Going Overboard (19 page)

I stayed on the couch and sank farther into the cushions. I knew this day would eventually come. One of the highlights of military life is the opportunity to fly overseas and meet your spouse in a foreign port, usually with groups of other wives, making it yet another bonding experience. My own mom had once participated in this age-old tradition when I was a baby. She flew to the Philippines to meet up with Dad and left me and my brothers with Doris and Big Jack. I have no memory of her leaving or returning, but I do know she never went on another overseas flight again. Apparently Mom's fear of flying (handed down from Doris) kicked in, and for the rest of Dad's military career and various deployments, she said, “No, thanks,” when the other wives planned trips to go abroad.

I couldn't have imagined Kate telling us anything worse, other than that one of the guys had had an accident. Besides the whole flying issue, I wasn't sure I wanted to go to France. I wasn't sure I wanted to see Dustin. Which surprised me because I had just spent the last several days hoping he'd be at Courtney's house that night.

When Jody spotted me on the couch, she pushed her way through the excited women and came to sit down next to me.

“Aren't you excited?” she said.

I looked at her, confused. “Excited? You know me better than that. There's no way I can go. Unless you know of any boats to get me there.”

“We'll get you some medicine,” she said. “And some beer. You'll never even know you've been on a plane once you get there. Come on! You can't miss out on this.”

I shook my head. “I can't, Jody. There's just no way. It would take a lot more than medicine and alcohol to get me on a plane.”

“What then?” she said. “What would it take? Just tell me and we'll do it.”

I looked at her and smiled. “It would take your hitting me over the head with a two-by-four and knocking me unconscious.”

“Great!” she said. “I can do that.”

That night, Dustin called. I knew it was him because the caller ID read “US Government,” but I didn't answer. I couldn't answer. I knew, without a doubt, he would try to convince me to fly, and I didn't know what to say. Then, sure enough, when he left a message, I knew I had done the right thing:

I had no trouble going to sleep at a reasonable hour (one a.m.) that night. Perhaps I was emotionally drained, or maybe the anxious grinding of my teeth ever since I'd left Courtney's house had made me tired, but once I got in bed, my eyes shut, and I was asleep.

An hour later, I woke to a startling noise. A blaring siren whirled in the hallway, bouncing off the wood floors and echoing so that one piercing sound fell into the next. I sat straight up in bed and put a hand to my chest. The noise was deafening, and I imagined it circling around my brain, swirling around my ears. The bedroom was completely dark, and I couldn't see anything, except one flashing red light on the wall near the door.

The burglar alarm.

My heart was beating in my throat and banging against my chest. I had gone from being peacefully asleep to feeling like I had drunk twenty cups of coffee.

I reached for the phone beside the bed and dialed 911, but got
it backward and ended up with 1-9-9. “Dammit!” I yelled and threw the phone down. The siren was getting louder and the whirling seemed to be getting closer and closer. My hands were cold and wet.

I fumbled with the phone and tried the number again: 9-1-1.

This time it rang.

“911, what's your emergency?” a dispatcher said in a drone voice.

“Someone's in my house,” I yelled. “Please, help me!”

“What's your address?” The dispatcher sounded calm, almost bored, as if this were routine.

“I don't know right now. Call my neighbor,” I said.

“I'm sorry, I can't hear you. You need to turn off your alarm.”

I screamed louder. “CALL MY NEIGHBOR!”

“Who's your neighbor, ma'am?”

“Brent!”

“Brent who?”

“I don't know—just call him!”

The dispatcher tried to be patient, but irritation came through her staccato words: “Ma'am, I can't call Brent unless you give me his last name or phone number. Now I need you to stay calm and answer some questions for me. Are you alone?”

My hands shook the phone. “No,” I said. “I have two children in another room.”

“I need you to put down the phone and go get your children,” she said.

My breath caught in my chest. “I don't think I can move.”

“Listen to me,” she snapped. “Put down the phone and go get your children. I won't hang up and I'll be here when you get back.”

My legs were like weights. It was like a bad dream when you want to run but can't. I felt frozen. “I can't move,” I said and started to cry. “I don't want to see what's happened to them.”

Just then a dark shadow came across the floor outside my bedroom door. I screamed into the phone, “Help me! Help me! Oh, God, please! My children!”

Then I looked up just as Brent came out of the shadows and stepped through the door. He was bare chested and wearing a pair of SpongeBob SquarePants boxer shorts. He had a baseball bat in his hand.

“The police are on their way,” he said. “You're going to be OK.”

I threw down the phone and ran to him.

When the red-and-blue lights of police cars lit up the cul-de-sac like a disco party, neighbors stepped out onto their front stoops in bathrobes and squinted their eyes to see across the street. There's nothing like a mysterious emergency in the middle of the night to bring out the community spirit in everyone.

Brent bundled me and Ford and Owen in blankets and brought out chairs for everyone to sit on while the police searched the house. I was still shaking, but I had stopped crying . . . until I remembered Tanner. “Oh, my gosh, Brent!” I yelled. “Tanner! Tanner's still inside.”

Brent dashed back inside to get her, like a fireman running into a burning building.

I pictured Tanner shaking and whimpering under my bed. I pictured her crying because I hadn't thought to bring her out with the kids. I pictured her hating me for the rest of her life. She'll never get over this, I thought. She'll be scarred and frightened forever.

