Going Overboard (18 page)

Sometime around nine o'clock, I had fallen asleep and was woken up by someone shaking my shoulder.

“Mrs. Smiley? Mrs. Smiley?” a voice said.

I opened my eyes and saw a nurse, but no Mickey Mouse scrubs.

“Mrs. Smiley,” the voice said again. “Your sister would like to have you come back now.”

“My sister?” I said, confused. Then, “Oh, yes, of course—my sister.”

I followed the nurse back to the emergency room. Most of the patient beds were settled behind partitions with curtains, but Melanie was in a private ob-gyn room, with the shades pulled down over the windows. She was curled up on her side under several layers of white hospital blankets when I came in, and she lifted her head and smiled as I came to her bedside.

“Your sister?” I whispered once the nurse had left.

Melanie winked and reached for my hand. “They wouldn't let anyone except family back here.”

“How wonderfully naughty of you,” I said, laughing, but immediately covered my mouth and apologized. It felt a little unseemly.

Melanie squeezed my hand. “Thank you, Sarah. Thank you for bringing me here. Where are your boys?”

“Don't worry about that, Melanie,” I said. “They're home with Lauren, and Jody will go get them after the party. They can sleep at Jody's house if they need to.”

Melanie's eyes were bloodshot and dark purple half-moons hung below them. For the first time, she looked her age.

“But what about Hannah?” I said. “Do you need me to go get her?”

“No, stay here with me,” she said. “The babysitter will take care of it.” She paused a moment to sip some water. Her lips were dry and cracked. I helped her get the cup back on the table beside the gurney and she said, “No one knew I was pregnant. Except Paul, of course.”

I was relieved she brought this up first, so I simply nodded and listened. Her eyes were wet with tears. “This is my second miscarriage. I don't know if you knew that or not.”

I shook my head and felt guilty for getting so much personal information. I had no words to say, so I shifted on my feet awkwardly. I couldn't imagine someone more deserving of a baby. Melanie embodied everything that was motherly. She even knew how to make oatmeal cookies and had visible purple-blue veins on her hands.

“How do you go on?” I blurted out, feeling a little childish. “How are you not totally breaking down right now?”

“Because obviously this is the plan for me,” she said. “It's not in the plan for me to have more children, and I'm learning to be OK with that.”

“But . . . how . . . I mean . . .” I was stuttering and flustered.

Melanie put a finger to her lips to hush me. “I have faith, Sarah,” she said.

There was a knock at the door.

“Yes?” Melanie said softly, and the heavy wood door began to creak open.

“Is it OK for me to come in?” a familiar voice asked.

“Yes. Please,” Melanie said. Then she turned to me. “This must be the doctor.”

I saw the shoes first—running shoes that looked like they had taken more than a few laps around the hospital. Then I saw blue pants and the white tie that held them at the waist. And finally I saw his face staring at me with a surprise I can only guess was visible on mine as well.

“Sarah?” Dr. Ashley said.

“You two know each other?” Melanie asked, looking back and forth between us.

I was aware that my face had turned hot and probably red. “Um, yeah . . . kind of. I mean, yes, this is my doctor . . . er . . . Owen's doctor . . . and my doctor.”

Dr. Ashley stepped forward to the other side of Melanie's bed. “I'm Dr. Ashley,” he said, extending his hand to her. “It's nice to meet you, Melanie.”

Thin sprouts of hair were sticking out of the V-neck of his scrubs, and I wondered why I hadn't noticed that before. Or did he usually have on an undershirt? Because surely I would have noticed something as sexy as that.

Shame on me, I thought suddenly, averting my eyes toward Melanie and straightening my posture.

“Well!” I said—probably a little too eager and loud—“I guess I'll just step outside now. I need to make some phone calls.”

Melanie smiled and squeezed my hand. “I'll be OK,” she said.

Dr. Ashley's eyes traveled up from my hand clasped in Melanie's, to my shoulders and neck, and then finally our eyes locked. “Don't worry,” he said. “Melanie's in good hands.”

