Going Overboard (6 page)

“They'd really do that?” Now I was sitting up and my heart was pounding. From fear or anger, I wasn't sure.

“It's a possibility,” he said and stepped into a pair of boxer shorts.

He lifted the phone off the charger and it beeped. Tanner woke up beneath the bed. Her dog tags jingled as she shook her head and groaned. I knew she was stretching, preparing to see what trouble was brewing in the house. Then she poked her nose out from under the dust ruffle and eased her body out to follow Dustin into the living room.

I threw myself back into the pillows. I should call my parents? My teeth were beginning to clench. Why does my mother-in-law have a way of sneaking up at the most inopportune times? Whether it was her fault or Dustin's, I wasn't sure. No one in their right mind would expect a phone call from a man on his last night home with his wife, and honestly, I didn't think she was an exception.

“Hello, Mom?” Dustin said, and I strained to hear his muffled voice through the wall.

“We're leaving tomorrow. . . . No, it's only a two-week workup. . . . We'll be doing some training for our upcoming deployment. . . . Yes, I did tell you I was leaving for deployment. I told you that several months ago. . . . Yes, I'll be careful. . . . No, I won't be able to call you. . . . No, I won't be able to use e-mail every day. . . . Yes, I'll try to send you a postcard.”

The words were fading into one another, as if I had heard this same conversation over and over again, only in different forms.

But then my breath caught when I heard something different: “Mom, look after Sarah and the boys for me,” Dustin said. “Call on them every now and then, OK? I'm worried about Sarah. She had such a rough time last deployment, and now with the two boys . . . Just promise me you'll take care of them for me—during these next two weeks and then during the deployment as well.”

I hugged the blanket to my chest and waited for him to come back to bed.

The next morning, Dustin paced through the kitchen, visibly bothered. He has such a low tolerance for chaos. I was sitting on the floor of our bedroom, surrounded by piles of underwear, undershirts, and packing supplies. “Don't forget to pack a picture of me and the kids,” I called out, and then, “Did you remember to pack a camera? And what about your razors? You always forget your razors. Oh, and did you pack floss? You do have a picture of me and the kids, right?”

Originally Dustin had packed for two weeks on board the ship, but a phone call from the squadron at eleven o'clock the night before informed him to “pack for six months . . . just in case.” After Dustin had fumbled in the dark to hang up the phone, he jumped out of bed and rushed around in his underwear to gather more pairs of socks and undershirts for the seabag. I had sat up against my pillows and, with drooping, tired eyes, penned Dustin's social security number on the extra clothes. I felt like a mother marking her son's backpack and jacket before the first day of school. And with that thought, I was mad at my mother-in-law and her boxful of ornaments all over again.

After the harried assembly line in the middle of the night, Dustin and I should have been exhausted, but instead we were jittery, perhaps functioning on overdrive, as if we'd had too much caffeine or were high on adrenaline. I noticed my hands trembling when I put Ford's Pop-Tart into the toaster, and Owen arched his back and wailed when I tried to nurse him. Kids can be awfully perceptive, and I knew—mostly by the way Ford chewed on his thumb and ate a clump of Play-Doh when he thought I wasn't looking—that mine sensed something was wrong.

Even Tanner was turning circles in her bed, feverishly scratching the denim-covered pillow.

“Dustin, look,” I said, leaning toward her. “Tanner's sad you're leaving. Poor thing.” I stroked her head and smacked my lips, making kissing sounds at her.

Dustin smirked and continued searching through a drawer for his missing keys and wallet.

“What?” I said, looking up at him. “What are you smiling about?”

He shut the drawer, scratched his head, and said distractedly, “Oh, nothing. It's just that you're talking through Tanner again.”

“What?”

“You're talking through Tanner,” he said and wandered out of the room.

I knelt down and smoothed the fluffy hair between Tanner's ears. “I don't understand what you mean,” I called out.

