Page 47 of Mended Hearts

An older gentleman next to me picks up the two pieces that rest at his feet while I gather the actual phone part and my bag and quickly stand back up before I topple over.

“Here you go, son,” he says politely, handing me the battery and back piece to my phone.

I try to reach for them, to take them from his offering hand, but my one good hand can’t hold them all, and out of instinct I turn my arm that’s in the sling, forgetting there isn’t a hand there. He notices, and a pained expression quickly crosses his face, but it’s gone before I can let it bother me.

“I know you’re more than capable,” he says, but I hear a bit of uncertainty in his voice. “But would you like me to put it back together for you real quick?”

I debate the idea momentarily, but my pride kicks in. “I got it. But thanks.” I nod, and he nods back in understanding. Imaneuver my hand, lift up the flap of my coat pocket, and drop the part I have in before holding out my hand for the parts he’s still holding. He hands them over and I drop them in with the rest, giving him a curt smile before turning to walk away. I need to find somewhere to sit before this frustration I’m feeling becomes evident. I’m no longer in a war zone. I’m in an airport, and I have to keep my emotions in check. Once I sit, I can readjust my bag situation and fix my phone as I wait.

I make my way to the most secluded spot I can find and throw my bag down before falling into a chair. I push myself as far back as possible, letting my head drop back. I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes tightly shut, pushing away the liquid I’m unfamiliar with.

I will not cry.

This is nothing to cry about. I need to get myself in check. I’m just having a bad start. That’s all. I rub my hand over my face and sit up with determination. Leaning to the side, I pull my phone out of my pocket, piece by piece. I can do this. No big deal. It’s only a hand. Sure, it’s an adjustment, but it could be far worse.

I carefully sit each piece on my leg. I grip my phone and, using my thumb, I pry it open. I place it open side down on my thigh and carefully reach over, grabbing the battery. Before placing it in, I inspect it, making sure I put it in correctly. I angle the battery into one side slowly, drop it down, and use the tip of my thumb to push it all the way in.

Like a glove!

Sweet!One piece down. One more to go. I got this. I lower the back evenly over the battery. Holding it in place with my thumb, I grab my phone, careful not to drop it. All I have to do now is slide the back into place. I feel the excitement of being able to accomplish something so simple. Something I took for granted before.

Almost got it back together. So close.

“Oh, Dustin!” The screech from my mother causes my focus to break and I drop my phone…again.FML!

Chapter Thirty-Three

DUSTIN

Having Dax show up with our parents is the only saving grace this experience has to offer. I love my mother, but I have no doubt if I were in this back seat alone, I would’ve already opened the door and let myself fall out of this moving car. I know she’s excited to see me and trying to hide the sadness and pity she’s feeling, but I’d almost welcome the sadness and pity over her naming off all the things I should partake in back home.

I want to ask her if she missed the memo…that I’m missing a hand. And then remember I never told her or anyone the extent of my injuries. With the sling on, it’s not obvious I’m missing my hand.

“Ma.” I try to interrupt the convo she seems to be having with herself. “Ma,” I say again, a little bit louder. “MA!” I yell as my dad slams on the brakes in traffic, causing us all to plummet forward in our seats. Thank God for seat belts or Dax and I would’ve face-planted the headrests.

My dad apologizes and my mom finally looks back. “Yes, honey?”

I sigh and throw my hand through my hair, dreading the inevitable pity I’m about to receive—from all parties in the car. “I know you’re trying to help.”

She nods, saying, “Yes.”

“But you’re not.”

Her face falls at my bluntness.

“I’m not going to be able to do all the things you’ve been mentioning. No big projects with Dad. No doing the lawn care for all the little old ladies. No helping coach the baseball team.”

“I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I wasn’t trying to volunteer your services out. I just thought…” she starts, but I interject.

“I was sent home for a reason, Ma.” My voice drops.

“Right, you’re so right. You were sent home to recuperate, not work.” She goes on her tangent, apologizing and saying it was a dumb idea, but she knew I wouldn’t want to be couped up in the house. I let out a heavy sigh, drop my head back, and tightly close my eyes. Scrunching my face together, I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the oncoming headache.

“Mom.” Dax steps in, coming to the rescue. “I’m going to say this in the nicest way I possibly can. Be quiet and let people talk.” I glance over at my brother in awe, wanting to high-five him. “You don’t know what’s going on. None of us do. So for the love of God, let Dustin talk before you make him clam up again.” I hear a slight huff from the passenger seat, but nothing more. Dax looks over at me and smiles, gesturing with his hands. “The floor is yours.”

“Yes, I’m back home to recuperate, but my career with the Army is over.”

“Oh, thank God!” my mom says with glee.

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