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The Wounded Warrior's Wife

By Hannah Conway

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THE last hints of sunlight poured through the modest bathroom window. The tub water, now lukewarm, retreated in slow waves across Whitleigh Cromwell’s neck. Mellow tunes, defending the house from silence, drifted through the tiny tiled room. No matter the soft, easy nature of the melody, there was nothing relaxing or distracting about her Elements of Education textbook.
She crossed her eyes and tapped a pencil on her bottom lip before circling a long, drawn out explanation of differentiation. How many more definitions did she have to underline? Senior-itis was kicking in two semesters too early.
Whitleigh sank lower in the tub. Studying would’ve been much more enjoyable with Collier home. Life in general was better with him around. She huffed. With a wet finger, she turned the page. Waiting was the worst. Worse than reading a bound book of boredom, but that’s Army life — hurry up and wait.
She couldn’t complain too much though. Whitleigh closed her eyes for a moment. Her lips curved into a smile. In a manner of weeks it would be over soon. All of it. The wait, army life — all done. Life with her husband could resume as normal. She sighed, her breath creating ripples in the water. Weeks would be no problem to pass compared to the year they’d nearly conquered, but studying seemed to be an inadequate way to pass time.
The words in the text blurred. She squinted through the wire frames sliding to the tip of her nose, unable to make much more sense of the paragraph. It had been a long day. A long year. Whitleigh snapped the book shut with a clap. Scarce patches of bubbles from the bath threatened to ruin her note page where it was balanced on the edge of the tub. She pushed the papers to safety on a footstool turned bath-time desk. An angry buzzing rang out. Whitleigh lunged from the sudsy waters, clambering for the clattering cellphone perched atop the toilet seat. A stack of textbooks fell prey to her flailing limbs.
“Whit.” The line cracked and popped. “Can you hear me?”
“Sorta.” She squealed and groused as soapy shampoo suds seeped into her eyes.
“Whit?”
“I’m here.” She swatted the volume on the MP3 player stand and felt around for a towel. A shirt would do the trick. Shampoo seemed as effective as pepper spray.
“Hold on.” Grumbles echoed from the other end of the line. The static stopped. Whatever he did worked. “Better?”
“Loads.” She laughed, her eyes still stinging as she twisted her soaking hair into a towel. “Collier, oh my gosh. I’ve missed you. How are you?”
The line crackled. Whitleigh threw on a robe before walking down the hall and into their bedroom. Even their phone conversation required patience with the interference and delay. She skirted around their bedroom, mindful of the books and folded laundry ready to be put away.
“I’m good, Sweets.” She could almost hear the smile in his tired voice. “Just missing you.”
“You counting down?” Her stomach knotted. Things were looking up.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t sound too excited.” Whitleigh plopped on the bed and gathered a few pillows underneath her arms.
“I’m excited. Just some things, you know, going on.”
Whitleigh frowned. Though Korea hadn’t been a war zone in fifty years, Collier and the other soldiers spent a lot of time drilling in the field. Must be tedious work.
“Look Whit, um, I don’t have much time.”
“What’s wrong?” The stories that came from Korea were horrid. Soldiers cheating on their wives, drunken bar fights, prostitutes roaming the streets. She shoved those thoughts from her mind. Not her Collier. Not ever. “Remember that piece you heard on the news?”
“Yeah.” She rolled her eyes. How could she forget? The media had about given her a heart attack. “News stations need to get their facts straight.”
Collier coughed. “Anyway.” He coughed again. His tone echoed hints of anxiety. Whitleigh fidgeted with a piece of tangled wet hair falling from the towel. Collier never hesitated with his words. “Well, they aren’t rumors anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Oh. Wait. What? “War?” Whitleigh slid off the bed. “That’s ridiculous. They can’t send you to Iraq.”
She paced the room. The carpet, tan and tattered, had felt more than its share of trampling feet. “No. You’ve done your year in Korea.” She threw up her free hand and stomped her foot. Like that would help. “They can’t send you anywhere else but home.”
“Whit, calm — ” “Calm down. Calm down? Really, Collier?” She clamped her jaw tight. “They have no right — ”
“Whitleigh.” The sharpness in his voice silenced her. Her stomach contorted, sending a wave of nausea over her body. She collapsed on the bed, fighting off tears and the urge to continue her rant.
“Listen to me, please.”
How could she listen? All of the effort it took to move to Fort Carson, Colorado and transfer her college credits, ready to start her life with Collier, but then a hardship tour to South Korea interrupted. Now this?
Collier released a drawn out breath. “I wanted you to hear it from me before the crazy news people start saying stuff.”
Closing her eyes, she softened her grip on the phone. He didn’t deserve to be her punching bag. “I’m sorry.” Whitleigh shook, drawing the pillows into her lap. “I just want you home. For good. I want us to be together.” A tear fell, and then another.
