Going Overboard (27 page)

The church, which was all brick except for a white steeple with a cross at the top, seemed small on the outside, but the inside was cavernous. Or maybe it was just the tall ceilings and cool air that made it feel big. The air was damp and smelled like dark wood and old books. I walked across the thick red carpet and opened the heavy wood doors of the sanctuary. A couple dozen people sat with their heads bowed in red cushioned pews. The organ played “In the Garden,” and the notes seemed to vibrate through the thick wood-paneled walls and stained glass.

I saw Melanie halfway up the center aisle. She had on a navy blue dress with a boatneck. Her silver necklace sparkled under the lights and I smiled. It was so like her: subtle blue dress and shiny silver jewelry.

I walked down the aisle and slid into the pew beside her. She looked up and raised her eyebrows with surprise, but then she smiled and grabbed my hand. I laid my head on her shoulder and cried.

After the service, Melanie and I stood on the front steps of the church. The weather was perfect. The sun was setting, and I could almost imagine the smell of hamburgers and corn cooking on a grill. Melanie's honeysuckle perfume floated with the wind and crickets chirped from the bushes beside us.

Melanie was radiant. I knew she wasn't wearing makeup, but her face was flushed and healthy, and though she wasn't exactly smiling, the crow's-feet coming from the corners of her eyes revealed some inner happiness.

She never asked why I had come, and she never asked why I was crying. So I didn't try to explain, because it would take too long, and maybe I didn't want Melanie to think badly of me.

But after a few minutes of talking about the comfortable weather, Melanie suddenly took my hand and said, “I want to tell you something, Sarah.”

“OK. Is it good or bad?” I didn't think I could handle more bad news.

She smiled playfully. “Oh, it's good . . . very good!” Then she took a deep breath and said, “I'm pregnant . . . from my trip to France.”

I covered my open mouth and screamed; then I jumped up and down, shaking her hand. “Oh! My! God—I mean, gosh!—Melanie!”

“I know, I know,” she said. “I waited to say anything until I knew for sure. Because of the miscarriages and everything.”

“Oh, of course,” I said. “This is just so exciting, and so amazing! I just can't believe it!”

“I know,” she said again, looking upward at the blue twilight. “It is amazing—almost like a miracle.”

I felt a pain in my chest remembering the way I had yelled at her on Lynette's driveway. So I looked up at the twilight with her and said, “And it's also a blessing.”

She looked at me and smiled. “Yes, exactly: a blessing.”

16
THIS IS IT, LADIES

M
y knees shook as I sat in the cold exam room, waiting for Dr. Ashley to come in. I had decided not to bring Owen, despite it being “his” appointment, because I didn't want his well-baby checkup muddied by the soap opera that had become my life. This is probably the reason doctors aren't supposed to be involved with their patients: It's hard to talk about leaking breasts and bowel movements when you can't stop looking at the doctor's biceps. Obviously, Dr. Ashley and I had other things to discuss besides my infant son's health, so I would reschedule his appointment for another day.

Dr. Ashley knocked on the door. “Hello?” he said, and peered around the corner. He came into the room without his usual rush of air and excitement. He almost seemed—could it be?—unsure of himself. His shoulders were more stooped and rounded than I had remembered, and he was smiling, but it seemed awkward. When he sat down, it was like he didn't know where to look; his eyes darted around my face and above my head, but when our gazes finally locked, he quickly looked away and flipped through some papers in Owen's chart.

“So you decided not to bring Owen,” he said.

I scratched at my head, even though it didn't itch, and looked at the ground. “Yeah, it just seemed like you and I have other things to talk about, and I didn't want his appointment to lose focus.”

“I understand,” he said and put Owen's medical records aside.

“So I feel a little weird after that phone call,” I said.

“Don't be embarrassed. I'm glad you told me what you were feeling. So have you decided—I mean, have you thought any more about, ah, what you want to do?”

“What are my options, Dr. Ash—or David or whatever? What am I supposed to do? You're the doctor. You tell me: Is this normal?”

“Well, ‘normal' is such a broad term,” he said. “Obviously your feelings are natural and you've been very honest about them. Much more honest than others might have been.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “But in regards to your care, I can't be your doctor if there is something . . . um . . . romantic. . . .”

