Chapter 10 - The Mother's Awakening
|
Inside the Callahan residence, the silence was suffocating, broken only by the sound of a broom sweeping across the cold concrete floor of the garage.
My mother had been out there since dawn, scrubbing at the stains near the aluminum cot with a sponge and a bucket of bleach water.
Her knees ached against the hard floor, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony tearing through her conscience.
Every time she looked at the bubble-wrapped boxes labeled CAITLYN - TABLE DECOR, she felt a wave of nausea rise in her throat.
How had they allowed this to happen?
How had they convinced themselves that their eldest daughter was an embarrassment who deserved to be treated like an unwanted trespasser?
As my mother reached under the edge of the cot to pull away an old cardboard box, her fingers brushed against a thick manila envelope tucked behind the water heater.
It had fallen from my duffel bag during the hasty departure the night before.
My mother pulled the envelope onto her lap, her hands shaking as she untied the red string holding the flap closed.
Inside were several folded documents and a small, worn leather pouch.
She opened the pouch first, and three heavy medals spilled into her trembling palm.
The Silver Star.
The Navy Cross.
And two Purple Hearts, their purple ribbons faded from sweat and sun exposure.
My mother gasped, dropping the medals onto her lap as if they were made of burning coals.
Beneath the medals lay a sheaf of medical discharge summaries from Walter Reed National Military Medical Center.
She began to read, her eyes flying across the cold medical terminology that described her daughter's broken body.
Blast-induced concussion with temporary loss of vision.
Compound fracture of the left humerus secondary to shrapnel penetration.
Third-degree burns to the lower torso, treated with autologous skin grafts.
Psychological evaluation: Patient exhibits exceptional resilience, clearance granted for immediate return to operational theater.
The dates on the medical reports lined up precisely with the years my parents had hosted their grand summer barbecues.
While my father had stood at the grill boasting about Caitlyn's high scores on her navigation exams, our other daughter was lying in a military burn unit with tubes running into her arms.
At the very bottom of the envelope was a small, plastic-sleeved photograph.
It was an old family snapshot taken on the front porch when Marcus was ten, Caitlyn was eight, and I was twelve.
The edges of the plastic were scorched and stained with dark brown dirt that looked horrifyingly like dried blood.
My mother turned the photo over with trembling fingers.
Written on the back in my neat, familiar handwriting were five words: Keep them safe. Come home.
My mother pressed the stained photograph against her chest and let out a broken, wailing scream that brought my father running from the kitchen.
May you like
"Look at what we did, Thomas!" she screamed at him as he entered the garage, holding up the bloody photograph and the purple medals.
"Look at what we did to our baby!" she wept, collapsing onto the concrete floor in a heap of shattered pride.
