Going Overboard (5 page)

I looked up from my magazine, suddenly struck by our surroundings, and said, “Can you believe we're here doing this?”

“Huh?” Dustin's eyes were fixed on the television. A muscle in his jaw flinched as he leaned his ear closer to me.

“I mean, can you believe you're leaving for deployment so soon?” And just like that, the D word was out of my mouth and floating through the air like a hovering blanket of insects. I instantly regretted bringing it up first. How long would it have taken Dustin to address the situation without my prompting? I would never know.

“We've still got a few months,” he said without looking at me.

“Well, not really. Now that the workups are starting, time will go by fast. You'll be leaving for the deployment before we know it.”

Dustin turned in his seat and stared at me. “You're really worrying about this, aren't you?” His five o'clock shadow, which always seems to appear midmorning instead of late afternoon, was just beginning to soften the sharp lines of his jaw.

“Oh, I wouldn't say I'm
worried
, really.” My voice became unnaturally breezy; I was aware of Ford listening to us as he pretended to cook a plastic hot dog in the toy microwave.

“Then what is it?” Dustin said, looking back at the television.

“I guess—I guess I just don't know what to expect.”

“But you've grown up with this stuff, Sarah. It's nothing new.”

At first I thought he was being sarcastic. I watched his profile, waiting for him to smirk and say, “I'm just kidding. What's on your mind, hon?” But he stared up at the television.

Nothing new?
Apparently Dustin had failed to notice the demanding infant and toddler who had taken up residence in our house. I was indignant.

“You're kidding me, right?” I said. “Nothing new? I'm going to be the sole person responsible for two little children while you're away. We have no family nearby to help me, and you won't spend the money to hire a full-time babysitter!”

I paused for effect and Dustin turned to meet my stare. His face was blank and I realized he might not have heard anything I had said. I didn't want to fight—not today, not again, not here—but blood burned in the tips of my ears.

I laughed bitterly. “Oh, but that's right, honey. You don't even know what it's like to be responsible for a family. You're too busy packing your seabag every other month.” This was an exaggeration, but, in fact, he had only been home for six months out of the two years since Ford was born.

Dustin glanced at me. His eyes seemed to be scanning my face for clues. I wondered if he felt just as angry but was too sad to start an argument.

“Well, you know,” he said, looking up at the television again, “you might feel a little more confident if you'd let me teach you how to balance the checkbook—”

I rolled my eyes and groaned. “That's the least of my concerns, Dustin! I can learn how to balance the checkbook online! Geez!” I shook open the coffee-stained magazine again. “Why don't you just get over the whole bank account thing or take the damn checkbook with you, for all I care?”

Dustin sat back in his seat and put a bent arm behind his head. “OK, tell me what you're worrying about, then.”

The fact that he wasn't looking at me made me anxious. I was reminded of a time when I was eleven and tried to start a conversation with my dad. We were standing on the back patio and Dad had just fired up the grill for hamburgers. He was whistling
and standing with one hand in the pocket of his faded corduroy pants, a posture I always thought exaggerated his broad, rounded shoulders. A bird swooped down and landed several feet away from us on a bird feeder. “What kind of bird is that?” I asked. Dad turned over patties with a spatula and said distractedly, “Hmm?” I didn't repeat my question and he didn't seem to notice.

Conversations with my dad always went that way. He blamed it on “compartmentalization,” which is a skill the military teaches people—to focus on one thing at a time, or to compartmentalize their emotions away from their intellect. It's an important skill for keeping pilots and soldiers safe in combat, but unfortunately, compartmentalizing sometimes rears its ugly head at home, too.

Now, as I sat next to Dustin, who was engrossed in the television, I had a familiar lump of emotion in my throat and my eyes stung.

“Well,” I said, tossing the magazine onto a faux-wood coffee table, “I'm worried that I won't be able to handle the boys, that I won't be able to keep up with the grass and the home repairs, and that”—I paused and bit my lip—“and that, well—that you won't come home this time.”

Dustin reached over and patted my knee. “That's my Sarah! Always borrowing trouble! I'll be gone less than a month and you'll be on to worrying about something else. Promise.” He smiled and turned toward the television again.