He looked at me and paused. I wondered if he wanted me to talk next, but I wasn't ready. So he rubbed at the back of his neck and said, “Now I can keep things professional, but you need to be comfortable with me as your doctor.”

His voice was warm and smooth, and he was looking at me with that same thoughtful frown. I couldn't look at his eyes because I knew they would be deep and blue and concerned, and that they would suck me into that state of adrenaline and nerves. I could only look at his white coat and try to believe he was “just another doctor.”

But I could feel his eyes nearly burning a hole in my face. Could he really keep things “professional”? I wondered. How could he do that? Could he just move on and pretend nothing had happened? Maybe he doesn't like me as much as I thought. Maybe it's all been in my head. The mere idea made me sick with disappointment. And all at once, I felt hurt and rejected by him.

But wait. I'm married and he's my doctor and—

I moaned aloud—“Arghh!”—and banged my fists on my knees. Then I stood up and paced across the room.

“Yes, I have feelings for you,” I said. “And I don't know if I can just ignore them and keep things ‘professional.' ”

I was pulling at my hair and I felt like I was walking on sand.

“Because here's the thing, David: I know, without a doubt, if I had met you ten years ago, I would have fallen in love with you. I knew it the first time we met. We had ‘chemistry'—whatever that is—and I could feel it like electricity right through this room.”

Dr. Ashley stood up. “I know, Sarah. We've had a great relationship, and I probably enjoy you more than any other patient.”

Tears came down my cheeks. “When I met you, you blew a hole right through my theory of there being ‘one person for everyone.' I used to think Dustin and I were destined to be together, that fate had brought us into each other's lives. I never even questioned it! And then I met you, and I felt these things, like I had known you all my life—and suddenly I realized there is more than one person for me. There are probably hundreds of people I could have married. There are probably hundreds of men I could have felt this chemistry with.”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “Feelings can be so hard to understand.”

I stopped pacing and looked him in the eyes. “There are hundreds of men I could have had this chemistry with, but I chose only one.”

He nodded and looked at the ground.

“I probably could have loved you,” I said. “These feelings are probably reciprocal. Although I'll never know because you can't say.”

He nodded again.

“And maybe I'm making a big mistake here, but I need to give what Dustin and I have a shot. I need to give him a chance . . . because he was the first one I felt these things for.”

I looked up at his gold-rimmed glasses and knew I was seeing them for the last time. He wasn't smiling.

“So what I'm saying is, I think I need to change doctors.”

“I understand,” he said, and then, “I'll give you a referral for whomever you'd like.”

I gathered my purse off the blue plastic chair and put it on my shoulder. “Thank you. I'd appreciate that. And you know how I am, so pick someone patient and incredibly ugly, why don't you?”

He laughed and smiled, tilting his head to the side to look at me. Then he reached out his hand and I shook it. When I let go, he held on.

“Good-bye, Sarah Smiley,” he said.

I smiled through tears and nodded, and walked out the door.

It was warm and muggy on the day of homecoming, and that meant disaster for my hair. I would need a good two hours to get ready and sufficiently goop up my hair so that it wouldn't fall flat before Dustin got off the plane. Danielle and Brent offered to watch the boys while I took a bath, shaved my legs, and basically enjoyed every minute of getting ready to see Dustin again.

I had decided to wear a gray skirt and red V-neck wrap shirt, with Dustin's favorite black beaded necklace, which fell to a point on my chest. He always liked to say the necklace “points to fun,” and I knew he'd smile and laugh—in a knowing sort of way—when he saw me wearing it.

I was surprised when I looked in the mirror and saw my body for what felt like the first time in months. It was almost like seeing myself—my body—again, only I was rediscovering a “new” me somehow.

I walked outside to collect the boys from Brent's driveway. Ford and Blake were making a very serious attempt to get Owen to crawl on an exercise mat, but he just lay on his belly and cooed.
And I was glad he would wait for Dustin before changing and growing any more.

Brent and Danielle clapped and whistled when they saw me walking up the driveway. “Hot momma,” Brent called out, and I felt a little like a high schooler on her way to the prom.

Their attention embarrassed me a little, but what the heck? I stood erect anyway and did a curtsy before smiling and saying, “I certainly feel hot today!”

