Collateral (42 page)

him off, taking him back to Fallujah.

I made a mental note to make sure

Cole and I always had air-conditioning.

Days, defined by axial lean,

stretched long and longer

toward

the soft release of

summer night.

Awaken to the predawn

caress,

cool silver light

wrapped around eastern

hills, a lover. Slow

rotation into mid-morning

cerulean, warm and

flawless

as high Rockies hot

springs. Perpetual

revolution, the mercury

pushes past twin digit

luxury

into the realm of risk.

Terrestrial self-defense,

June's mad celebration

lifts,

wet, on sprays

of July heat, darkens

the sky, thunders,

stuns the earth,

and for one black,

electric moment . . .

Everything is still.

Cole Gleason

When I'm not studying for finals,

I'm working out the tiniest details

of my wedding. Eight weeks away.

And there's still so much to do.

Cole came around, not that I gave

him a choice. I refused to budge

on the location. I'd already given

them a deposit. “We can't afford

to lose a thousand dollars,” was

my excuse. “And, anyway, your

mom said she's happy to fly out.”

So that was mostly that. Darian

and I picked out an amazing dress.

It's knee length, strapless, ice blue.

I'm not such a formal girl after all.

And it was only four hundred dollars.

I decided to save as much as I could,

through simplicity. It's turned into

kind of a game, one I'm mostly winning.

Except when Cole goes all silent

on me. I try to ignore it when

it becomes obvious he's pissed

at something I've said or done.

I'm sort of getting used to it, though.

About my plans for grad school

next year, he went completely mute

for quite a while. Like, a week.

Finally, he e-mailed back:

I THOUGHT WE DISCUSSED MOVING

TO CHEYENNE. BUT I'VE BEEN THINKING
,

AND ANOTHER YEAR IN SAN DIEGO IS FINE
.

FOR ME TO QUALIFY FOR THE GI BILL, I NEED

TO PUT IN SIX YEARS BEFORE MOVING INTO

ACTIVE RESERVES. AS FOR CHANGING PATHS
,

WE ALL HAVE TO FOLLOW OUR HEARTS
.

It's good to know he's in my corner,

not that I expected anything else.

I asked about him requesting a transfer

to Camp Pendleton. I got this back:

ALREADY TAKEN CARE OF, AND I EXPECT

APPROVAL. I'LL KNOW FOR SURE WHEN

I GET BACK TO KANEOHE. NOT LONG NOW
.

I WANT WHAT'S BEST FOR YOU. FOR US
.

He'll be back in two weeks. By then,

I'll have finished up this semester.

Each year seems to rush by faster. I hope

next year tarries. I'm scared, in a way.

Half of me loves the idea of seeing Cole

every day. Sleeping with him every night.

The other half loves my freedom and

is afraid of losing me to his dreams.

Postfinals, I go over to Darian

and Spence's to celebrate. It will

be the first time I've seen him

since before the accident. He's had

two skin grafts and is healing

“like a stubborn grunt,” according

to his nurses. It's been seven

months. Still, Darian warned,

He's not beautiful. But he has

come so far, mostly through sheer

will. He's even using a walker

to get around now. It's amazing.

Amazing, and he's more than good

enough to stand up with Cole

as his best man. He even answers

the door. “Hey, soldier.” I give

him a quick kiss on one cheek,

trying not to stare at what's left

of his ear. There isn't much.

His face has a strange texture,

too. But it's definitely Spencer

beneath it, reconstructed or not.

“God, it's so great to see you.”

So great he's standing here in

front of me.
Not as good as it

is seeing you. Hey, Dar. We need

more pretty girls around here.

Can you work on that, please?

Yep, most definitely Spence.

Some things are hard to change.

And beer, we talk about school. Poetry.

About surfing and nurses (hot and not)

and wedding plans. Just like old times.

Except someone's missing. “Too bad

Cole's not here. But he might be soon.

He asked for a transfer to San Diego.”

I know,
says Spence.
No worries.

He'll get in, no problem. Cole is

everything MARSOC could ask for.

“He put in for MARSOC? He didn't

tell me that.” There is a Marine Special

Operations Command battalion

at Camp Pendleton. “But that's extra

training and more years of active duty,

right?” I already know the answer.

Well, yeah. But if anyone was ever

cut out for special ops, it's Cole.

What else is he going to do? Be a cop?

The question is what else is he going

to do without consulting with me first?

Lasagna starts churning in my gut.

“I . . . just . . . he never said a word

about it.” Not to me, only to Spence.

Why the hell does he think that's okay?

The rest of the evening. I decide

to leave early. Don't need to freak

out in front of my friends. Darian

walks me to the door. “Sorry, but

I'm not sure I can deal with this

pharm-free.” Xanax is calling to me.

What did you expect, Ashley?

I told you there's no happily-

ever-after married to a Marine.

“But I love him, Dar.” That, above

all, is true. “And after everything

we've been through, it has to work.”

I'd take some time to seriously

think it over. Think about what you

want. Not about what he wants.

