Finally Home Read online

  Finally Home

  Deborah Raney

  Contents

  Finally Home

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About the Author

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  Finally Home

  © 2016 Deborah Raney

  Finally Home

  (Originally published in Missouri Memories, this novella has been expanded and updated from the original edition.)

  © Copyright 2016 Deborah Raney.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted to any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission from Raney Day Press.

  Scriptures used from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters are fictional and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published by Raney Day Press. Cover and interior design by Ken Raney.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Created with Vellum

  But those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

  ~Isaiah 40:31 NIV

  To Calvin William Layton,

  who promises to be one of my favorite

  Missouri memories.

  With so much love,

  Mimi

  Chapter 1

  June 1972

  The acrid scent of burnt toast registered with Brian Lowe’s nose a split second before he entered the kitchen. Through a haze of smoke, he propelled his wheelchair across the kitchen tile as if the handrims were oars and his chair a heavy boat. He reached across the granite countertop and grabbed the toaster’s electric cord, yanking the plug from the wall.

  Flames shot from the toaster and he wheeled his chair backward a few feet. But the smoke stung his throat and made his eyes water. He’d only been home six days since his dismissal from Walter Reed General and this was the third time he’d made a burnt offering of breakfast. He was going to burn down his parents’ house if he wasn’t careful. He hoisted himself up in the seat of his wheelchair and gingerly pulled a blackened slice from the toaster. But it was still hot and he dropped it on the counter. The toast disintegrated, sending charred crumbs skittering across the tile.

  Wheeling to the pantry to retrieve a broom and dustpan, the tires of his chair crunched the crumbs to dust. Working his way backwards toward the counter where the toaster sat, he lifted his mangled leg out of the way and flipped the footrest up, leaving a path for the broom to follow. He set the brake and bent at the waist, leaning to sweep up what he could reach.

  He put the dustpan in his lap and rolled his chair backward another foot. But when he set the brake, the pan slid off his lap, spilling half the contents onto his last clean pair of sweatpants, and the rest onto the floor. He seized the dustpan by the handle and slammed it onto the tile, biting back a curse. He needed three hands.

  No, he just needed his legs to work right.

  By the time he’d cleaned up the worst of the mess, he was drenched in sweat and fuming with frustration. Mrs. Bennett would have the kitchen spotless again when she came to clean Friday, but that wasn’t the point.

  He was worthless. A wave of nausea washed over him and he wondered for the thousandth time if God could ever use this broken body, the broken pieces of his life.

  Rocking his chair back and forth, he picked up his heavy leg with his hands and gave his best effort to kick the cabinet in front of him. He only succeeded in making pain shoot up his right leg from his knee. But pain was good. At least he felt something.

  The doorbell started its protracted chime and he blew out another breath of frustration. He glanced at the schoolhouse clock hanging over the sink. Twenty till ten. The doorbell chimed again. If it was that physical therapist his mother had arranged for, she was plenty early.

  He maneuvered the chair around the kitchen island and out to the entry hall. Rolling across the gold-shot marble tile, his mind scrambled to come up with an excuse to get rid of the woman as quickly as possible. Determination alone would get him out of this despised chair. A week of Army boot camp had instilled that truth in him. He didn’t need anybody standing over him, telling him how to do it.

  Since he’d come home from the hospital, he’d developed a workout on his own, lifting weights and doing as much of his boot camp routine as his body could tolerate. Because his upper body had been forced to do the work of his legs all these months, from the waist up he was solid, maybe in the best shape he’d ever been. But that didn’t get him on his feet.

  He slung open the front door to find a pretty brunette standing out at the edge of the porch steps, gawking up at the house. It was a familiar reaction—one the house always got from anyone who hadn’t been up here before. The house was impressive from the highway, but up close, it was downright imposing.

  He cleared his throat loudly.

  She whirled and almost tripped on the wide bell-bottoms of her blue jeans. “Oh! Hi… You must be Brian.” She tossed her head, and a veil of long, shiny hair settled behind her shoulders. “This is quite the place you’ve got here.” She looked east to the wide snake of the Mississippi River in the distance. “What a view!”

  When he didn’t respond, she stepped forward and held out a hand. “I’m Kathy. With Health Strategies.”

  She was not what he’d pictured when his mother informed him—via long distance from Cartagena, Colombia yesterday—that a physical therapist would be coming to the house to work with him this morning. Someone named Kathryn Nowlin.

  His vantage point from the chair made it hard not to stare at her slim figure and the embroidered peasant blouse that showed off smooth, tanned shoulders. He moved his gaze quickly to her face. Her smile revealed straight white teeth, and lit a playful glimmer in her amber eyes. Okay. Maybe he could use some help with his exercises after all.

