The Medic's Homecoming. Lynne Marshall
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three years ago. Her light brown hair was different, cut just above her shoulders now instead of halfway down her back. She’d borne the brunt of caring for Mom and Dad the past few weeks, and it showed in dark inverted arcs under her eyes. Or maybe it was just the dingy garage lighting. She probably thought he looked like hell, too.
Something else was going on with her, but he didn’t have a clue. He’d picked up on that “something” between her and Jack on the drive home from the airport tonight, but he couldn’t get a handle on what it might be.
“I’m fine, Anne, thanks.” Hell, she’d always been able to read his moods, and his go-away-and-leave-me-alone approach wouldn’t keep her off his scent for long. She’d probably noticed him flinch when he dove into the backseat of the car at the airport at the same time a car backfired. “What are you doing up?” he said.
“I saw the light and just wanted to check and make sure everything was okay.”
“Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Nah, I was awake, anyway. I’m going back inside now,” she said.
“I’m okay, Anne.” He glanced to make sure she wasn’t worried about him. He couldn’t read her sleepy-looking brown eyes. “See you in the morning.”
She hesitated, looking more alert and glancing a bit longer than necessary, probably using her uncanny, sister fib-o-meter to size him up, then she nodded. “Night.”
To her, when they were growing up, he’d always been the goofball kid brother. He’d given her plenty of reasons for that, with all his shenanigans and poorly thought-out schemes. How many times had he gotten caught and in trouble for his less-than-bright ideas? Anne had often come to his aid and stuck up for him. He fought a smile, glimpsing a portion of his face in the car’s cracked rearview mirror.
She’d tried, though. She’d tricked him into signing up for the track team by telling him it would get him out of those dreaded physical fitness tests. And he quit smoking after she showed him horrifying pictures of cancerous lungs from her high school anatomy class.
Lucas could have been a huge screwup if it weren’t for Anne. When she used to call him out for being a jerk, it’d felt like a stab through the heart, but she always managed to get through to him. She didn’t buy his bad-boy act for a second, even if everyone else did. And that was fine by him. Truth was, he liked it better when he made her and Mom laugh, not worry. He rubbed his chest thinking how long Mom had been worrying about him. Ten years, counting basic training. The last thing Mom needed to know was he’d cut his PTSD treatment short to come home and take care of her and Dad.
Once Anne was gone, he switched on the old radio in the corner and listened to static oldies through the tinny speaker. When he’d finished wiping down the car, he sat inside and cleaned the tattered leather upholstery and faded dashboard, fingered the steering wheel and imagined driving with the top down, feeling the winds of Whispering Oaks rushing through his hair. Now that he had some hair. What was that word, or more importantly, that feeling, he’d forgotten? Carefree.
He let out a breath. The last time he’d felt carefree was around the time his biggest charge was pulling little Jocelyn Howard’s braids and having her chase him around the yard. But once he’d hit puberty, that was child’s play.
With the late hour, the static was coarse on the radio. He got out of the car to turn it off and to try for a couple hours of sleep. On his way inside, he noticed the light was out in Jocelyn’s bedroom. He thought about looking for some pebbles to toss at her window, just to bug her, but he was only wearing his army-issue brown boxers. What kind of impression would that make? Besides, if this time she opened the window, he wouldn’t have a clue what to say.
Mere hours later, a loud knock on the door woke Lucas. “I’ll be right there,” he said, husky-voiced. He hopped to attention, threw on some shorts and a crewneck T-shirt and fumbled for the knob. The last thing he needed was for Dad to see the tattoos on his shoulders. Pushing open the door, he saw Anne through bleary eyes.
“We need your help,” she said.
“That’s what I’m here for.” He strode across the hall to his parents’ room, pretending to be awake, as Anne’s cell phone rang.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Answer it. I’ll take care of this.” He continued into the bedroom as she back-stepped down the hallway, already talking.
“Well, good morning, bright eyes!” his father said, obviously trying to get a rise out of him. How many times growing up had Lucas heard that phrase when he hadn’t looked alert enough at the breakfast table?
“Hey, Dad. So how do we do this?” he said, scratching his chest, determined not to knee-jerk a snotty response to his father’s jab.
Kieran sat at the edge of the bed, hair ruffled, eyes grumpy, sheets twisted and knotted around him.
Lucas let a slow smile tug at one corner of his mouth. “You know, you’re not looking so bright-eyed yourself, Dad.”
“It’s been hell, Lucas. These damn casts are driving me nuts. I’m counting the days until they’ll take them off.”
Nearby, Bart, his parents’ replacement for the kids, warily eyed Lucas. Lucas approached, ignoring the Rhodesian ridgeback’s low growl. “Good boy,” he said. Though big and imposing-looking, the dog’s real personality was betrayed by a wagging long brown tail.
Soon, the huge dog licked Lucas’s arm as if they’d been friends forever.
Only sheer will could have gotten Dad to sit up on his own because Mom, who stood close by with a yellow robe over her shoulders and that bright pink cast, couldn’t possibly have helped him with her one good hand. The man was too damn big. Good thing Dad had a will of steel.
“What did you always say to me, ‘This too shall pass,’ or something?” Lucas said, wanting to ease his dad’s frazzled mood.
Kieran grimaced. “Using my own words against me—that’s cold, son.” He flashed a brief grin at Lucas—more of a touché than an affirmation. Truce. For now.
“Let me explain how we do this,” his mom, Beverly, said, stepping around the bed to her husband’s side.
He’d done thousands of patient transfers in his nine years of active duty. But Lucas bit his tongue and let her explain their routine for getting Dad into the wheelchair.
Forty-five minutes later he’d helped his father wash and get dressed and had rolled him into the kitchen for breakfast. After years of helping his share of proud-but-wounded soldiers in the field, Lucas understood how humiliating it was for a grown man to need someone else to help him bathe. So he’d offered his dad all due respect, looking away when necessary, and the man had appreciated it.
He could tell because Dad had let his guard down a little. They carried on a civilized conversation … as if new acquaintances. Same stuff he’d covered with Anne on the drive from the airport. Weather, food, old friends. Though the conversation with his dad had felt stilted, anything was better than snarky attacks.
At least his dad hadn’t mentioned his appearance. Lucas had caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom with Dad and had to laugh at how bad he looked. He’d at least managed to throw some water on his face and run damp fingers through his hair. He’d thought about shaving when he’d shaved his father but decided to wait until later when he showered. And Dad would have nothing to do with the soul patch he’d tried to talk him into, opting for a clean shave. He noted that Dad’s hairline seemed to be getting higher and higher.
In the kitchen, after gulping down the orange juice Anne had set on the counter for him, Lucas headed out front for the newspaper. The neighborhood hadn’t changed a bit—a meandering street lined with pine and ash trees, mostly single-story ranch houses except for the Howards’ next door and a few others. The beige of the Grady home was accented with red brick, which set it apart from the otherwise similar homes along the street. Bushes or rustic wood fences divided most property lines.