A Soldier's Heart. Marta Perry

picturing it filled with exercise equipment. “Are you sure this equipment rental is going to be covered? I don’t want to be presented with a big bill for stuff I didn’t want to begin with.”

      She turned away, seeming to mentally measure the room for the equipment. “It’ll be covered,” she said shortly. “One thing—we might have to let your car sit out once we put the furniture in the garage.”

      He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I ought to sell it, anyway. I won’t be driving again.”

      “You don’t know that.” She swung toward him, her eyes darkening with concern. “Luke, you can’t just give up on things. Nobody can tell how much you’re going to recover.”

      “Nobody?” Anger surged through him suddenly—at her, at God, at himself for surviving. “I can, Mary Kate. I can tell you exactly how much I’m going to recover. Do you want to know?”

      She took a step back, as if alarmed by his anger. He should stop, but he couldn’t.

      “I’m going to be in this chair forever, and nothing you or anyone else does is going to change that.”

      What was she going to do about Luke? The question revolved in Mary Kate’s mind like a hamster on a wheel as she cleaned up the kitchen that evening after supper. The children’s voices rose and fell from the living room, where they were engaged in a board game. A game that seemed to involve argument, by the sound of things.

      She frowned at the raspberry jelly that had dried on the bottom rung of one of the pine kitchen chairs. It was beyond her understanding how the three of them could make such a mess in the house when they were gone most of the day. It would be summer vacation in a month, and how she’d manage then, she couldn’t imagine.

      Just like she couldn’t see what to do about Luke. The depth of his bitterness continued to shock her. She knew as well as anyone the important role played by the patient’s attitude in healing. Luke’s anger and isolation would poison any chance of wholeness if someone didn’t do something to change it.

      And, it seemed, either through chance or perhaps through God’s working, that she was the one who was in a position to change that.

      Did You put me in this situation? You must have a reason, but I don’t see it. Seems to me I’m that last person who can help him deal with loss. I’m still struggling with that myself.

      She wouldn’t change Luke by encouraging him with words. His irritation when he felt she spoke to him as she’d speak to her children was proof of that.

      And speaking of her children, the noise level in the other room had risen dramatically, followed by the clatter of a game board being upset. She tossed the dishcloth into the sink and stalked into the living room, trying to get a handle on her impatience.

      “Hey, what’s going on in here? Who threw the checkerboard?”

      She knew the answer to that without asking. Shawna, who never lost control, looked smug, while Michael’s eyes were suspiciously bright. He folded his arms across his chest, his lower lip jutting out.

      This didn’t look like the right time for scolding. In fact, this wasn’t usually her time at all. Kenny had always taken the evening chores with the kids when he’d been off duty. This had been his time to play with them, roughhousing on the carpet despite her protests and supervising baths and bedtime.

      She’d scolded him once, when the roughhousing had led to a broken lamp and Michael was in tears over her reaction.

      “Let it go.” She could almost hear Kenny’s voice, soft and steady. “A broken heart is worth crying about, M.K. Not a broken lamp.”

      Now she had the broken heart, too, but she wouldn’t cry. Not in front of the children. Their world had been torn apart by their father’s death. She didn’t want to make them afraid by letting them see fear or grief in her.

      She sat down on the rug, pulling them close to her. “Forget about the game. Tell me about school today. How was it?”

      She happened to be looking at Shawna’s face when she asked the question, and she saw the quick flicker of hurt in her eyes. She blinked, and it was gone. She stroked the red curls away from her daughter’s heart-shaped face.

      “Shawnie? Is anything wrong?”

      “Everything’s okay, Mom.”

      Michael wiggled, as if he’d say something, but Shawna shot him a look and he stopped.

      “Are you sure?” She didn’t want to give her children the third degree, but something had dimmed Shawna’s brightness for a moment.

      “I’m sure.” She smiled. “I got a perfect score on my spelling test.”

      “That’s great.” She hugged her, storing away the sense of something wrong to think about later. “What did you do at Grammy and Grandpa’s?”

      “We had a snack,” Michael said. “And then we played outside, and Grandpa played ball with us for a while and then we practiced riding our bikes.”

      “Did you stay right where Grandpa told you to?”

      “Yes, Mommy.” That was accompanied by a huge sigh. “We always do.”

      Ridiculous, to worry about them when they were in Mom and Dad’s care. And that neighborhood was certainly safe enough—still the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else and looked out for them. Even so, she couldn’t seem to stop.

      Don’t worry. Pray. Mom had a small plaque with those words hanging in her bedroom. With six kids to raise, she’d probably done plenty of both.

      “Well, shall we read a couple of chapters in our book?” They’d been working their way through some of the children’s classics, and even Shawna, already reading well, seemed to enjoy being read to.

      “Not now, Mommy. Now we want to hear about the soldier.” Michael snuggled against her.

      “Soldier?” she repeated blankly. “Do we have a book about a soldier?”

      “Lieutenant Marino,” Shawna corrected. “We want to hear about him. Did you know that he’s on our bulletin board at school? And that he got medals?”

      She should have realized. The children’s elementary school had taken on a project of supporting local people who were serving in the military. Naturally Luke would be included.

      Her heart clutched as she thought about Luke now, in a wheelchair. How did you tell children about the terrible cost of war?

      “He wrote a letter to me,” Michael said.

      “He did not!” Shawna, who’d been leaning against Mary Kate, shot upright. “That’s a big fib.”

      “It is not. He did write to me. He wrote a letter and it said ‘To Ms. Sumter’s boys and girls.’ And I’m one of Ms. Sumter’s boys, so he wrote to me.” His face was very red.

      “Of course,” she soothed. “He meant his letter for each one of you.”

      “Well, I don’t think—” Shawna began, but subsided at a glance from her mother. “We want to know about him. Is he very hurt?”

      She’d always tried to tell them the truth, even when she had to simplify it for them. “He was hurt when a bomb went off near where he was working. It hurt his legs badly.”

      “Did they have to cut them off?” Michael asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

      She squeezed him, wondering where some of his ideas came from. “No, they didn’t, but his legs don’t work very well yet. That’s why I have to help him, to teach his legs how to work again.”

      “But what if they don’t get better?” His little face puckered up.

      “They will.” She said it with all the sureness she could muster. If I can help it, they will.

      Maybe