is always perfect, so you go on and get settled. But I expect you to visit whenever you’re in town. Please.”
Jeremiah saw the anguish on her face and heard it in that plea. They’d lost their only son and now they had no grandchildren to carry on the Campton name. When he’d called and asked to come by for a short visit, they had immediately taken him in and sheltered him, because they understood what he’d been through. He loved them like he loved his own family but he couldn’t be a substitute for their son. And they couldn’t fill the void inside his heart, kind as they were to him.
“I will always come and see you,” he said, getting up to stand in front of the empty fireplace. Staring up at the portrait of Edward in his dress uniform hanging over the mantel, he said, “I only knew him for a year or so but he changed my life forever.”
“Do you regret knowing him?” Judy asked, her tone without judgment.
“No,” Jeremiah said, turning to smile at her. “He was one of the best friends I’ve ever had, and he did not pressure me in any way to join up. I regret that I didn’t understand exactly what I’d be getting into. I don’t mind having been a SEAL. But the torment of war will never leave me.”
“You have PTSD, don’t you? Post-traumatic stress disorder is a hard thing to shake and I suspect you, of all people, know that.”
Judy Campton was a wise and shrewd woman who’d been a military spouse for close to forty years. She and Ed, as the Admiral liked to be called, married late in life and had Edward a few years later. Like his father, Edward had lived and breathed the military. And he’d given his life for that loyalty.
“Jeremiah?”
He looked around the big rambling room with the grand piano, the exquisite antique furnishings and the rare artifacts from all over the world. This place brought him both peace and despair. “I have nightmares, yes. Bad memories. Moments where I have flashbacks of the heat of battle. But I’m hoping that will improve now that I’m home.”
“Or it could get worse,” Judy replied. “I can give you the names of some good counselors.”
Surprised, he shook his head. “I don’t need that right now.”
“I see.” Mrs. Campton didn’t look convinced. “There is no shame in getting help. I used to volunteer at the veteran’s hospital about thirty miles from here. I’ve seen a lot of men and women improve by just talking about things.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jeremiah said, “once I’m back where I belong.”
“As you wish,” Mrs. Campton replied. “But call me if you ever need me. I’ll be right here.”
With that, he made his way to her. When she tried to stand, he said, “Don’t get up. I only wanted to tell you denke. I owe both of you so much.”
She gripped his arm and pushed with a feeble determination, so he helped her up. “And as I said, we owe you. Having you home brings a little bit of Edward back to us. Now, you go to be with those waiting to see you again.”
“I’ll tell the Admiral goodbye before I leave.”
He helped her back into her chair and alerted the nearby housekeeper that he was going upstairs. Then he turned and headed toward the curving staircase.
“Jeremiah,” Judy Campton called, her gaze lifting to him. “Don’t tell him goodbye. Tell him you’ll be nearby.”
Jeremiah nodded and took the stairs in a rush.
Once he left here, he’d head straight back to his parents’ house and he’d be living there from now until...
Until he could make amends, prove himself worthy and...maybe one day ask Ava Jane to marry him.
His sister, Beth, and his mother, Moselle, had welcomed him with open arms the other day since the bishop had told them of Jeremiah’s wish to come home and help out. The bishop had talked this over with the ministers, too. They were all in agreement that as long as he followed the rules of the Ordnung and worked toward being baptized, he would be accepted back.
“Du bliebst Deitsch,” the bishop had warned him. You must keep the ways of your people.
Mamm, perhaps too tired to turn down the help of her only son, had rushed into his arms the minute he’d walked into the familiar house two days ago. Then she’d stood back and said, “Go and see your daed.”
“He doesn’t want to see me,” Jeremiah replied, every pore of his body working up a cold sweat, his too-tight shirt straining at his shoulders.
His mother put her hands in Jeremiah’s. “He needs to know his son made it home.”
When he hesitated still, she added, “Do this for me.”
Jeremiah couldn’t deny his mamm. So he nodded and made his way into the hallway that lead to what used to be a sewing room in the back. His father lay there in a hospital bed, his body gaunt and pale, his once-thick dark hair now thin and streaked with gray. A shroud of sickness hovered over him, but with his eyes closed, he looked at peace and as if he was only napping.
Jeremiah blinked away the hot tears piercing like swords in his eyes. Had he caused this in his daed? Standing at the foot of the bed, he remained silent and asked God to give him the strength he needed.
I need forgiveness, Lord. I need my earthly father to know that I made it back to him. And You.
Now this morning, as he stood in the same spot and again prayed about how to approach his father, he could at least know that he’d never turned away from God. God had been there with him in the raging seas when he’d swum through treacherous waters and on the smoke-covered battlefields when he’d crawled with the snakes. God had been there when he’d held a buddy in his arms and watched the life leaving his eyes. God had been there when Jeremiah had woken up in a hospital and cried out for home. And for his God.
He had scars on his body and scars in his soul.
But how did he heal this rift that had separated him from this man? The man who’d loved him and taught him all the ways of being a real man. The man who’d cried out in anger that Jeremiah was never to enter this house again.
Talk to him.
Both the bishop and his mother had said the same thing.
So Jeremiah took a deep breath and used his military training to focus. And then he sat down in the hickory rocking chair beside the bed and let out a long shuddering sigh of both relief and regret.
“I’m home, Daed. I’m home for gut.”
Isaac Weaver didn’t respond. He kept right on sleeping in that deceptively peaceful way. But Jeremiah talked to him anyway, in gentle, hushed tones that held both respect and sadness.
He began to tell his story of taking a bus across the country and finding a job in Coronado, California, where the US Naval Special Warfare Command was located. He’d lived in a hut of an apartment with two other roommates who were planning to join up, and he had worked at restaurants and on farms while studying to get his GED. He’d saved up some money and passed the test, thanks to the books Edward had encouraged him to read and to his well-educated and worldly roommates who
