Going Overboard (8 page)

“I was, but my car won't start. It did this little whining thing and died.”

“A whining thing? Dead batteries don't ‘whine,' Sarah.”

I threw my hands up in the air. “Well, how the hell should I know? Why do these things always happen when Dustin is gone?”

Brent came up beside me, wiping grease from his hands onto his sweatpants. “Hey there, Jody,” he said. “Looks like Sarah has a dead battery.”

“It isn't a loose hose or anything?” she said as she got out of the van.

“No, definitely a dead battery,” Brent said. “I'll go get some cables.” He turned to leave and Jody and I watched as he made his way across the grass again. Once he was out of sight, I stomped my foot and said, “I can't believe this!”

“Well, it's nothing to cry about,” Jody said. “Get in your car. Where are your jumper cables?”

I looked at her and shrugged.

“You don't know where Dustin keeps the jumper cables? Do you even know what jumper cables are?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Oh, never mind,” she said. “I have my own!”

She opened the back door of her van and rummaged through a pile of backpacks and softballs, then pulled out copper clamps
attached to red and black wires. After pulling her car next to mine, she fixed the wires to each of our batteries. Or, whatever. Really, I had no earthly idea what she was doing.

“Go ahead and start the engine,” she yelled.

“I'm afraid,” I called back. “What if it blows up or something?”

Jody pulled her head out from under the hood. “Please tell me you aren't really this helpless.”

“I mean, seriously, Jody! What if you have those things attached wrong and the car blows up!”

She shooed me out of the driver's seat, saying, “Give me a break,” under her breath, and then started the car.

By the time Brent came back, with a toolbox in one hand and a beer in the other, Jody had both cars idling.

“Now that's what I like to see,” Brent said. “A woman with jumper cables.”

Thankfully, Jody didn't give him the finger.

I went straight to a mechanic for a new battery, and Jody went on to the meeting at Kate's house. I wasn't all that disappointed about not going. In some way I felt I had delayed my fate, and I knew Jody would update me later. But as I pulled into the gas station parking lot, her words (“Please tell me you aren't really this helpless”) rang in my head.

The greasy lobby had a half dozen green plastic lawn chairs set out for customers, and I sat down to unload the diaper bag. I was prepared for a long wait and had crayons and coloring paper for Ford and a binkie for Owen. Things were popping out of the vinyl bag like fried rice from a Chinese take-out box.

A teenage girl with long burgundy hair sitting across from me put down her
People
magazine and chuckled.

“How old is the baby?” she asked, nodding at Owen asleep on my shoulder.

“Almost six weeks,” I said, and suddenly I felt aware of my postpartum body and the loose pooch of skin hanging over the
band of my elastic-waisted “transition” clothes. The teenager was wearing wind pants with a stripe down the leg. She had on a hooded sweatshirt, which was unzipped, exposing an intact navel and a tight white halter top. I couldn't remember the last time my belly button saw the light of day when I wasn't breastfeeding.

“I can't wait to have kids someday,” she said, staring at Owen.

I laughed. “Oh, well, they're a lot of work, too, so don't rush.”

I thought about the fact that I wasn't much older than a teenager when I had Ford. Because I got married at twenty-two and had Ford thirteen months later, I often felt I went straight from Daddy to sorority to Dustin without any time in between. While other friends had lived in apartments with groups of girlfriends, I was buying diapers and learning to make pot roast. When my friend Amy rented her first apartment in New York City and was going out for cosmopolitans with a slew of single men, I was waiting for the mailman and hoping desperately for a postcard from Dustin overseas.

At times it seemed I had grown up too fast. Or was it that I hadn't grown up at all?

“Your husband must be so proud,” the girl said. “I can't wait to have a husband.” She blew a bubble with her gum and the smell of strawberry momentarily masked the new-tire and popcorn odor of the lobby.

“My husband's in the Navy,” I said, “so he's not around much.”

The girl shook her head with pity, but I laughed and said, “Actually, sometimes it's the best kind of husband to have.” Although I knew I didn't really believe it. Especially not then.

I noticed the girl watching Ford with interest. “What's your name, hon?” she asked him, and he giggled.

“Me Ford.”

She misunderstood him—it was easy to do. “You're four years old?” she said. “What a big boy you are!”

“No, me Ford,” he said again, and then he put a car-parts
catalog with greasy fingerprints on it in her lap. “Read book?” he said.

“Oh, well, this isn't really a book,” the girl said. “But I can tell you a story if you want. Do you like superheroes?”