I swallowed hard and stared at the side of his face. He had the same blank look as my dad, like their minds are elsewhere.

Then without looking at me, Dustin grinned and said, “Just promise me this: If you find a roach in the kitchen while I'm gone . . . don't sell the house.”

“I'm trying to be serious, Dustin.”

“So am I!” He crossed his arms over his chest. End of discussion.

I picked up another tattered magazine and flipped deliberately through the pages. I read nothing. Ford asked me to open a
pretend milk jug for him and Owen sucked on his pacifier so hard it made a wet, squeaking sound. I pulled the plaid flannel blanket up under his chin.

A few moments later, the door opened and a man I didn't recognize walked in. He and Dustin looked like twins: same olive green flight suit, same red-and-black patches Velcroed to the chest, same clunky black boots. He was obviously from Dustin's squadron, but I didn't recognize the last name embroidered on his name badge. Must be a bachelor, I thought.

Dustin turned to look when he heard boots clomping on the cement floor. When he saw who it was, he stood up, stretching out his right hand. “Sean, man! What's up?” he said. The two of them shook hands and patted each other's backs. “This is my wife, Sarah. I don't think you've ever met.”

I lifted from my seat only halfway and shook Sean's hand. We made some small talk about the circumstances (“Depressing place, huh?” “I know you must be getting lots of things ready for Dustin's deployment.”). Then he sat down across from Dustin.

“Doing your will?” Dustin asked him.

“Yeah, man,” he said. “Not much to leave anyone though—just my Corvette, I guess. I'm packing up all my stuff and putting it in storage while we're gone.”

Sean's voice surprised me. He was so muscular, he had no neck to speak of, but when he talked, his voice was soft and almost feminine.

“Who's going to handle your mail? Your bills?” Dustin asked, sitting forward now, with his elbows on his knees and looking directly at Sean.

“My parents, I guess. I'll have everything forwarded to them.” Sean paused to watch Ford stir imaginary pudding on the stove. “You sure are lucky, man. I know it must be hard to leave these guys, but you'll have a family to come home to. Nothing compares to that.”

Dustin looked down at Owen in his carrier. He smiled thoughtfully and said, “Yeah, this one probably won't even know who I am when it's all over.”

I reached down to fix Owen's blanket again. Not that it really needed fixing—Owen was too young to kick it off or pull it down—but I felt compelled to tuck it in at his sides, bundling him in like a sausage.

A man in a khaki uniform with several lines of red and green and gold ribbons on the breast stepped into the waiting room. “Smiley!” he called out. “Is there a Smiley here?” and I resented the sound of our cheerful name.

“That's us,” Dustin said and stood up.

“You here to do your will?” the man asked.

“Yes, sir. I leave to begin workups in a few days.”

The man motioned for Dustin to follow, so I gathered up our belongings. But Dustin turned around and said, “Why don't you wait here, Sarah? I'll be back in a few minutes.” Then he turned to Sean and said, “See you on the boat,” and the two of them shook hands.

I was too stunned—not to mention embarrassed and indignant—to say anything, so I sat back down in the hard metal chair with my mouth open. The man in khaki led Dustin through a swinging door that squeaked and thumped as it came to a close. Sean opened a copy of
Woman's Day
and pretended to be interested. I wondered if he knew it was upside down.

“Momma?” Ford said from beside my chair. He peered at me with big, round eyes the color of licorice. “Read book?” he said and handed me
The Three Little Pigs
. I pulled him into my lap for a story and was grateful for the distraction—or, the excuse not to talk to Sean.

By the time Sean was called back for his own appointment, he hadn't said much more to me than “Wow, kids, huh? They must keep you busy.” I felt the muscles in my cheeks suddenly relax once he was gone. Small talk is always so painful.

Once I had the waiting room to myself again, I rummaged through my purse for the cell phone. Courtney's number was on speed dial.

“How did I know it would be you?” she said when she answered the phone. And then, “Where are you anyway?”

“We're on base at the legal clinic, making Dustin's will.”

“Oh,” she said sympathetically.

Then I corrected myself. “Actually, I guess I should say
Dustin
is making the will. I'm sitting in the lobby.”