“I know, Sweets. I’ll be home in two days tops.” That was good news to cling to. Whitleigh propped herself against the headboard. “We’ve got two weeks of leave. We’ll celebrate.”
“Celebrate what? Deployment? Spending another year apart?” Whitleigh unraveled the towel from her hair and dabbed her eyes. “This isn’t how I thought we’d spend our first anniversary — oceans apart.”
“I know, Whit.” He probably pinched the bridge of his nose. She listened as he drew in a deep breath. “Two weeks is enough time to take you on a real honeymoon.” Whitleigh held in quiet sobs. Her chin dimpled. “I know this isn’t what we planned.” No it wasn’t. “But it’s gonna be okay.”
Nothing about this was okay. His optimism made her scowl.
Collier exhaled. “Please say something.”
Her bottom lip protested beneath the grip of her teeth. The tears couldn’t be stopped. “I’m not sure I know what to say.” Nothing from her mouth would be beneficial. Holding her tongue was the most viable option.
“Listen, Sweets, I have to go. There are others in line behind me.” His voice softened. “I’ll … I’ll see you soon.”
~ ~ ~
LONGEST night ever. Going to sleep wasn’t an option right after receiving such devastating news. Whitleigh rolled from bed, grumpy beyond reason. The morning news station didn’t help. Twelve soldiers killed in Iraq. She turned the TV off and threw the remote on the floor. Not even a quickly brewed cup of coffee lifted her spirits. She pried the screen door open — dumb thing — and stepped down onto the broken slab of concrete.
The coffee sloshed from side to side with each grumbled movement. Her favorite hooded sweatshirt, torn and faded gray, looked as droopy as she felt. The cracked Kentucky Wildcat emblem provided no reason to discard this cozy cotton article of clothing no matter what Collier said. There were plenty of things he wore and did that she couldn’t stand. Whitleigh blew a strand of hair from her face, wishing she had the energy to throw it into a ponytail.
The clinking of nails and hammers echoed through the cul-de-sac. A new subdivision was being built on base adjacent to theirs. Maybe she could convince the construction workers to do some sympathy renovations on her home.
Whitleigh sat on the cool concrete and cradled the steaming mug between her hands. Her tired, puffy, red eyes squinted in the sunlight. She sniffled and refused to let another tear fall. It was time to pull herself together. Suck it up.
Think positive. Maybe a run would help, or maybe a chocolate bar. Either of those always did a pretty good job of clearing her mind. Cookies. She was getting pretty good at baking. Maybe a good book and bubble bath would stop the aching in her chest. A tear threatened to fall but Whitleigh blinked it away.
She took a sip, enjoying the bold flavor as it scalded her throat.
Thinking positive was harder than it seemed.
Whitleigh looked from side to side. It may not have been the wraparound porch like she’d dreamed, but there was room for a chair, sort of. Pink blooming rose bushes, flanking the sides of the porch, greeted her with a fresh floral scent. Whitleigh leaned over, prolonging an inhale. Wonderful. The new housing units didn’t have these kinds of flowers.
The chilly wind pimpled her flesh with goose bumps. She crossed her arms. Spring was here, but summer needed to hurry. Like normal, the cannon blast and trumpet call sounded the beginning of a new work day on base.
She yawned and stretched. Collier hadn’t spent much time in their brick matchbox, but this was their home now, broken slab of a porch and all. Maybe she could see about having the cracked siding redone and repainted. The once cheery yellow paint had faded with time, along with the grass. She might get it growing again if she could rid it of the overgrown weeds. She’d have to talk to housing about that when they opened later. Their home needed to be cozy and inviting when Collier came home in a day or so.
So much work to do. Whitleigh rubbed her brow. Too much work to do in one day.
Turning her head to the west, the corners of her mouth curved into a slight grin.
The mountains were beautiful. Those Rockies still took her breath away and made the rolling hills of her Kentucky home look puny. Colorado Springs’ pride and joy, Pike’s Peak, kept a snowcap almost year around, but today it seemed spectacular, bleached even. It was stunning in the wee hours of the morning.
Whitleigh stood, drinking in the morning mountain air. So far, Fort Carson seemed nice enough. It wasn’t her old Kentucky home, that’s for sure, but it was military life. Real. Hard. Each day she’d discovered it wasn’t exactly what she’d romanticized.
She sighed. A tiny ant crawled along the porch step. She moved her foot to let it pass. Maybe she should skip class today. Professors were understanding people. Sometimes. Besides, there was so much other work. Whitleigh eyed the chipped paint on her fingernails. The sound of another defiant, creaking screen door caught her attention.
Whitleigh turned to wave at Mrs. Ryan, a sweet woman from across the street if you could overlook her meddling.
