She looked at the banners across her ceiling. Tomorrow she would take them down while Aiden was at school. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but there was no longer any meaning in the symbol for her. She would leave the army when her enlistment was up. Stop-loss wouldn’t apply to her; she was more valuable as a PR tool if she vanished back into the hills anyway. If she emerged into the public eye again, she might say something Major Maitland wouldn’t like. Besides, she knew her immediate future was here.
That should’ve brought a sense of relief, but instead the tight panic in her chest increased. The challenge she now faced was even more daunting. Her mother appeared so young, alive, and filled with music that it seemed impossible the night wind would take her. Her absence would send reverberations all through Cloud County, and probably to every Tufa who’d left as well. A First Daughter didn’t go without leaving a mark.
She heard cows lowing somewhere in the distance and glanced at her clock. Three minutes after twelve. The sound of cows after midnight was supposed to be another herald of death. Then again, it could just be insomniac cows. Not all superstitions had that supposed grain of truth to them.
The wind suddenly billowed the flag curtain into the room. Then it snapped back against the screen, as if the air pressure outside had suddenly dropped. At that moment a soft voice said once again, “Private Hyatt…”
Bronwyn swallowed hard and realized she was sweating. A haint could do nothing, she knew, except appear and speak to those meant to hear; nevertheless, knowing a dead person wanted to chat sent chills up her spine. She often wondered if the Tufa afterlife was the same as the regular one; Tufa passed through time differently, but once it stopped, they were like any other dead thing. When their song was over they decomposed, in both the literal and ironic sense.
So when someone crossed back to this world to deliver a message, everyone assumed it must be pretty important. Yet to be the recipient of that message left Bronwyn with a tingly, tangible fear completely different from the one she’d known during her ordeal in Iraq. Those people had wanted to do her physical harm; this haint might be after something else entirely.
But she’d never know until she engaged it. So she turned to the window and said, “I’m here.”
The haint emerged from the shadows beneath the red oak trees. As before, it stood so that the missing tissue in its side was plain, the wound looking for all the world like it had been made with a giant cookie cutter. Blood soaked the edges, but otherwise it was surprisingly neat. It took off its helmet, revealing the same dark hair all true Tufas sported. It had been a lovely young girl in life, but was now free of both flesh and gender.
Bronwyn forced herself not to look away. The haint’s eyes sparkled with moonlight as if they glowed. Its expression was wide eyed and blank.
“Okay,” Bronwyn said at last. “Come in here and let’s get this over with.”
The haint did not move. Slowly it pointed at the window. The blue glass still rested on the sill.
Bronwyn took a crutch and, after three swings, finally knocked the rocklike chunk of glass to the floor. It landed with a thud that reverberated throughout the house.
By the time she settled back against her pillows, the haint stood at the foot of her bed.
“Yah!” Bronwyn cried. She waited to catch her breath, then said, “Okay. What’s up?”
“I’m Sally,” it said in a voice that was just a hair slower, and considerably more sepulchral, than a normal speaking voice. “Sergeant Sally Olds. I died on the road to Basra in 1991.”
Bronwyn’s mouth went dry. Everything had happened on that road. “I drove that way myself.”
“I know. I saw you. I watched.”
Bronwyn shifted on the pillows; the pins in her leg ached more than ever. When she looked up, the haint had vanished.
A slightly darker shade stood in front of her dresser. Bronwyn said, “Oh, come on out here, will you? If I can’t even scootch around without freaking you out, this isn’t going to work.”
“It’s very hard to stay this way,” Sally said. “And I’m here for something important.”
“Yeah, I know. My mom’s gonna die, and I have to learn her song.”
“No,” Sally said. “I’m here just for you.”
Bronwyn’s breath caught in her throat. “For me,” she said flatly.
“You are surrounded by walls, Bronwyn. They were there before you were hurt, and even though your body is weak now, these walls are stronger than ever. They must come down if you are to be what you must.”
Rage flared in her heart; she hated being lectured. “And what’s that? Somebody’s wife? Mom to a brood of barefoot heathens just like me? I put those walls there for a reason, to keep me from marrying the first guy who made me come and being stuck in this valley for the rest of… of time!” She had no idea where this sudden insight came from, but she grasped its truth even as she blurted out the words.
“Yes, just like you’ve always known, none of that is for you. Your path is…”
The haint made a hand gesture that left Bronwyn speechless. For a moment the only sound was the night wind through the open window.
“I will help you,” Sally continued. “I know what happened. As I tell it to you, you will recall it. And relive it. That can’t be helped.”
“The hell it can’t,” Bronwyn snapped.
“There is no time for your pain, Bronwyn. It has to be drawn out, looked at, and dealt with. What will happen, will happen, and you must be ready for it.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Be ready for me tomorrow night,” Sally said, and turned toward the window. It gave Bronwyn an unobstructed view of the wound. Pieces of ragged organs dangled like the ribbons on a war hero’s chest. Before the haint took three steps, it vanished.
Bronwyn stared off into the night. Crickets and tree frogs gradually grew louder. The breeze stirred the banners and curtains.
She turned on the bedside lamp. There would be no sleeping for a while, and now she had to pee. Bedpans quickly lost their charm, and although getting up and going to the bathroom was a production even with her mother’s help, this time she was determined to do it herself.
The worst moment was when the weight of her leg hung free before it tipped downward. She felt it in her lower back and, oddly, her triceps as she braced herself, lowering her leg as slowly as she could until her heel touched the floor.
As she caught her breath, she saw an envelope half-hidden by her nightstand. Leaning as far as she could, she managed to retrieve it. The effort made her break out in a fresh sweat.
She turned the envelope over. It had fallen from the mail sack when Deacon moved it against the wall. The writing was a child’s, and the address in Jasper, Alabama. She opened it and pulled out the card.
Dear Private Hyatt, it said. Thank you for protecting our country. Someday I hope to join the army, too. Maybe by then they’ll let girls fight.
Bronwyn smiled at that. The girl would learn quickly enough how often girls fight, especially in the army.
But one thing makes me sad. I’m a Christian, and I’m sure you are, too. The Bible tells us not to kill people, and yet you had to. I feel very sad knowing you had to do that. All people are brothers, and we shouldn’t go around killing each other. But I know God forgives you, and I know Jesus loves you.