Going Overboard (15 page)

“Maybe sometimes,” Jody said.

“How come Mom can do four loads of laundry before I've even made my own bed!” I sipped my Diet Coke and looked at the floor. Then I groaned and said, “Oh, Jody, I'm a mess, aren't I? Sasha was right. I'm a walking disaster.”

“Sasha's a bitch,” Jody said without blinking. “Did you know that she has a maid? And her parents live here in town. So you know what that means—”

“She has free babysitters?”

“No,” Jody said, laughing. “She has a safety net. She doesn't have to do this all alone. Imagine knowing, in the back of your mind, that your parents were just a drive away when things got bad?”

“My house would be so clean!” I said.

“Yes, but you'd also be carrying less responsibility. Without our parents close by, you and I subconsciously feel like we're doing all this crap alone. And that's a lot.”

She picked up a tennis ball and tossed it back and forth between her hands. I watched her for a moment and tried to
imagine living in the same city as my parents. Would I be more motivated? Would my life suddenly become clearer?

Jody had a point about Sasha and her parents, but she had missed something important: Without my mom nearby,
Jody
was my security. Late at night, when I suddenly felt all alone and scared, I was comforted by the thought that Jody was just a few houses away.

I was about to point this out when another startling thought occurred to me: Did Jody feel the same way? Was it comforting to her knowing I was down the street?

There was a lump in my throat when I realized the answer was probably no. Jody never called me at four in the morning crying about some noise in the attic. And she hardly ever asked me to babysit her kids. Maybe she thought I couldn't handle it. Maybe she was afraid to leave them with someone who accidentally puts cereal boxes in the refrigerator on a regular basis.

I looked up and saw a greeting card propped up against a travel alarm clock on top of Jody's television, right next to Mr. Squirrel. The card was glittery, with flowers printed on the front. I knew it must be from Steve, but I played dumb anyway.

“Where did you get that card?” I said, nodding my head in the direction of the television.

“Um . . . ah . . . that?” Jody scratched at her head and seemed to be searching for words. But I knew she was searching for a lie. Most military wives are reluctant to boast about mail from their spouses until they are sure others have received just as much.

“It's from Steve, isn't it?” I said.

She smiled apologetically. “Yeah, it is, Sarah. But he only sent it to me because he knew Michael had been sick and I was feeling really stressed out.”

I looked back at the card. Dustin would never think to send me a card “just because.” The year before he had even forgotten my birthday! Why don't I have a husband who sends me cards with glitter on them?

I remembered a story Dustin's mom often tells, about how when he was four years old he brought her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in bed because she was sick and her husband was deployed. “Wasn't that so thoughtful of him?” my mother-in-law likes to say, apparently taking pride in the fact that her young son had the wherewithal to take care of his ill mother. But the story just gives me the willies. First,
should
a young child be expected to take care of his mother? Should he be the man of the house just because Daddy is gone? And second, when did Dustin lose this ability to be so attentive to others? Why now, as an adult, did he seem to defiantly avoid any situation in which he is the father?

“Well, anyway,” I said, slumping back into the couch, “just so long as Dustin's mother doesn't get a card before I do! After all, she got to talk to him on the phone when he should have been in bed with me.”

Jody smiled. “And how is your mother-in-law?”

“Same old, same old,” I said, and then, “I bet I wouldn't have all this trouble with Cute Doctor.”

“But you're not married to the doctor,” Jody said. “You're married to Dustin.”

So diplomatic!

“And you're happy about that, right?” she said.

“Right.”

When I got back home, there was another note from Mom waiting on the counter.

I went to the computer first. Mom had already straightened the stack of bills there, and I almost couldn't find the mouse because she had tucked it away behind the computer monitor.

I opened my in-box and felt a twinge of excitement in my stomach when I saw a message from Dustin, waiting in bold type, like a present ready to open.

I reread the message a few more times, trying to read between the lines. But I should have known better; Dustin is rarely that manipulative.

I hit
REPLY
and stared at the blank screen, with my hands hovering over the keys. I didn't know where to begin or what to say. I had been so anxious for his reply, and depressed each time I checked my messages and found nothing. But now I was frozen. How do you truly stay close to someone who is so far away? Are e-mail updates really enough? Could I actually tell Dustin all my thoughts and experiences in one message? How does a marriage
survive on e-mail alone? I was beginning to feel closer to the people who were physically near me—Jody and Courtney, my neighbors, my children, and, yes, Dr. Ashley—than I was to Dustin.

I reread Dustin's message again. This time it seemed sterile, like something you'd expect from a stranger. Who addresses his wife as “Dear Sarah” anyway? I thought. Why didn't Dustin write “Hi, Honey” or “Hey!” or something more personal like that?

I clicked out of the message screen, deciding not to reply, and closed my in-box. When I went back through the kitchen, I decided not to listen to the phone message blinking on the machine. Instead I lay facedown on the living room floor and kicked my feet against the carpet. I must have fallen asleep there, because the next time I opened my eyes, Ford was crouching down beside me and looking directly into my face.