Call me if you need to talk. I'm not

going anywhere. Not for a long time.

I drive home a little too quickly.

Rush inside, hurrying to e-mail him

and ask what the fuck he's doing.

But as I turn on my laptop, I reconsider.

Instead, go take a pill. With tequila.

Dar is right. I really need to get my head

on straight. It's feeling a little crooked

right now. I need order. I drink tequila.

Reorganize my kitchen drawers. Salad

forks. Dinner forks. Teaspoons. Soup

spoons. Perfectly stacked. Steak knives.

Boning knives. Butcher knives. Ordered.

I wake up, slightly hung over.

My head aches, but at least it

doesn't feel crooked anymore.

I take an ibuprofen, drink a quart

of water. Glance at my computer,

still dark, on the table. I leave

it that way. Get dressed and head

to the beach. The last thing I'm

going to do is sit inside moping.

Or make wedding plans. It's gorgeous

outside, the kind of day late spring

gifts Southern California with.

I'm not alone here. Not nearly.

I skirt the ocean's edge, avoiding

children as best I can. They run in front

of me, into the water. Duck behind

me, toward their towels. No bombs

strapped to their middles. Lucky kids.

I keep walking, listening to laughter.

Yelling. The build-crash-lap of gentle

surf. Noises, lacking danger. I am

blessed. California is my home. And

this ocean is my heart. I can't give

this up for Wyoming. Was I naïve

to believe he'd give up Wyoming

for me? I picture his face. His grin.

His gold agate eyes, holding on to me

like treasure. I see him in camouflage.

In dress blues, surrounded by grapevines.

I hear him say,
I want what's best for us.

Walk miles of beach, moving in and out

along with the tide. By the time evening

falls, my legs are sore. But my head

doesn't hurt, except from thinking

so much. I will sleep well tonight,

regardless. When I get home, I realize

I haven't eaten all day. I go straight

to the kitchen, don't find much except

eggs, cheese, and enough veggies to create

a semi-interesting omelet. I get busy on

that, pull out the skillet, and have just turned

on the heat when I get a call, not an e-mail,

from Cole.
Hey, beautiful lady.

He's working it, and I can't say I hate

that.
Just arrived back in Kaneohe.

They brought me home a little early,

to facilitate training. I'll be in San Diego

soon. My transfer was approved.

I turn off the burner. All of a sudden,

I've lost my appetite. “Oh. Good. Um . . .”

Just go ahead and say it. “I heard you put

in for MARSOC. Is that right?” My stomach

growls, but when I look at the beaten eggs,

it kind of turns. Tequila might be better.

Yeah. About that, I didn't want to tell

you until I knew for sure I got the transfer.

I didn't want to get your hopes up.

Hopes up? What? “Cole, a transfer here

is one thing. Special ops is something

else. You never even mentioned it to me.

You can't make a decision like that

without talking to me first. What's your

commitment, if you pass the screening?

Two years? Four?” I don't care about

the answer. That isn't the point. “I can't

do this much longer. That wasn't our deal.”

There's someone else, isn't there?

Where have you been? I've tried

calling all day. Is he there right now?

What? How did we get from figurative war

widow status to screwing around?

“There isn't anyone else! Do you really

not understand what the last five years

have been like for me?” I'm glad he can't

see me break down. Especially when he

says,
What they've been like for you?

What about me, Ashley? I'm doing this

for you. For us, and our future family.

Is not a strong enough description.

Doesn't come within a klick of the distance

between us. Distance that has nothing

to do with miles. He sincerely believes

what he's saying. I know that. And I also

understand that what I've been through

because of loving him can't compare

to what he's experienced. But where

does sacrifice end? “Cole . . .” I let him

hear tears, inflecting my voice. “I love you

more than I ever thought was possible.

There is no one but you. I've spent

the last six months planning a wedding.

Our wedding, you know like in ‘I take

thee forever.' But you and I have a problem.

We don't communicate like married

people need to. Grad school was a big

decision, one I definitely should have

asked your opinion about. But MARSOC?

That's huge.” More like life changing.

Maybe game changing, too. “Look.

I don't think we can rationally discuss

this on the phone. I'm glad you made

it back safely, and that you got the transfer.

See you when you get here. Love you, Cole.”

Before he can argue or offer reasons

why special ops was his best path

going forward. I'm sure he has plenty

of them stashed inside his head.

I could deal with another year

of him on active duty. Maybe even two.

We're pulling troops out of Afghanistan.

But, according to news stories,

we'll be replacing regular combat

grunts with special operations forces.

The leaner, meaner units will target

insurgent leaders and encourage

their ANP brethren to do the same.

It's the warfare of the future. Along

with drones that do their dirty business,

piloted remotely by guys sitting in comfy

trailers in the Nevada desert, where

cameras can show them the damage,

but not the collateral carnage. I talked

to a couple of them at the VA hospital,

fighting PTSD. Sometimes they see

the results of their surgical strikes on

TV and it clicks. The video games they've

been playing? Those are real people

on the far end. Not aliens. Not zombies.