The Top Gun's Return

look like you remember?'

Remember? But what if I don't even know what I remember? The quivering inside Sammi June wanted to jump right out of her stomach and into every part of her, and she fought with everything she had to make her voice firm and strong. 'He…looks really good. Thin, though, like you said. You looked good, too, Mom,' she added as a guilty afterthought. The truth was, she hadn't been able to tear her eyes away from her dad, standing stoop-shouldered and gaunt behind her mother, like an emaciated shadow. 'Kinda tired, but…'

'Yeah, it had been kind of a long day.' Sammi June heard a whisper of sound she thought must be laughter. 'It's been a whole bunch of long days…actually.'

'Mom?' She held herself still, listening intently. 'Is everything okay? I mean…really.'

And she heard that fortifying breath again. 'Oh, hon', everything's just fine. I'm ready to come home, is all. I think we both are. Which is actually why I wanted to call you. I think they're plannin' on lettin' your daddy go day after tomorrow, so we'll be leavin' here as soon after that as we can.'

Sammi June stared at her finger, making random patterns on the bedspread. She wasn't disappointed in her mother's evasion, not really. She'd expected the lie. 'Does that mean you're finally coming home?'

'Well…we have to stop off in Washington, D.C., for a couple of days first. They want him to have some more tests and exams at Bethesda before they release him. But what I'd like for you to do is come and meet us there-can you do that?'

Rocking and hugging herself again, Sammi June stared at the floor as reawakened butterflies danced in her stomach. 'Can't I just wait for you guys here?' Aware of how whiney that might sound, she hurriedly added, 'Everyone's coming here to see Dad. Grampa Max is coming up from Florida, and Gramma told him he could stay here. I don't think it's right I should leave her with all the company, do you?'

'Well, hon',' her mother said, laughing because she knew how much Sammi June did not normally enjoy helping out around the house, 'that's sweet of you to want to be there for your gramma, and all, but you're gonna have to make the sacrifice. Your daddy tells me we've been invited to the White House.'

Her mother's voice had a lilting brightness that made Sammi June think of the times when she'd come home from the NICU after an especially bad day, and she'd have stopped off at the store to pick up ice cream or a cold watermelon, and she'd march into the kitchen with a big determined smile on her face and a light in her eyes. Like a woman on a mission, Sammi June always thought. Happiness or bust.

'No kidding, the White House? Honest to God?'

'Honest to God.'

Was she crazy, Sammi June wondered, or did her mother's laughter have an almost desperate sound?

* * *

After the usual exchange of 'Take care now' and 'Love you,' Jessie disconnected the phone, then sat and held it and stared at nothing, lacking even the energy to return it to its niche on the bathroom wall. She felt limp, dispirited and utterly drained, a condition she'd been in a lot, lately, alternately with an equally unhappy state of tension, uncertainty and fear.

The White House. The president. CNN. The Today Show, Good Morning, America! Most likely 60 Minutes and God knows how many reporters. Sammi June and Max and Momma and all the rest of the family, not to mention friends…the world…life…They're all out there, waiting for us.

Huddled on the toilet seat, Jessie hugged herself and shivered. The hotel bathroom was a cocoon of soft gray, illuminated by the single red-gold eye of a night-light. The bedroom beyond seemed a quiet den, isolated… protected. Safe. But out there, the world waited. The question was, Was Tristan even remotely ready? Would he be strong enough to face it? Will I?

Right now she didn't feel remotely ready, either, and she definitely didn't feel strong. In fact, when she stood up and went to hang the phone back on its cradle, she found that her legs were still wobbly. Her pulse shied and danced when she thought of what had just happened…of Tristan…their lovemaking. And from out of nowhere a sob crept up and caught her by surprise. Gripping the edge of the sink, she leaned on her hands and pressed her lips together and closed her eyes tightly to hold back the tears. But they came, anyway, great rivers of them.

Why am I doing this? she thought. Why? I don't want to do this! I don't mean to…

What were they all about, the tears-joy? There was some of that, certainly-and relief, too, at discovering that her husband was capable of healthy male appetites and obviously functioning normally, after all he'd been through. But there was sorrow and loneliness, and-oh, who in the world knew? Just emotions letting go, she supposed, too many emotions all mixed up together. And right now maybe it wasn't all that important that she sort them out. Just that she let them go.

The tears dried up as quickly as they'd come, and she washed her face one more time and slipped quietly out of the bathroom. She left the door open for the light, and in that gentle illumination she could see that Tristan was still in bed, at least, sprawled on his stomach and sleeping soundly, like a child. He was snoring softly, too, though he'd never been a snorer before. Probably something to do with his altered nose, she thought. As she stood gazing down at him she felt tears threaten again-not a great gush this time, but an itchy tingle, like a sneeze coming on. She reached out her hand to finger back a dark comma of hair that had fallen across his forehead, and only just remembered and stopped herself in time. Promise you won't touch me…promise me…

Drawing in a great breath to ease the ache in her throat, she released it in a shaky, whimpering laugh. Then she tiptoed around to the other side of the bed, and as silently, as carefully as she knew how, slipped between the tumbled sheets. Beside her Tristan slept on, peaceful and untroubled. And after a while sheer exhaustion allowed Jessie to do the same.

* * *

Tristan drifted, floating on his back in warm saltwater, rocked by the rhythm of placid waves. The water caressed, nurtured and supported him; unneeded, his mind drifted away to play with frivolous things…clouds… appleblossoms…seagulls. Mindless and completely relaxed, he didn't notice, at first, that the water had become viscous…oily and dark. Or that instead of caressing and nurturing him, now it coated his skin with a smothering thickness, like tar. When he did realize and began to fight it, it was too late. He struggled against the sticky weight that threatened to drag him under, and it seemed to separate into ribbons that wrapped themselves around his arms and legs like tentacles. Gasping and grunting with revulsion, he tore at the ribbons, but the more he ripped them away, the more entangled he became. In full panic, sure he was going to be strangled or drowned, he struck out-and hit something solid.

And his truant mind, returning in the nick of time, informed him there couldn't possibly be anything solid where he was, and therefore it was quite possible he was dreaming. With that enlightenment he ceased thrashing about, and the darkness grew grainy and transparent, and the tentacles thinned and became ribbons…then softened and blurred into sheets and blankets. It came to him finally that he was in a bed-in a hotel room, he remembered now. With his wife. With Jessie.

Freed of the tangle of bedding and with cool air drying the sweat on his skin, he wanted to bask for a while in the miracle of that-of waking up in a soft bed, in a world where no one wanted to hurt him, and his wife- Jessie!-lying warm and sleepy at his side. But his mind was back on active duty now, and it nagged at him insistently with the memory that a short while back his hand had struck out and hit something. Something solid. And warm. And alive.

He opened his eyes and heard 'Good morning,' spoken in a husky murmur that made him think of the musical hum of a sultry summer day.

Turning his head, he saw Jess's face in its pillow nest, wreathed in tousled honey gold. Her eyes peered back at him, wide and luminous and unblinking, and there was a distinct red mark on the cheek nearest to him. He sighed and brushed it-somewhat clumsily-with the back of his index finger. 'I thought so. God, Jess-I'm sorry.'

'It's okay. You didn't hit me very hard.' A frown of concern hovered between her eyebrows as she studied him