Operation Oleander (9780547534213)

by Patterson, Valerie O.

  I feel the photos next to me. Overnight the two stacks slid together, and I’ll have to sort them again. “Could we go to the craft store?”

  Mrs. Johnson grins as if all her attempts to spark some interest have paid off. “Sure, maybe an organizer for those.” She nods toward my photos.

  “How about an album?”

  “Sure, we can do that. Maybe you should send some to your dad.”

  I don’t say anything to her about the photos. Not these. Because these are for Meriwether.

  “We could get some finger paints for Cara too,” Mrs. Johnson adds.

  “Not finger paints,” I say, throwing her a warning glance.

  Cara’s face closes up tight as a day lily bud, and her bottom lip puffs out.

  “It’ll be okay, Jess,” Mrs. Johnson says. “That’s what drop cloths are for.”

  Cara jumps up and down, laughing.

  I close my eyes.

  Three hours later we’re back, and I dash into the house, my Crafty World package in my hand. I bought a photo album for Meriwether and some card stock and stickers, to make a get-well card for Dad.

  “I’m going to work in my room,” I call over my shoulder.

  “Jess, where’s the drop cloth?”

  “On the utility shelves,” I yell down the hall.

  I’m unpacking the blue album, lifting the plastic cover off of it and inhaling the new, fresh scent of it, when I remember.

  The utility shelves.

  No. I don’t want Mrs. Johnson out there. She might snoop around. She might look in the old cooler where my baby photos are stored.

  Dashing out to the carport, I call after her. All I can see is her backside where she’s leaning over a box. I can’t see for sure, but I think it’s the Christmas ornament box.

  “It’s up top. On the shelf.” Near my dad’s workbench.

  Mrs. Johnson groans as she cranks herself upright. “Creaky old back. Thanks, Jess.”

  I wait until she lifts the drop cloth off and closes the utility-closet door behind her.

  My face goes red, as if she might guess why I’m suddenly so helpful when I warned her against the finger paints to begin with. “Okay, I’m going to work on my album,” I say.

  I organize the photos, starting with last year’s oceanography camp. Underneath each one I print where we were or who was with us, or what day it was. I try to remember every detail. The scent of half-dry bathing suits hanging from makeshift clotheslines across our cabin. They looked like a booby trap meant to snare rival cabin girls sneaking inside to play pranks. The grit of sand underneath bare feet. No matter how often we swept the tile floor with the frayed broom, the floor was always sandy and damp, as if the tide itself swept in and receded twice a day, leaving behind traces of the gulf.

  One photo taken in front of the cabin was of all the girls in our group—we were the Dolphins. Other cabins were sea turtles and gulls and sand dollars. We came from all over Florida—Pensacola, Clementine, Miami, and Tallahassee. We promised to write, and even did a few times. Most recently, one of the girls, Cece, had written to Meriwether and me to ask whether we were coming back this summer. She wanted to reserve the Dolphin cabin again and hoped we would be there.

  The evening before the photo was taken, we’d gone for a night swim, supervised by the camp counselors. Meriwether protested that we didn’t need babysitters.

  The sea at night is different. The water felt warmer somehow, and if I closed my eyes and floated, I almost didn’t think about what might be underneath me in the dark water. Moonlight flickered across the surface, and I imagined Meriwether and me following the moon’s reflection to the edge of the sky. Together we watched the phosphorescence when the surf crested and fell onto the shore. The whole night seemed magical.

  Afterward, we changed into sweatpants and stayed up late eating s’mores. The camp counselors gave us each a twine necklace with a dolphin charm as a memento. Then we wrote our dreams on pieces of paper and tossed them into the fire to send our dreams skyward. We didn’t share our secrets about what we’d written. Not even Meriwether and me.

  The phone rings, and I jump.

  Mom.

  I pull myself away from the camp and run for the phone in the living room.

  “Hello?”

  “Jess, I have a surprise for you.” Mom’s voice is light and fizzy as seltzer.

  “Hello?” Mrs. Johnson’s picked up in the kitchen.

  “It’s my mom. You can hang up,” I say.

