Going Overboard (26 page)

I bit my lip as I reread the words: the positive influence you have made in Dustin's life and the support you have given him.

Dustin had never given anything less than 100 percent at work. He was the go-to guy, Mr. Dependable. So I wasn't surprised that he was being honored in such a way. But I was shocked at the twinge of fear I felt.

All he knew how to do was rescue people, I thought, and I don't need to be saved.

So where does that leave us?

The following week, the Spouse Club had a garage sale on Lynette's driveway as a fund-raising event. Folding tables covered with plastic tablecloths and cotton bedsheets that snapped in the breeze littered her walkway and yard. They were loaded down with knickknacks and old books, and, frankly, lots of other junk.

We were making an impressive profit as word got out in the community that “soldiers' wives” were raising money on Thornton Street. Most of our customers left with items I wasn't sure they wanted, but they smiled with subtle sympathy and said, “God bless and protect your husbands.”

Courtney fluttered through the throngs of people like Vanna White on too much caffeine: “Have you seen the beautiful set of
goblets for sale on the table by the curb? And don't forget about the treadmill we have in the garage. It's a wonderful price!”

I hung toward the back and agreed to collect the shoppers' money so I could stay quietly wrapped up in my own thoughts—thoughts about Dr. Ashley and Dustin.

The weather was still mild, although getting hotter. I sat back in the chair at the folding table “checkout stand” and fanned myself while watching the other women help customers.

Spouse events weren't the same since Jody left. I missed her cynical comments and blatant disregard for the rules. Without her there, I even toyed with the idea of dropping out altogether. After all, I felt a little dishonest talking with the other women about our husbands and how much we missed them when my mind often drifted to . . . other things.

Margo was absent for most of the sale, and that caused some contention among the wives. How could the CO's wife just abandon us during the big fund-raiser? we all wondered. Well, the rest of them thought that, I guess, because I honestly didn't care. I felt flat, almost frozen. I was simply going through the motions.

But Margo arrived around noontime with an undeniable energy about her face and posture. She was nearly skipping up and down the driveway, checking in on the profits and patting everyone on the back.

“Something's up,” I said to Courtney when she came by my table. But she just rolled her eyes and said, “You are so paranoid.” Then we gossiped about Sasha, who was wearing a cropped top to show off her pierced navel again.

Finally, at one o'clock, when late-morning garage-sale shoppers had stopped trickling in, we started breaking down tables. Everyone was rushing to get home to their kids and pay babysitters. Danielle and Brent were watching mine.

Then Margo clapped her hands and said, “Gather round, ladies, gather round.”

“Told you so,” I said to Courtney. “Here it comes.” I didn't know what “it” was, but I knew it was something big. Maybe Margo is pregnant, I thought. She had that glow about her, like she was keeping a secret.

We all gathered in a circle around her on the driveway, wiping our brows with rags and slapping at insects on our legs and arms. The Florida heat was on its way.

“Ladies,” Margo said, “I have some very exciting news for everyone.” She waved her hands as if she couldn't possibly contain herself. But we all just stared back at her, so she collected herself again and smoothed her denim skort with her hands.

“OK, well, first of all, the base has set up for us to do video teleconferences with the ship. Does everyone know what that means?”

I looked around the group. Some wives were nodding; others were shaking their heads and saying, “What's that?” to the wives beside them.

“In a few days,” Margo said, “you will have the chance to go on base and talk to your spouse via satellite in a teleconference. It's like a phone call, only better, because you'll actually get to see him in real time.”

Margo jumped up and clapped. “Isn't that absolutely wonderful?”

The group was slow to respond, like people who don't know how to act after a bad joke. “Oh, that
is
wonderful,” a few of the women said. But I knew they were thinking, “Although not exciting enough to clap for.” I could have sworn I heard Sasha say, “Oh, my gosh, what on earth will I wear?”

But Margo raised her voice and put up her hands. “Now wait a minute,” she said. “There's more.”

A few
shh
s scattered through the group, and Margo waited for everyone's attention. Then she said, “You're probably wondering why our husbands are able to do this since we are in the middle of
a war. Which brings me to the best news of all—are you ready for this? Our men are coming home! Another U.S. carrier is on its way to the Gulf and will be relieving our husbands. They will be home in June.”

The group exploded into shrieks and screams and hugs. Courtney and Kate cried and pressed white tissues to their noses. “Are you serious?” a few women asked. “This isn't a joke?”

“I wouldn't joke about something like this,” Margo said. “They're coming home!” She jumped up and down again and all the women shrieked . . . again.

I just stood there at the back of the driveway. When Melanie noticed me, she came and put her arm around my shoulders. “Aren't you excited?” she squealed.