Dustin wandered back into the room, still in searching mode. “Sometimes when you get upset,” he said, “you tell me your feelings through Tanner.”

“What? I do not! That's absurd!” I cupped Tanner's muzzle in my hands and stared into her watery eyes. “Tell him, Tanner. I don't talk through you, do I?”

Dustin was pacing in and out of rooms now, seemingly half interested in our conversation. “Have you seen my keys, Sarah?” he yelled from the kitchen.

Tanner rolled onto her side and I patted the soft pink skin of her belly. “Tanner, say, ‘No, Mommy hasn't seen your keys, Dustin.' Will you tell him that, Tanner? Say, ‘If Mommy knew where your keys were she'd have found them for you by now.' ”

Dustin was standing in the doorway again. “That's exactly what I'm talking about,” he said. “Right there! You're talking through the damn dog.”

The word “damn” struck me as unfair, but I tried not to cry. “Oh, Tanner,” I said, “tell Dusty Wusty to calm down and relax a little bit. Maybe if he put his keys in the same place every night, he wouldn't lose them so much. Isn't that right, sweetie?”

Dustin stared at me for a moment, then threw up his hands and left the room.

It was five o'clock in the morning when we finally pulled out of the driveway. The exhaust blowing from the car, mixed with the cold winter air, made an impressive cloud of white frost as Dustin backed down the driveway. Houses all around the cul-de-sac were quiet and dark, with only a few dim lights coming from front porches and lamps on end tables inside. Our neighbors were either still sleeping curled up next to their spouses, or they were sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. When the garage door squeaked closed behind us, I worried we might wake up all those sleepy neighbors. And suddenly it occurred to me, by the time I drove back up the driveway alone later that afternoon, I would see all the houses filled with families and twinkling lights in a new and different way—the envious way.

We drove in silence to the Navy base. The boys were both sleeping in their car seats and Dustin and I were too cold and hunched over in our jackets to speak. I tried to remind myself, “It's only for two weeks,” and repeated the words in my mind like a mantra. But I still felt distressed, and I wondered if this was how defendants feel when they are shackled and shuffling into the courtroom to hear a verdict.

At the terminal, Dustin parked in the farthest spot and removed the keys from the ignition. It was a familiar routine: kissing me in front of his peers is Dustin's idea of total humiliation. His training at the United States Naval Academy, where mid-shipmen are instructed not to show public displays of affection, only increased Dustin's natural inclination toward modesty. Most times, I was lucky to get a peck on the cheek when we were on base and he was in uniform.

Dustin unfastened his seat belt and turned to face me. He took my hand from my lap and placed it between his. “Sarah, I hope this is only for two weeks,” he said. “But you know there's a chance—”

“I know. Don't say it aloud. Not right now.” I stared at my lap and swallowed back tears.

Dustin looked down at our hands clasped together on the armrest. “You know I love you?” he asked. I nodded. “Promise me you'll show the boys my picture and talk about me often?”

I looked up. “Dustin! Don't talk like that. You'll be home in a few weeks.”

“I know . . . I mean, I hope. But, Sarah, I need you to understand that we might be sent overseas without coming back first. Are you prepared for that?”

Tears spilled over my eyelids and onto my cheeks. The crying came so fast and with such force, it felt like my ribs were squeezing my lungs. Dustin put his hand behind my head and drew me to his chest. I sobbed into the olive green material of his flight suit and soaked his patches with tears.

“I don't want you to go,” I cried. “Please don't go! I can't take this anymore. I just want you home . . . home all the time.”

Dustin ran his hand through my hair and rubbed my back. “I know, Sarah. But you've done this before. You—”

“No!” I cried. “Please don't leave me. Not again. I can't take it anymore.” I was beginning to feel tired and heavy.

“You're going to be fine,” he said. “You've got Jody and Courtney and all the other wives to support you.”