  “Jess, it’s okay,” Mom says. “Libby, I hope the girls are being good.”

  I dare Mrs. Johnson to tell Mom everything.

  “Oh, we’re all doing fine. Just fine,” she says.

  She doesn’t tell her all the little things.

  “Mom, what about the surprise?”

  “Hold on now,” she says. I hear rustling on the other end of the line, like something burrowing through tall grass. “Here he is!”

  “Dad?” Really, it’s him?

  Something crackles on the line.

  “I’ll hang up now.” Mrs. Johnson clicks off.

  Now it’s just me.

  And dead air.

  “Dad?”

  Mrs. Johnson stands in the doorway from the kitchen. I turn away so she can’t see my face.

  “Dad?” I hear my own voice rise in tone.

  I hear something over the line. Something faint. Too low for me to make out words. Maybe he’s talking and I just can’t hear him.

  “We can’t wait for you to come home. I got the photos you sent.” I fill the silence in case it’s him.

  “Je-ess.” I think that’s what he’s saying. It comes out like “Jess” but also like “yes.”

  “It’s me, Dad.”

  Had the bombing affected the way he talks? Maybe he doesn’t remember the bombing. What if he doesn’t know Meriwether’s mother was killed?

  “Dad?” Still silence.

  “Jess.” Mom’s back on the line. “Your dad’s resting again. But did you hear him, Jess? Didn’t you hear him?” Her voice has a hoarseness in it, a voice that wants something to be true.

  “I heard him.” Maybe I really did.

  Mrs. Johnson edges closer.

  “When are you coming home, Mom?”

  “Soon. I’m sure it’ll be soon.” She repeats the word “soon” as if it’s a magic phrase and will come true.

  “Mom—” I want to ask Dad about Operation Oleander. What I should do. About the investigation and what it means.

  “Jess, I’m glad you didn’t upset your dad. Now, I’d better talk to Mrs. Johnson. Get the real scoop on Cara. Is she there?”

  “She’s here. Bye, Mom.” I pass the receiver to Mrs. Johnson.

  I go back to my room and sign the card to Dad. Then I continue arranging all the photos in the album and writing notes under each one. I draw Meriwether’s name in curlicues the way she writes her own name and Caden’s when she thinks I’m not looking.

  I finish and wrap the album in plastic in case it rains and head out the door.

  This time, I hope she listens.

  Fourteen

  THE DRAGONFLY lawn ornament that bobbed in the front garden at the Scotts’ house is gone. Did Meriwether do that? Or was it her dad? Or some stranger who came to the door? Someone’s also taken down most of the ribbons from the porch railing, but the wreath on the front door remains. So does the American flag, though it hangs limp in the humid air.

  Suddenly, the world is still. Airless. Not a breath stirs.

  I imagine it’s this way only around Meriwether’s house. Nowhere else.

  I knock, feel the weight of the photo album in the bag on my shoulder.

  The curtains don’t move on the inside of the windows.

  I wait and knock again.

  Come on, Meriwether. Please open the door.

  Without warning, the door flies away from me.

  Mr. Scott stands there, one hand still on the doorknob. Cool air from inside flows toward
me like water.

  “Mr.—Mr.—Scott.”

  “Jess,” he says. “I didn’t expect you.”

  Does that mean he doesn’t want me here?

  “I’m sorry.” Those are the only words that will come out of my mouth.

  “I am too,” he says. His face has no muscles, his eyes no expression. “And about your dad. I hope he pulls through.”

  I nod. We both nod.

  “Is Meriwether home?” The afternoon heat presses down on me, even though the clouds are building overhead, silent and towering.

  He looks away. “Meriwether’s not here right now.”

  “Oh.”

  We stand on opposite sides of the door. Neither of us moves.

  “Is she coming back soon?” Maybe she went to the pool. Or the beach. Maybe I can find her there.

  Mr. Scott rubs his face, hard. “Jess,” he starts. He stops.

  I wait, my skin absorbing the heat from the sun the way it does when I sit in a hot car for too long. Melting hot. The colors in the photos might run if it stays this hot.