“You probably don't want to be back there anyway,” she said. “Maybe if y'all had done this earlier, but not this close to the deploy—er, detachment. It's too hard to hear it all.”

“I met Sean from the squadron,” I said, changing the subject. “Do you know him? He's a bachelor.”

I was surprised when Courtney said yes. “I know his girlfriend,” she said. “She lives down the street from us. She wants to join the Spouse Club, but I'm not sure Margo will go for it since she isn't technically married to Sean yet.”

We were both quiet for a moment, and then Courtney said, “Hey, I'm really sorry I said that about the doctor the other night.”

“What do you mean? I'm the one who answered the question.”

“Yeah, but I said you've always had a crush on him, and Dustin looked a little shocked.”

“He'll get over it,” I said. “What's the harm in a little crush?”

“So do you know what you're going to wear to the air terminal?” Courtney asked.

“I really haven't thought about it.”

“Haven't thought about it?” she screamed. “Sarah! See, I knew something was wrong with you! What's going on?”

The swinging door squeaked and thumped. I looked up and saw Dustin walking toward me with quick, purposeful steps.

“Gotta go,” I whispered into the receiver and threw the phone into my purse.

Dustin tried to smile as he came closer, but it looked more like a frown. He knelt down beside Owen and smoothed his fuzzy duck hair.

“So did you leave everything to me?” I said jokingly, but Dustin didn't laugh. He took my hand and covered it with his own and said, “That was possibly the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I'm glad you didn't come in.”

He had made a will before his previous deployment and I didn't remember it being so traumatic. What was the matter with all of us? I wondered.

“Well, is there anything I should know about the decisions you've made?” I said. “Can I look at the will?”

Dustin pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “Let's not worry about that now,” he said. Then he bent to pick up Owen's carrier and took Ford's hand. He didn't say another word as he led us out the heavy front doors and into the parking lot, but I noticed that the clomp of his boots was more subdued than before.

3
I SHOULD PROBABLY CALL MY PARENTS

T
he last night Dustin was home, we finally undressed the Christmas tree. Why? I don't know. There couldn't have been anything more depressing or symbolic. With each ornament I wrapped in tissue and packed in a box, I felt like I was tucking away more than tinseled decorations. The ornaments were so much like our lives: packed away, dragged back out again, put on display, then wrapped in tissue and stowed in a box for the next move.

There were so many ornaments—scattered on the floor, on the piano bench, on the tree waiting to be taken down—it was almost ridiculous. Most families collect ornaments from places they've visited; military families collect ornaments from all the places they've lived. It gets confusing to remember the significance of them, and that night Dustin and I found ourselves bickering over one ornament in particular: a wooden sailboat with
SD
marked in red ink on the bottom.

I thought the initials stood for “Sarah and Dustin,” but Dustin insisted that it would say “DS” for “Dustin and Sarah” if it were our initials.

He thought the letters stood for “San Diego,” where we had lived twice already, once together as husband and wife, and one time when we were children and our parents were neighbors. This began to trigger some vague memory, and I reluctantly admitted he might be right.

But then we were disagreeing over which year: Did the sailboat signify our childhood memories of San Diego? Or the year we lived there when we were first married?

“I think my mom gave it to us,” Dustin said. “To remind us how we met as kids.”

“No, no,” I said. “She gave us the picture-frame ornament for that. The picture frame I've never found a one-inch photo for.”

He crinkled his nose and laughed. “Gosh, my mom gives us some strange ornaments, doesn't she?”

I only raised an eyebrow at him, as I dangled the ornament by its red ribbon and watched it twirl. “I think Courtney and Derek might have given it to us,” I said. “That first year we met them in San Diego. When you were still in flight training.”

Dustin accepted that explanation, and I tossed the sailboat into a cardboard box.

“Whoa, wait a minute,” he said. “Why did you put it in that box?”

“I don't know. Who cares?”

“Well, I think that box is mine.”

“We have our own boxes?”

It was a sincere question, but I see now how it might have seemed baited.

I scratched at my hair and looked down at the side of the box. Sure enough,
DUSTIN
'
S ORNAMENTS
was written on the side . . . in my mother-in-law's curvy handwriting.

