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Tucker smiles and Lila kisses my cheek as they send me on my way. “We’ll grill steaks tomorrow night,” she promises. “Tell Mark we can’t wait to see him.”
I’m glad I’m on another red-eye flight. There are fewer passengers, so the seat beside me is empty, and as Lila pointed out, passengers tend to keep to themselves late at night, so the flights are generally quiet.
I glance thoughtfully out the window, comparing my mood on this flight to San Antonio with the previous one. Last time I made this trek, I was a wreck, terrified Mark wouldn’t survive or that I’d have to make a godawful decision I wasn’t ready for. This time, I’m excited to bring him home so his real healing can begin.
The pilot’s hushed voice intrudes into my thoughts. “Due to weather conditions ahead, we are adjusting course due east. We expect to land in San Antonio no more than twenty minutes later than our originally planned arrival time.” A few passengers rouse slightly, but for the most part, his quiet words go unnoticed.
I stare out the window, my eyes detecting an impenetrable darkness obscuring stars to the left of the plane. If I strain, I can faintly make out the edges of sinister clouds in the pitch-black night. The dark clouds suddenly glow deep purple, illuminated by a brilliant pinkish-white flash.
Lightning.
Lightning is nature’s way of exposing what hides entombed in the shadows. It arrives in tumultuous storms when opposing forces clash, twisting and writhing. It announces its presence in spring when cold and warm fronts battle for supremacy, and in summer when the sun beats down fiercely amid stifling humidity.
Lightning strikes lives, too. It struck my life, and it struck Lila’s. Now it’s struck Mark’s.
Behind my house stands a massive angel oak tree that was struck by lightning. I was home the afternoon it happened. A late spring storm boiled up, and strong winds whipped tree branches from side to side while torrential rains lashed the house. I was making southwestern tortilla soup, planning to curl up on the couch and read. A crack like a rifle shot sounded outside, and I ducked away from the windows instinctively. Finally I realized the noise had been a lightning strike, not a gunshot. I looked outside to see smoke rising from the tree, but no flames. After the storm subsided, I examined the damage up close. Lightning had carved a gash from the upper trunk to the ground, exploding bark out of its way and leaving a trail of burnt wood behind. I was positive my beautiful angel oak would die from its wounds.
To my utter shock, my tree survived.
Bugs ate away the charred wood over the summer. The opposite side of the tree kept its green leaves until autumn, when they changed with the season. The following spring, the tree leafed out as it always had. The only visible difference was the barkless vertical scar down its trunk.
Trees die every year from lightning strikes, but mine thrives in spite of its damage. The scar is part of the tree, but it doesn’t limit it, because the tree is more than just its barkless scar.
Rather than apply this insight to my own life, I consider how to use that imagery to help Mark accept his changed body. He’s in worse emotional shape right now than I am, or so I tell myself. I lean back and close my eyes, and though it’s not my intention, I fall asleep.
I awaken when the plane starts its uneventful descent. Tired passengers stumble down the steps and stagger into the relatively quiet airport. I take an Uber to the hotel and finish packing, eager to take Mark home. By daylight, I’m back at the hospital, ready.
After all our hurdles to get Mark well enough for release, his discharge is surprisingly uneventful. Fat packets of information regarding treatment plans, medications, physical therapy, and appointments with the VA in Pueblo are reviewed at length. An on-site pharmacy delivers his prescriptions directly to his room. Stubbs even stops by to see us off. His huge arms crush us together in a bear hug, promising to keep in touch, calling us Pretty Boy and Green Eyes. An Uber meets us outside the hospital, and after a bit of finagling, we fold Mark’s lanky body into the compact car. Then it’s off to the airport, and just like that, we’re whisked back to Colorado and into a slightly larger Uber vehicle that shuttles us home to Cedar Ridge.
After all this time, all this pain, we’re home.
Mark examines the exterior of my house appraisingly as he waits for the driver to remove my bags from the trunk. In spite of my worries, he makes it up my outside stairs without difficulty, though I maintain a firm grip on his waistband just in case. He waits patiently, looking around while I grab our luggage and clamber up the stairs.
“It’s gorgeous here,” he admires, gazing at the mountains. Snow covers their peaks, but in the lower elevations, trees are budding, and a fresh carpet of spring green mingles with the darker rocky mountainside. The mid-April breeze is crisp and fresh, the late afternoon sky a perfect cloudless blue. “I’ll bet those are amazing to hike –” His voice breaks off and his expression tightens.
“Hey,” I say encouragingly, “Dr. Paxton thinks you’ll be healed enough to have your osseointegration surgery in a few months. Be patient. We’ll hike them together.”
He smiles automatically, but it doesn't reach his eyes. I pretend not to notice, unlocking the door. “Come on in,” I say, holding it open before locking both locks and the chain behind us. “I’ll give you the grand tour of the downstairs.” I open the foyer table drawer and retrieve my handgun, tucking it in the back waistband of my jeans.
Mark raises an eyebrow. “Dangerous neighborhood?”
“Habit,” I say lightly, then change the subject. My hand lingers near my gun, but I force myself to leave it. I’m not doing a full-security sweep. I’m not alone. Besides, I don’t want Mark to know how screwed up I am. Not yet, anyway. It’s not like I’ll be able to hide it from him for long.
“Off here to the left is the living room,” I say, leading him into the long room. In the center, two large beige sofas and a matching loveseat form a U. They face a stone fireplace topped with a chunky reclaimed-wood mantle and a wall-mounted television. Along the left by my front windows, two cream chairs flank a low bookcase. On the opposite side of the room is the wide doorway to the kitchen with a rustic desk to the right. Crimson throw blankets add splashes of color, as do sprawling green plants that have only survived my absence due to Lila’s tender care. “The sofas recline, and Lila’s made sure anything you can possibly need is within reach. She even put in mini fridges.” I point below an end table and grin at his raised eyebrow. “At last count, I saw three. Apparently, she’s extremely concerned about your hydration.”
He looks around. “Gas fireplace?”
I nod. “I’m too lazy to build a real fire most nights. I do have a firepit for the patio, and both gas and charcoal grills, but in here, gas is easier.” I point to the basket on the end table. “It even has a remote, in case you’re kicking back watching TV one night thinking, 'God, if only there were a fire to go with my beer from the mini fridge while I watch football'.”
Mark studies the fireplace wall and the ceilings. “The rockwork and exposed beams are nice.” His eyes halt on my freshly patched and painted bullet holes. The hardware store had assured me the paint was an exact match for the color I’d bought before, but it’s lighter, making the wall appear freckled. I should have just painted the whole damn wall. I keep moving, hoping to distract him.
“The kitchen and dining room are through here. I’m a decent cook, mostly because I enjoy eating. Lila’s a much better cook than I am. But there’s always stuff for sandwiches or soups or pasta if I’m feeling lazy.”
“You know I can cook, right? I’m not here for you to wait on me. I just need time to get things sorted out.”
“I didn’t bring you home out of pity like some stray dog. You’re my person, Mark. You can stay forever if you want to.”
He studies me. “I appreciate this. You’ve been… much more than I deserve, Charlie.” Emotions boil in his pale blue eyes.