Ford stared at her with eyes like saucers. He was mesmerized and nodding his head enthusiastically as he crawled into the teenager's lap.

By the time the mechanic called our name over the loudspeaker, the girl must have told Ford a dozen stories about Wonder Woman and Superman and Flash.

“Well, that's us,” I said, gathering my belongings with one hand. The girl helped me with the diaper bag; then she followed us to the service counter.

“I'm just wondering,” she said. “You mentioned your husband is in the Navy. By any chance, do you know a lady named Melanie?”

I stopped and turned to look at her. “You mean Melanie Davis?”

“Yeah, I think that's her name. She has a little daughter about four years old?”

“Yes, that's Melanie. Her husband flies with mine. Do you know her?”

“She goes to my church,” the girl said. “I babysit her daughter, Hannah, in the nursery on Sunday mornings.”

I thought this over. “You babysit at the church?” I said it mostly to myself, and then before she could answer: “Maybe this is strange because we just met here at the gas station, but I'm looking for someone to help me out while my husband is gone. Would you be interested in babysitting outside the church?”

“Oh, my gosh! I would
so
love to babysit!” she said. She was clapping her hands and jumping up and down so that her perky breasts bounced in her halter top and made me feel old and fat. “That would be totally cool!” she said. “Your boys are precious!”

She gave me her name—Lauren—and phone number on the back of a Victoria's Secret receipt from her purse, which was the size of a small wallet.

It occurred to me that Amy was probably exchanging business cards with an acquaintance at a hip restaurant at that very second . . . and I was picking up a babysitter at the gas station.

When I got home, the only light in the house was the red glow of the answering machine.

“You have ten messages,” the computerized voice said.

Ten messages? Holy cow! But what were the chances one of them would be Dustin? Military wives hate missing calls from their husbands overseas.

I put the boys in bed, changed into flannel pajamas, and sat down in the kitchen to listen to my messages.

This was, at its core, a hysterical message from Mom, covered up with an overcheery tone that said, “I'm your mother and I say not to worry!” Her choice of “we” and “us” tickled me most of all: Dad hadn't picked up the phone in probably twenty years. In fact, I'm not sure I had ever spoken to him over the phone.

Message interpretation: Mom, in a state of panic, called her mother and enlisted my grandmother's help so she herself wouldn't look so neurotic. Her choice of ally was interesting, though, because Doris is just as irrational at times. This is the woman who, on the night I was born, believed Charles Manson
was sitting on the back patio spying on her. And basically, that's all she recalls of the event.

Her voice was noticeably more shaken than before.

I wondered what news everyone was talking about. I'd better call Jody back, I thought, or turn on the news. But then the last message started to play.

I ran to the machine and hit rewind. Dustin's voice echoed off the kitchen walls again. I played the tape over and over until Dustin's voice sounded strange, like a word you repeat until it no longer seems like a word. Then I crumpled into a sitting position on the floor, and hugged the phone to my chest.

My eyes were heavy and I felt like I could drift to sleep as I tipped my head backward against the wall. Until I'd sat down—until I stopped moving—I didn't realize how tired I was.

The phone rang in my hand and I jumped. “Dustin?” I said. “Is it you?”

“Sorry, Sarah. It's me, Jody. You weren't asleep, were you?”

I held up my head with my hand. “No, I'm awake. What's up? How was the meeting?”

She paused a long time. Then finally she said, “They're not coming home, Sarah. Margo said they probably won't be home for another year.”

5
I THINK PSYCHOLOGISTS CALL THAT TRANSFERENCE

“M
ommy, wake up. Someone's at the door.” I opened one eye and saw Ford's cheeky face barely an inch away from my nose. He was tugging on my arm.

“Why'd you sleep on the couch, Mommy?” he said and crinkled his pink button nose.

I pulled myself up and looked down at my lap. I was still dressed in my clothes from the day before. I thought about my conversation with Jody and my stomach cramped.

“Oh, my gosh,” I said, jumping to my feet. “What time is it? Where's Owen? Did you say someone's at the door?”

I ran to the boys' bedroom with Ford toddling behind. Their room glowed white, mostly from the whitewashed crib and toddler bed my mom had bought for us, but also because sidewise winter-morning light was already beginning to seep through the slats of the blinds. What time is it anyway? I wondered. Had I overslept, or did Ford wake up early?

Owen was asleep on his back in the middle of the crib, with his arms stretched above his head. The doorbell rang and I turned to
leave the room, nearly falling over Ford. I ran through the carpeted living room, past Tanner still asleep next to the sofa (her hearing was so bad these days), and looked at the clock on the television. Seven o'clock. Who rings someone's door at seven in the morning?

