Collateral (17 page)

didn't call the cops on the usually-so-docile

single woman who lived next door.

Because suddenly I felt very single. Not

only that, but it felt like the last two years

of my life had been waylaid. Hijacked

by this man and his misguided devotion

to his country, his dead cousin, and his

mother, in whatever order. I wasn't even

in the top three, and I should have been

number one. That's what I was thinking.

What if he never cared for me at all? What if

his declarations of love were only so much

bullshit? Could I have been so naïve as to

construct my entire life around him, when all

he really wanted was steady, easy sex?

Why had I made it so easy? Why had I

made it so good? Why had he been so

good? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I hadn't been

with him (or anyone else) for weeks.

So why did I feel so dirty? I walked down

the hall to the bathroom. A dozen steps.

Turned on the shower, and while I waited

for the water to go hot, douched with vinegar

and salt. Then I scrubbed every inch of my skin

twelve times with Ivory soap. Pure as snow.

I wasn't angry anymore. Hurt, yes.

Confused. Numb, really. The heat

was turned up, but inside me a deep

pit of cold seethed. I dressed in sweats

and furry slippers. Wrapped a big

quilt around me. Sat on the couch.

Alone on the couch. Tried to read.

Uselessly. The noise in my head—

shrill, sharp splinters of words said,

and words left unsaid—denied

concentration. The phone rang.

Imagine that. It had survived. Sure

it was Cole, I let it go. But then

I retrieved it and called Darian.

She took her best shot at reasoned

response.
Of course you're hurt,

Ash. Get used to it, if you want

to stay with Cole. And you know

you do. So you have to share him.

He's totally worth it. Compromise.

Then she transformed back into

the Darian I knew and loved.
Either

that, or dump him and put yourself

back on the market. Lots of cute

guys out there, you know. In fact,

let's go out and shop for a couple.

“You're married, Dar,” I reminded.

So? He's gone and I'm not close to dead.

At least, I was pretty sure she was.

We made a date to go shopping—

for Christmas gifts, not other men.

I hung up, feeling marginally better.

Darian always could cheer me up.

Giving advice, however, wasn't her

best thing, so I never swallowed

it in a single dose. Instead, I let

it percolate. After fifteen or twenty

minutes, I realized she was right.

I did want to stay with Cole, and

he
was
worth sharing. With his mom,

anyway. I realized I didn't need

the quilt anymore and was folding

it when the phone rang again. This

time, I picked up. Cole apologized

profusely, and so did I. We worked

out a compromise. He would go to

Wyoming for Christmas, then join

me in Lodi. He'd meet my parents,

and he and I would ring in 2009

together. “Compromise” is a word

I've learned to embrace—and hate.

It's right up there with Semper Gumby.

That initial meeting with my parents

went well. But everything about those

few days was uncomfortable, all the way

around. Even before Cole arrived,

the energy was strange. Strained. Mom

and Dad were barely speaking, something

I'd come to associate with her finding

out about yet another of Dad's flings.

Not like I was about to ask. Instead,

I did my best to lighten the mood,

blabbing about ridiculous comments

I'd heard on campus or the funny

ideas the kids I worked with had.

“One little girl told me the way to

her teacher's heart was through

her apple.” I thought it was hilarious.

Mom sort of smiled. Dad only grunted.

On Christmas day, we all slept in.

Opened presents late. If, that is, you call

cards with checks and gift certificates

tucked inside presents. Then we split

up and went to different rooms. Mom,

to the kitchen to cook. Dad and Troy,

to the family room for football. I could

have hung out with Mom, I guess.

But I was afraid of the discussion.

Instead, I went to my bedroom, propped

myself up on my bed to read and wait

for Cole to call. I waited all day, in fact.

Finally, I called him. When he answered,

there was abundant noise in the background.

Voices. Laughter. Everything our house

lacked. It made me simultaneously mad

and sad. I tried not to let my voice show it.

Failed. “I think Santa missed us this year.”

Cole said not to worry, he'd be there

in a couple of days. That Santa hadn't

missed his house, had left something

there for me. Then someone announced

dinner was on the table. When I told him

I missed him, professed undying love,

his response—
Ditto
—only increased

the anxiety inflating inside me.

Pressure, seeking release in a burst.

I swallowed a pill. Went in search of

Christmas wine. Found Mom, indulging

in a little herself. I watched her work.

Wished for conversation. Settled for

her mostly silent company. Wondered

what Cole was doing. As the medication

kicked in, the stress lightened, gas leaking

out of the balloon. But not completely.

For Cole's visit. He flew into

Sacramento, and I picked him

up there. Usually, when we first

see each other after many weeks

apart, pent-up love kindles this

amazing blaze of happiness.

That time, something felt a little

off. But I couldn't put my finger

on it, other than Cole seemed

a bit tense. But when I asked,

“Hey, soldier. Is everything okay?”

he kissed me with such tenderness

my initial unease vanished. And

when he promised,
I'm fine. Just

a little tired
, I didn't look any farther

for the source of my discomfort.