  He wheeled his chair into reverse, holding the door open for her with his right hand. “Come on in.”

  She hoisted the duffel bag at her feet and slung it over one shoulder. She stepped through the door, and her jaw sagged. “Wow!”

  Brian followed her gaze to the wide stairway. She rocked back on the platform soles of her sandals, then pivoted three-sixty, taking in the view of the entry hall from bottom to top and back again. “Far out! What an amazing place. Did you grow up here?”

  “Supposedly.”

  Cocking her head, she gave him a look that said she thought he might need a different kind of therapist.

  “It was a joke. As in I never really grew up… You know, like I’m still a kid at heart?”

  The bewildered expression on her face told him she still wasn’t tracking.

  Did he have to draw the chick a picture? “Never mind,” he muttered, glancing around. “And yes, I grew up here. I guess I sort of take it for granted.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t. This place is incredible.” She ran a hand over the polished wood on the banister. “I’d kill to live
here.”

  Now it was his turn to give her that are-you-some-kind-of-psycho? look.

  She smiled. “It was a joke.” She mimicked his dry tone. “Don’t worry… I didn’t mean it literally. You’re safe with me.”

  “Whew”—he gave an exaggerated swipe of his brow—“that’s a relief. Now that we have that settled…what do you need from me?”

  “Oh…” She shook her head as if she’d completely forgotten why she was here. She slid a clipboard from her bag and pulled a pen from under the clip. “Before I do the actual physical evaluation, I need to ask you a few questions about your medical history.”

  He blew out a heavy sigh.

  “I know, I know.” Her smile held an apology. “You’ve probably answered these same questions a million times since you were injured.”

  “A million and a half.”

  Her laughter made him wish he were a comedian and she his audience. Well, the least he could do was humor her while she went down the list of medical questions.

  “I’ll need to do a physical evaluation, too—so we can figure out where you are…”

  He looked pointedly around the entry. “I know where I am.”

  A wry smile touched her lips. “Ha ha. Your chart didn’t mention that you were a comedian.”

  Aha! Success. “Did it mention anything about me being brilliant, dashingly handsome, and filthy rich?”

  Her laughter was musical. “Um…I guess I haven’t gotten that far yet.” Her expression turned serious and she panned the large entry hall. “Where would be a good place for us to work?”

  “We can use the parl— This room over here.” He’d almost called it the parlor. That was what his mother always called the rarely used formal living room. Until now.

  He’d come home from the hospital to find that all his bedroom furniture had been moved down to the study, and in the parlor next door, his father had pulled up the practically new shag carpets and laid tile. They’d stored the fancy antiques on the third floor and set up a weight bench, treadmill and parallel bars in their place. Brian had a ways to go before he’d be ready to use anything but the weight bench, but merely seeing the equipment in there each day inspired him to do a few more repetitions, lift a little more weight.

  Just yesterday a plumber had come to install a whirlpool limb tub like the rehab center had used. Even from halfway around the world, Jerry Lowe was determined his son would walk again.

  If money could buy a miracle, he was home free.

  The girl—he still had trouble thinking of her as a professional physical therapist—stepped out of her clunky sandals beside the front door and padded barefoot to where his chair was parked.

  “Okay,” she said, “lead the way.” Her braid-trimmed jeans dusted the hardwood floor in her wake. Maybe Mrs. Bennett wouldn’t have to clean on Friday after all.

  He wheeled over to the double doors, leaning to push them open before she could do it for him. Strains of Don McLean’s “American Pie” came from the radio in the corner. He’d forgotten to turn it off after his workout early this morning. He held the door open. “After you.”

  “Thanks.” She looked down at his chair. “You get around pretty well in that thing.”

  He shook his head. His father had wanted to buy him an expensive motorized chair. But Brian hadn’t allowed it. He didn’t plan to be chair-bound for long. And he’d never get his strength back if he all he had to do was push a button to get around.

  As if she’d read his mind she asked, “Have you thought about getting a motorized chariot? One of those scooters they make now?”

  He shook his head and opened his mouth to explain, but she saved him from it.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “You’re probably better off with this. Looks like you’ve got it mastered, too.”

  He wished everybody would treat him in the same straightforward manner she did. Since he’d been home, the people who’d come to visit tried to pretend his wheelchair wasn’t there. Instead, it ended up being the elephant in the room, with everybody scared to death they’d slip up and mention its floppy gray ears or its muddy toenails.

  He tipped his head back to look at her. “I’ve had lots of practice. I’ve been living in a hospital for a while. I aced door-opening 101 at the rehab center.”

  She smiled. “So I see.” She walked through the doorway and looked around the parlor. Her face lit up when she spotted the equipment. “Wow! This is outta sight. Good grief…you’ve got a better set-up here than the rehab clinic where I did my internship.”