She sported a puffy pink robe and at least thirty hair rollers. Most of Whitleigh’s neighbors were nice enough. Sort of. Though she wasn’t old, this mother of five had a mother hen complex.
Mrs. Ryan hustled out into her lawn to snatch up the newspaper. She flipped a wave and scurried in Whitleigh’s direction. The powdery pink fuzz balls atop her house slippers shook with each step. It wasn’t the best time for a visit from Mrs. Ryan and her snooping questions.
Whitleigh forced a smile. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” Her lips bent into a worried glower. “I heard the news.” She tucked the newspaper under her chubby arm. The pink material of the robe hid all but a portion of the paper.
Whitleigh nodded. The word that the Second Brigade Combat Team was headed to Iraq from Korea proved headline worthy. News travels fast. Surely Mom would be calling soon, along with the rest of her friends and family from back home. Maybe she should turn off her cell. No. Not at the risk of missing a call from Collier.
Mrs. Ryan’s steps were careful as she neared, like the smallest movement would send Whitleigh spiraling out of control. Maybe it would.
Whitleigh sipped at her coffee and gave a half smile as Mrs. Ryan sat beside her.
“This life … these kinds of thing,” Mrs. Ryan shook her head and sighed, “they can be unbearable.” She picked a piece of fuzz from her robe. It fell from her fingers and floated quite a distance before landing on the sidewalk.
Whitleigh’s chest throbbed. She inhaled, wishing three clicks of her heels would take her home — anywhere but here, talking about anything but this. Mrs. Ryan needed to stop prying. Maybe Whitleigh should interfere in her life. Strange how the Ryan family, being higher enlisted, still lived among privates. Strange how she never saw Mr. Ryan. Bet she wouldn’t want Whitleigh asking those kinds of questions.
“You know,” Mrs. Ryan scratched at her nose, “that last batch of cookies you brought over topped any of the others. All the neighbors agree.” She smiled.
Whitleigh’s cheeks grew hot. Talk about an insert foot in mouth moment. “Thank you.” She bowed her head.
“The kids gobbled them up in minutes. I had to fight for one.” A wave of warmth washed through Whitleigh’s body and dulled the ache in her chest. It was nice to be noticed. Her lips twitched upward.
“You lift our spirits with those cookies.” She smacked at Whitleigh’s shoulders with a hand. “And expand our waistlines.” Mrs. Ryan’s finely manicured nails clicked against the concrete as she giggled. “I’m glad I could squeeze a smile out of you.” She gave a playful nudge.
Whitleigh rubbed her hand across her forehead, grinning. “It feels good to smile.”
“Bit of advice from someone who’s been living this life for a while now.” She put a steady hand on Whitleigh’s knee. “Find reasons to smile and laugh. Keep busy. Make friends.”
Easier said than done. She was trying. Trying hard to do all those things.
The coffee in her mug had grown cold. No bother. She took a sip anyway and leaned into Mrs. Ryan’s hug, willing herself not to cry.
Sirens sounded in the distance, growing closer by the second. She and Mrs. Ryan parted, standing to watch as the first police car sped by and took a squealing sharp turn onto the street behind them. An ambulance followed soon after, and then two more police cars. Blue lights ricocheted in the morning hours. Piercing sirens echoed through the housing area. If anyone were still sleeping in the neighborhood, they would be awake now.
~ ~ ~
THE Military Police arrested a sobbing soldier. Whitleigh reminded herself to blink, clinging to an empty coffee mug. The story on the mid-morning news was horrific. Why had she even turned the television back on? It worsened the day, but her eyes were fixed on the screen, unable to look away. An Army wife dead, neck snapped by her husband who was on leave from Iraq. A tragic accident. Two children left without a mother, their father facing life in prison.
Whitleigh choked back tears. Her throat burned. Through the dining room blinds she could see the crime scene tape stretched across the perimeters of the house behind hers. What was this new life of hers?
She willed her fingers to click the TV off. Except for the low hum of the ceiling fan, the living room was silent. Uncomfortable. Whitleigh sat on the couch, fingers rubbing the corduroy backing of a floral pillow. It was best to keep busy, so why couldn’t she move? Collier couldn’t get home soon enough.
For the most part the inside of the house was tidy. Dusting could be done in a cinch. Her textbooks and leisure reads were stacked neatly in various places around the house. Laundry could be put away in no time. Dishes were done. It wouldn’t take much to run the vacuum. She was sure Collier would want to go out to eat. No need to prep a meal, though she would need to pick up his favorite sugary cereals.
A few cars started in the parking lot. Whitleigh tried not to look out toward the crime scene. Maybe she should go to class. Professors weren’t always forgiving. A quick dab of mascara, and Whitleigh rushed out the door.
~ ~ ~

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