I slowly shook my head.

“Sarah, this is great news! Maybe you're just in shock.”

“No,” I said, still shaking my head and staring at the concrete. “I'm not in shock. I'm just not ready.”

“Not ready? How could you not be ready?”

Her voice was getting loud and I didn't want to cause a scene, so I
shh
'ed her. She leaned in closer and said much softer, “I mean, sure, most of us would have liked to lose more weight and maybe get the house painted before they came home, but this is such a blessing, Sarah! We've been blessed!”

She was smiling at me and squeezing my shoulder. Her breath smelled like mint and her hands were so moisturized, they felt like wet clay on my bare arms.

I pulled away and squinted my eyes to look at her. “Damn you and all your ‘blessings,' Melanie!”

A hush fell across the driveway as the other women stopped seemingly midjump and midshriek to look at me.

Melanie put a hand to her chest. “Sarah?”

“No, Melanie. This isn't a blessing. Maybe for you, but not for me.”

“Oh, brother!” Sasha said. “Another day in the life of Sarah.”

I ran across the yard to my car parked on the other curb. Courtney ran after me. “Sarah,” she yelled. “Sarah, come back.” But I jumped in the Explorer and drove away.

Brent was mowing my lawn when I got home. Ford and Blake played ball on the driveway, and Owen was sitting up in his playpen in the shade. He clapped his hands and cooed when he saw me get out of the car.

“Hey there!” Brent yelled and stopped the mower. “What's up?”

I couldn't hide the tearstains on my cheeks or the splotchy red marks that had popped up around my eyes.

“Hey, why the sad face, Smiley?” he said coming closer.

As soon as I opened my mouth, I started crying again. “The guys . . . are coming . . . home . . . next month . . . and—”

“Wow, that's great!” he said and stepped forward to hug me. Then he must have remembered his bare chest covered with sweat and grass clippings, because he stopped short, smiled instead, and said, “Wow!” again.

“I know, I know.” I put my head in my hands. “And . . . and . . . and I should be excited . . . but . . . but . . . I'm not ready.”

“Not ready? Girl, you've been ready since the day he left!”

I shook my head.

Then he must have realized I was serious, because his voice got quiet and he said, “Hey, I'm sure it's a big adjustment to have him come back, but maybe you'll feel better about everything once you get some rest and maybe have a nice cold beer.”

“I don't think so.” I looked out across the yard, at Ford and Blake kicking the ball back and forth. My sobbing slowed to sniffles and hiccups, but my muscles felt tense and I could feel a nervous energy in my arms and legs. I felt like I could run and never stop. I had to keep moving.

I turned back to Brent. “Hey, do you mind if I finish mowing the grass myself?”

He jerked his head back. “You? You mow the lawn?”

I nodded and smiled.

He put up his hands. “Hey, who am I to stand in the way of a woman and her lawn mower?”

That night I couldn't stop thinking about Dr. Ashley, and when I fell asleep, I dreamed I was at his house and it was covered with pictures of airplanes and aircraft carriers. There were waves beating on the windows outside and I screamed for him to save me. But he kept laughing, because, well, I was naked except for my tennis shoes. Then I was transported—in a magic, dreamlike way—to Kate's house, where the Spouse Club was in the middle of a meeting. Everyone except me had gotten mail from their husbands. I started to cry, and when I looked down, I was still naked . . . except for my tennis shoes.

I woke in a panic and sat up in bed. My hair was damp with sweat. I looked at the phone on the dresser beside me. The piano in the front room settled with the house and made an eerie creaking sound. I paused to listen. Then the house was quiet again, except for the ticking clock in the kitchen.

I pulled the covers up under my chin and lay back on the pillows, letting the loneliness and quiet wash over me until I was asleep.

15
THANK YOU FOR CALLING ME MRS. SMILEY

J
ody called on the day I was supposed to do the video teleconference with Dustin. She and her family were already settled into their home, but I couldn't picture her anywhere else except down the street. When I talked to her now, I still pictured her on the purple-and-green couch, sitting under the moose.

“So are you excited about the teleconference?” she asked.

I looked up at the kitchen clock. It was almost three o'clock in the afternoon; my teleconference was scheduled for three forty-five.

“I'm not going,” I said and twisted a strand of hair at my temple.

“Not going? Sarah, why not? This is your last chance to talk to Dustin before he comes home. And you guys have so much you need to talk about.”

“But I'm not ready,” I said. “I can't think of what to say to him. It would be too awkward.”

“Have you guys even talked since you got his letter?”

“No, we haven't.” I sighed and tapped my fingers on the table.
“I don't know, Jody. I just feel different. I mean, I even mowed the lawn. Can you believe that?”