  She plopped down cross-legged on the end of a thick exercise mat. Her auburn hair hung in a curtain over half of her face, everything about her demeanor erasing the image he’d had when his mother referred to Kathryn Nowlin, PT.

  For the next few minutes, she rattled off a list of questions that he answered with one-word replies. While she carefully copied down his responses on the forms she’d brought with her, he did his best not to stare. No small feat.

  Finally, she put the clipboard away and hopped to her feet. “Okay. Let’s see what you’ve got.” She knelt beside his chair and looked at the flip-flop sandals on his feet. “Can you slide those off for me? And…let’s see, the biggest concern is your left knee, right?” She giggled. “I mean, correct?”

  “Right.” He winked. “Left.”

  Her mouth twisted to match his grin. “Will those pant legs slide up over your knee?”

  He demonstrated, tugging the stretchy sweat pants up past his knee. “That good enough?”

  “Perfect.” She was all business as she knelt closer, but he watched her face, waiting for the telltale revulsion he knew he’d see when she saw the extent of his injuries.

  He didn’t remember much from that day on the Mekong River—and what remained in his memory he’d worked hard to forget. The roadside bomb, pain searing through his left leg, his kneecap giving way… He shuddered. Muscle, ligaments, tendons, and arteries had been severed, leaving his kneecap hanging somewhere in the vicinity of his shin.

  He was one of the lucky ones. He’d spent only ten days in a tented field hospital before being airlifted out. That had probably saved him from losing his leg to infection. His other knee had fared only slightly better. But it healed more quickly and now offered his best hope of getting back on his feet.

  But if Kathryn Nowlin was grossed out, her expression didn’t give her away. She put one hand under his knee and knelt beside his chair. “I want to do some strength tests so I can get an idea of where you are. I’m going to have you push against me as hard as you can, okay?”

  For the next few minutes, she arranged his limbs—both arms and legs—in various positions, having him push against her as hard as he could. He gave her everything he had, short of pushing her to the floor—which he could have with either arm. By the time she was finished, he felt like he’d done a second workout for the day.

  “You’re in good shape,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Yeah, well, you can thank my old man for that.” He looked pointedly at the roomful of equipment.

  “You’re very blessed to have all this.” She encompassed the room with a sweep of her hand. “Your parents must love you very much.”

  “Yeah…I guess so,” he muttered.

  If she only knew the truth.

  Chapter 2

  Kathy shifted the splintered picket to her left hand and hefted the poster into the air. “Make love not war! Make love not war!” She chanted in unison with the other tie-dye clad protesters as they plodded single-file in front of the Marion County Courthouse.

  A cool rain spit on them and the spring air still seemed to hold reminders of the bleak winter barely behind them. She wanted nothing more right now than to be home in the warm bed in her loft apartment overlooking Broadway. But this was important.

  The two dozen or so protesters started another chant. Kathy cringed at the profanity in the new slogan. She wished they wouldn’t use the ugly words. She couldn’t bring herself ev
en to mouth the curses. But she understood why her friends did. People in this town, this nation, were dying of apathy as fast as the innocents in Vietnam. Somebody…something had to get their attention.

  She took a sip of cold coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The bitter liquid slid down her throat, raw from hours of yelling. Sometimes she wondered if all their efforts did any good at all. This war had raged on for more years than she could remember.

  Every day it seemed new names were added to the list of the fallen—both the innocents and the soldiers, many of them drafted against their will. The cold metal of the POW bracelet on her wrist served as a bleak reminder.

  She shifted her coffee to her left hand and twisted the bracelet, tracing the letters engraved in the nickel plating. Lord, be with John. Give him strength, and let him feel your presence. She’d come to feel she knew the stranger whose name she’d worn on her arm for over two years now.

  “Murderers! Get out of Vietnam now!” She raised her voice louder as two businessmen approached the building, skirting the center of the wide steps that led to the courthouse. They walked with eyes downcast, trying to pretend they didn’t see the protesters. Without discussion, the group shifted like an amoeba in their direction.

  The men disappeared into the fortress of the courthouse, and the group resumed a quieter march. Kathy checked her watch. She had another appointment with Brian Lowe later this morning. They’d gotten off to a good start. He didn’t seem bitter like so many of the men who came back from the war in wheelchairs, missing limbs, having lost wives or girlfriends to other men, sometimes having lost the ability to ever father a child. She shuddered. The horrors of this war were sickening.

  Men like Brian were one of the reasons she gave her time to the cause of peace. Of course, Brian was one of the lucky ones. He came from a family who had the money to pay for the best care. She’d recognized his determination in the set of that square jaw. And though his injuries had disfigured him for life, he at least had hope he might someday walk again, live a normal life.