My socked feet slid across the wood floor of the foyer as I clambered to the door and peeked out the side window. A bearded man in faded jeans and a flannel shirt stood on the stoop with a young girl, who looked to be about eight years old and had straight brownish-blond bangs hanging in her eyes.

“Can I help you?” I said, cracking open the door.

“Yes, ma'am,” the man said. “My name is Trevor and I'm with Community Church up the road. This here is Rachel.” He put his hand on the girl's shoulder and she looked up at me through her bangs. She wasn't smiling.

“We've noticed you're living alone most of the time,” the man said, “and so on behalf of our church and its congregation, we'd like to invite you and your boys to come worship with us.”

I stared at him a moment. How did he know I was alone? How did he know I have boys? And why hadn't I heard of this “Community Church” before?

“I'm sorry. We already have a church,” I said, closing the door. It was a lie, but I was scared.

The man put his foot between the door and the frame. “If you'd just hear us out,” he said. “We'd like to ask you—”

“I'm sorry,” I said, looking down at my wrinkled clothes. “I just woke up and I'm a bit disoriented. Do you think you could come back later?”

Come back later? Dammit, Sarah, I said to myself. Just tell this guy to get the hell away!

“We won't be in your neighborhood later, ma'am, and we really would like to talk to you. You see, we just baptized Rachel down at the river. Have your boys been properly baptized?” He inched himself farther into the doorway.

My heart was beating in my throat. Ford peeked out from between my legs.

“They have,” I said, “and I really appreciate your asking, but I just got up, and I'm really—”

Tell him to leave, Sarah. Tell him to leave!

“And have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?” the man asked.

I pushed harder on the door, hoping he couldn't open it all the way with his weight.

Owen woke up and his crying floated through the house to the foyer. It started as a soft whimper but quickly escalated to a frantic wail. If the man heard Owen's cries, he gave no clue. He was staring directly at me.

“Look,” I said. “I really need to go get my baby and I don't have time. If you could just leave a card or something—”

No, Sarah! Just tell him to leave, dammit!

“Are you telling me this is an inconvenient time to accept Jesus into your heart?” the man said.

Tanner had woken up now, and she staggered into the foyer, stretching each of her hind legs before noticing something was amiss. When it occurred to her that the man at the door was a stranger, she leaped forward, her long nails clicking on the wood, and started barking. She would never go outside without my permission, so I didn't bother reaching down to grab her collar. She stood at the threshold and barked so excitedly her whole body shook.

Took you long enough, I thought.

But the man didn't seem frightened by Tanner's display. I guess twenty-five-pound, elderly dogs aren't that much of a threat.

“That's a purty dog you got there,” the man said. He winked at Ford. “Is that your little puppy, son?”

My hands were trembling; muscles in my stomach tensed. Yet I was still smiling at the stranger and the girl with bangs, wasn't I?

What is wrong with you, Sarah? Just tell the man to leave!

Then suddenly, feeling a bit like a mother bear protecting her cubs, I pulled back my foot and kicked the man's shin. He doubled over and I slammed the door. I flipped the metal latch—
click!
—and pressed my back against the closed door.

“We only want to help you,” the man called out. “May God bless you and your family.”

That afternoon I met Jody and Courtney for lunch at a deli downtown.

“So you just kicked him?” Courtney said, unfolding a napkin and placing it in her lap. “Right in the shin?”

I nodded. “Yep, I actually feel kind of bad about it though.”

Jody was still paying for her meal at the counter, so I cut Ford's grilled-cheese sandwich and gave half to Jody's son. “Here, Michael, eat this,” I said. “Your mom's on her way.”

He took a bite of the nine-grain bread and stuck out his tongue. “Yuck! What is this stuff?” he said.

I turned back to Courtney. “Isn't there a story in the Bible about Jesus knocking on a man's door, but the man doesn't recognize Jesus and turns Him away?”

“I can assure you, Sarah, the man at your house wasn't Jesus.” She took the cap off her bottled water. “You did the right thing.”

“No, no,” I said, shaking my head and staring down at the table. “I just slammed the door on Jesus, didn't I? My gosh, what kind of person am I? What does that do to my karma? Or is it dharma?”

“You did not slam the door on Jesus!” Courtney was beginning to sound irritated. “And it's karma. K-a-r-m-a.”

Jody walked up and dropped her tray on the table. A piece of bread fell off the top of her sandwich, exposing a pile of tomatoes and bacon.

