arms bent, math papers
in front of her. I sit at my desk,
head forward, notebook
open like I’m studying,
and Dad sits in the reclining chair,
holding a paper,
dozing.
But I want to shout at them, startle them from their positions:
Wake up, Woods!
What if something happens?
What then?
90.
But we go on
with our family routines.
For a few days now after school,
Mom’s been changing from her teaching clothes
to cook a vegetable or a dessert.
It keeps her mind off Aunt Rose
and Dad’s deployment.
“There will be eight of us,” she says, trying to smile.
“A full house for Thanksgiving!”
But Dad reminds her
he may be “in and out.”
She’s making a turkey and a ham.
“Rose always has—
had both at her house,” she explains.
I peel the sweet potatoes,
studying Jackson and Kate
in their school pictures on the fridge.
Aunt Rose’s MISSING flyer
has gone missing, and I look at Mom
stirring gravy on the stove.
What’s it like for my cousins?
I haven’t seen them
since the memorial.
This will be their first Thanksgiving
at our house. Their first Thanksgiving
without their mom.
What will they give thanks for?
They have given so much.
91.
I search my room
for things I’ve outgrown—
clothes, chapter books, small toys—
to hand
down to Kate.
Mom said she’d help me,
but she must be preoccupied
with food prep.
Each year,
we pass along
things I no longer need.
This year,
nothing I own
seems good
enough.
Kate and Aunt Rose always go through it all
like it’s Christmas,
with Aunt Rose saying things like,
“Katie, you’ll look so pretty in this,”
and, “We love your hand-me-downs, Abbey.
Every piece has a story!”
One time, Kate tried on a yellow coat,
too big still, but in the pocket
she found a tiny stuffed kitten.
“Can I keep him? Please!
I’ll name him Larry,”
she’d squealed, and we’d laughed
and laughed and rolled on the floor.
Since then, Kate always checks
the pockets of my clothes first.
And sometimes I leave surprises
in them for her to find.
Before she was born,
when it was just Jackson and me,
I remember us once being propped
on either side of a seesaw, Mom behind Jackson
for some reason, and Aunt Rose behind me.
We balanced perfectly,
and when Mom and Aunt Rose
stepped away from us
we just hung there
suspended in the air,
our chubby legs kicking,
and all of us giggling
at our miraculous
feat.
92.
I give extra THANKS
for a few days out of school.
But even away from it all,
I hear the boys on the bus,
their insults flying,
visualize The Trio
eyeballing.
It’s just a little name-calling,
Dad would coach me.
Toughen Up!
It could be worse.
No one’s throwing rocks at me.
I think of Jiman.
And her little brother.
Her parents and their restaurant,
and I’m thankful for them,
thankful that they
moved here too.
93.
My relatives arrive wrinkled and dazed
in late afternoon. Uncle Todd bursts
into our house with multiple boxes in his hands
and stacks them on our kitchen table.
Jackson and Kate follow him,
and we all
hang around the edges of the room
with hands shoved in pockets or folded
across chests, staring, watching him
tear into boxes as if he must get this done
before he can unpack his suitcase and settle in.
Mom pours apple ciders and passes the cups
around. Uncle Todd pulls crumpled newspapers
from the boxes and uncovers a violin
and gives it to Mom, who holds it like a baby.
He unwraps a pair of painted maracas,
stares at them for a second, then hands them to me.
I shake them softly, recalling how Aunt Rose
taught me to hold them so the sound resonated
and was not muted or dulled by my hands.
Jackson abruptly leaves the room, his shoulder
brushing the doorframe, his shoes screeching
a discordant note in retreat.
Kate stands frozen, eyes darting from face to face.
After two whole beats of silence, Uncle Todd
clears his throat and tells Mom,
“She would’ve wanted you to have them.”
“Thank you,” Mom whispers,
tears brimming her eyes.
Then Uncle Todd pulls Kate toward him
and pries her arms loose from across her chest.
She smiles and complains, “Quit it, Dad!”
Which makes me think of my dad,
who is on the base,
but will be leaving
soon.
94.
Jackson stares out our windows,
hands safe in his pockets.
What does he see out there?
The wind is blowing,
branches sway,
a few birds flit
from leafless tree
to tree.
He seems to be looking beyond these.
I try to think of something to say.
“You want to go outside?”
but maybe
he doesn’t hear me,
or maybe
I don’t really say it.
95.
Jackson, Kate, and I
sit on the porch in the chilly fall air, waiting
for Thanksgiving to begin.
So much has happened to me this year
but even more to them.
When Grandma Jill and Grandpa Paul arrive,
they bring smiles and hugs and good ideas.
Before Grandpa has even unloaded their car,
Grandma proclaims:
“Let’s start a tradition—a banner for Thanksgiving!”
Grandpa chuckles and brings in a roll
of paper and a box of markers from their trunk.
The grown-ups sit by the fire and watch us in silence.
Jackson writes the words,
Kate colors them in,
and I draw a cartoon turkey.
We string the banner across the dining roo
m.
Little by little, as we’re eating,
it slopes
downward
toward
our Thanksgiving dinner,
then suddenly—
dips into
the sweet potatoes.
We all laugh until
Kate tips backward out of her chair
and Jackson snorts tea from his nose,
then we all laugh some more.
After dinner, I overhear Uncle Todd
say to Mom and Grandma in the kitchen,
“They’re okay, but Jackson’s acting up
at school.”
He pauses, then continues,
“It’s just good to see them being kids.”
96.
At bedtime, Grandpa tells a story
about Mom and Aunt Rose
and the day they learned to ride
their matching Christmas bikes.