I sat up and looked at him. “That's the thing, Dustin. I shouldn't need other people to support me. Why can't I get it together myself? Maybe I'm not cut out for this. Maybe you should have married someone else.” I buried my face in my hands.

“Hey,” he said, touching my leg, “this is only temporary. Soon you'll have me home again to help you. Promise.”

I cried harder. “I'm not cut out for this. Oh, my gosh, I'm not cut out for this.”

Dustin pulled my hands away from my face. “This hurts me, too, Sarah. I realize you married me thinking I would be home to
take care of you and our family. It kills me to know I can't do that right now. But I'll be home soon. And you're going to be fine.” He put a hand to my cheek and grinned. “But seriously, Sarah, don't sell the house if you find a roach, OK? And try not to burn down the garage or anything.”

I tilted my head back on the headrest and sighed in spite of myself. “Ha! Very funny,” I said, drying my nose with the sleeve of my jacket. “But, Dustin—”

“I know,” he said and squeezed my hand. “I know.”

I flipped down the visor to look at myself in the mirror. My brown eyes were circled with red, and mascara was running down my drawn, pale cheeks. The tip of my nose was moist and red, and little blue veins (inherited from my mom) were beginning to appear between my eyes.

I flipped the visor shut with a thud. “I look like a wreck!”

“Nah, no one's going to look great in there,” Dustin said, and then he turned to look at the boys sleeping in the backseat. “Are you sure you even want to come in, though? You could just go home if you want.”

I thought about that. Avoiding a long, drawn-out good-bye seemed like a good idea. Besides, when Dustin leaves for a short detachment—and this
was
scheduled to be a short detachment—I simply drop him off at the curb, lean over the console, and surprise him with a peck on the cheek, then smile and wave as I drive away.

But no, somehow this felt different and I couldn't just turn and go.

“I think I need to come in,” I said.

Dustin patted my knee. “OK.”

We walked through the automatic sliding doors and the air terminal's greasy smell comforted me. It is an oddly familiar scent that can take me back to my youth in an instant, like the musty hooked rugs in my childhood bathroom. Was this how other
children—children whose dads had offices and secretaries and never left home for weeks at a time—felt when they smelled coffee brewing or the odor of new office-grade carpeting?

The terminal's bare concrete walls were yellow—a desperate attempt at cheerfulness, I've always thought—but even paint could not mask garish plastic signs on the wall:
HIGH VOLTAGE
,
FALLOUT SHELTER
,
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
.

On the floor there were a few scattered pieces of red, white, and blue confetti left over from another squadron's recent homecoming. The bits of paper were stepped on and mashed into the stained gray carpet, like the dead pine needles from our Christmas tree at home.

Metal straight-back chairs were arranged in rows, and families sat in clusters, huddled together and not speaking to anyone outside their circle.

Dustin carried Owen in his portable seat, and Ford was asleep slumped across my shoulder. His head bumped and wobbled as we walked, and I could feel his breath on my neck. We went past the rows of families, and solemn faces looked up at us with wet eyes. Friends and squadron mates nodded ever so slightly but said nothing—the most sorrowful of hellos, like a congregation acknowledging a grieving widow as she walks up the aisle after her husband's funeral.

No, this definitely didn't feel a like a typical good-bye.

Dustin found a spot for us near the vending machines and a metal trash can. He set Owen's carrier on the floor, and I handed him Ford to hold in his lap. Dustin nestled him like an infant, cradling him close to his chest, and Ford sighed in his sleep.

I fell back into a metal chair. From across the room, I saw Courtney and Derek. Courtney was crying on his shoulder with a handkerchief pressed to her nose. Who besides Courtney actually carries a handkerchief? I wondered.

A few rows over, Jody and Steve and their two boys were
huddled together. Steve was bouncing Michael on his knee and though the delighted three-year-old was giggling and smiling, Steve was not. Melanie and Paul were sitting quietly in another corner. Hannah was crying in her dad's lap and Melanie reached over to pat her back.