Brent came over and leaned on my shoulder. “So do you think we could ask you to babysit Blake tonight? You know, since I took care of your lawn all these months and helped you with—”

I shoved him teasingly off my shoulder. “No way in hell!”

He laughed as he spun around from my push.

“No, really,” Danielle said. “If you want us to watch the boys tonight while y'all . . . um . . . celebrate . . . just let us know.”

I bent down to pick up Owen off the mat. “Thanks, guys. Thanks for everything.”

Brent helped me load the boys in the car, and then he patted the hood with his palm. “Good luck,” he said.

At the air terminal, I could see that Courtney and Kate and the other women on the homecoming committee had been busy decorating. There were balloons and streamers and red, white, and blue bunting hanging from anything that would sit still long enough for them to slap some tape on it. Large homemade banners hung from the ceiling with things like
WELCOME HOME
and
WE MISSED YOU DADDY
painted on them. Confetti was scattered across the floor and chairs, and although there was no music playing, there was a definite buzz in the room as women squealed with delight and excitement. Kids dressed in their finest Sunday clothes darted in between their mothers' legs, chasing other children.

“Looking good,” Courtney said when she saw me come in with Owen on my hip and Ford at my side. She knelt down next to
Ford and fixed the collar of his red, white, and blue striped shirt, which was crinkled from the car seat strap. “Aren't you spiffy, little man!” she said. “Excited to see your dad?”

Ford nodded and twisted his fingers.

Courtney was wearing thigh-high boots with a sparkly tank top, and when she stood up again, she looked a good three to four inches taller than me.

“Wow, look at you!” I said. “You look fantastic.”

She did a 360-degree turn to model her clothes, and then held out one arm to give me a hug. “Gosh, I wish Jody was here, don't you?” she whispered.

I patted her back and said, “I know. It just doesn't feel the same.”

When she stood back away from me again, her eyes were puffy and red.

“Well, now, don't cry,” I said. “You'll ruin your makeup!”

Kate, who was standing at the center of the room dressed in an empire-waist sheath dress, clapped her hands and then whistled to get everyone's attention. “Five-minute warning,” she yelled. “The plane has landed on the runway and they are taxiing it around right now!”

The women and children in the room shouted together and turned to hug whoever was standing next to them.

“They're here! They're really here,” Courtney said, jumping up and down. Then she grabbed my hand. “Come on, let's go out on the tarmac to watch the plane pull up.”

“Wait. Where's Melanie?” I said. “And Hannah?”

“Paul flew in on one of the helicopters early this morning,” Courtney said. “They should already be back home together now.”

Often wives feel jealous of the other wives whose husbands get to fly in. Although our husbands are all pilots, only so many can fit in the helicopter at a time, so some have to ride the ship into port and then fly home in a transport jet instead. Coming in
on the “jet” is considered a tad less romantic than the noisy and dramatic helicopters flying in formation and kicking up gusts of wind, but I couldn't be jealous of Melanie.

Courtney took Ford's pudgy hand and offered to help lead him out to the tarmac while I followed behind, struggling to walk in high heels with Owen in my arms. Groupings of families spilled out onto the black asphalt beyond the glass doors, and lined up behind yellow tape set up to keep us from getting too close to the runway.

The sun was hot as it beat down on the tops of our heads, and my hair had probably already turned flat, but I hardly noticed. We all had permanent smiles plastered on our faces, and we jumped up and down with chattering teeth, as if it were freezing outside. I guess we were just nervous.

Margo stood outside the door and handed each of us miniature American flags on wooden sticks. When we heard the faintest sound of a whistling jet coming closer, yet still too far away and behind a building for us to see, we all shouted and waved the flags until they whipped in the air and became a blur of red, white, and blue.

When we finally saw the nose of the giant gray jet taxiing around the corner, all hell broke loose. Women pushed at the yellow caution tape, dying to get even an inch closer to the approaching jet, and children squealed with delight and excitement. Some babies cried from the noise of the screeching jet engine, but most of them—including Owen—were simply stunned by all the commotion.

News reporters with bulky cameras and equipment ran among the crowd trying to get the perfect picture. “How are you feeling?” some of them asked. “What's the first thing you'll say to your husband?” But as the jet drew even closer and grew louder, all we could think was: Get your camera out of my face and give me room to see my husband! Most of the reporters were happy to oblige.