CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jordan stared at the email Emme had sent four days ago. The day after he was flown out of Germany.
I’m sorry for doubting you. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll know it’s over.
The reply he’d sent had bounced back as undeliverable and he’d gotten a wrong number when he’d called her cell and he had no idea why it was wrong.
Panic made him restless. He wanted to punch a wall and yell. He wanted to chuck the damn tablet across the room, but then he wouldn’t be able to obsess over her email. His mom, the one person who knew how to get ahold of Emme’s mom, had dropped her damn phone in the toilet.
Who the fuck had he pissed off? It was like the world was conspiring against him.
Speak of the devil. The door opened and his parents entered. “Did you find it?”
“Honey, I told you I would have to look in my address book when we got home,” his mom said.
“Fuck.” He said in a normal voice, but he wanted to shout it at the top of his lungs.
“Language,” his father said.
His mother stood by his bed. “Why do you need to get a hold of the France’s so bad?”
He shook his head, having no idea how to explain to them everything that had happened. They didn’t even know he’d gone to Mali as part of Emme’s rescue mission.
The door opened again and a medical technician backed through with a wheel chair. “Afternoon, Major Grant. I’m Specialist Doyle and I’m here to take you to your physical therapy session.”
“So soon?” his mom asked. “He woke up two days ago.” She clutched at her hands, twisting her rings.
“Yes ma’am,” SPC Doyle said. “The doctor cleared him this morning and the physical therapist had an opening.”
Jordan threw back the covers and swung his good leg over the side of the bed. “Mom, I’ll be fine. The doc wouldn’t have cleared me if there was an issue.”
“But—”
“Mom, please stop hovering.”
Tears pooled in her eyes and his father wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Jordan, you almost died. It’s not unreasonable for your mother to worry.”
He sighed and dropped his head. “I’m sorry, Mom. I know you mean well.”
She nodded, still wringing her hands. “I don’t want you to over do it and have a relapse.”
Jordan took his mother’s hands in his. “The doc has said I can start limited exercise. I promise not to over do it. If there’s any pain or anything doesn’t feel right, I’ll stop. Okay?”
“All right.”
He kissed her cheek. “Why don’t you guys go back to the hotel. The appointment will probably be a while and I’m sure you need to pack to drive home. You can come back for dinner.” He smiled. “Maybe bring me something good to eat instead of hospital food.”
She gave him a small, knowing smile. “Is there anything special you want?”
Yes, he was trying to get rid of them for a while. He loved his parents, but they’d been driving him nuts for the last two days . “Nothing mashed. Or white.”
“No red meat,” SPC Doyle said. “I know the doc won’t go for that.”
His mother nodded and stepped back from the bed. His dad took her place and helped him stand. Less than a minute later, SPC Doyle wheeled him down the hall away from his parents, waiting by the elevator.
“Is it normal to be seeing the physical therapist this soon after waking up?” he asked.
“Normally you’d have started PT two or three days after surgery, but, you know.”
