A Soldier's Heart

She’d scolded him once, when the roughhousing had led to a broken lamp and Michael was in tears over her reaction.

“Let it go.” She could almost hear Kenny’s voice, soft and steady. “A broken heart is worth crying about, M.K. Not a broken lamp.”

Now she had the broken heart, too, but she wouldn’t cry. Not in front of the children. Their world had been torn apart by their father’s death. She didn’t want to make them afraid by letting them see fear or grief in her.

She sat down on the rug, pulling them close to her. “Forget about the game. Tell me about school today. How was it?”

She happened to be looking at Shawna’s face when she asked the question, and she saw the quick flicker of hurt in her eyes. She blinked, and it was gone. She stroked the red curls away from her daughter’s heart-shaped face.

“Shawnie? Is anything wrong?”

“Everything’s okay, Mom.”

Michael wiggled, as if he’d say something, but Shawna shot him a look and he stopped.

“Are you sure?” She didn’t want to give her children the third degree, but something had dimmed Shawna’s brightness for a moment.

“I’m sure.” She smiled. “I got a perfect score on my spelling test.”

“That’s great.” She hugged her, storing away the sense of something wrong to think about later. “What did you do at Grammy and Grandpa’s?”

“We had a snack,” Michael said. “And then we played outside, and Grandpa played ball with us for a while and then we practiced riding our bikes.”

“Did you stay right where Grandpa told you to?”

“Yes, Mommy.” That was accompanied by a huge sigh. “We always do.”

Ridiculous, to worry about them when they were in Mom and Dad’s care. And that neighborhood was certainly safe enough—still the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else and looked out for them. Even so, she couldn’t seem to stop.

Don’t worry. Pray. Mom had a small plaque with those words hanging in her bedroom. With six kids to raise, she’d probably done plenty of both.

“Well, shall we read a couple of chapters in our book?” They’d been working their way through some of the children’s classics, and even Shawna, already reading well, seemed to enjoy being read to.

“Not now, Mommy. Now we want to hear about the soldier.” Michael snuggled against her.

“Soldier?” she repeated blankly. “Do we have a book about a soldier?”

“Lieutenant Marino,” Shawna corrected. “We want to hear about him. Did you know that he’s on our bulletin board at school? And that he got medals?”

She should have realized. The children’s elementary school had taken on a project of supporting local people who were serving in the military. Naturally Luke would be included.

Her heart clutched as she thought about Luke now, in a wheelchair. How did you tell children about the terrible cost of war?

“He wrote a letter to me,” Michael said.

“He did not!” Shawna, who’d been leaning against Mary Kate, shot upright. “That’s a big fib.”

“It is not. He did write to me. He wrote a letter and it said ‘To Ms. Sumter’s boys and girls.’ And I’m one of Ms. Sumter’s boys, so he wrote to me.” His face was very red.

“Of course,” she soothed. “He meant his letter for each one of you.”

“Well, I don’t think—” Shawna began, but subsided at a glance from her mother. “We want to know about him. Is he very hurt?”

She’d always tried to tell them the truth, even when she had to simplify it for them. “He was hurt when a bomb went off near where he was working. It hurt his legs badly.”

“Did they have to cut them off?” Michael asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

She squeezed him, wondering where some of his ideas came from. “No, they didn’t, but his legs don’t work very well yet. That’s why I have to help him, to teach his legs how to work again.”

“But what if they don’t get better?” His little face puckered up.

“They will.” She said it with all the sureness she could muster. If I can help it, they will.

Maybe it was time for a distraction. She tickled Michael’s chin, and he giggled. “You didn’t tell me what you did in school today.”

He shrugged, turning away, the laughter vanishing. “We worked on the model town today, that’s all.”

“I see.”

She saw only too well. The model of the city of Suffolk was a tradition for the first-grade classes and the children worked on it all year. When Shawna had been in first grade, Kenny had helped her make a model car for the display. Michael had been so excited about it that Kenny had started one with him. Shortly after that, Kenny was diagnosed.

Two months later he’d been gone. How could it happen that fast? Somehow one always thought of cancer as a long, slow battle. Not this time. They’d never finished the car.

She hugged him. “Listen, would you like me to help you make something for the display?” Her carpentry talents were limited, but maybe she could get a kit.

“No, thank you, Mommy.” His politeness was heartbreaking. “Do you think we could go with you someday and meet the soldier?”

“I’m afraid not, honey. He’s been sick and he doesn’t want any company.”

“Maybe when he’s better,” he said.

“Maybe.” She could just imagine Luke’s reaction if she turned up one day with her children in tow.

Still, seeing someone besides her might be a good idea. Not the children—that was too chancy. But if the idea that was flickering at the back of her mind worked out, maybe she could push Luke into seeing a couple of his old friends, whether he thought he wanted to or not.

Chapter Three

Luke shoved the pillow out of the way and levered himself onto his elbows to look at the bedside clock. Nearly nine. He had to get up. Today the exercise equipment was arriving, along with Mary Kate and some helpers to move the dining-room furniture. It would be the busiest time this place had seen since he’d come home, thanks to Mary Kate’s persistence.

Of course, he could try hiding in his bedroom until they’d been and gone. Let M.K. take care of all of it. But if he did, it would be like her to barge into his bedroom and find him in his pajamas, unshaven. He hadn’t let her catch him looking that bad since the first day. He had a little pride, after all. He’d get up.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, helping them with his hands, and pulled the wheelchair closer. Mary Kate probably wouldn’t be fazed at all by finding him in bed. After all, her specialty had always been helping every lame duck who crossed her path.

And now he was the lame duck, wasn’t he? Gritting his teeth, he maneuvered the switch from bed to chair, faintly surprised that it seemed a little easier than it had a few days ago.

That warm, nurturing spirit of Mary Kate’s had probably been come by naturally. From what he remembered, her mother was exactly the same. And Mary Kate, the oldest of the Flanagan brood, had mothered the rest of them unmercifully.

His mind drifted through those growing-up years as he got ready to face the day. He’d been buddies with Gabe, a year younger than he and Mary Kate, and to some extent with the next younger brother, Seth. Sports had done it. The three of them had been involved in every athletic activity Suffolk High offered.