One September Morning (23 page)

Of course, he will never be able to write it.

That’s killing him. But in the course of a lifetime, he figures you have to crash and burn a thousand times before you get it right. What’s that myth? He’s like the phoenix rising from the ashes.

By the time he flips open his phone and calls Abby’s number, he has already put it behind him. It’s a bitter pill that went down hard, but the worst is over now.

Well, almost.

Seattle
Abby

A
t five a.m. the Seattle studio of the morning show affiliate is an assault of cold air and blinding lights. Abby feels like a phony, propped in an upholstered chair on a platform in front of a blue screen. She has never been on television before, but if this is the typical experience, she’s glad to be pursuing a degree in psychology.

The segment producer, who has an unusual name that Abby can’t make out, like Micah or Micko, looks like he’s fourteen and talks superfast like an auctioneer. He explains that they’ll project the skyline of Seattle on the screen behind her. She’s not to touch her microphone or leave this chair during the interview. She needs to wear an earpiece to hear Carly Michaels, the host of
American Morning
.

Yesterday, by phone, Abby went over salient points to be touched on in the interview, and yet, when Micah starts counting down to when the feed comes to them, nerves whip her heartbeat up to double time. She hates this. It’s very uncomfortable to speak to a voice in your ear, a face on a screen.

Honestly, Abby is a little afraid of Carly Michaels. The host of
American Morning
has a reputation for getting to the heart of the matter with a minimum of time wasted in chit-chat. If Abby can make her points without sounding like a whiny widow, she’s confident Carly will get it.

While Carly introduces her, Abby takes a minute to let her shoulders relax, her heart rate slow closer to normal. This is not fun, but it’s important.

I’m doing this for John, she keeps telling herself. But really, she would rather be home reading the driest of psychology texts. She would rather role-play as a therapist utilizing cognitive behavior therapy. She would rather scrub the toilet or scrape the bird droppings off the porch than put herself out there on national television and demand answers from the military.

After offering condolences, Carly digs right in. “Thank you for speaking with us. I understand you’ve been trying to get information regarding the circumstances of your husband’s death. What have you learned?”

“It’s been frustrating, to say the least, Carly. I’ve made dozens of calls to military personnel, trying to get some answers, but I’m left with the same questions. If there was an insurgent sniper in the building the day my husband was killed, why wasn’t he found? Why was I not told that my husband was killed by two rounds from an M-16?”

“An M-16 being the type of rifle our troops use in Iraq,” Carly interjects.

“Exactly. I’m trying to piece things together, at a loss without reliable information. However, there’s been a report that the soldier who was by John’s side when he was shot actually saw a U.S. soldier retreating from the scene.”

There…she got that in. Before the show she and Flint had gone through a list of critical points she wanted to make, and Carly was giving her the perfect leads to share important items.

Carly is shaking her head in disbelief. “With so many signs pointing to fratricide, one soldier killing another, why isn’t the government investigating this incident?”

“I wish I knew,” Abby says. “John Stanton has been held up as a great American hero, and yet there’s been no action taken to explain his death, which does not seem to be combat related at all.”

“We think you deserve some answers from the United States Army, Abby,” Carly says. “So we’ve asked Colonel Witt Hollister to speak with us from our news bureau in Washington, D.C.”

An army representative? This is a surprise for Abby, but she’s hopeful that she can make some headway right here and now.

“Good morning, Colonel Hollister,” Carly says sweetly.

His name reminds Abby of an old-fashioned book series she stumbled upon in third grade called the Happy Hollisters in which a large family encounters and solves mysteries in their travels. An only child, Abby had always loved the way the kids turned to each other for resources and ideas. Besides, they were always so happy.

As is Colonel Hollister. The man on the monitor has a halo of snow-white hair matched by his brilliant smile. “Good morning, Carly. And Mrs. Stanton, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Colonel, what can you tell us about John Stanton’s death?” Carly asks.

