9.
Next evening, Jack and Rose ate a late dinner at an expensive restaurant. Dress was casual. The atmosphere was ritzy, smelling of fine steak, red wine, and roses. Waiters hustled amid soft piano music. Subdued, indirect lighting glinted on brass and crystal. They ate salads with sliced New York steak and bleu cheese crumbles. Afterward, they raised red-wines in a toast.
Her left hand was once again bound in a white gauze ball. She wore a long-sleeved, dark blue shirt that hid both arms. Jack felt stiff from a bandage over his shoulder. Her ear had been taped up.
“Where’d you learn D-Day skills?”
“You’re a nosy man.”
“I’m an investigator, remember? I looked up Michael Magee, Rose. Sorry.” He ignored her stony, downcast look. “It’s been over two years. That chopper has been lost for 26 months. It went from rescue to recovery to…” Nothing. He didn’t finish.
“I don’t count months, Jack. I live in a bubble.” Her eyes looked wet again. “I was an Air Force combat flight nurse. First lieutenant, on the captains’ list. I flew too many missions to count. We’d fly supplies in, casualties out, landing in the desert at night.” She showed him photos of Michael, smiling and looking fit. “That’s my husband.” Then she showed more photos, of herself, between two young women in light blue fatigues, with rakish, dark garrison caps pulled down over their foreheads. In one photo, they faced a C-130 whose fuselage had Israeli markings. Each woman had an assault rifle hanging down her back, pointing down. “We were on joint maneuvers with IDF combat evacuation nurses. We had a lot of fun.” She put her photos away. “Then I ran out of luck. I lost Michael, and that same month, I went down in a C-130. Of the crew plus docs and nurses, only I survived. We took a missile and went down in a wild desert canyon near Musa Qala in Helmand. An Army artillery observer miles away said the wings shredded off. Fuselage rolled a couple of times before it stood on its nose and exploded. I was strapped in, semi-conscious the whole time. My seat tore loose. I was thrown out of the plane, into a sandy cut that shielded me as the plane sprayed fuel and blew up. I loosened my seat belt and staggered to my feet. My left hand was soaked in avgas and on fire. It hurt so bad I passed out. I fell on it, which put it out.” She undid the sleeve and rolled it up. Her left arm looked withered, purplish, and bent at a slightly odd angles. Jack saw screws under the skin, from the wrist up past the elbow. He didn’t want to see the hand. “Air Force pararescue were on the scene in minutes in a chopper. We got away just as Taliban came riding in on horseback, shooting and yelling.”
“Ouch.”
“I don’t like to make a big deal about it. My left forearm hung by shreds, and my hand was mangled. I was in shock, too. Bruised, but no broken bones. They raced me back to civilization. The docs started putting me back together in the air between Kabul and Landstuhl and Walter Reed. That same week, I learned Michael was missing. I couldn’t sleep nights anymore. I kept seeing boys, men, with their faces and genitals shot off, not to mention arms, legs, whatever. I resigned my commission. I came home, and buried myself in my family’s old bookstore. I still fly out of bed screaming at night. I just hide in my little store, with the books.” She flopped her hurt hand once. “I get constant new surgeries, but little progress.”
“So then I parachuted next to your cash register, threatening to arrest you if you didn’t have coffee.”
“You make me laugh. Please be my friend. That’s all I ask, nothing more.”
Thank you for reading. If you love it, tell your friends. Please post a favorable review at Amazon, Good Reads, and other online resources. If you want to thank the author, you may also buy a copy for the low price of a cup of coffee. It's called Read-a-Latte: similar (or lower) price as a latte at your favorite coffeeshop, but the book lasts forever while the beverage is quickly gone. Thank you (JTC).
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