  “I don’t . . .” His voice fades.

  “I can come back,” I say. “Maybe tonight.” She’ll be home then.

  He shakes his head. “Maybe you—”

  Something inside the house howls in frustration like a caged animal. “Forget it, Dad.”

  Meriwether.

  Her voice calls from deep inside. From her room. “Tell her to come in.”

  She’s home after all.

  The album burns a hole in my tote bag.

  Mr. Scott opens the door wider and shrinks back to let me pass. I have to walk through.

  My legs don’t want to move. Coming here was a mistake.

  One foot and then the other through the door. The cool air envelops me. I am radioactive—that’s what Meriwether is thinking.

  At the doorway to Meriwether’s room I pause. Suddenly, it seems stupid, this gift I’ve brought.

  The throw pillows have been tossed everywhere, as if someone was looking for a valued object hidden in the room. Meriwether has her back to me. On her bed, a roll-on bag lies unzipped. The comforter underneath it half drags onto the floor. The blue medallion sheets have pulled away from the corners. No one could bounce a quarter off the sheets the way army recruits are supposed to.

  “Why did you come over?” Meriwether asks.

  “You’re my friend.”

  Meriwether’s laugh is strangled.

  “You’re coming back, right?” I have to ask.

  “We’re leaving in a couple of hours for Dover. I told you that. Dad wants to get there before the plane does.” The plane with her mother’s body in it.

  I remember footage of a jet arriving at Dover months ago with bodies of fallen soldiers inside. An honor guard meets every plane and escorts each casket from the plane to inside the waiting area, then to a hearse, then to a commercial flight that takes the fallen soldier home.

  In my head I see the tarmac when the plane arrives with Meriwether’s mother and Private Davis. The sun will have gone down, but the asphalt will still feel summer-soft underfoot. I imagine I am with the Scotts, waiting for the slow march of soldiers’ boots to the aircraft. The steps in unison. The quiet respect, eternal silences between each step. Wondering what I would do if it were my dad.

  “Jess, I don’t want to go.” Meriwether’s voice suddenly sounds frightened, like a little kid’s.

  “It’s important.” Duty, honor, country.

  Love.

  Meriwether folds a dress into the suitcase. “You don’t know what I did,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember those stupid letters Ms. Rivera made us write?”

  “Yes.” I do remember. I slipped my dad’s into his duffel bag. The day they deployed. Meriwether did the same thing. We agreed.

  “I lied to you. I didn’t put it in Mom’s bag.”

  “Okay.” I frown. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “It is.” Meriwether clutches a pair of jeans in her hands and looks at me. “She was trying to do all these things for me. A dress for eighth-grade graduation, months away. How crazy was that? All the clothes at the stores were fall and winter. Then we went bathing suit shopping with you. She was trying to make up in advance for missing things, and I got so mad about that.”

  “That’s okay.” At home, Mom had been short with Dad too a few days before he left. It had left me dizzy with fear. I ran down the block to get away from their argument. When I walked back home, it was over, and we ate pizza like nothing had happened.

  “It isn’t okay,” Meriwether says, her voice rising. “I told her I didn’t care. I hated her making me do all those things. I didn’t want her to go.”

  “But you did care.” Mrs. Scott knew that. She’d look at me when Meriwether was yanking clothes off the rack and smile. Because even an irritated Meriwether was worth being with.

  “I didn’t tell her.”

  “She knew.”

  “I didn’t tell her, and I can’t ever tell her.” Meriwether’s words strike me like fastballs. One after the other.

  I step into the room.

  “Meriwether.” I reach for her arm, and the shoulder bag, the album inside, tugs against my body.

  “She called me the other day. Before.” Meriwether’s voice dips suddenly quiet. All the heat is gone. The words she says sit cold like air conditioning.

  Dad called us last week too. The reception that day was bad. His voice sounded tinny. But we’d watched him talk over the Internet connection. He was happy to tell us about the orphanage.

  “I hung up on her,” Meriwether says. “I was so mad she’d reenlisted. She didn’t have to. She didn’t have to go.”