His flight arrived late afternoon,

which meant heavy traffic from

the airport down the I-5, all the way

to the CA-99 interchange and

beyond. As always, Cole insisted

on driving, but the bumper-to-

bumper stuff whipped him into

rage.
Who the fuck lives in a place

like this?
he screamed, flipping

off an equally uptight driver who

cut in front of us, seeking an exit.

“Relax, sweetheart. A few miles,

we'll be out in the country. No

traffic there. I promise.” Eventually,

we found clear lanes, but by

then I was gripping the seat

and mostly kept my eyes closed,

except when I had to give him

directions. Open highway wasn't

much better. He drove like he was

possessed. I looked for a way

to exorcise a little common

sense. “Hey. Slow down, okay?

Mom's cooking a special dinner.

I'd rather not eat hospital food

instead. You
do
like prime rib?”

I like it fine,
he snapped. But

that brought him around.
Sorry.

Can't stand congestion. In any crowd

there's bound to be at least one

freak. If there's nowhere to run when

he goes off, you're pretty much toast.

Stepped out of the car into late-December

air, the kind that makes your breath

steam. Yet we stood in the chill, holding

hands, allowing Cole to gather a sense

of the place. My home, growing up.

So much of me. Carbon clouds crept

overhead, threatening rain there in

the valley, snow in the Sierra above.

The smoke of incense cedar puffed

from the chimney, perfuming the air.

I turned into Cole, lifted up on my toes,

kissed him with all the love I held inside.

Drew back to look into his eyes. “Well?”

It's not Wyoming. But it's pretty nice.

I smiled. “With you here, it's amazing.”

With you there, it would be perfect.

That was the nicest conversation

we had for three days. We went inside,

out of the cold and into the deep freeze.

“Hello? We're here.” It took a minute,

but finally my parents came to say hello.

My warm introduction iced over almost

immediately as Dad led Cole to the guest

room. Cole turned and glanced over

his shoulder, a question in his eyes. All

I could do was shrug. The guest room?

Really? Dad had to be kidding, right?

My father, the king of impropriety,

expected decorum from his daughter

and her first serious boyfriend. Okay.

We figured we'd deal with that, and

we did. Sneaking into the guest room

once my parents were asleep wasn't

so difficult. Harder was sharing the dinner

table, where conversation over rare roast

beef almost immediately turned to war.

Dad asked. Cole answered. Mom squirmed.

I tried to redirect the dialogue toward

Wyoming, but it kept coming back to Iraq.

When it moved to the newly elected

Commander in Chief, Cole made it very

clear that he would have preferred John

McCain, who had been a soldier.
And

that awful woman? What about her?

asked Mom, who leans harder to the left

than I do. Cole could have chosen

not to engage. Instead, he offered

his opinion that Ms. Palin couldn't be

nearly as bad as Mr. Obama. It fell

apart from there. Though the volume

remained low, emotion ran high.

We all skipped dessert that night.

Dad took refuge in the living room,

behind a Jon Stewart rerun. Mom

disappeared into her bedroom. Cole

and I took drinks to the solarium, sat

very close on the wicker loveseat,

listening to rain pelt the glass overhead.

We exchanged belated Christmas

gifts. I gave him a leather journal

and an expensive pen. “So you'll think

of me when you write your poetry.”

He gave me my favorite perfume,

Secret Obsession. “How did you know?”

Darian told me. She forgot to mention

how pricey it was. But you're worth it.

I opened the bottle, daubed a couple

of drops. “It's worth it, too. See?”

That led to some seriously hot kissing.

All would have been forgiven right

there, except I felt the need to say,

“I'm sorry about what happened earlier.”

And he responded,
How could someone

like you come from people like them?

Do I jump squarely to my parents'

defense. Neither am I likely to argue

politics, especially with someone

I know I can't sway. But that night,

Cole's intransigence bordered on

arrogant, and I pretty much blew.

Our second argument was worse

than the first, because we were both

in the same room. Neither of us wanted

my parents to hear, but angry words

don't want to be whispered. We did

manage to avoid swearing at each

other, unless you call words like

“ignorant” and “intractable” cussing.

But we were both tired, a little drunk,

and neither wanted to back off.

Finally, we straight out wore out

and decided to go to bed. The house

was dark by then. Silent. Anger

still prickled my skin, but there was

something else—a primal need

threading my body. I could have

crawled solo beneath my own

blankets. Instead, I followed Cole

through the door of the guest room.

It wasn't makeup sex. It was “fuck

me so I can sleep tonight” sex. By

morning, forgiveness came easily.

When you love a soldier is to expect

pre-deployment arguments. They are,

as any military counselor will tell you,

a way into the separation to come.

As bad as those Christmas spats

had been, the one we had just weeks

before Cole's second Iraq tour was

a whole lot worse. Psychologically,

it pushed us apart. Cole's unit had

been training at Twenty-Nine Palms,

and we arranged to meet up for drinks

one Saturday night at a little off-base dive.

He'd had a rough day and showed up

late, already pretty much pissed at

the universe. I'd been waiting awhile,

fending off advances by an obviously

inebriated grunt who was loitering