Starved for Love by Cheri Crystal

Author:Cheri Crystal [Crystal, Cheri]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2014-06-14T16:00:00+00:00

Finally, on a treacherous stormy day in February, Frank got word and called me immediately. The telegram said they had found Jane and she was coming home as soon as she was cleared to do so. They didn’t tell us much, something about an accident…being in the wrong place and the wrong time…a bombing…but nothing specific about the nature of her injuries, but they said we could visit her at the VA hospital. I filed for a leave of absence from school and took the very next plane home.

I drove Frank and Phyllis to the hospital. Frank had gotten so frail since Jane left and his eyesight was going. Driving at least gave me a focus other than what I would find at the VA. It was a bitterly cold day, but it didn’t matter, I was totally numb anyway. A uniformed nurse escorted us to a visiting room where we waited along with several other anxious family members, lovers and friends. The wards we passed were filled with wounded and disfigured soldiers to every degree. My heart sank for the families that wept with them.

The rank odor made me gag. I wanted to run so far away and take Jane with me. I hated the thought she had to breathe this horrendous smell of human waste and rotting flesh covered up with Lysol disinfectant spray.

My eyes blurred. The interminable wait for them to bring her to us was excruciating. When my sights finally focused on the only person who could be Jane, fear, disbelief, denial and dread set in. I screeched, “Where is my Jane? That’s not her. It can’t be.” I started to sob even harder, as if there was a tear left in me, taking huge gulps, but lacking air. Frank put his hands around my shoulders as he shook violently too. I don’t know how he managed to hold Phyllis with his free arm or how we remained on our feet.

Tears and snot threatened to choke me, while I sobbed my heart out.

“Let me go!” I screamed. Frank could no longer keep me at bay. I shot out and met Jane’s wheelchair. She was a ghost, a figment of my imagination. Surely this pallid, shrunken woman with hollow eyes was not my tough, robust Jane. I knelt in front of the chair to see for myself. I searched for strength, and being in Jane’s presence afforded me the tools I needed to speak coherently, softly, and calmly await a reply. When none came, I searched her eyes, the blue was clouded now, dull, but not totally lifeless. There seemed to be no glimmer of recognition, none at all. Bile rose in my throat. I vomited all over the tiled floor.

I hardly registered being helped to clean up in the visitor’s restroom. In an emergency, Phyllis was a rock. Jane most obviously got her strength from her. When we got back, Frank was talking to Jane in that way he had, and took no notice that she wasn’t answering.

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