“I know,” I said and slipped out the door.

My heart was pounding so hard, I could feel it in my ears when I closed the door behind me and leaned against it with my back. I stared down at the strappy high heels and skirt meant for the baby shower. How did it look now, outside the context of a girly party with petits fours? Did Dr. Ashley think I knew he'd be here? Did he think I had dressed up for him? I shook the thoughts from my mind and my long, beaded earrings bounced against the sides of my neck. God, I was ridiculously overdressed for the military emergency room.

I wasn't sure when it would be appropriate to go back into Melanie's room—the worst possible scenario I could imagine was
walking in during her exam with the doctor . . .
my
doctor—so I went to the waiting room and watched
Growing Pains
reruns on a television with bad reception. Eventually I made a bed for myself by combining some chairs, and I managed to fall asleep.

Sometime around midnight, I awakened to shoes squeaking on the floor beside me and someone stifling a laugh. I opened one eye at a time and saw Dr. Ashley standing above me.

“Comfortable?” he said and took a seat to the left of my feet with the bright red heels.

I pulled myself up to sit and smoothed my hair. “How's Melanie? Is she going to be OK?”

There was a pile of crumpled M&M wrappers to my right, which, of course, I could never let Dr. Ashley see, so I sneakily tucked them under my leg.

“Melanie needs to stay here overnight,” he said. “She's lost a lot of blood and we want to monitor her for a while. I understand this is her second miscarriage?”

“Yes,” I said. And then the babbling started. “I mean, I think that's what she said. I didn't know it before. But I know she's been trying for a while.”

The word “trying” implied “sex,” and I blushed.

Dr. Ashley looked me up and down and I felt the need to stare at my lap. “And how are you, Sarah?” he said. “I called to check up on you but got the machine. Have you gone to see the counselor yet?”

His breath smelled like stale coffee and I tried clinging to that to make him less attractive.

“I can't really think about that right now,” I said. “My head is still reeling from tonight. One crisis at a time, you know?”

He put his arm around my shoulders. “I understand. Just remember, you have my number if you need it.”

“Yes, it's right beside my phone,” I said.

“That's a great place for it,” he said; then he stood and reached for
my hand to help me up. “I think Melanie wants to see you again,” he said. “Nurse Shannon will escort you back in just a moment.”

He gave me a thumbs-up sign and turned to leave, and I couldn't help but stare at his cute rear end in the scrubs as he walked away. There was a noticeable pep in his step; then he glanced back over his shoulder and said, “Oh, and, Sarah, you've got some wrappers stuck to the back of your leg there.”

Melanie was even paler—and somehow thinner—the second time I went in, and the room smelled like sweat and vomit and blood.

“Thanks for getting the message to Paul,” she said. “He called about an hour ago.”

“Are they in port?” I asked, already gearing up to be mad at Dustin for not telling me himself, but also berating myself for being so selfish in front of Melanie.

“No, I don't think so,” she said. “The CO let him use the phone in his room. It was very quick. . . . We only talked a minute or two.”

I sat in a chair beside the bed. I wanted to take off the pinching high heels and massage my feet, but I'd rather have belched in front of Dr. Ashley than let my bare feet touch the filthy hospital floor. So I settled for propping them up on the metal bar of Melanie's bed.

“Your doctor is very handsome,” Melanie said, looking at me with such innocence, I felt like a total harlot.

“Oh, well, I guess so,” I said. “I hadn't really noticed.”

I had to look away as I lied to her.

“He's very attentive, too,” Melanie said. “Did you know that he's single? I wonder why someone like that hasn't been snatched up already.”

I stared at the ground, and willed her to stop talking about Dr. Ashley, but she continued. “The world is funny, isn't it? So often things don't make sense.”

“Like when bad things happen to good people,” I said, trying to change the subject.