But when Brent came back out a few moments later, he was holding a very irritated and sleepy Tanner with fluffy bed head sticking out in all directions.

She was less than scared—she was indignant.

“Where was she?” I cried, reaching out to hold her.

“Asleep under your bed,” Brent said. “Have you had her hearing checked lately?”

A police officer came out of the house and I recognized his stiff walk and mustache. He was the same one from before, and here I was again in my driveway . . . in my pajamas. Thank goodness I was wearing flannel this time.

“Looks like you have a warped back door,” the officer said as he scribbled notes on a pad of paper. The radio on his belt clicked on and off with nothing but static and mumbling voices. “It probably popped out when the temperature changed tonight,” he said. “And that was just enough to trip the alarm. But everything looks good and we've reset the system.”

I sighed with relief and clutched Tanner closer to my chest. “I can't thank you enough, Officer,” I said.

He smiled as he flipped the pad of paper closed. “Don't worry about it. We're glad to help. But hey, you might want to get a better watchdog for yourself.” He laughed and tousled the fur on Tanner's head. Then he looked at my face and his eyes brightened. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Aren't you the girl—the girl in the cowboy shirt and flip-flops?”

“Cow GIRL,” I said. “It was a cow
girl
shirt. But yes, that was me.”

He looked me up and down, then smiled sympathetically. “A single mom?” he asked.

“No, actually, my husband is serving overseas,” I said.

The officer smiled. “Oh, well . . . Hey, next time you talk to him, send him our best, and our thanks.”

He swaggered back down the driveway to his police car, waving at all the onlookers as if he were a rock star.

Why is it that women go crazy for a man in uniform? I wondered. How can a uniform totally mask every other flaw so that we believe the man inside is near superhuman and infallible?

The officer was probably going back to his wife, back to his children. There he would take off his thick leather belt and shiny badge and transform back into “husband” and “dad” until the next shift. I turned to look at my house. Every light was on and there
was a definite glow from the front window lighting up the darkness outside, yet the house still seemed empty and cold to me. I would go back inside and put the kids to bed and try to go to sleep, but it would still be months and months before Dustin's uniform rested on the floor of our bedroom again.

I couldn't help but envy the policeman's wife.

Once I was back inside and had put the kids to bed, I called Courtney, but not from the closet this time.

“You won't believe what just happened,” I said. “My freaking burglar alarm went off in the middle of the night!”

“No way!” she said. “Is everyone all right?”

“Yes, we're fine. The police came to check everything. I'm still kind of shaking. I don't think I can go back to sleep.”

“I'd think not,” she said. “I'd probably pee my pants if the alarm went off.”

I was a little taken aback by this. First of all, it was stunning to hear Courtney say “pee.” But also, I had always thought Courtney was fearless—or at least unconcerned—in most situations. She's the kind of person who never jumps to conclusions about strange illnesses when she is sick. So it didn't occur to me that she might sometimes be scared—by something other than my bad manners.

“Were you crying hysterically?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah! Of course. But I handled it. I'm actually kind of proud of myself.”

“Way to go, girl!” she said. “See, now you can get on a plane and fly to France with us!”

“Nope, no way.”

“Sarah!” she cried. “It just won't be the same without you. You have to come. Dustin will be so disappointed.”

“I know, I know,” I said, “but I just can't—”

I stared at our black-and-white wedding picture on the bedside table and took a deep breath, finally realizing how tired I had become.

“Look, Courtney, I'm starting to feel exhausted now,” I said. “I should probably get some sleep before the boys wake up again.”

“OK, so long as everything is all right,” she said. “If you want me to watch the boys while you sleep tomorrow, just give me a call.”

I hung up the phone and saw the Viagra notepaper with Dr. Ashley's phone number on it next to the charger. The house seemed quieter than it ever had before. I could hear the kitchen clock ticking outside my room.
Tick, tick, tick.
Usually ticking clocks are soothing and help me to sleep, but now the noise was bothersome, and with each
tick
of the second hand, I was reminded of my loneliness.

Where is Dustin? I wondered. What country? Which ocean? I had no way of knowing. But did it really matter anyway? He was a world away in all respects.

It was strange to think about our parallel lives, the way I was going about my business in the same city and town he knew, while he was thousands of miles across the ocean, experiencing a world I had never been a part of. What is he doing right this minute? I often wondered. But I couldn't begin to guess. I had no point of reference for his days and nights and what his schedule might be like. I didn't even know what the rack he was sleeping on looked like.

Dustin was living somewhere I had never been. Were there any reminders to make him think of me? I thought of Dustin every time I passed his favorite Italian restaurant on Twentieth Street or saw his pickup truck sitting in the garage. But what did he have to remember me?

I looked at the Viagra notepaper again. I wanted to hear Dr. Ashley's voice. I wanted to tell him about what had happened. I wanted to hear him say again that I can take care of myself. But why? Why did I need that? Why him?

Had I become—
gasp!
—dependent on Dr. Ashley?

I picked up the paper and bit my lip.

“Oh, what could it hurt? I'll just get an answering service anyway.”

I dialed the number, and my palms began to sweat when I heard the ringing.

Maybe I shouldn't be doing this, I thought. What was the purpose anyway?

And then someone picked up the other end.

“Hello?” Dr. Ashley said.