendra had visited often while the hawk healed, naming it Spirit. The staff had invited her to come along when they rereleased Spirit into the wild. She’d watched him soar into the sky and had felt the deep joy that comes from helping a fellow creature heal.

Kendra had thought of that bird often as she’d struggled through the first year after the crash that left her without family except for the much-older brother she’d never had much in common with who lived abroad. And she’d thought about Spirit when she’d decided on her career path, and when she met people made helpless by grief, and when she was first trying to help people who wanted nothing more than to peck her eyes out. Because she knew something they couldn’t grasp yet. That there would be a moment when she could rerelease them into the wilds of a renewed life and watch them soar.

She picked up the phone and dialed Jameson.

2

WE LIVE IN fame or go down in flame. The line from the Air Force song played endlessly in Jameson’s head. Torture. As if he needed more.

He was stretched out on his buddy Mike’s sofa, staring out the window, sick to death of watching TV. Yeah, he’d gone down in flame. Because this sure wasn’t fame, and it could only marginally be called living.

At least Mike had his back, letting him stay at his place so Jameson wouldn’t have to crawl to Mom and Dad. As if his humiliation wasn’t complete enough, moving back home would have about killed him. He’d met Mike at Maxwell during basic officer training, and in one of those stranger-than-fiction coincidences realized he was living in Jameson’s hometown with his wife, Pat, who was with her new-mom sister in Reno. Mike had been assigned to train at Keesler in computer communications at the same time as Jameson, and offered his place after Jameson’s accident. Couldn’t have worked out better.

His cell rang. Again. He didn’t look at it. He hadn’t looked at it last time or the time before that. It was Dad or Mom or Matty or one of his brothers or a friend. They’d make stilted conversation, Matty and Mom oozing sympathetic cheer, his male relatives masking their contempt with endless advice about how to recover faster than he was, friends who didn’t know expressing shock, Air Force friends going on about all the training he was missing.

He laughed bitterly, throat tight, painful weight in his chest, gazing at the sky. Look out there. No clouds. No birds. No planes. A vast nothing, stretching out over the sea. Perfect metaphor for his days since the accident. Over a month of this limbo, first medical leave, now personal. November 4 today, the accident had happened in early September, then surgery, rehabilitation—felt like forever. And it would be if he was one of the unlucky few who didn’t recover post-surgery stability in his knee. The Air Force couldn’t use a man who couldn’t pass their physical test.

He’d done everything right, everything a Cartwright was supposed to do except want to be a flier. He’d majored in computer engineering at Chicago University, a career field in good demand in the Air Force. He’d excelled in his ROTC training, breezed through basic officer training, in both cases earning the friendship and respect of his fellow officers and commanders. His father and brothers were finally looking up to him, in spite of him being the first Cartwright nonpilot. He was on top, poised to continue at Keesler. He’d ace that, too. What could go wrong?

Everything.

He hadn’t seen the damn cat, but he’d sure heard it and felt it. He’d gone down, twisting to one side rather than crush the little bastard, and had torn his ACL—his anterior cruciate ligament, to be precise—clean off the bone, and also damaged his cartilage. Badly. One second in time, a moment he’d take back and redo a hundred different ways if only he could. But, as Dad liked to say, life gave you no do-overs. You had to get everything very right the very first time.

The door buzzer rang, making him jump and curse the intrusion and the surprise. He’d been in town a few days and hadn’t seen anyone. Only his family knew he was back, and he’d made it clear he wasn’t ready for visits from any of them. This must be one of Mike’s friends who didn’t know Mike was training at Keesler. Where Jameson was supposed to be. Working hard, moving forward.