Between each letter, each call,
we wait to hear from him again,
just the sound of his voice.
Aunt Rose’s voice is totally gone.
Sometimes I hear Dad in my head.
Just the little things he says,
like how he jokes
when I flip the channels,
“Whoa! Stop this ride. Let me get off.”
FEBRUARY
123.
The dining room is too big
and we’re saving it for when Dad returns,
so we eat in the kitchen now.
“What is he doing exactly?” I ask.
“They’re looking
for the terrorists who attacked us.”
“Is everyone there a terrorist?”
“No, of course not,” Mom explains.
“Someone at school said our troops will kill innocent people.
How will they know the good guys from the bad?”
“It’s not black and white,” she tries.
“It’s deeply complicated.”
So I just close my eyes, hold my breath, and ask it:
“He won’t get hurt, will he?”
She picks up her plate and walks to the sink,
stands with her back to me.
“He’s good at what he does,” she finally states.
Her answer’s no good,
and she knows it,
and I think of Jackson and Kate,
and how they’re a family of three now.
How do you ever get used
to a shift like that?
Even with simple things, like when
my family moves to a new house, my brain
gets stuck. In my last bedroom,
I slept beside a window, and even now,
many months later, when I first wake,
I sit up and try to look out the wall.
All of a sudden it hits me!
I know exactly what I want
more than being left alone on the bus—
because, face it, I make a good target.
When I think super hard, really concentrate on it,
I don’t believe I’ve ever felt at home
in the houses we’ve lived in
or the schools I’ve known.
At home within myself.
Like I truly belong.
124.
In Language Arts the next day,
Ms. Johnson instructs us
to compose a letter or a poem,
or a few words to enclose
in a package for one of “our service members.”
I look up, surprised by her words—
I stall, my paper waiting…
and steal glances at the kids
in my class
sitting awkwardly at their small desks.
Directly in front of me,
Tommy jots words on his paper,
then nods at another boy
as if to say,
Mission Accomplished!
When Ms. Johnson gathers all of our notes
and folds them into a large envelope,
she walks straight toward me
and places it onto my desk.
I stare
like it’s a bomb about to go off.
All the other eyes in class
stare at me.
Am I the only Army brat in this class?
“Thank your dad for us!” she says kindly,
then moves on, as if checking an item
off a to-do list.
That night, in my room,
I read the notes one by one,
sitting in a circle of my classmates’ words:
Thanks for protecting me!
We’re so proud of you!
And from Football Tommy:
Thanks for keeping my family free!
I remove one anonymous letter from the stack
that contains only three words,
read it over a few dozen times:
War is wrong!
And then shred it
to protect
Dad.
125.
Gram & Gramps, Dad’s parents,
have traveled from Florida to visit us.
It’s Dad’s birthday in two weeks
but for some reason they’ve brought
a present for me.
It’s large and wrapped in sheets
and tied with an enormous blue bow.
They sleep in the bedroom next to mine,
and their snores are welcome noise
in our hushed-up house.
Together, we wrap token gifts for Dad
and secure them in a box of foam peanuts,
to which I add the envelope from class
and my monochromatic painting.
During their visit,
we snap photos for him.
In one, I’m opening
the large present
they’ve brought for me.
I pull away the sheets
to reveal
an easel
fully stocked with oils—
and my mouth is totally gaping.
“It was your father’s easel,” Gram explains.
“He never told me about this!”
I run my hands all around the frame
and practically want to hug the thing.
In another photo,
Mom wears a birthday hat
and blows Dad a kiss.
In the last one,
Gram & Gramps
look like worried parents
saying the word
“Cheese!”
126.
The walls in this house are thin.
I can hear
Mom and Gram & Gramps in the kitchen.
Mom calls Jackson and Kate
the “littlest victims of 9/11.”
But they’re just my cousins.
Then Gramps says something like
“…and all the military families, too.
The ramifications are huge.”
(Note to self: Look up ramifications.)
And when they stop talking
as I come in, they don’t know
that their silence
is what I fear
the most.
127.
Standing at my locker,
I sense The Trio
coming up from behind,
but it’s too quick to consider
who’s going to see
and who’s going to be
their victim du jour.
As they close in,
I visualize soldiers
and the rhythmic thud of their boots
and the uniform movements of their arms and legs,
and how it’s predictable,
because you know what’s coming next.
Perhaps they should get credit
for sticking together. Maybe they are
“the best they can be” when
they’re three.
“Take a picture. It will last longer!” Lana says
as they pass,
and I close my mouth
and then my locker
to follow them
to our classroom.
128.
In Social Studies,
I discover that Angela’s brother
has just deployed.
My heart feels some
kind of feeling for her.
I consider passing her desk
and saying to her:
“I know how you feel…”
if I could only invoke a braver
version of myself.
Would she look up—
confused at first—then smile
when she realizes how
not all that different we are?
By themselves, each
of The Trio is civil somehow.
It’s together that they become
public enemy number one.
129.
It’s a stay-at-home SNOW day!
Mom moves about the house
washing sheets, chopping broccoli,
planning lessons, and writing her daily letter to Dad.
I’m drawing with my colored pencils,
trying to capture snow—
I draw…erase…
draw…erase…
until my hands ache,
the paper’s whiteness intimidating,
blinding—the colors too colorful, the snow not snowy enough.
I need something, but I don’t know what.
A new medium maybe?
Different lighting?
And then suddenly I know!
Where’s Dad’s easel?
I carry it from the laundry room
and into our kitchen,
still in solid disbelief that he ever painted,
attach the paper,
and decide to go with colors—
a swirling world of colorized snow.