With the image of them in my head
as little girls,
I cut a smile toward Uncle Todd,
then quickly look away
when I glimpse his broken heart.
Grandpa tells the story as if nothing has changed.
He tells the story as if we’ve all agreed
to talk about Aunt Rose.
He tells the story,
and we listen,
piled up and overlapping
on the couch,
where Jackson will sleep,
and on the air mattress,
where Uncle Todd and Kate will sleep.
Just last summer
Kate begged Aunt Rose
to let her sleep with me
in my “big girl” bed.
As Grandpa’s story
comes to an end,
and we’re supposed to laugh
about how they both refused to use
training wheels,
everyone just smiles, tears streaking
most of our faces.
We say
our good nights and go
our own ways, but Kate
doesn’t follow me this year
to my room.
And I guess I feel relieved;
her sadness
is so huge.
Soon, the house is full
of quiet, sleeping noise.
Aunt Rose’s voice
was the one voice missing
from our evening.
But I’m glad Grandpa talked about her—
out loud
in our house.
97.
In the morning,
Mom and Grandma are banging pans
around in the kitchen. The smell
of bacon and coffee stirs me.
I toss in my bed, thinking how Dad
will be leaving any day now,
how I could be like
Jackson and Kate,
and wondering
if Aunt Rose seems gone to them
or like
she’ll return home soon.
I leave my bed
and find both my cousins
still asleep.
Jackson has joined Kate
on the air mattress,
his arm thrown across her back.
Uncle Todd must be
the one in the shower.
For a few minutes, I watch
them sleep, check
for peeking eyes.
They look like babies—
soft and happy.
Then someone shuffles around upstairs,
and for a fraction of a second
Dad crosses my mind
…and the possibility
of the unthinkable
happening.
Then suddenly,
I want to wake Jackson and Kate
and tell them I love them,
but I tiptoe past instead.
98.
Our holiday comes to an end,
and we hug and say our goodbyes.
Then,
without warning,
Uncle Todd begins to cry.
Jackson and Kate just stare,
their arms hanging loose at their sides.
Grandpa gives him a bear hug.
My uncle looks at Dad,
and then at me,
and says,
“Abbey, your dad is one good man!
Rose would be so proud.”
I’m not sure what he means
or why he says this now,
but I smile at him
like Abbey Fabulous would,
and he hugs me tightly
around the head.
99.
The President
of the United States
has come to town
to tour the base.
It’s all over the news—
and Dad’s busier than usual.
In the few minutes he’s actually home,
he explains, “It’s because we’re about to go.”
And by “go” I know what he means,
but I try to connect these events:
Dad leaving
and
the president arriving
like a cause-and-effect sentence
or a dot-to-dot that reveals an image,
yet the lines aren’t straight and people disagree about the big picture.
Like Camille’s dad, who’s protesting
the president’s visit.
100.
During the holidays,
Dad and I always split a wishbone,
a tradition of ours.
Mom locates it, washes it,
and then dries it on the kitchen
windowsill.
Usually I wish
to become a world-famous artist
because I usually break off
the biggest piece—
or maybe Dad lets me win.
This year, before bedtime,
he comes into my bedroom
“Hey there, Abbey the Artist!”
and holds up the wishbone.
“You wanna?”
And, of course,
I break off the winning piece.
But I don’t feel like a winner
and I’m torn this year
between
making a wish for Jackson and Kate
and making a wish for him.
DECEMBER
101.
With Thanksgiving over,
we search for Afghanistan
on the Internet.
It’s not where
I thought it was.
One map calculates
the exact distance in miles
that will separate Dad from us,
and it’s over seven thousand.
I speculate that most
of my classmates
could not locate Afghanistan
or even spell it
correctly.
Dad traces his flight route
on the monitor with a steady finger
so Mom can know
where they will lay over.
I place my finger on Tennessee,
the place where we currently sleep,
and notice how it looks like an arrow pointing elsewhere.
Is this state really my home?
I study the blue expanse of water
that Dad will cross,
and then
stab my finger
on the place
where he will sleep and work
“We can write each other…
…and talk occasionally,”
he offers softly.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
But when I ask,
“What will you be doing there?”
He stammers
like he doesn’t really know
or doesn’t want to tell me.
102.
Camille’s absent
so I sit alone at lunch, hyperaware
of every little stare and the cafeteria filling up around me—
until Angela, Sheila, and Lana
commandeer my table,
open their lunches, and spread out
their yogurts, carrots, and pretzels.
Surrounded!
I don’t know how I feel about this.
There are so many of them.
Do they like me now?
I can’t help myself
and start to sweat, look around to see who notices
the infamous three
sitting with me.
“So…” Sheila begins casually
but with the hint of an agenda,
“where’s Camille?”
I choke down a bite
of PB&honey,
and quickly spit out her whereabouts: “At home.”
“And what’s with this little getup?” Angela
points to my plaid shirt,
jeans, and painted high-tops.
I search my brain
for something cool
or witty to say.
Then Sheila nudges Lana,
who asks, as if she’s rehearsed it,
“So. We really need to know—
does Camille like Tommy
or what?”
A small part of me wants The Trio
to stay,
but then Dad comes to mind
and how he talks about duty,
about doing the right thing.
So I just shrug.
“You’d have to ask Camille.”
The Trio’s disappointment is visible.
They can’t pack up their lunches
fast enough.
103.
Later,
in Ms. Dequire’s room—
the one class with a seating chart—
I sit beside Lana, who rolls her eyes,
scoots her desk a little farther from mine,
and turns her chair so her back is to me.
At one point, she coughs and chokes
and complains to anyone nearby,
“What’s that god-awful
smell?”
The Places We Sleep Page 8