“Yes,” she said, “and how a man like that can't find a wife for himself.” She sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

“Is there anything I can do for you right now?” I asked. “Is there anything else you need?”

Melanie didn't hesitate before saying, “You could say a prayer for me.”

“Me?” I said. “But, I don't know . . . I mean, I don't really have any . . . I mean . . .”

Melanie smiled and thin crow's-feet creased the edges of her tired red eyes. “Just pray for me, Sarah,” she said.

Her eyes were already closed in preparation, so I bowed my head and pulled at my hands. “Ummm . . . let's see. A prayer. Well, OK, here goes.” I cleared my throat and began the only prayer I could remember from my childhood: “God is great, God is good. . . .” What was I thinking? “Let us thank Him for our food. . . .” I finished weakly. I peeked out one eye and saw Melanie grinning. I bowed my head again. “Um, I mean . . . OK, let's see . . . ah . . . Thank you, God. Thank you for Melanie and the blessing she has been to me. Please watch over her while she is, ah, sick, and make her well again soon. Amen.”

I looked up sheepishly and saw that Melanie was crying.

“Thank you, Sarah,” she said. “That was beautiful.”

10
THE GIRL IN A COWGIRL SHIRT AND FLIP-FLOPS

E
ventually the rest of the Spouse Club heard about Melanie's miscarriage, and an emergency meeting was held at Margo's house to decide who could make dinners and help with child care. Jody and I volunteered to keep Hannah, and she went back and forth between our two houses for several days.

Hannah was an exceptionally easy child to care for, and just as dignified as her mother, so I felt like a slob any time I accidentally burped in front of her. She even walked softly. There were a few times I was afraid I might forget her when we were leaving the house because she was so quiet. It was a condition made even worse during those few days, because although Hannah didn't understand exactly what was happening with her mom, she knew it was something scary. She knew, at least, that neither Jody nor I could make oatmeal cookies or meat loaf to suit her. (When I fed her hot dogs and macaroni and cheese one evening, she said, “Where's the vegetable?” and I tried to remember the last time Ford had eaten anything that wasn't made of bread or noodles.) But given the careful way Hannah looked at me with pouting lips
and wide clear blue eyes, I knew she was feeling—possibly fearing—more than she could express, and I dug deep into my maternal instincts to help her.

Taking care of a girl didn't come naturally to me. This should be easy, I thought. I'm a girl. I know girls. I once was a child, too. But the first time Hannah asked, “Where's the Barbies?” I felt horribly unprepared. “This plastic Superman will have to do,” I told her, and she wasn't impressed, but eventually settled on playing house, with Ford, of course, acting as the unwilling “baby.”

Somehow, having Hannah around made me feel closer to my own mom . . . and closer to my childhood self. Maybe it was Hannah's thin, blunt bangs, which she unconsciously swept away from her eyes from time to time. Or maybe it was the way the bumps of her knobby knees seemed to knock together every time she walked. Or how she called me “Miss Sawah.” But whatever the reason, Hannah stirred up in me emotions I hadn't considered in a long time. How would I have felt when I was her age if my mom was sick? How would I have felt if I had to go live with the neighbors?

The truth is, I think I would have nearly died. Losing my mom has always been one of my greatest fears, a survival instinct that surely stems from having a father who was gone more than half my life. Without Mom to fall back on, what would I do?

When I was seven, just two years older than Hannah, I had a neighbor named Shirley whose mother suffered from lupus. I didn't understand the illness at the time, of course; I just knew Shirley came to stay with us unexpectedly when her mom was “feeling sick.”

Shirley was my older, more mature friend. She wore a bra—and showed it to me before I knew what one was for—and she was the one who broke the bad news to me about Santa Claus not being real. So Shirley had an exceptional amount of influence over me (as well she should: She wore mascara).

During one of the times she stayed at our house while her mom was sick, Shirley and I were asleep in my antique four-poster bed when there was a knock at the front door. I remember Mom shuffling downstairs in her robe and slippers and asking, “Who's there?” before cracking open the door. Then I heard her saying, “Not now. Not like this.” And suddenly a man—Shirley's father—was standing beside my bed. “Your mother has died,” he said, and Shirley broke down crying.

