Page 22 of A Hero Comes Home

She would like to know what the prognosis was for his injuries. Heck, she’d like to know exactly what those injuries were. But he didn’t seem inclined to clue her in, at this point.

So, she went on, “And some psychiatrist from the VA hospital in Richmond left a message for you to call him for an initial consultation.” She assumed it might be related to some PTSD issues.

He made a snorting sound, but again said nothing.

Sally was trying to be tolerant of Jake’s silence, which was kind of offensive, but then this return home had to be traumatic for him. She told herself to be patient.

Just then he swore and accused her, “I thought you said no one knew I was coming today.”

“They don’t.”

“Then what’s with all the friggin’ yellow ribbons?”

He seemed to have just noticed that every residence had a yellow ribbon, some bigger than others, tied around a tree, or mailbox, or on a flagpole. Miles Gallagher, who had been Jake’s football coach in high school, had dozens on all three.

“And how did they know we would be following this route?” Again the accusatory tone in his voice.

“These ribbons started going up the day after the press conference announcing your rescue, and they’re all over town, not just on this street. They’re on businesses and churches, and the town hall. Everywhere. The bow on the town square gazebo is big enough to gift wrap a boat. The church decided to put yellow roses on the altar the first Sunday you came home, with congregants paying for one rose each, at two dollars a pop. Within hours, they had two thousand roses on order. The money will go toward new bells for the children’s choir.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Nice!” she commented on his response. “And I’ll tell you right now, Jacob, you better soften that attitude. People care about you, and you have no right to insult them for that. Watch your language, too. You have sons who idolize you and will copy everything you say and do.”

He sank down in his seat and muttered something.

“What did you say?”

“I never wanted any of this.”

“Do you think I did?” Immediately, she realized how he might misconstrue what she’d said.

Which of course he did.

“It would have been better if I didn’t come back, if I had actually died.”

That would have sounded pathetic, whiney, as if he was looking for reassurances. But she could tell he meant his words.

She didn’t get a chance to explain herself, though, because they’d arrived at their street. The guard, who wore nondescript clothing, no particular uniform, gave Jake a surreptitious salute as he passed them through, thus indicating to Sally that he probably was military. And then they were in their driveway and three boys barreled through the front door and stopped on the wide, covered porch only because their grandfather held them back.

Jake glanced at her with panic and whispered, “Help me.”

Any hard feelings she’d been harboring at his attitude evaporated then as she asked, “How?”

“I don’t think I can get out of this truck without falling on my face. I don’t want my kids to see me like that, like a cripple.”

She nodded, got out of the truck, and yelled, “Everyone back in the house. Wait for us there.” She hoped her silent signal to Joe—his father—was accepted without explanation.

It was. Joe stared at her for a long moment, then shooed the boys back inside, cautioning, “Don’t forget to hide. Remember . . . it’s a surprise.”

She went around the back of the truck and to the passenger side, where Jake had already opened the door. She was prepared to help him out when she noticed something that she’d somehow missed so far.

His one hand was on the frame of the door and his other hand was on the cane he’d set on the ground. And he had no fingernails. None at all, except for the beginning of new nail just starting to emerge.

She looked at his hand, then looked at him, tilting her head in question.

He just shrugged.

Her brain tried to understand. A person didn’t lose all their fingernails hiding in a cave, that was for sure.