Collateral (23 page)

Cole and Spencer had a good laugh

about it. Darian actually joined them.

Personally, I was more than a little

worried that the three of them

thought kicking ass on a couple of

guys just trying to do their jobs

was funny. But I let it go. I let lots

of stuff go, and that worries me

some, too. The rest of the evening

went by without incident. We didn't

return to the park, but we did take

a walk to where we could see fireworks

over Cinderella's castle, all decked out

in holiday lights. It almost made up for the day.

We caravanned back to San Diego.

The guys, of course, drove, and their

playful game of chicken was truly

terrifying. “Please don't tailgate,

Cole,” I finally begged, one hand

against the dash, the other gripping

the side of the seat.
This is how

infantrymen drive. Don't worry.

I've never rear-ended anyone yet.

Worrying—or arguing—was pointless.

In front of us, Spencer cut to the right

in front of a semi. The truck driver

laid on his horn. Spence flipped him

off. “Think there's any way we can

convince Spence to see a doctor?”

They already put him on antibiotics.

“Not that kind of a doctor.”

You mean a shrink? What for?

“Depression. Anger. Impulse

control. Posing a threat to society.”

He laughed.
You're describing every

soldier I know. There aren't enough

shrinks in the world to fix all of us.

Confiscate his weapons.

Send him home, reunite

him with his family.

But you

don't want to turn your back

on him. Better not hand

him a knife. And if you

can't take

his nightmares, consider

the guest room. His dreams

won't ever desert him.

The true cost of

war

can't be measured

in dollars, infrastructure,

or body counts.

It is tomorrows, wrung

out of

hope by yesterdays

that refuse to retreat,

vanish into the smoke

of memory. Ask

a soldier

what he believes in.

He'll tell you God. Country.

The patient hands of death—

the ones he's wearing.

Cole Gleason

As soon as we land, I call Dar,

but her phone goes to voice mail.

“Just got in. Where are you? Call me.”

Everything seems to move

in slow motion—disembarking,

making my way to Baggage. Waiting

for my suitcase. I don't know why

I'm in such a hurry. I have no idea

how to get ahold of Dar . . . wait. Yes,

I do. When we were kids, I called

her house at least once a day, often

more. I remember the number.

Her dad answers, and I ask for her

mom, but he says,
She's on her way

down. Darian's beside herself.

“What happened? Do you know?”

Copter crash. Three guys died.

Spencer's hanging on, just barely.

He's in intensive care at the base hospital.

“Okay. Thanks.” I start to hang up.

He stops me.
Wait. Will you please

tell Darian I love her? I'd come, too,

but the livestock . . . I'm so damn sorry.

What they leave, dangling

between the lines, is what

they need to learn to say.

What he told me was like a book

cover, hinting at all the words

locked up inside. I'm a good

reader. Then again, I'm privy

to the inspiration for the story.

What, I think, he wanted to

say, if he only knew how, is that

if he could do it over, he'd be

a better dad. More caring.

More involved. More here,

less there. That his daughter

means more to him than his

horse. More than a silver

buckle. Maybe even that we

should have pushed him to

take us out on the circuit, let

us show the world—his world,

especially—that we were special.

That his daughter was every bit

as brilliant a singer as Carrie

Underwood or LeAnn Rimes.

She could have been somebody.

Instead, she ran. From home.

From him. Straight into the arms

of a soldier. A brash, half-crazy

Marine, currently lying in a sterile

intensive care bed, thinking about dying.

Plop from the belt onto the carousel,

my thoughts go to my own Marine,

off soon for another chance at accidental

crash, or completely planned bullet. Why

do we continue to do this? Why have I

volunteered for this kind of worry?

It occurs to me that he ought to know

about Spencer. I give him a call. Catch

him post-mess. “I've got bad news,”

is how our conversation begins. Not,

“I made it home safely.” When I tell

him the little I know, he is not totally

surprised.
Ah, fuck. I heard about

the crash. News like that travels fast.

I didn't know Spencer was one of them.

Sucks when they go down at home after

making it back safe from no-man's-land.

Goddamn Sea Stallion. Freaking ironic.

His matter-of-factness bothers me. This

is his friend, not just some grunt. I promise

to call as soon as I know more, snag

my suitcase, walk to the car, lugging

much more weight than my bag.

When I tell the MP at the gate why

I'm here, his tough stance softens.

He takes my ID, notes it in his log,

hands it back.
Really sorry. Give

Darian my best, please.
As he directs

me to the hospital, I study his face

better. Oh, yes. He's the same guy

who was here the last time I came

through with Dar, no ID check necessary.

It could just be my imagination, but

his somber mood seems to be reflected

everywhere—the streets are a little quieter.