“The loss of Specialist John Stanton was a true tragedy, Carly,” he says, all pearly teeth and halo hair. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details or the circumstances.”

“Colonel, Abby Stanton just lost her husband.” Carly tilts her head with that flinty I’m-not-giving-up-so-you’d-better-answer look. “Don’t you agree she should have access to this very personal information?”

Abby feels a flash of momentary satisfaction that Carly is on her side.

“I would love to be able to offer John Stanton’s family information to help with closure. However, Specialist Stanton was assigned to a Forward Operating Base in Fallujah, a dangerous area, a very active combat zone. The army cannot disclose information regarding operations or missions in a highly volatile area such as—”

“But Colonel,” Abby interrupts, running over his words, “how top secret is the activity in this area if there are news teams embedded there? If they can report what’s going on, why can’t I have a few simple details about a mission that cost my husband his life?”

“I wish it were that simple, Mrs. Stanton,” he says with a forlorn expression, and Abby wishes he were in the same studio so she could smack that condescension right off his face.

“Colonel—” Carly takes another shot. “Is there or is there not an investigation being conducted regarding the details of John Stanton’s death?”

“Absolutely,” he answers. “I can assure you that every casualty is thoroughly investigated.”

“And in the army’s investigation is there any mention of friendly fire?” Abby asks.

“I have not heard that term used in connection with John Stanton.” Colonel Hollister is now void of emotion, a flat affect.

He’s lying,
Abby realizes. Part of her training is learning to read body language and demeanor, and Hollister’s sudden shift in attitude is telling.

Anger burns through her, a flash fire. It’s a good thing the colonel is thousands of miles away; if they had to share the same studio,
American Morning
would have a new wrestling segment.

“Here’s a question I’m sure you can answer, Colonel,” Abby says. “If you were me, if you’d just lost, say, your wife while she was serving in Iraq, how would you piece together what happened to her? How would you assemble the pieces to relive her last day in your mind, to calculate what her last thought might have been, to determine that, though she is dead, that death was not a result of foul play or unfair advantage?”

Tears sting Abby’s eyes but she refuses to blot at them. They are tears of anger, she tells herself, a reaction to the bright lights. She will not cry in front of this stuffed shirt who would love to see her reduced to tears.

“If, in the end, all that was left of your wife was an urn full of ashes, how would you reconcile her death, Colonel?”

“Mrs. Stanton,” he says, “losing a loved one is a—”

“Don’t patronize me!” she snaps. “My name is Abby Fitzgerald and my husband John is dead and I want to know what happened to cause that death while he was serving his country in Iraq. That is what I am asking; that is what I demand to know.”

But of course, Colonel Hollister cannot give her any real answers; most likely he doesn’t know much more about John’s death than what he has read in news stories.

When the whitewashed burn of the studio lights dims at the end of the interview, Abby expects a cold reception from Micah. It’s not like her to be brusque and argumentative, but then again she’s never been pushed into a situation like this before.

“That was great!” Micah calls, rushing over to her as she waits for the mike pack to be removed. “I like the way you refused to stand down.”

Abby lets out a breath of relief. “I don’t think the colonel liked it too much.”

“Ah, screw him!” Micah grins. “We wanted to give the army a chance to respond, and though they gave us a spokesperson, he really didn’t have a response.” He shrugs, his jacket lifting on his bony shoulders. “Their loss!”

Abby climbs down from the small stage with mixed feelings. “We’ll see about that,” she says, “because if they continue to shut me out, I’m lost, too.”

“You’ll do fine,” Micah insists. “Just stay on them. And thanks for a great interview. I had you pegged as a shrinking violet, but you’ve got guts, kid.” He extends his hand and Abby shakes it firmly. “Good luck to you, Abby Fitzgerald.”

I’ll take it,
Abby thinks. Having hit the stone wall of the U.S. Army, Abby knows she’s going to need luck, lots of it.

Tacoma, Washington
Suz

“T
his place is packed,” Suz says, circling the long line of cars that extends all the way out to I-5. “You’d think they were giving the stuff away.”