“Who shut a door on Jesus?” she asked and looked back and forth between us. “Oh, wait, let me guess—Sarah?”

She sat down and got situated, divvying up French fries and
sodas between her boys, as I retold the story about the man and the girl. Jody nearly blew lemonade out her nose. “Only you, Sarah!” she said. “Remember that time some high school girl came to your door?”

“Yes, please don't remind me. Do we have to go over this again?”

Jody's round face was red with amusement. “She said she needed to practice her public speaking, right? Isn't that what it was? She said she was nervous talking to strangers, and you slammed the door in her face. That girl will probably be in therapy for the rest of her life.”

“I thought she had a gun,” I said.

“She did not have a gun!” Jody turned toward Courtney. “The girl came to my door, too. She was selling books to raise money for the band.”

Courtney put a napkin to her mouth to hide her laughter. “Did she come to your door
before
or
after
Sarah's?” she asked.

Jody smiled. “Well, before, of course. I'm sure the girl went straight to therapy after Sarah was done with her.”

“Very funny, guys,” I said and leaned over the stroller to put Owen's pacifier back in his mouth. “The girl had her hand in the pocket of a long black trench coat and it looked like a gun. What was I supposed to do?”

Courtney groaned. “I don't know why you even open the door for these people. Don't you have a peephole? Why do you even give them a chance?”

“I just feel bad for them, I guess. I don't know.”

We all focused on our meals for a moment. Ford threw a French fry on the floor and Jody's younger son, Brandon, giggled. Jody was watching them and smiling. Soft crow's-feet appeared at the sides of her eyes.

“A year is a long time,” she said softly, and it seemed like the entire deli came to a halt.

In fact, didn't the world stop just then?

The three of us looked back and forth at one another. We knew Jody was saying what we all were thinking: The guys were gone and we could feel it in every part of our day, every inch of our being.

Then Courtney broke the silence. “Well, you know what I always say: just more closet space for me!” She chewed noisily on her salad and smiled at us.

The clattering of plates and utensils coming from behind the deli counter seemed to resume. Life resumed. And I knew then that I had already settled into a new state of existing.

It happens to military spouses at different times, but eventually everyone wears her new reality—the reality of being alone and afraid—like a cast. And as with a broken limb, you learn to function in spite of the crippling sense that you're just barely hanging on. It's only later that you look back and say, “How on earth did I get through that?”

I looked at Courtney and Jody. They were chewing their food and glancing around at the other diners—some of whom were with their spouses or whole family. And there we were, three lonely women trying to pretend everything was OK and that our lives were “normal.” Whatever “normal” is.

I leaned in over the table and said to them in a whisper, “I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow.”

Courtney gasped. “With the Cute Doctor?”

“Of course, who else?”

“I don't know how you do it,” she said.

“Do what?”

“How you can go for an exam with this man who you claim is so incredibly attractive.”

“Courtney's right,” Jody said. “I could never go to a male doctor. I just wouldn't feel comfortable.”

“Especially because all these military doctors know we're alone half the time,” Courtney added.

I put down my sandwich and wiped my mouth. “It's not like
that, guys. The Cute Doctor wasn't always cute. He became that way—I'm not sure exactly when.”

“I think psychologists call that transference,” Jody said.

Courtney wasn't buying it either. “So you're telling me you never knew he was cute until Owen was born?”

“Exactly. I mean, obviously I knew he was good-looking, but I never got nervous around him, like I do now.” I took a sip of tea and stared out across the restaurant. A man was helping his wife take a baby carrier out of the restaurant. “I don't know. It's hard to explain,” I said. “Dr. Ashley is so sensitive, and attentive, and calm. He takes care of me.”

“Well, just be careful,” Jody said. “It's fine to have a crush—married people are allowed to notice attractive people, after all—but don't let it come between you and Dustin.”

For someone who was normally unemotional and never revealed much about her own marriage, Jody surprised me with her insights into other people's relationships. Her ability to stay objective was something I admired.

“How very perceptive,” Courtney said and smiled at Jody. “I didn't know you had it in you.”

“What?” Jody said. “You think you're the only one who can be prosaic?”

Courtney stifled a laugh. We both stared at her.

“What?” Jody said again.

“Prosaic means ‘mundane,' ‘ordinary,' ‘colorless,' ” Courtney said. “I think you meant to say ‘poetic.' ”

I gazed at Jody. She didn't like to be called out like that.

“Thanks. I'll make a note of it,” she said and sneered across the table.

But Courtney just smiled with satisfaction.