“She gave you your own box?” I said. “Even though you're married?”

Dustin looked flustered and embarrassed, but he spoke in a
practiced, easy voice. He obviously saw where this was headed. “I think those are just some ornaments from when I was a kid,” he said. “She brought them down last time she was visiting. I don't know why. I thought you saw her give them to me.”

I peered into “Dustin's” box. It was filled almost to the brim with ornaments fastidiously wrapped in tissue paper. There were dozens and dozens of little bundles. I wondered how I'd overlooked the box when we were decorating a month before, and how Dustin had snuck the ornaments onto the tree.

“My parents keep my childhood ornaments on
their
tree,” I said. “What do your parents put on theirs if they've sent you these?”

Dustin massaged the back of his neck and knitted his brows. “I don't know, Sarah. Do we have to get into this tonight? I'll put the ornaments in the attic and we can give them back to my mom next time she's here.”

“This is so typical,” I started to say, but just then Ford padded into the room in his red footed pajamas. He squinted at the light and came to stand between us. “Water,” he said, in a voice thick with sleep.

Dustin and I both rushed to the kitchen, relieved by the interruption, I suppose, but it was Dustin who got to the sippy cup cabinet first, and once Ford drank the entire cup—with us staring and smiling at him, but not speaking—Dustin volunteered to take him back to bed and read another bedtime story.

I finished with the ornaments, now highly annoyed by any that were supposed to go in “Dustin's” box. I could feel the anger building inside me and my ribs felt tight.

I was wrapping one of Ford's “Baby's First Christmas” ornaments (one of the twenty people had sent us) when I thought about my first major run-in with Dustin's mom.

I was pregnant with Ford, and Dustin and I were living at my parents' house in Virginia. (We were between orders and waiting
for our house in Florida to be built.) Everyone was taking bets on when the baby would be born. November 17 was my guess (I had heard that first-time mothers go early), but Dustin said, “Duh, the baby will be born on the twenty-second, just like the doctor said.”

“Sweet, naive Dustin,” we all laughed. “Babies are never born on their due date!”
Ha, ha, ha, ha
.

It was just a few weeks before Thanksgiving and my mom had come up with a “brilliant” idea: “Let's invite all the Smileys down to celebrate!”

“No way, Mom,” I said. “Either I will have just given birth or I'll be ready to, and I can guarantee you the last thing I'll want is a bunch of company!”

Clearly, though, whatever I wanted didn't matter (I was merely a vessel at this point for everyone's long-awaited grandchild), and ever the hostess with her hospitable Southern heart, Mom invited the Smileys anyway.

“Oh, goodness!” my mother-in-law squealed. “What on earth should we bring? We could bring the potatoes . . . and stuffing . . . and dessert . . . and rolls. . . .”

What was once my family's small, intimate Thanksgiving was now turning into a Smiley circus. As a general rule, when you gather more than two Smileys in any room, the food multiplies by twelve and the noise increases exponentially. In fact, the biggest difference between my family and Dustin's is the volume of our voices. While I sometimes have to ask my dad or brothers, “What was that? Could you speak up?” Dustin's family talks—or, rather, bickers—all at once, until the conversation becomes mere noise. Loud, annoying noise.

But besides all that, who ever heard of being invited to a dinner and bringing ALL of the food?

“Why don't you just bring a pie,” I told my mother-in-law. “Except not pecan pie because I'm already making that for Dustin. It's his favorite.”

She gasped with delight. “Pecan pie is Dustin's favorite? Well, I never knew! My goodness, let me make it for him if it's his favorite!”

“No, no,” I said through clenched teeth. “It's sort of a tradition of mine: I always make one for him on special occasions.”

“But, honey,” she said, “you'll either be taking care of a newborn or getting ready to deliver—you don't need to be worried about making a pie! Let me. I'm his mother, after all.”

For the next several days, our conversations were a pie-making tug-of-war: “No, I'll make the pie,” I'd say, and she'd come right back with, “No, let me, let me!”

To my friends I said, “I'll be you-know-what if I don't make that damn pie! Even if I have to bake it between contractions, I'm making Dustin's pecan pie!”