“Dis place is packed, Mommy,” Sofia parrots from the backseat.

“You got that right.” Suz glimpses her daughter in the rearview mirror and smiles. Her own little chatterbox.

“Do you see Santa, Mommy?” Sofia asks.

“Not yet, but we’ll find him.” Suz has circled the parking lot three times in search of an empty spot, but then it is Christmastime, and this is a popular shopping center, built to resemble a quaint village, its central streets of inviting shop windows open only to pedestrian traffic. Scott used to call it a movie set when they came here, joking that he was always expecting Steven Spielberg to be lowered down on a crane to talk the actors through another take.

Up ahead, two red lights emerge out of nowhere and Suz slams on the brakes. “Finally!” she says, waving her thanks as the car takes off and she slips into the spot.

“Finally, Mommy,” Sofia echoes. She climbs out of her car seat and grabs this week’s favorite shopping bag. Christmas trees sway on the bag, which contains a shoebox with an unnamed doll wrapped inside—Fia’s odd fixation. Last week, seeing how grungy the box had become, Suz insisted that Sofia open it so that she could rewrap it in shiny new Christmas paper. Sofia’s eyes shone as she tore into the paper; the process of unwrapping tickled her with delight. She couldn’t care less about the doll, so Suz rewrapped it and—voilà!—a new gift.

“Hold on to Mommy,” she warns, pulling her daughter close as they cross the crowded parking lot. Sofia squeezes her hand fiercely, as if to keep her mother anchored on the earth, and Suz doesn’t have the heart to explain that Mommy is not flying off into the clouds but that they’re watching for cars. Suz cannot resist her daughter’s ferocious love, though she imagines Sofia’s separation anxiety has everything to do with Scott’s death.

What can you do? She can only try her best to be twice as loving.

They make their way down the Disneyesque Main Street to a plaza with a gazebo, fountain, play structure, and a three-story Christmas tree, a real Douglas fir. On the opposite side of the tree is a small cottage—gingerbread, trimmed with giant gumdrops and peppermint swirls.

Catching her first glimpse of Santa’s house, Sofia stops skipping and blinks. “Mommy,” she says, pointing to the house, “it’s a cookie house!”

“That’s Santa’s office,” Suz explains. Sofia already got the lesson that Santa lives at the North Pole, and Sofia is also making the adjustment to Suz having an office where she goes a few days a week. “That’s where he meets good girls and boys to find out what they want for Christmas.”

Sofia loops a finger into a buttonhole of her coat and sways gently as she confides, “Sofia is good.”

“Sofia?” Suz hears Abby behind her. As she turns, Sofia is already running into Abby’s arms.

“How’s my favorite girl?” Abby asks, shifting a large shopping bag so that she can lift Sofia into her arms.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Suz jokes, reaching over to hug Abby’s free shoulder. “You’re looking pretty darned good for a widow.”

“Same,” Abby returns, shaking her head.

It’s a running joke between them, and though Suz is very good at making light of everything, she is acutely aware of the pain underneath. Truth and pain—isn’t that supposed to be the root of all comedy?

“I brought you a Christmas gift,” Abby tells Sofia, “and you don’t have to wait until Christmas to open it. Unless you want to, of course.”

“Do you want to wait?” Suz asks.

Sofia presses her hands to her cheeks. “No, Mommy. No.”

Abby lowers her to the ground, then removes a flat, rectangular package wrapped in green paper covered with cartoon penguins leaping through wreaths. Sofia tears into the paper and uncovers a talking alphabet book that sings Sofia’s favorite song and pronounces each letter.

Sofia’s eyes go round with delight as she presses the book against her little body.

“What do you say?” Suz prods.

“Thank you, Abby.” She presses the button to start the alphabet song.

“Are you going to hate me for buying that?” Abby winces. “I couldn’t resist. It’s her favorite song and it’s educational…”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll just be singing it in my sleep.”