“Mommy?” he said. “You asweep?”

I blinked and tried to bring his face into focus.

“Got new shoes, Mommy,” he said, pointing to a shiny white tennis shoe on his left foot.

I pushed up onto my knees and pulled him into my lap, pressing my nose against his wispy brown hair. He smelled like sleep and graham crackers and orange juice. Then he reached up his pudgy hand and grabbed my hair hanging down in front of his face. I hugged him tighter.

“Will Daddy be home this day, Momma?” he asked.

“Not today. But Mommy's here and I love you very much. You know that, kiddo?”

My mom came in from the garage with Owen asleep in her arms. I stood and met her in the kitchen, where she hurriedly handed me Owen and went back out the garage door, mumbling something like “Hardly have time to make dinner” and “Won't be able to put down the new mulch.”

She came back in with an armful of groceries, which she unpacked and put away in what I figure must have been record
time. Before I knew it, Mom was chopping vegetables for dinner.

I hadn't even moved from my spot against the wall holding Owen.

When we finally sat down to plates full of spaghetti and warm bread, I was exhausted just from watching Mom's whirlwind of activity.

“Well! What a day!” she said, smearing butter on her bread. “I feel like we got a lot done, don't you?”

“Um, sure.” I leaned over to cut Ford's noodles into bite-sized pieces. “But about the paint—”

She looked at me confused. “The paint? . . . Oh, yes, for the front room. What about it?”

“Do you really think I need it? I kind of like the color I have in there.”

“Oh, no! Gosh, no! It's way too dark and it clashes with the oil painting Doris gave you.” She took a sip of iced tea, then smiled. “But, of course, if you like it that way, it's fine with me.”

Ford grabbed a stick of butter and squished it in his palm. Without hesitation, Mom started wiping his hands with a cloth. I thought how I might have left the grease there until he was definitely done.

“So what did Dustin have to say in his e-mail?” Mom asked.

“Not much, really. Same old stuff.”

“Those things are always disappointing,” she said. “Same with phone calls and letters.”

Here it comes, I thought, the speech about being grateful we even have e-mail!

But Mom surprised me when instead she said, “When your dad would call from overseas, I always felt deflated for a few days. Funny how you look forward to hearing from them, but it never lives up to your expectations.”

“Just like the prom,” I said, and Mom nodded her head in agreement.

There was a brief silence and then Mom said, “Hey, did you ever check that phone message?”

I looked across the kitchen to the blinking red light. “No, I forgot, actually. I'll check it later. It wasn't Dustin, was it?”

“No, but it was a man,” she said.

“Oh,” I said absently. I was cutting pieces of bread for Ford.

Then, after hesitating a moment, Mom said, “I wasn't listening closely, so I'm not sure, but I think it was your doctor.”

I nearly dropped the knife. “My doctor?”

“I think so. You'll have to listen to the message. But I think that's what he said.”

I got up from my place at the table and walked toward the blinking light like someone being drawn to a UFO. What I wanted to do was listen to the message alone, but now Mom's eyes were following me and it would be too obvious. She would never accept it if I said, “Well, I'll just listen to it later.” And she would be curious if I took the machine into my room and closed the door.

So I pressed the blinking button.

“One new message,” the automated voice said. “Message number one.”

There was a beep and a pause, and then Dr. Ashley's smooth voice was filling up the kitchen and echoing off the walls.

“Hey, Sarah, this is Dr. Ashley. Just want to see how you're doing since your last visit. If you need anything at all, just give me a call. You have my number. Guess I'll see you soon. Take care.”

The machine beeped again and the light stopped blinking. I looked over my shoulder at Mom. She was watching me closely and I felt awkward, unsure what to do or say next.

“Your doctor calls you by your first name?” she said.

I turned to face her. “He's not much older than me, so he probably feels weird calling me ‘Mrs.' ”

Mom knitted her brows. “But he calls you at home to check on you?”

I tried to act casual but realized I was rubbing the sides of my head, where a migraine was beginning to form. “Oh, Mom! Why are you getting all weird about this?”

“It just seems strange,” she said. “Don't you think? I mean, is this a Navy doctor? Is he your doctor? The kids' doctor?”

I groaned. “Yes, he's a Navy doctor. He's the kids' doctor and my doctor—a family doctor.”

Mom turned to face Ford again. “I don't want to pry, but it just seems strange.”

“Well, it's not, Mom, so drop it.”

I went to my room and closed the door. Why did she always have to be so reasonable?

Late that night, once I was sure Mom had gone to bed, I snuck back into the kitchen and replayed the message from Dr. Ashley. I had the volume turned down to its lowest setting, so I had to lean in close to hear. His voice was familiar and much more soothing when it wasn't bouncing off the kitchen walls for everyone to hear.

Was
it strange that he called? I wondered.
Should
he call me Mrs. Smiley? Or was it OK to be just “Sarah”?

I played the message three more times—I guess on the theory that maybe he might say something new on the second or third run-through—then I picked up the cordless phone and went straight to my closet.

“You awake?” I asked when Courtney picked up.