  I am standing on the brink of a high ledge. I don’t know how far down I will fall if I step forward over the abyss. From far below, the sound of rushing water reaches my ears.

  “She called back. She left a message on the machine because I wouldn’t pick up. If I hadn’t been a brat, I would have picked up the phone and talked to her.”

  I remember the sound of Mrs. Scott’s voice on the answering machine.

  “But she left you a message,” I say. If it was for me, I’d play it over and over. I’d make copies and put them in different places so I could listen to them. So I’d never lose them.

  The expression on Meriwether’s face is hollow. “I erased it without listening to it.”

  No.

  “I can’t unerase the message,” she says. “I can’t take it back, Jess. I can’t ever listen to it again.”

  Meriwether teeters, and I throw my arms around her body.

  What if we hadn’t done what we did? What if we hadn’t started Operation Oleander? What if? What if? The voices in my head won’t stop. Is Meriwether saying the words or am I?

  Together, we fall over the edge toward the rushing emptiness beneath us, and I won’t let go.

  Fifteen

  INSIDE THE cemetery, cars park along the winding drive, which is lined with flags. I follow people walking toward a canopied seating area. Folding chairs are planted in rows like the white grave markers all around us. If I squint, it looks like an optical illusion—white squares fanning out all the way to the far end of the fence. The heat shimmers across the grass.

  The crowd moves around me like a river, and I am caught up in the flow of it. Until we make it to the canopy. There I stand on tiptoe in the back, trying to find Sam, to see Meriwether. Meanwhile, the casket has been carried in and placed on a stand. A large U.S. flag lies draped across the top, just like the footage from television showed when the military plane landed at Dover.

  Then I see her. Meriwether. And her dad. They’re sitting in the first row, just in front of the casket. An elderly couple sits beside them, their bodies bent from it all. From the word from Afghanistan. From waiting for the body to be flown to Dover and then again to here. From the way everything has moved around them in slow motion.

  Meriwether’s we
aring her navy blue graduation dress, the one her mother picked out when we went shopping.

  The air smells of summer grass, just mown. The groundskeepers must have cut it this morning when the grass was still wet with dew. Salt hangs in the air too, off the gulf. Now and then the breeze picks up the scent of thick, sweet lilies spilling from flower arrangements.

  There should be day lilies.

  A movement to the left catches my eye. Commander and Mrs. Butler have arrived, Sam behind them wearing a white shirt and a black tie. Walking stiffly, he and his parents walk to the front row, and the commander speaks to Mr. Scott and to Meriwether, and her grandparents. Then they take their seats across the aisle from them.

  I’m supposed to go there and sit with Sam. But my legs won’t move. If I sit there, I will witness everything up close. Grief will press against me from all sides like the humidity.

  Sam sits straight in the chair, but he sees me. He doesn’t wave, but he nods his head when I catch his glance.

  He motions me his way.

  I point to the spot where I’m standing.

  What did the commander just say to Meriwether and her dad, anyway? Had Mrs. Scott wanted to go to the orphanage that morning? Or did she just go along with my dad, restless while waiting to convoy out? Or had my dad asked her?

  Had Dad asked because I sent that last box of pencils?

  A minister calls for the opening prayer.

  Commander Butler speaks next. “Today we honor a brave soldier who epitomized duty and sacrifice. She never shirked that duty, and she found time and a passion for serving others. Not just as a soldier but as a daughter, a wife, and a mother.” He pauses, and when I open my eyes, he is looking down at his paper.

  “Corporal Scott also wanted to help others. On the day she was killed, she was going to be carrying out a special mission, along with others from Fort Spencer. But that morning was a mission of mercy, of compassion. She didn’t stop to ask what was in it for her. She didn’t do it for duty or honor or even for country. She and Private Davis and Master Sergeant Westmark—they each one traveled those dangerous streets of Kabul that morning for a reason larger than the United States Army they served. They undertook that risk to serve others less fortunate than we are. For those who are the most innocent among us, children caught in a war they do not understand and from which they cannot protect themselves. They did it for reasons we don’t often talk about in uniform. They did it for love.”