As Abby holds the book, Sofia points out all the letters.

“She’s fairly advanced for three. I studied early childhood development last semester,” Abby says. “The kid knows her phonics already?”

Suz nods, misting over with pride. “They grow so fast. But the teachers at her preschool are fantastic.”

“And her mom’s not so bad, either.” Abby slips an arm around Suz’s shoulders and gives her a gentle shake. “You’re my hero. You really do it all. Single parent. Good friend. And now event planner.”

“Not like I have a choice.” Suz swipes one eye dry. “Which reminds me, I’m having a will drawn up. Scott and I never had one, which was young and stupid. But I wanted to ask you if you’d consider being Sofia’s guardian if anything happens.”

“Wow.” It’s Abby’s turn to mist over. “Of course. I’m flattered. You know I love this kid.” She rubs Sofia’s shoulder, but the child is too engrossed in an alphabet game to notice.

“Okay, then, who’s ready to visit with Santa?” Suz asks.

Abby picks up her shopping bag and takes Sofia’s small hand. “I can’t wait, and I know Sofia’s been good this year.”

The child hands her new book to her mother and skips off with Abby, adding, “Sofia is very good.”

A sanguine smile tugs at Suz. This is the first year her three-year-old daughter is aware of Santa’s Christmas tradition, and she feels a twinge of sadness that Scott isn’t here to share in the joy. He always talked about the day when he’d be staying up all night to assemble a bicycle or a giant dollhouse. Suz has been worrying about making the holiday special for Sofia, who will only have one parent this Christmas morning, but she has decided to wrap one gift from Scott. Maybe it can be a tradition in years to come—a sweet memory of the father who loved her with all his heart.

“So tell me about the new job,” Abby says as they join the line behind a grandma pushing a double stroller. “Everyone misses you at Java Joe’s.”

“And I miss those triple-shot lattes. There are some mornings when I could really use an infusion of energy, but once I get to work, the day just flies by.”

“An event planner…sounds like the perfect job for a former party girl. Do you help people plan their weddings?” Abby asks.

“Actually, my specialty is becoming business conferences and workshops. You know how small companies or professional associations take over an entire hotel for a few days and sponsor meetings and refresher courses for their memberships? Well, when it comes to the venue, the meals, the lodging and conference materials, I’m your girl.”

“Fantastic. I’ve never seen anyone launch themselves back into the professional world with such aplomb,” says Abby.

“Necessity is a great motivator. Although I like the work. Sure beats selling tractors back in Nebraska, and I’m glad I can afford to stay near my brother and his family in Seattle. Which reminds me. Wiley and Trina are supposed to spend Christmas in Hawaii this year. They booked the trip a year ago, something they’ve been saving for forever, and now they’re talking about cancelling just for me. The thing is, I was wondering if you were going to be around for Christmas. No pressure, but if you are, Sofia and I would love to hook up with you. Then Wiley’s crew could go off to the tropical paradise they deserve without having to worry about me.”

“Hawaii? Are you sure you don’t want to join them?”

“I can’t afford it.” Suz lowers her voice, conscious that the woman in front of them with the stroller seems to be listening in. “And right now, it just seems too festive for me. I don’t want to be a killjoy for them, but…it just doesn’t feel right.” As Suz speaks, her hand absently reaches down and strokes the downy blond hair at the nape of Sofia’s neck. “This was where Scott spent his last Christmas, so I want to stay here. A few years down the road I might feel differently, but Washington has been our home for two years now, and right now it offers stability for Sofia and memories of Scott for us both. But…oh, I’ve put you on the spot! I don’t mean that you have to spend Christmas with us. Were you planning to go home to your folks?”

“Actually, I was thinking I’d stay here. I was just back east in September and…I guess I realized my home is here now, with or without John.” Abby sucks in a breath. “What I’m trying to say is, I’d love to celebrate Christmas with the Wollenberg women. You can stay with me at Fort Lewis, and we’ll go caroling on Christmas Eve, just like last year.”

