Faithful Valor, page 6
Well, that university was now her employer, so who was she to judge? Once she finished the academy, she was a free agent. No one had paid for her college, except the pound of flesh she’d left behind in exchange for her GI Bill, so she could pick and choose where she wanted to go. Being a woman of color who was fluent in both English and Spanish meant she was a hot commodity. Add that to her military background and discipline, and it was no surprise she’d had her share of offers.
“Yes, ma’am. You’re right. You pay to be here, too. I understand,” Murdoch said, backing away from the stairs. “I’ve spoken to the residents downstairs and they assured me that they’re done for the night. If it gets loud again, you have our phone number.”
Cece’s phone vibrated in her pocket. Pulling it from her pocket, she walked to the car and covered her ear as she answered the phone.
“Hi, baby.”
“Hi, Mommy.”
“What are you doing? Where’s abuela, Lita?”
“She’s right here. I asked her if I could call you. I miss you, Mommy.”
“I miss you, too, baby girl.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Next week. I have a surprise for you, Melita.” Cece walked farther away from the continuing commotion behind her, keeping an eye on Murdoch just in case he got into trouble.
“Ooh, Mommy. Is it a puppy? I want a puppy. I’m a big girl. I can take care of a puppy. Pulleeezzzzeeee.”
“It’s not a puppy, honey. We need to wait until we get our own place and then we can talk about a puppy, or maybe a kitty.”
“Oh, a kitty, Mommy.”
Melita’s short attention span worked to Cece’s benefit. As long as she could dangle something else in front of her daughter it would stop the whining for the moment. God, she missed her baby girl. Soon, she thought. Next week or two, she’d be moving her munchkin up the coast to the little townhouse Cece had managed to rent. She wasn’t sure she was ready to buy in one of the hottest real estate markets in the country, but it wouldn’t be a bad investment even if the job didn’t work out. She hadn’t used her VA loan yet, and being from California afforded her another loan possibility as a vet.
Decisions, decisions.
Time was on her side. Tucking the phone into her cargos, she studied the houses out at East Garrison. Functional, bland, and affordable. It looked like typical military housing. She’d seen it on a ton of bases. But, what more did students need? She’d been told that the housing made the college millions. They had assumed it from the military so they didn’t have to invest in building it, which meant a veritable gold mine for the university. She’d been told that it was all put under the umbrella of a foundation and that the foundation gifted the university millions because of it. Her in-service had included statistics on crime, population, restrictions, and how they interfaced with local PDs. It had also been very clear on what to expect in the diverse housing arrangements, which included families as well as single college students. What a mix, she thought. The upside was that the college only had a few mixed streets now. They had learned from their earlier experiments that single students and students with families didn’t quite work together.
Yep, policing on CSUMB was nothing like policing on a base. The radio transmitted another garbled call and they were off again, this time to a drunken brawl.
Well, maybe not so different.
Nic leaned back, balancing on two of the four rickety metal chair legs. She couldn’t stop looking at the body hanging off the huge crucifix that dominated the small room. For some reason the body seemed to be precariously close to the circle of chairs. Every meeting it was the same grouping, and every meeting Nic fixated on the huge cross with the too-realistic man, a crown of thorns dripping blood down his face. The constant reminder they were in the basement of a local church wasn’t lost on Nic, either. The persecuted, the broken, the…Well, she’d had enough.
Tonight would be her last night for this group. She’d given it a couple of months, months spent listening to the same stories, seeing the same faces in tortured relief, and months of silence on her part.
“Colonel, would you like to share?”
Why did they always address her by her rank? She wasn’t in uniform and she never introduced herself by her rank. Yeah, it was definitely time to exit stage right.
A hand tapped her shoulder lightly.
Nic searched the circle of empty eyes staring at her. Sure, they were wondering if she’d say anything tonight. She hated to disappoint them, but she did anyway.
“No thanks.” She looked at the fresh-faced kid and group leader, Rod White, who she was sure still looked like his high school senior picture. The only difference between the Rod of then and the Rod of today? The missing right arm and leg, and a mangled left hand that perched on the stick shift of the wheelchair. His cheery demeanor, while seeming like it stayed painted on, was always surprising to Nic. What did he have to be happy about?
Yeah, her pissy, cynical side had taken over and she didn’t wish that on anyone. Her shrink had convinced her that going to “group” might help her open up, but it had the opposite effect. She relived every jarring moment of the bombing each time she attended. It was hard to forget the reason she was going at all.
“Well, when you’re ready, we’ll be here, Colonel.”
Embarrassed, Nic didn’t have the heart to tell him she needed to bail on the group. Like an earworm but not a song, she thought about bailing for the third time in just the last two minutes. She knew her shrink had a name for her avoiding group, but she would just call it a Freudian thing. She nodded and avoided everyone’s stare, and instead looked over at the same stack of store-bought cookies and punch that seemed to never get eaten or drunk no matter how many people visited the table, all laid out on the table in the same fashion every time they met. Was there some handbook for church groups that dictated what would be served and how it was to be put on the table?