The people I do see aren't smiling.

When something bad happens to Marines,

their extended military family shares

the experience. I still haven't heard

from Darian, but I assume she's here

at the hospital. I ask a receptionist,

who directs me to a small waiting room

outside the intensive care unit. Dar

is there, rocking gently forward and back,

staring at the floor. No television.

No magazine. No company at all.

Just Darian. Dwarfed by worry.

On the doorframe. “Hey,” I say

quietly. “How're you doing? I tried

to call you when I landed, but . . .”

Her head jerks toward me.
Jesus,

Ash, you scared the hell out of me.

You can't just sneak up on a person.

Then she melts.
This is . . . insane.

She gestures for me to sit next

to her. I do, searching for the right

thing to say. We have been friends

for fifteen years and never shared

anything quite as profound as this.

“I talked to your dad. He told me

a little about what happened. He also

said to tell you he loves you and that

he's really sorry about Spence.”

She stiffens. Frosts.
Really? Isn't that nice?

It bugs me—all this outpouring of love

in times of trouble. People are hypocrites.

And that includes my goddamn dad.

Wow. Does she think that about me,

too? “Dar, I'm pretty sure he meant it.

Some people aren't good at expressing

emotion. When they're worried

about you it's easier.” I change

the subject to something more

pressing. “Tell me about Spence.

What do the doctors have to say?”

She looks at me with bloodshot

eyes. Straightforward says,

He's got second- and third-degree

burns over sixty percent of his body.

If he makes it—and that's a big

if—his recovery will be prolonged

and excruciating. Multiple skin

grafts. Physical therapy. And even

with all that, he'll never be the same.

“Jesus.” It's impossible to picture

Spencer like that. He's a fighter, not

a victim. But you can't fight flames.

I invoke my not-quite-forgotten

religion, send a silent prayer to

the universe. Darian interrupts.

I don't know how to feel. At all.

I've been thinking and thinking.

She lowers her voice.
Please don't

hate me for this, but know the first

thing I thought when I heard?

Problem solved. Yep, that's right.

Sick, I know. But that was my gut

reaction. But then when I got here

and saw him, bandaged and burned . . .

Burned! All the love I ever felt for him

came crashing back. Oh, God.

He can't die, Ashley. Not like this!

She leans into me, cries a long time,

soaking my shirt with her tears.

Just there. I'm afraid to reach out

for it, but when she finally pulls

away, some inappropriate need

to know makes me ask anyway.

“So . . . what about Kenny?”

Tears glaze her eyes.
I don't know.

I mean, I was ready to tell Spence

that it was over between us. I had

my speech all planned out. The truth

is, I'm still in love with Kenny.

Nothing can change that, not

even this. God. Why does life

have to be so goddamn cruel?

Don't look at me like that, okay?

I get the whole karma thing, and

if you don't believe I haven't been

thinking about it, you're wrong.

Maybe I'm a bad person. Maybe

I deserve to get my ass kicked.

But like this? As I understand it,

karma's supposed to be about

squaring things up. Making them

fair. What's so goddamn fair

about Spencer being the one lying

in there? Karma's fucked up!

With each sentence. A nurse passing

by in the hallway ducks her head

through the door, asks if everything's

okay. Darian deflates her with a sharp

scowl.
Fine. Wonderful. Awesome,

in fact. Just having a little chitchat

about karma. Have an opinion

you'd care to share with us?

When the nurse smiles, her age

shows in the way her face creases.

My daughter has a hamster named

Karma. I put my faith in science.

Apparently satisfied we aren't at

each other's throats, the nurse—

Cheryl, her name tag said—goes

about her business. “Look, Dar,

I don't think you deserve this.

Accidents happen, and they have

nothing to do with karma. This must

be incredibly confusing. I know you

love Kenny. And he's definitely crazy

about you. I also know that a little part

of you still loves Spence, or you wouldn't

be here, beating yourself up. Speaking

of that, how long have you been here?”

She looks like hell—rat's-nest hair and

wrinkle-scarred clothes. “And when

was the last time you ate something?”

She shrugs.
I don't even know

what time it is. They called really

early this morning. Woke me up.

The accident happened yesterday

but it took a while to . . .
She winces.

Figure out who everyone was. One

of the other guys came in alive,

but died before his wife could get

here. He and Spence were in back.

The two in front took the worst

of it. They could only ID them by

process of elimination. It was awful.

Knowing Darian like I do, sitting

around here, waiting for . . . whatever

is going to get her all wound up

again. “Hey. Have any food in your

fridge? Why don't I cook you dinner,

and you can get cleaned up? Maybe

even catch a few z's. Seems like

everything's in a holding pattern.”

She starts to say no. Reconsiders.