“Sure, I can believe it. And Dustin will, too.”

“And I went running a few nights ago. I couldn't even remember the last time I went running, and then yesterday I—”

“You're changing. It's true,” she said. “Every marriage does, eventually.” Then she paused. “Is this about Dr. Ashley? Have you been talking to him lately?”

“No!” I said defiantly, failing to add that I was counting down the days to our appointment next week.

Jody's tone suddenly changed and became more serious. “I just want you to know something,” she said. “When Steve came home, he told me that Dustin was a wreck the day you told him about Dr. Ashley. All the guys were really worried about him. They said he wasn't himself.”

“Oh, that's ridiculous,” I said. “Haven't you ever fought with your husband? That's all it was—an argument!” But inside I was thinking, Did I really have that effect on him? Is he capable of such emotion?

“You crushed him,” Jody said. “And I think it's time you knew that. Sure, Dustin hasn't always been the most sensitive, but he loves you, and you hurt him. You hurt him bad.”

“Why didn't you tell me all this before you left then?”

“Because I was hoping you'd figure it for yourself.”

My other line beeped and I groaned. “That's my call-waiting, and I guess I should probably take it . . . just in case it's Dustin—” (Or Dr. Ashley, I thought to myself.)

“Just consider going to the video teleconference,” Jody said. “And think about what I said.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

I clicked over to the other line, and put on my friendliest and hopefully prettiest voice—just in case!—before saying hello.

“Sarah, it's Dad.”

“Dad who?”

“Your dad.”

I tried to mask my shock. Had Dad actually picked up the phone and used it? To call me?

“Oh, what's going on?” I said. “Where's Mom?”

“I have some bad news, Sarah,” he said. “And I need to talk to you.”

My knees gave out and I crumpled to the floor. In Dad's position he often got word of military-related accidents before they were released to the media, and I felt certain in that moment he was calling to tell me something about Dustin.

“What's happened, Dad? Is it bad?” I cried.

“I'm afraid it is, Sarah.”

I went completely cold and put a hand to my chest. “Oh, God! Is it Dustin? Is he all right?”

“It's not about Dustin,” Dad said. “Remember your friend John from high school?”

“John?”

“Yes, your mom said he sat behind you in Spanish, I think. And you sang together in drama class.”

“John Tillman! Yeah, he was in Pensacola for flight school with us, too. Isn't he on deployment? What's happened to him?”

“He was involved in a midair collision this morning,” Dad said gently. “You'll probably see it on the news soon, so I wanted to tell you first.”

“What? But . . . but he's all right, isn't he, Dad?”

Dad cleared his throat. “They only found his helmet. He's presumed dead.”

“But, Dad . . . not John! It couldn't be John. Are you sure? He was so young—” I could picture John's broad smile in my mind, and the way his personality instantly filled up a room. He was always so alive and young; how could he be dead?

“I'm sorry,” Dad said. “I know how hard it is the first time it happens to someone you know.”

Then I remembered that John had recently gotten married. I pictured his wife and knew she had woken up—probably in the middle of the night—to a knock at the door and men in uniform on her doorstep.

What is she doing now? I wondered. How will she go on? How will she get through this day?

Her husband is never coming home. Not ever.

My tongue seemed to catch in my throat and I nearly choked on the thought. Tears ran off my cheeks and disappeared into the cotton of my shirt.

“Oh, my gosh, Dad! I've gotta go. I have to go right now!”

“Sarah, I don't think you should drive,” he said in a calm, steady voice.

“No, I have to,” I yelled. “I've got to go, Dad. I'll explain later.”

Ford and Owen were both asleep, so I ran outside, where Brent was mowing his grass. “Brent,” I yelled. I was hopping on one foot, trying to tie my tennis shoe. “Brent!”

He looked up and released his hand from the mower. The blade wound down to a thumping whirl, and Brent walked over to the driveway.

“What's up?” he said. “What's going on?”

I could barely catch my breath, and one shoe was still untied. “Can you go inside and watch the boys? I've got to go to the base and see Dustin. We have this video teleconference, and I wasn't going to go, but my dad just called and—”

“Go!” he said, smiling. “I'm on my way inside right now.” He walked up the sidewalk and waved over his shoulder.

I hopped into the Explorer and called out the window, “I'll finish your grass for you when I get back!”

It would take me thirty minutes to get to the base, and I'd be cutting it close, but if I hurried, I could make it in time to see Dustin.