Nic pulled at the collar of her button-down shirt, trying to dislodge it from the sweat that coated her body. The suffocating heat of the room had that sickening sugary smell wafting through it. Nic would never be able to eat another supermarket sugar cookie as long as she lived without thinking of the church basement and Jesus hanging over the group.
A man cleared his throat.
Great. Mr. Overshare was ramping up to start his usual routine. Eyes rolled, and a few huffed then extracted themselves from their chairs and gorged on cookies. She was certain it was to keep their mouths busy so they wouldn’t say something hostile, which wasn’t allowed.
“Everyone gets to be heard in group,” Roy had informed Nic on her first night.
Nic joined the chorus of rolled eyes.
Yep. That was group.
“Colonel, you okay?”
Nic closed her eyes and pasted on a slight smile. “I’m good, Rod. How are you doing?”
His head bobbed up and down. “I’m good. I just found out my girlfriend is pregnant and so…yeah. I’m gonna be a dad.”
“Congrats. That’s great news.” One didn’t have to be a mind reader to decipher the mix of emotions flitting across his face. “Freaking out a little, huh?”
“I’m not sure how it happened, but I think I’m pretty excited.”
“Wait, you don’t know how it happens? I’m not an expert on such matters, but even I know how babies are made.” Nic offered him a cup of the sugary mixture they were calling punch.
He waved it off and pointed to his mug with a straw that had the end pinched. “Thanks, I bring my own hooch.”
“Is that spiked? You sure you should be driving?” While she was pretty sure he knew she was kidding, she never put it past anyone anymore.
“Funny, Colonel.” Rod looked around the room and then leaned toward Nic. “Can I speak to you after group, Colonel?”
Nic got a funny feeling in her stomach. She glanced around the room the same way Rod had and, feeling a tad suspicious, wondered why he wanted to speak with her.
“Um…”
“I would really appreciate it.” His eyes softened. He looked like he was almost going to cry.
“Sure, Rod. I’ve got time.” She patted him on the shoulder. “We better get back or Tank is going to start telling that same ol’ story again.”
“Christ, I wish he would—”
Nic looked back at Rod, who clamped his mouth shut.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s good to know I’m not the only one thinking that way.”
“It’s not him, it’s me. Guess I’m just a little overwhelmed,” he said, rolling past Nic. “Okay everyone, let’s finish up.”
Nic wondered why Rod was pressing her to talk to him. Guess she’d find out in thirteen minutes and counting.
A plate of cookies and a full gallon of punch still sat on the table. An offering of sorts to the cleanup gods, Nic thought as she sat in the single chair opposite Rod. While the room had finally emptied of its inhabitants, the heat was still oppressive. Maybe Nic should have told Rod to meet her upstairs where the crisp night air could work its magic.
Rod wheeled himself in front of Nic and cleared his throat.
“Colonel…” He lifted a crooked finger up to his neck and pulled at the collar of his shirt.
“It’s always so damn hot in here.”
“Maybe it’s penance for our sins.” Rod cast a weary look up at the large savior hanging off the wall. “Don’t look so surprised, Colonel. I might be the group leader, sorta, but I’m not immune to those kinda thoughts.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I think I’m just an imposter sitting here coaxing people to share their grief, their loss, and their experiences. That somehow they’ll find out and kick me out of group.”
Nic wasn’t big on self-pity and she especially hated it on herself, but she could relate to the young man in a lot of ways. It was what bound most survivors together, the loss, the insurmountable grief, and the wondering if they would ever be normal again. She, too, had to recognize that this was her new normal.
Nic pulled a deep breath. She wanted to go home and be released from this whole idea of group. “So, what did you want to talk to me about, Rod?”
“Well, you probably could guess that I have a lot of respect for you, Colonel. I mean not just for your rank, though you’ve earned that, but I mean as a person. You’re very reserved and thoughtful in group, and I appreciate your being here. I think it has a calming effect on everyone.”
Nic knew Rod was slinging a line of bullshit, but she wondered why. She wasn’t his commanding officer. She didn’t have anything to do with his world, whether it spun clockwise or went skidding off its axis. She ran her thumbnail under another fingernail and cleaned it.
“Rod, look, I’m a straight shooter so I’m just going to say this, and I hope you don’t get pissed, but what a load of horseshit. You barely know me. I mean, yeah, I’ve been coming to group all of about three months, but I gotta be honest with you, I decided tonight was my last night. I just can’t do it anymore.” She looked over at him. He leaned toward her, smiling that smile that was clearly his stock-in-trade.
“I can appreciate that you might not believe me, Colonel. I mean, we’ve only talked a few times after group, but I’ve appreciated your gentle way of expressing yourself.”
Gentle. That was a descriptor Nic hadn’t heard before.
“I don’t have any family around here and my folks aren’t young and are having a hard time dealing with all of this.” He swept his damaged hand down his body. “My dad is a hard-core military man. He never shows weakness, thinks it’s a sign of being soft. So, you can imagine what he said when he saw me. ‘Son, you’re gonna walk again, hear me?’ He just doesn’t understand and accept this is my new normal.”
