A Soldier Comes Home. Cindi Myers

hugged her and Allison squeezed her hand.

      “I’ll need time off to go to the funeral,” Rita said, beginning to come out of the shock a little. “They gave Paul leave to come home for it.”

      “Of course,” Chrissie said. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do.”

      “Thanks, but it will all be taken care of. There are groups on the reservation that will organize the funeral. It’s a big ceremony. It goes on for days.” She was thinking out loud now, hardly aware of their presence.

      “Does Paul have other brothers and sisters?” Allison asked.

      “No. Only Jeremy.” She bit her lip, thinking of his mother, Donna. Jeremy was her baby. The spoiled one. She would be beside herself with grief. “I—I’d better go finish Mr. Freeman’s teeth,” she said.

      Chrissie stopped her. “No. We’ll explain what happened and ask him to reschedule. He’ll understand.” She patted Rita’s shoulder. “You go home. Do what you need to do to get ready.”

      “I’ll pray for you and your family,” Allison said.

      Rita nodded. More of the numbness was receding, replaced by the knowledge that in a few days she’d see Paul. She felt almost guilty but not for long. She would see Paul. She would touch him, hold him, kiss him, make love to him. Yes, they would grieve. But they would also comfort each other. In the midst of such sadness was that joy.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      CHRISSIE’S FAMILY HOME was a two-story cedar-sided house in the shade of tall pines on the east side of Colorado Springs. Overgrown lilacs, heavy with the promise of purple blooms, crowded the driveway along one side, and patches of dirt showed through on the lawn, remnants of years of tag and touch football games played by Chrissie, her two brothers and their friends.

      Chrissie couldn’t help smiling as she pulled into the driveway. While she loved her little house on Kirkham Street, this was home, every part of it as familiar to her as a favorite pair of jeans. There was the big oak where her father had hung a tire swing when she was six. There was the space under the porch where she’d fashioned a secret play house. Lilacs from these very bushes had decorated the tables at her bridal shower, and that side window marked the bedroom where she’d spent the first six months after Matt’s death. Though she’d been glad to move out on her own once more, it was comforting to know this sanctuary was here if she needed it.

      Her mother opened the door before Chrissie was even halfway up the walk. “It’s good to see you, baby,” she said, enveloping her daughter in a soft hug. “Come on inside. Supper’s almost ready.”

      “Hey, beautiful!” Her father greeted her from his recliner, which over the years had conformed perfectly to his bulky frame. A baseball game played on the television across from him.

      “Hey, handsome.” Chrissie completed this customary exchange, bending to hug him.

      “How are you doing?” her father asked. “How’s the car?”

      “The car is fine. I had the oil changed last week.” This, too, was a familiar exchange. Her father seemed to feel that if her car was in good shape, it was an indicator that the rest of her life was going well also.

      “The house in good shape?” he asked.

      “The house is fine.”

      He looked disappointed at this answer. “You let me know if you need me to fix anything or handle any little problems. Don’t go wasting your money on repairmen.”

      “Thanks, Dad. I won’t.” She smiled and patted his hand. Her father was not one to gush sentiment. He preferred to show his love wielding a hammer or screwdriver.

      She sat on the sofa and in companionable silence they watched the game. Chrissie closed her eyes and inhaled deeply the combination of scents she thought of as unique to her childhood home—pot roast, vanilla and the Shalimar perfume her mother always wore.

      “Everything’s ready,” her mother called from the kitchen. “Chrissie, put some ice in glasses and we’ll eat.”

      Over pot roast, mashed potatoes and broccoli, Chrissie learned about the latest goings-on at the hospital where her mother was a nurse, the retirement party for one of her father’s coworkers and his most recent attempts to defeat the squirrels who constantly raided his bird feeders. “I think I’ve licked them this time,” he said, ladling gravy over a mound of potatoes. “I’ve got the feeders out on wires, rigged with a pulley system. Even the Flying Wallendas couldn’t get to these feeders.”

      Considering how many squirrels Chrissie had seen dancing along power lines, she had her doubts about the effectiveness of this effort. But she sometimes suspected her father enjoyed his battles with the squirrels too much to ever want to completely vanquish them.

      “How are things at work?” her mother asked.

      “Busy.” Chrissie speared a broccoli floret with her fork. “We’re a little shorthanded this week. Our dental hygienist is in South Dakota at a funeral. Her husband’s brother was killed in Iraq.”

      “Oh, how awful.” Her mother laid down her fork and covered her mouth with one hand, a stricken look on her face.

      “Yes, it is,” Chrissie agreed. She had cycled through all the familiar emotions in the days since Rita had left town: despair, anger, grief. She ached for her friend and at the same time recalled her own loss all over again. She hated that she couldn’t even sympathize with a friend without being dragged back into an emotional quagmire she had hoped to escape by now. But maybe that was impossible as long as the war continued. The families of soldiers shared the experience of war in a way civilians really couldn’t; through that connection, every family’s loss became Chrissie’s own. She was trying to figure out how to live with that reality.

      They were all silent for a time, focusing on their food. Chrissie tried to distract herself from sad thoughts by looking around the dining room, at all the familiar things here that grounded her to her life P.M.—pre Matt. An old upright piano sat across from her. She had spent hours pounding away at scales on that piano, dutifully practicing, but never really playing well. After three years, her parents had given in to her pleas to discontinue lessons, but they’d kept the piano.

      On top of the piano was a row of framed photographs, including a shot of her and Matt on their wedding day—Chrissie in a white lace gown, Matt in his dress uniform. Her throat tightened at the sight of them both, looking so very young. At twenty-four, she’d thought she knew a lot about life.

      Looking back, her romance with Matt had had an unreal quality. They’d met, then fallen in love quickly, their every moment together laced with the urgency of knowing that at any time he might be called upon to leave, to fight in the impending war. Chrissie had shared Matt’s excitement at the prospect; he’d looked forward to testing all his training in combat and had assured her that, with all of the technological advances in warfare, the chances of him being hurt were slim.

      She’d held on to that belief as a shield against the fear that always lurked on the edge of her consciousness. That giddy optimism had allowed her to say yes when he proposed, to ignore her natural aversion to risk. And when they’d said their vows in front of family and friends at the base chapel, she’d looked forward to the years ahead, certain of their bright future in a way that only a person who has never known tragedy can be.

      “I’ve been wondering if I should take that picture down.”

      Her mother’s words interrupted Chrissie’s thoughts. She tore her gaze from the photograph and found her mother studying her, worry lines creasing her forehead. “Why would you want to do that?” Chrissie asked.