Rows of pine trees flew past the window as I sped down the
highway. They were like a green blur out of the corner of my eye, but I hardly noticed. I was laughing and crying at the same time. In my mind, visions of our marriage spilled into my head like water filling a glass and splashing over. I thought about our military wedding and how my hands trembled during the vows, and how Dustin had squeezed them and smiled.

I thought about the night we rushed to the hospital when I was in labor with Ford, and how Dustin had laughed because I paced in front of the emergency room, waiting to be checked in, and the automatic sliding-glass doors kept opening and closing, and opening and closing.

I thought about the time I had the flu and Dustin went to the grocery store at midnight to get Popsicles.

I thought about how much Dustin loved Ford and Owen, and how Ford liked to call him “SuperDad.”

There was no traffic coming into the base. Most of the cars were in the other lane, on their way out, as I pulled up to the guard shack in front. A man in camouflage and carrying a gun stepped forward, and I rolled down my window.

“Need to see some ID, ma'am,” he said.

I riffled through my purse to find my wallet. My hands were shaking.

I handed him a laminated tan card with all my military information on it. He looked it over, checking my face against the picture, then handed it back and said, “Thanks, Mrs. Smiley.”

Mrs. Smiley? I repeated it to myself. Mrs. Smiley?

I started to roll up the window, but the man put out his hand for me to stop. “Uh, is everything OK, ma'am?” he said. “You look a little upset.”

“Thanks for calling me Mrs. Smiley,” I said and drove away.

The parking lot of building number eight was full, so I parked alongside the curb and barely remembered to put the engine in park before jumping out the door.

It was three forty-eight.

I ran up the sidewalk that was discolored and cracking, and pushed through the glass doors of the cinder block building. There was an officer on duty at the front desk.

“I'm here . . . for a video teleconference . . . with . . . my husband,” I said, out of breath.

“That way,” the officer said, and pointed to the left. “Up the elevator, to the third floor, room number twenty-two.”

I started running again. There was an elevator across the hall and a group was just then piling into it. “Wait!” I yelled. “Hold the door!”

I ran into the crowded elevator, still trying to catch my breath. Tears spilled over my cheeks, and the front of my shirt was damp from crying and from sweat.

When the doors slid open on the third floor, I slipped through other passengers, saying, “Excuse me, excuse me,” and ran out into the hallway.

A group of sailors dressed in white bell-bottom pants was standing outside a door down the hall, so I ran in their direction, yelling, “Wait! I'm here! I'm here! Tell my husband I'm here for the conference.”

One shoelace was still untied and it smacked against the floor and my shin as I ran. When I finally reached the group, I was panting and had to grab the wall.

“I'm here,” I said again between breaths. “I'm here.”

The men looked at one another, and then one of them, a tall, red-haired man with long arms and a boyish face, looked at me and bit his lip.

“Mrs. Smiley?” he said.

“Yes! That's me! Dustin's wife. We had a conference at three forty-five. But I'm running late and I had to rush to get here, and I'm—”

The man bit his lip again. The other men looked away or at
their feet. “I'm so sorry, ma'am,” the sailor said. “You've missed it. Mr. Smiley waited until three fifty, but then we had to let the next couple go. They're real strict about keeping the schedule.”

I stared at him. He was shrugging his shoulders and looking at me in a fearful sort of way.

“I missed it?” I said.

“I'm so sorry,” he said again. “We have to stay on schedule, and the guys in charge tell us we can't wait for anyone.”

I put my hands on either side of my head. “I missed it?”

Then I fell to my knees and cried. The sailor knelt down beside me and patted my back. “Do you need anything, ma'am? A glass of water? Some fresh air?”

“Just tell me,” I said, “have they already shut down the e-mail and telephones on board?”

“I'm afraid so, ma'am. But hey, homecoming isn't that far away. It's going to be OK. You'll see Mr. Smiley again soon.”

I drove home in silence. There were no more tears, or music, or memories. I was hollow and tired. My throat was coated and sore from crying. I imagined Dustin's face as I drove, and for the first time in months, it came to me as clearly as a picture. He was smiling, and then crying. I had never seen Dustin cry.

I stopped for a red light on Ninth Street, and was glad for the chance to stare out the window. My eyes were frozen in a trance, looking at the street sign—
NINTH STREET
—when suddenly I said to myself, “Ninth Street? Isn't that where Melanie's church is?” It was Wednesday. Melanie always went to church on Wednesday evenings.

Without thinking again, I flipped on the blinker and turned right.

Ninth Street was covered with a canopy of thick oak trees full of shade and leaves. The road looked cool and I was glad: The weather had been so hot, and it would only get worse.

I pulled into the rock-and-gravel parking lot of Saint Luke's
Church, and looked for Melanie's car. She was parked right up front—just where I'd expect her to be.