As I paint I decide,
this one’s for Dad,
Then suddenly I stop—
Three words have been neatly carved into the easel.
I inspect it closely.
Across the top of the frame,
three words
carved intentionally—
Who
am
I?
I trace the letters with my paint-stained finger.
My brush lingers in the air like a question.
By the way he’s etched
these words into wood,
I think I know just how he feels.
Could this really be
MY dad?
Hasn’t he always known who he is
and what he wants
with his Army way
of life?
130.
Out of nowhere,
the-one-and-only Sheila appears at my locker.
I assume she’s looking for someone behind me,
but she whips out
a cupid-shaped invitation
and hands it to me
and recites:
“My Valentine’s Party—at the Country Club.
Everyone’s coming. Not to be missed!”
When she walks away, I stand there
fumbling with my combination,
three times not getting it right.
Then I overhear Lana and Angela in passing:
“Everyone who’s anyone will be there,
and most of the football and soccer teams.”
My heart jumps when I think
of Jacob and me together at a party for Valentine’s.
Then—Voilà!—my locker opens,
and I feel a rush of success
that feels like belonging, like I’m a part of something,
and I can’t wait
to debrief
with Camille on the bus.
What’s more, during class,
Lana asks what I’ll wear,
and scoots her desk an inch closer to mine,
and whispers,
“Jacob will be there!”
131.
On the bus ride home, I’m more confident than ever,
talking a mile a minute.
Then Camille drops the bomb:
“Guess who’s NOT invited?
But I’m okay with it,” she adds quickly,
“I have other plans. There’re hoops
to shoot!” She grins.
“But—but why? I don’t get it!” I stutter, my mouth forming an O.
“Why would they invite me
and not you?”
Camille shrugs.
“I’m pretty sure it’s due
to the other day in P.E.,
when I outran Sheila in the fifty-yard dash,
and Tommy shouted:
‘Man, Camille! You’re fast!’ ”
“So what!?” I say.
“Well, afterward, Sheila trotted over
and added, ‘Fast like a four-legged beast!’ ”
“What did you say to her?”
“I think I just agreed.”
For a brief moment,
hurt makes its home on Camille’s face,
a vulnerability I’ve never seen.
And in that second, I really get it.
Like me, Camille struggles,
but in her own way, and in that—
we are not alone.
I drape my arm
around her shoulder
and squeeze.
Just then
the bus driver
regards us in the mirror
and winks
like it’s exactly
the lightness
we need.
132.
Whenever the phone rings,
Mom and I race to get it, spilling things,
bumping into furniture,
and tripping over each other.
I have a bruise
on my right hip
from an encounter
with a table.
This time,
the phone rings three times
by the time I grab the receiver
and pull it to my ear,
all breathless:
“Hello? Hello?”
A slight delay—
“Abbey the Artist!
It’s Dad.”
IT’S REALLY HIM!
Finally after all these days, I catch my breath.
We small-talk
about the snow, groundhogs, and other things,
which is strange
since there’s much bigger stuff to say.
And then
it just happens—
He opens up to me.
“Abbey…I know it’s not easy,
moving so much and all these new towns
and schools, making new friends each time,
and now I’m gone
at such an important time
in your life—”
“It’s okay, Dad,” I manage.
“When I come home, I promise
I’ll spend more time with you.
I want…to get to know you better,
to be closer. We could do stuff together.”
“I’d like that.”
“One of the guys here told me about
an art museum in Atlanta.
Maybe we could go?”
“Okay,” I whisper, smiling and shaking.
Then the words just come pouring out,
and I say it without regret, like I’m six again,
like these might be our last words:
“I love you so much, Dad,
I’m afraid you won’t come home,
and I just keep thinking about Jackson and Kate.
And Aunt Rose.”
“I know, Sweetie. I know,
and I love you too.”
He can’t bring himself to say
that everything
will be
okay.
133.
It’s Valentine’s Day
&nb
sp; and I am Abbey Wood,
and I have the best friend
in the universe
Camille,
who needs me like I need her,
and the coolest teacher on the planet
Mr. Lydon
and there’s a boy in this town
by the name of
Jacob
who just found me by my locker
and KISSED the side of my cheek
when no one was looking
and placed a red sketchbook
on my stack of books—
before tripping on his backpack
at our feet.
I am Abbey Wood
who is from here and there and a bit of everywhere—
and maybe I’m getting used to that.
In Language Arts, I plan to doodle hearts
and decide NOT
to attend
Sheila’s
once-in-a-lifetime,
some-would-die-for,
coveted-and-prized,
by-invitation-only
party.
I’m pretty sure that night
I have a picture to draw
and a best friend to call.
134.
Word travels
like a shock wave
across the school
that I’ve said No thanks
to Sheila, who doesn’t deal well
with rejection
of her heartfelt
invitation.
135.
In Math,
Lana studies me
then stabs her hand in the air:
“Ms. D, when can we switch seats?”
Then scowls at me still seated beside her
and adds, “We’ve been sitting
in these same lame seats
for weeks!”
136.
As I wait for the bus,
a fluttering catches my eye
in the tree I’d chosen for Aunt Rose,
which is skeletal now,
the yellow ribbon gone bone white,
all shredded and torn.
A Valentine balloon
flaps from the inner branches
like a heart that’s forgotten to stop
a few minutes after death.
The tree isn’t dead, I know,
just resting and restoring,
preparing for its buds
to reappear, and its leaves
to clothe the branches again
in spring.
I walk to the tree,
drop my backpack on the ground,
and pull myself up onto the lowest branch,
The Places We Sleep Page 10