What followed was six years of night terrors during which I'd wake up sweating and calling out for my mom. It was something I never got over as a child, and it only increased my anxiety about being left alone.

And now here I was with a shy, scared girl in my care, and the best I could do was serve her hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. Secretly I worried I had failed Hannah. Failed myself.

Then one night, long after her bedtime, Hannah came to sit with me on the couch. She curled up quietly, drawing her knees to her chin, and put her head in my lap. I covered her with a blanket. When she started to weep, I couldn't think of anything else to do but sing: “I'm gonna wash that gray right out of my hair.” I sang it over and over again, and Hannah hugged me tight. For nearly an hour I patted her back and sang commercial jingles until she was asleep.

On the last night Hannah stayed with me, it was time for a bath. I know, I know. She probably should have had a bath long before this, but unlike my toddler boy with grass stains on his knees, Hannah seemed unnaturally clean and without need of a washing. But she was returning home to Melanie the next day, so a good bath was in order.

The whole thing seemed like an easy enough process, and Hannah took her bath as quietly and helpfully as she did everything else. But because it's been ages since I had long, straight hair of my own, I didn't know enough to comb through Hannah's wet
hair before putting her to bed. And for whatever reason, Hannah failed to mention this very important step to me.

The next morning, she was standing beside my bed when I woke up, and the rat's nest atop her head was at least twelve inches tall. Tangled masses of blond hair were gracing her scalp like a fuzzy ball of yarn.

“Oh, no!” I shrieked, throwing back the covers and rushing to her side. “Your mom usually combs your hair, doesn't she?”

Hannah nodded.

That's it, I thought. I've definitely failed.

But Hannah was staring at me with pleading eyes, her hands neatly clasped behind her back, and I couldn't give up.

“Well,” I said, straightening my posture, “we need to take care of this before your mother sees you. That's for sure.”

Hannah reached up and felt the pouf of hair with her hand. Tears came to her blue eyes and the bridge of her nose started to crinkle.

I grabbed her forearms and said eagerly, “No, don't cry! It will be all right. It's just hair.”

Tears were rolling down her cheeks now as she sniffled.

“I know! Should we pray about this, Hannah? Would that help?”

“Yes,” she said in a hushed voice.

I looked around the room anxiously, as if I were searching for someone to help.

A prayer for hair? Why on earth did I suggest that?

I took a deep breath and said, “Honestly, Hannah, I don't know any good prayers for hair emergencies, so why don't you say it? I'm sure you're much better at it than me anyway.”

She looked at me doubtfully, but I smiled and nodded, so she bowed her head and said, “Dear God, please make Mrs. Smiley more responsible in the future. Please make sure I don't need to cut off my hair to get out these tangles. And, God, please make Mommy better so I can go home.”

Another bath and a cupful of heavy conditioner got rid of the tangles and restored Hannah's shiny blond hair. I took her home to her mom that afternoon, and if Melanie noticed anything amiss about her daughter's hair, she never let on.

A week later, the Spouse Club met at Courtney's house for a “surprise announcement.” Everyone had their guesses at what the “surprise” might be, but the most delightful to consider was Trish's theory that maybe the men had come home during the night and would be waiting for us there. Rumors like this are common during a deployment and never (to my knowledge) come true, yet we wives get sucked into believing anyway, like a child who's old enough to know about the tooth fairy but hides fallen teeth under his pillow anyway.

So naturally we were more than a little let down when the only thing waiting for us at Courtney's house was a plateful of crackers and cheeses with names no one except the hostess could pronounce.

Courtney was positively aglow with the possibilities of Kate's surprise. She could be so optimistic sometimes! I arrived early to help set up, but after watching Courtney flutter about her yellow-and-blue kitchen wearing a gingham apron that reminded me of June Cleaver, I found myself feeling a bit useless. She was buzzing here and there, mumbling gibberish about the “cocktail napkins” and “wine charms,” while I sat perched on a barstool at her counter.