Suz pulls her daughter closer so that the new book Sofia is holding doesn’t poke the woman in front of them in line. “Remember how Sofia slept through every song, bundled in her stroller?” But Scott had insisted they wheel the baby along.

“I recall Scott trying to give the base commander’s wife a peek at her, and Sofia woke up howling,” Abby says with a grin.

“That’s my girl,” Suz says, and to her surprise the woman in front of them turns back and flashes them a smile.

For the first time this season, Suz allows herself to fantasize placing her daughter’s gifts under the tree and waking up in a house on the old fir-lined lane where they used to live. They’ll go caroling and bake gingerbread cookies, drink soy eggnog and watch
Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol
—Scott’s favorite. Yes, Christmas with Abby will be perfect. The garden apartment she’s renting in Tacoma is close to work and the Montessori school, but it lacks the sense of community she had in Fort Lewis.

“I promise we won’t impose,” Suz says. “We’ll get out of your hair if you’ve got some papers to write for school.”

“I’m good to go till January. E-mailed my final paper in this morning. Exams ended last week, and now I’m just hoping to get the placement I want when clinicals start after the first of the year. I’m trying to work with soldiers and their families. I think John would like that—my way of helping the troops.”

“He’d be very proud of you,” Suz assures her. “Somewhere up there, you know John’s giving you a salute and grinning that cocky smile of his.” She smacks her forehead. “Do I sound way too corny?”

“Are you ladies military wives?” asks the woman in front of them. A fringe of graying hair curls out around her fleece headband, and from the way she’s been indulging the kids in the stroller, Suz figures she’s the grandmother.

“We were,” Suz answers as Abby looks away. “We lost our husbands in Iraq.”

“I’m so sorry,” the woman says, pressing her eyes closed momentarily. “My husband was a marine. Retired, now. But he lost his brother in Vietnam. He still calls him his angel. Whenever he has a close call, pulls the car out of a skid or whatnot, he says, ‘My angel came through for me.’”

“That’s a nice way to honor his brother,” Abby says, moving closer to the woman to gaze into the stroller. “And who are these little cherubs?”

“My grandchildren. Two and three months.”

Suz shifts to observe the children. The toddler is asleep, but the infant squirms gently, working a chubby fist into her mouth. “Adorable.”

“They keep me busy,” the woman says, tweaking one of the infant’s blue booties. “Let me tell you, I never had much patience as a mother, but now that I’m a grandmother, I have the time to really enjoy them.” As she spoke, she wheeled the double stroller to the front of the line, where a photographer dressed in a green tunic and felt cap with a jingle bell on the tassel handed her a brochure.

“Welcome to Santaland. Getting some photos of the kids with Santa today?”

Tuning the sales pitch out, Suz turned back to Abby, who was showing Sofia how three letters formed the word “dog.”

“You haven’t told me the latest on your battle with Uncle Sam,” Suz says. In the weeks after John’s death, Suz shared Abby’s shock upon learning that he might have been killed by a man in his own platoon. “Has the army agreed to conduct an unbiased investigation yet?”

“So far, no success. I got a few phone calls from officers with important-sounding titles after I went on
American Morning
, but they just promised to do what they could and asked me to keep mum for a while. It’s frustrating. Flint is trying to work his contacts in the military, but shortly after the funeral he was sent down to Georgia to follow the trial of a suspected Ku Klux Klan leader.”

“From one battlefront to another,” Suz observes. “By the way, I enjoyed your college friends. Fanteen is a very unconventional mom, and Flint is the voice of calm in the eye of a storm.”

“Flint wasn’t always that way. Back in college he was a wild man, no sense of responsibility, always spinning off in a dozen different directions.”

“Did you guys date?” asks Suz.

“Sort of. But his lack of commitment drove me nuts. Then I met John, and Flint fell in with Delilah. He still hasn’t committed, but that’s just Flint. He’ll probably be with Delilah forever.”