Chapter Four

One year later found Sarah Genard printing out her assignment to take with her to her next class. Sarah glanced at her watch and grimaced.

Get a move on or you’re gonna be late, she chided herself.

She hurriedly stuffed her homework, laptop and notebooks into her backpack and headed out the door for her Advanced Accounting class.

As she walked, she felt grateful. Taking accelerated courses in her hometown’s high school had earned her college credits as well, and as a result her time spent on UTA’s campus began with Sarah having already met the core requirements. Now she had enough credits to reach junior status and was taking as many classes a semester as possible and working part-time at the campus bookstore.

Her goal was to finish her bachelors’ degree in three years instead of the usual four, and the college fund Peggy Mitchell had set up for her only grandchild enabled Sarah to focus on school and not worry about how to pay for her education.

The other blessing had been meeting Jodie. The little old woman had taken Sarah under her wing, and for Sarah it was almost like having her Grandma Peggy back again, so she made it a point to spend some time with Jodie every day.

And thanks to their arrangement, Sarah had been able to use the money she had saved up from her summer jobs during and after high school for other things than paying rent.

Win-win all around, especially since when I got here I had pretty much nothing, and I didn’t know a soul.

The only thing that had not changed in the past twelve months was the heartache. She missed Tim down to her core.

Sarah had no idea how to reach him on deployment, so she’d been sending letter after letter to him by way of his parents’ house, knowing they would forward them to Tim. Since her letters had not been returned, Sarah assumed they were being delivered successfully. But to date she had never received a reply.

I wonder if he’s even reading them…

She shook her head vehemently to get her mind off that track and quickened her pace.

Focus. Now isn’t the time to wallow, Sarah.

***

Paige Fresco walked out to her mailbox at the end of the driveway, waving at Edna Laney, her next-door neighbor, along the way. She opened the metal box and withdrew the day’s mail, frowning when she saw yet another letter addressed to Tim from Sarah Genard.

Her brow furrowed, she quickly walked back into her house and headed straight for the little office Patrick had set up for her in the third bedroom.

She bowed her head and silently asked the universe for forgiveness, then set her jaw and fed Sarah’s latest attempt to contact her son into the shredder - just as she had all the others that had arrived at her home.

I’m doing the right thing, she told herself. Sarah Genard has hurt my boy enough. No more.

I’m doing the right thing.

***

Her class over, Sarah gathered up her things and stepped back out into the warm sunshine to make the short walk back to her apartment. As she wandered down the sidewalk, she stopped suddenly, palms sweaty. A man just ahead and to the left of her was talking with some other students.

It can’t be him, Sarah’s mind raced. It can’t be.

But from her vantage point the partial profile of his face sure looked like Tim’s, and her heart leapt at the thought despite her best efforts to reel it in.

“Move quickly,” she muttered under her breath, and resumed her course at a brisk pace. Just as she had drawn alongside the small group, the man glanced over at her and smiled.

It’s not Tim, she realized, and forced herself to smile politely back when she felt like crying. She ducked her head and hurried back to her apartment to fall apart in private.

Before long, she heard Jodie knocking softly. She stood, wiping her eyes, and went to let her in.

“Oh, honey, what’s wrong?” Jodie asked.

“Just… not a good day,” Sarah sniffled.

“I bet I have something that will cheer you up,” Jodie replied with a twinkle in her eye. “Freshly baked brownies. What do you say?”

Five minutes later Sarah was seated at Jodie’s kitchen table with brownies and milk, unburdening her soul to the kind old woman.

“So, I ran,” Sarah finished. “But I miss him so much, Jodie. He is on my mind all the time. I know now I made a huge mistake by leaving without talking to him at all.”

“Reach out to him, then,” Jodie urged, and Sarah sadly shook her head.

“I tried. I’ve sent so many letters, but he hasn’t responded to a single one. Too much time has gone by, I guess,” she whispered as two more gigantic tears rolled down her cheeks.

“It’s too late, Jodie. I’ve lost him.”

***

That evening Tim Fresco pulled into his parents’ driveway, put the truck in park, and sat staring at the house he had grown up in.

Funny how it looks so much smaller now, he found himself thinking as he looked back over the past year. Funny how much bigger the world got.

Just over eight months into their tour, Tim’s platoon had been on routine route clearance patrol and had been ambushed, taking heavy fire. He vaguely remembered shouting as the first wave of chaos unfolded all around them, then seeing Dack collapse to his left.

But as he lunged toward his best friend to check Dack’s injuries, an enemy soldier’s round pierced his left shin, shattering Tim’s lower leg and sending him writhing in pain to the ground. The next thing Tim remembered was hearing someone call for a nine-line medivac as they tied a tourniquet just above the knee, then being airlifted out of the hot zone and back to Kandahar Airfield.

It wasn’t until he reached Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany that Tim learned Dack and four more of his teammates had been killed, and another seven severely wounded. The nurse on duty had held his hand and cried with him as he grieved the loss of his brothers.

Three surgeries had followed, and he was forever grateful that the skilled Army doctors working on him had been able to save his leg.

Fifteen weeks after being wounded, he was shipped back to the States, his lower limb held together with plates and pins.

Next on his horizon was intense physical therapy at Fort Sam Houston’s medical facilities while he awaited word about whether he would be medically discharged or returned to active service. By mid-day on day one, Tim had been registered and settled in at the inpatient facility on base.

“Get some rest,” his therapist, Mark, had told him. “We’re gonna get started first thing in the morning.”

And Mark hadn’t been joking. Almost immediately, Tim found himself wading through exercises that were exhausting.

“Come on, Tim, give me just two more if you can.”

Having been fitted with a walking boot that reached all the way up to his knee, Tim at last was allowed to try and use the lower leg that had been so badly damaged months before.

With sweat already dripping and his face tense with concentration, he’d taken another step forward with his right foot, temporarily placing all his weight on his left leg, then quickly shifted it back to his right as he took the final step requested.

“Not bad!” Mark had said with a grin. “Look behind you.”

Tim glanced over his shoulder, leaning on the bars on either side of him for support.

“About a fourth of the way,” he panted.

“Which is better than I thought you’d do on the very first day. But we don’t want to push too hard, either, or we’ll cause more damage, and it will take longer to heal. Understood?”

Tim nodded, reached for the towel Mark offered, and mopped his face.

“You don’t realize how much you take simple things like walking for granted until you can’t do them,” he’d observed.

Mark’s grin widened.

“I know, right? Gives you a whole new appreciation. Now, let’s move over to the stationary bike and get a baseline of where you’re starting from on strength and leverage.”

“Busy first day,” Mark had observed when his session with Tim was over. “You did great. I think if we can keep this pace without causing further injury, you can be out of here within three months and get back up to eighty-five percent of the use of that leg. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” Tim replied with a smile. “I’m ready to get back to normal, that’s for sure.”

“I like hearing that. Just make sure you’re honest with me - and yourself - about your limits. We won’t get there overnight, Tim.”

“I know that. But I’ll put in as many hours as it takes.”

“I figured as much. Just, no more today, all right? Back on your crutches until morning.”

“You’re the boss.”

Eighty-two days later, just before he completed his physical therapy regimen, Tim Fresco received official word that he was being medically discharged from the U.S. Army. For the second time, the future he’d envisioned for himself had taken an unexpected turn.