“You're nesting,” I said. “You're getting all domestic because you really believe the news has something to do with the men coming home. Am I right?”

Courtney wiped her hands on a sunflower dish towel and looked at me. “That's ridiculous,” she said. “I'm not nesting. And what does that mean anyway?”

“It means you're scaring me with your cheese knives and cocktail napkins. What's gotten into you?”

She turned toward the stove and stirred something in a pot. “I'm just excited about the possibilities,” she said, taking a deep breath and gazing up at the ceiling. “Haven't you ever felt in love with a possibility?” She turned around to look directly at me. “I haven't felt this alive since the guys left. And I don't care what Kate's surprise is. I'm just grateful for the idea of it.”

Courtney had a point. Ever since Kate's cryptic e-mail arrived in our in-boxes four days earlier, the mood had shifted from one of drudgery to one of excitement. Just thinking about the “surprise” was like a nugget of hope in the middle of a long string of nothing. Instead of sitting around talking about our angst, Jody, Courtney, and I had been giddy over the possibilities of what awaited us.

Yet somehow, now that the night was here, I didn't feel up to it.

I left Courtney to her humming and baking, and went to sit in her wood-paneled living room. It was a muted, dark room with lots of navy blue and gold. Sometimes when it rained and drops hit the skylights in the roof, the living room felt like the under-cabin of a ship, and maybe that's why Courtney chose nautical decor and had lighthouses on the mantel of the fireplace. This was a key difference between Courtney and me: Whereas I try to rid my living space of any reminders of Dustin's job aboard a ship or airplane, Courtney seemed to revel in it.

I sat down on the denim-covered couch and curled my feet beneath me. I knew I should be feeling excited—I'd spent the last few days anticipating the meeting and the surprise—but as I sank into the throw pillows with ship appliqués, I felt a sense of dread. Maybe Courtney was right; maybe none of us really wanted the hoping and guessing to end. Maybe it was the anticipation we enjoyed. It had made the week fly by, and I didn't want that to end. What would get me through the next week?

The rest of the spouses arrived soon after. Usually there are a few stragglers who take their time getting to the meeting—and
make everyone else angry in the process—but not on this night. By five after seven, everyone was seated around Courtney's coffee table and whispering anxiously. Some wives were definitely dressed sexier than usual, and I felt a twinge of triumph when I saw Sasha struggling to sit comfortably on the floor in her miniskirt and boots. Despite her usual insistence that she knows military life better than anyone, she had obviously fallen prey to the rumors about the surprise.

Kate sensed everyone's excitement, so she opened the meeting without delay. Her platinum hair was pulled back in a loose knot, and she sat cross-legged on the red brick of the hearth, poised as ever, with a black high heel dangling from her left foot. “Wow, what a great turnout we have,” she said. “I guess everyone is eager to hear the exciting news. I'm sorry if I have raised some people's hopes about the men coming home, but maybe what I have to say will be just as rewarding.”

I watched Sasha's face go from an electric smile, to a frown, to a blank stare presumably meant to mask how stupid she felt for believing.

Courtney stood in the kitchen doorway, still dressed in the apron and with a slender hand at her throat. I knew she could barely wait to hear the news, but I also knew she'd experience a letdown once the excitement was over. I knew because I was already feeling deflated and I didn't even know what the news was yet.

Kate smiled playfully and continued. “I've received word that the ship will make one last port call in France before heading to the Persian Gulf, and the CO and XO have deemed this stop safe enough for the spouses to fly over and meet them—”

Before she could say anything more, women jumped to their feet and started hugging one another. They were clapping and shouting, and I swear Courtney was already talking about what she was going to wear. “France, can you believe it?” she said to no
one in particular. “Think of all the shopping . . . and the cheeses . . . and the wine!”