Acceptance.
Nic was familiar with a father who didn’t accept what was in front of him. Her own father had turned his back on her when she’d come out as a lesbian. He still shunned her the few times she’d gone home to visit her mother. It had been harder for her to accept his unwillingness to embrace her and her lifestyle. Indeed, Nic knew a lot about a father who couldn’t come to terms with a child and who they were.
“What can I do to help, Rod?”
The crowd around Claire was electric, the energy palpable. In front of her, throngs of women and a smattering of men held signs high above their heads.
Equality for all.
Our ovaries, Our decision.
Grab this, with a picture of a hand flipping the bird.
Some were so vulgar even Claire blushed at the double meanings. As long as a fight didn’t break out with the demonstrators that were baiting them, she’d stay. The moment things went south, so would she. She didn’t want to give Nic any ammunition to say she was right about not bringing Grace.
Behind her the crowd slimmed some, but they were just as enthusiastic. She was glad she’d slathered Grace in sunscreen with the sun screaming down on them. A welcome relief, considering some of those participating in women’s marches throughout the world would be battling not just the crowds, but cold, foggy weather.
“Dump Trump,” someone chanted as the crowd echoed.
Claire stood in the middle of a group of fellow students from classes at CSUMB. Many of the women wore pink hats symbolizing their sorority of sisterhood. While she felt like one of them, she just couldn’t bring herself to wear one, even after she’d knitted one and tried it on. She also wasn’t going to put one on Grace, who was already asking questions about the colorful display. She hated it when Nic was right, so she just wouldn’t tell her.
“Mommy, mommy, mommy.” Grace’s outstretched arms indicated her immediate need. Claire grunted. The princess wasn’t a sack of flour anymore, more like a sack of potatoes. Now at seven years old, Grace needed to be broken of the need to be carried.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Maryann practically glowed with excitement. Claire, ten to twenty years older than most of her fellow students, wasn’t quite as enthusiastic, but she knew she needed to be here. To be silent was to be complicit, and there was no way she was giving her stamp of approval to this administration.
Claire smiled. “Exciting.”
“Hey, where’s Nic?” Maryann pumped her sign up and down as the crowd moved slowly down the street.
Before she could answer, Maryann screamed, “Selfie.” In an instant they were surrounded by chanting women who suddenly stopped to smile at the camera a few feet above them.
“Hey, text me that.”
“Yeah, me, too. I want to send it to my mom.”
“I’m going to post it and tag you on social media, so all of you can get it from there,” Maryann said, mindlessly walking as she gazed down at her screen posting it to all her social media sites.
“So, where’s Nic?” Maryanne said without looking at Claire.
“Home.”
“Bummer. Too bad she didn’t come and see all of this girl power.”
Though Claire had tried to convince Nic to join the protest, she knew crowds weren’t in Nic’s wheelhouse at the moment. However, she wouldn’t give up trying to get her out of the house.
“You know, sweetheart, you look fine.” Claire cupped Nic’s face and pulled her in for a kiss.
Nic reached down and pulled Claire closer to her, their bodies molding together. This, this closeness, is what Claire had missed most while Nic was gone. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around Nic’s neck, wove her hands through Nick’s hair. It was longer than usual, but Claire wasn’t complaining. She’d take a long-haired shaggy Nic at home any day. The alternative wasn’t something she wanted to think about.
Pulling back, she looked up at her lover, her thumbs running over Nic’s lips. She studied Nic’s face. If one didn’t know, they would never have guessed that less than a year ago Nic was lying in a hospital bed and with a broken orbital socket, fractured cheekbone, broken ribs, a broken wrist, missing teeth, and a severe concussion that still plagued her today. Her orbital surgery has saved her sight, and Nic was nearing the end of a lengthy process of receiving dental implants to make her smile picture perfect.
“How is your headache?”
Nic flashed that mischievous smile that often got her into trouble, but Claire knew this time it was only a smile. The PTSD had taken its toll on their relationship and lately Nic had pulled away from Claire emotionally. Her early weeks at home had been a whirlwind of activity, doctor’s visits, therapy, and long bouts of “quiet reflection,” as coined by the therapist Nic was seeing. They’d gone to therapy together at first. However, it had become clear that Nic needed to deal with her demons without Claire present. She suspected it was because Nic didn’t want her to hear all the gory details. The truth, Claire knew, was that Nic was private when it came to her foibles. While Claire didn’t see Nic’s injuries as a weakness, that wasn’t how Nic saw them.
Outside, Nic was mostly Nic. Her scars were a roadmap of her life in the military. The lower scar on her back, where the exhaust manifold of the helicopter had trapped her to the ground, was rough and long, the remnant of the helicopter crash on her first deployment to Iraq. It was fading as much as it could, and Claire wished the memory of that accident would fade, too. Nic had been the only survivor of that tragic accident in Iraq, her whole crew lost. Scars on Nic’s face from her more recent accident gave Nic that ruggedly handsome look. At least, that was how Claire saw it.
