Page 3 of Fighting for Brielle
Perseverance.
Justice’s eyes shone with determination. “I’m ready.” No need to elucidate.
Franklin nodded. “I’ll have your shift nurse send someone from physical therapy to start working with you immediately.” Reaching down, he gripped his son’s shoulder a moment before he moved toward the doorway.
“Dad. Wait,” Justice urged. “Thank you. For not giving up on me.”
He offered a smile. “We’re McQuaids. We’re SEALs. We never give up.”
* * *
Justice made his father’s three short declarative statements his mantra during the days and weeks of his rehabilitation. His physical therapist was an Amazon woman with a body of steel and an attitude to match. Sergeant Donna Belden put him through her special version of hell, barking orders at him like his former drill sergeant, yelling at him to conquer his pain and get his ass moving.
She was an incredibly strong woman who lifted him as if he weighed no more than a five-pound bag of potatoes. It was humiliating. She laughed at him, slapped his rear, and shouted, “Who’s your daddy, SEAL?” If he didn’t answer that she was, she’d increase his reps. She did, anyway, because she was just that sadistic. But by then she was indeed his daddy, completely in control.
During the hours they spent together working on his recovery, they’d forged a genuine friendship. He trusted her. Hell, he probably loved her a little, too. She was by no means a pretty or beautiful woman, but handsome, he thought, and cherished by her equally imposing giant of a fiancé.
The first time Justice walked the length of the physical therapy center, Donna and her fiancé sneaked a bottle of scotch into his room, and they celebrated in style. He almost got drunk and complained when Donna snatched the bottle away from him.
“When you get released, we’ll get rip-roaring drunk together,” she promised.
Justice pouted. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, I hate you too, Navy Boy.”
The tests of mental acuity, though, were tougher than his physical therapy. When he couldn’t compute even the simplest algebraic equation in his head or on paper, when he couldn’t comprehend complex text or read a map, Justice took his rage and frustration out on Donna.
She let him and used it to her advantage, pushing him harder toward his ultimate goal: to regain his former physical condition. Donna’s regimen included helping him walk again, but she also knew that building up his body strength affected his mental and emotional well-being, which she drilled into his head.
For the most part it worked. By the time Justice was discharged from Walter Reed a month later, he could walk without any aid, and neurological imaging and testing showed marked improvement. A career that required him to think quickly on his feet or problem solve might be out of the question at the moment, but he felt hopeful about the future regardless of his current situation.
Much to Franklin’s disapproval, Donna and her fiancé kept their promise. As soon as he stepped out of the hospital, they whisked him away to their favorite bar and got him rip-roaring drunk. Franklin allowed his son to sleep off the effects of his wild night of drinking at their hotel, and late afternoon of the following day they flew home to New Haven, Connecticut. Staring at each other over dinner, father and son thought exactly the same thing: Now what?
* * *
At the beginning of May, the Navy presented Justice with the Distinguished Service medal. The ceremony took place on the South Lawn of the White House. For the occasion he’d cut his hair and shaved weeks’ worth of growth from his face. He and his father wore their sharp white dress uniforms and gazed with solemnity at one another. Justice doubted he’d ever wear it again.
The South Lawn crawled with dignitaries, most of whom Justice didn’t know and could care less about. He cared, though, about the families of his fallen team members and what they thought about him. Shivering in spite of the heat, he waited for them to condemn him, waited for them to ask why he was still alive and the others weren’t.
He should have had more faith in the bond he shared with them. He was ashamed of his doubt, especially when they hugged him, said they were glad he’d made it out alive, and exonerated him from any blame. When the President presented him with his medal, they applauded as loudly as anyone else, truly happy for him.
As the crowd dispersed, a dark-haired man with unique amber eyes approached him and offered his hand. “Secretary of State Washburn sends her congratulations, Lieutenant Commander McQuaid, and regrets she couldn’t be here today. I’m Brendan McAdams, her senior staff member.”
Justice shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. McAdams. I appreciate that.”
Brendan leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “She wanted you to know she’s personally investigating the attack on your team. Such unprovoked aggression is intolerable, especially since you were delivering medical supplies to one of the villages in the area.”
“Again, appreciated.”
“In exchange…”
Justice snorted in derision. “Go on. This ought to be good.”
* * *
He and Franklin flew home to New Haven later that night. Justice changed out of his dress uniform and hung it in the closet. Wearing Levi’s and an old T-shirt, he joined his father on the patio where Franklin sipped a cup of coffee. He threw himself into a comfortable low-backed chair with a neutral-colored cushion and stretched his long legs. They ached a little tonight, but he’d take the pain over not being ambulatory.
Franklin indicated a mug on the frosted-glass patio table. “For you.” As Justice took a sip of the dark brew, he continued, “Are you ready to share the conversation you had with Brendan McAdams?”