My plan was to make it the day before Thanksgiving (my due date). I even had all the ingredients. But sure enough, Dustin had been right with his prediction, and in the wee hours of the morning on the twenty-second, I went into labor. I hadn't baked the pie yet.

At about four o'clock in the morning, as I gripped the bars of the metal hospital bed railing, Dustin said, “I think I should call my parents.”

Mind you, I was not waiting to be admitted to the hospital, nor waiting for that magical dilation; I was in active labor, and minutes away from having a baby. This was no time for my husband to divide his attention. I needed him.

“Whatever!” I said, rolling my eyes. But Dustin mistook my emotion for predelivery husband hating and called his mom anyway.

“Sorry to wake you, Mom,” he said, “but we're in the hospital and your first grandchild is going to be born soon.”

Through the receiver came a loud squeal like a jumbo plane taking flight. Then I could hear my mother-in-law's voice squawking like a bird's. Dustin was listening closely and knitting his brows. “Hmm, I don't know, Mom,” he said. “But I'll ask her.”

He covered the phone with the palm of his hand and bent down toward me in the bed. Then, in all sincerity, and with the innocence of a child, he said to me, “Mom wants to know if you had a chance to make the pecan pie yet.”

Sitting on the piano bench now, with ornaments in my lap, I laughed to myself, thinking about what my face must have looked like to Dustin that day. Because although I never answered him, he got back on the phone and said, “Uh, I'm going to guess she did not, Mom.”

I wiped at my brow. Most of the ornaments were packed away, but a shiny silver wedding cake with our wedding date engraved on the bottom sat on the black piano top. I held the ornament in my hand and sighed. Dustin's mom came to Thanksgiving dinner that year with not one, but three varieties of pecan pie. “So typical,” I said to myself and tossed the wedding cake ornament into a box.

But then I remembered something else: Dustin didn't eat a single bite of his mom's pies. In fact, I think he even told her, “I'm going to wait until Sarah can make me one of hers next time.”

Yet when
was
the last time I had made Dustin a pecan pie? I wondered. Had I ever made him one since Ford was born?

I heard Dustin softly closing the door to Ford and Owen's room and then coming down the hallway in his socks. I taped up the last box of ornaments, trying to stall, and maybe hoping Dustin would come out and get me, before I gave up and went to our bedroom.

We met in the bathroom and both started getting undressed.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” I said.

Dustin winked at me and threw his dirty clothes into the wicker laundry basket. “We're both on edge,” he said.

Then I walked past him on my way to the dresser, and ran a hand across his bare back. “The counselor from Fleet and Family Support said we might argue more than usual,” I said.

Dustin came up behind me and rubbed the sides of my arms.

The white flag had officially been raised.

“I'm sorry, too,” he whispered in my ear. “Now let's forget about all that.”

“All right,” I said and turned around to face him with a playful smile. “But we're sending that box back to your mother.”

Dustin grinned and patted me on the rear.

We got in bed and I curled up behind him. Our legs fit into one another in a familiar way, just like a clasp. My nose was pressed against his back and the musky smell of his skin sent waves down to my stomach.

In that moment, as we were lying there in the dark together, all the emotions of the previous week seemed insignificant. I couldn't embrace him tight enough or long enough to suit me: I knew all too well how empty and cold his side of the bed would be tomorrow night.

Dustin turned to face me and we stared at each other until I saw green spots from the darkness. I was trying to memorize his face—his full eyebrows, the mole next to his lip, the scar beneath his nose where a mustache won't grow. I wanted to take it all in, to store the images like dots of light that stay on your retina after you've looked at the sun. But most of all, I wanted to believe, there in the silence, that he was memorizing my face, too.

And then he said, “I should probably call my parents.”

I blinked. “What? What for? You're only going to be gone two weeks! It's not like this is the big good-bye. It's not the deployment.”

But Dustin was already throwing back the covers and swinging his feet over the edge of the bed.

“Yeah, but things are so uncertain,” he said over his shoulder. He put on a shirt and stepped down to the floor. “I mean, what if they send us straight to the Middle East after our training?”