Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  Republican), I was out stumping for

  Hillary Clinton. I figured it was past

  time for a woman to run the show, and

  hopefully extricate us from the quagmire.

  Two-thirds of the country wanted us

  out of Iraq by then. And sixty percent

  of military families agreed that we should

  not have gone in there to begin with.

  None of that helped grunt morale,

  which plunged, at least for many.

  IN COLE’S CASE

  I didn’t pick up on the exact level

  of his frustration until after he came

  back from that first tour. While he was

  over there, he did what was asked

  of him without complaining within

  earshot of the POGS who ran the show.

  In his mind, he was defending

  his country, his buddies, his mom,

  and me. In that order, something

  I didn’t figure out right away.

  Looking back, I realize how little

  we really knew about each other.

  For instance, he had no clue

  that my birthday was the last day

  of November, or that it made me

  a Sagittarius, which surprised

  me when I did a rudimentary

  astrology study because I felt

  much more like a Capricorn.

  Later I found out Cole called

  those daily columns “horrorscopes.”

  I spent that birthday alone,

  even though it was a Friday

  and my girlfriends were going

  dancing. It just didn’t seem

  right to celebrate another year

  of living when the guy I loved

  might very well be dying.

  I hadn’t heard a word from him

  since Thanksgiving Day, when

  he actually got to call long

  enough to let me know chow

  was a real turkey-and-trimmings

  feast. Eight days with zero

  communication were a stark

  reminder that, as Cole’s girlfriend,

  if something bad happened,

  it might take a while for me to find

  out. I was only “somebody” to him.

  I went to my classes. Taught

  first graders. Checked my e-mail

  a lot. Came away disappointed.

  Nervous. Scared. The weird

  thing was, taut with anxiety,

  every day with no word only

  made me love him more.

  When I finally heard from him,

  I had no room for anger. Only relief.

  WHEN I FINALLY HEARD

  Relief was enough. That time.

  He did not tell me everything.

  SORRY FOR MY SILENCE. HOPE YOU

  DIDN’T WORRY. I WAS ON PATROL

  OUTSIDE THE WIRE. SAW A LITTLE

  ACTION, NONE OF IT OURS. AT LEAST

  NONE I CAN CONFESS. ROOTED OUT

  SOME BAD GUYS. BOUGHT OFF A LOT

  MORE. THIS IS GETTING OLD. WITH LUCK,

  I’LL BE BACK IN FEBRUARY. THAT MEANS

  CHRISTMAS AT CAMP FALLUJAH. THINK

  SANTA CAN FIND US HERE? IF YOU SEE

  HIM, WOULD YOU ASK HIM TO SEND

  SOMETHING TO READ? GODDAMN

  BOREDOM IS KILLING MY GOOD MOOD.

  AND I’M NOT THE ONLY ONE. LOVE YOU.

  I sent four holidays boxes, stuffed

  with books and board games, trail

  mix, jerky, sardines, cigarettes, dried

  fruit, and Fruit of the Looms. I figured

  every soldier needs clean underwear.

  I also put in a picture of me at the beach,

  wearing a three-slivers-of-crochet bikini.

  Thought about his buddies seeing it.

  Took it back out again. Remembered

  how he cherished my body those sweet,

  long nights together. Tucked a different

  photo of me in short shorts and a low-

  cut tank top into a Christmas card with

  Santa’s sleigh swooping down over

  the Tetons on front. For my Wyoming

  boy’s eyes only, I wrote inside. This

  California girl is lost without you here.

  Christmas lacks luster this year. That’s

  as close to poetry as I can get until

  you come back to me. Close your eyes

  at 12:01 a.m. your time Christmas

  morning. I’ll be kissing you. Kiss me back.

  It took some research, but just past

  midnight, Fallujah time, I was in Lodi,

  California, kissing Cole Gleason. I’m

  sure it was just a delusion, but I swear

  Cole Gleason was kissing me back.

  It was the saddest Christmas ever.

  DELUSIONS

  Maintain sanity

  in those times when a man

  is called to war. The mirage

  of invincibility, when

  every

  iota of logic embraces

  the contrary, accommodates

  minutiae, the day-to-day.

  The wise ask no questions,

  understand that a

  soldier

  battles fear with violence,

  masks the omnipresent scent

  of death with reminders

  of living—cold tavern beer,

  a hot pussy chaser. He

  harbors

  no illusion of love

  for the whore. She is expendable,

  unlike the woman who waits

  at home, pretending

  not to worry about such

  secrets.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  SECRETS SUCK

  Worse than surprises. I hate

  knowing them. Despise keeping

  them, when every shred of me

  believes the longer I stay silent,

  the harder it’s all coming down.

  That’s always been my experience.

  Lucky me. I seem to be the secret

  sniffer. It’s like they appear to me,

  materialize, in the flesh, from

  the ether. I was the first one

  to discover Dad’s dalliances.

  Both of them. The first time,

  I happened to pick up the phone

  and overhear him setting a time

  to meet up with a coworker.

  I was twelve, but mature enough

  to understand that those murmurs

  of affection meant a whole lot

  more than wanting to get together

  for a pleasant lunch. I never said

  a word. What if I was wrong?

  What if I wasn’t? Did I want to

  be responsible for the fight

  that was sure to follow? What if

  my mother and father broke up?

  No sixth grader wanted that!

  But that’s almost what happened

  a year later, when Mom found

  out on her own. Meanwhile,

  Dad had his cake and ate it, too.

  Gross, if apropos. Me? I was anxious.

  Angry. Confused. This wasn’t the kind

  of love they showed on the sitcoms

  I watched, where married couples

  worried about bills and jobs and where

  to stow their kids for a few hours—

  long enough to enjoy a little nookie

  without getting busted. As far as I knew,

  my parents never did that, so to learn

  that one of them did, just not with

  the other one, was eye-opening.

  The second time was worse.

  Mom was visiting a friend in the Bay

  Area. I was supposed to stay at Darian’s,

  but she got sick in PE so I went home

  after school. Th
at time, I caught Dad

  just-post-coitus, naked in the hall.

  Two drinks in hand, he was on his way

  back to the bedroom, where the other

  not-Mom person waited for seconds.

  He had his back to me, didn’t know

  I was there, when I heard her call,

  Hurry. I’ve just about got myself ready.

  I was sixteen. Driving. A woman

  of the world, but I didn’t know what

  she meant. Dad yelled, Hey, wait

  for me! But before he could make

  his way back to help her out, I slammed

  the door. Pretty sure he thought I was

  Mom because he spun around,

  giving me a more, um, expressive

  view of my father than I ever, ever

  wanted to see. I put my hand over

  my eyes. “Jesus, Dad. What the hell?”

  I had never sworn at a parent before.

  Seemed like the right time to do it.

  He didn’t care at all about the swearing.

  Ashley, baby, I . . . have no words.

  I’m so sorry. Can you possibly keep

  this to yourself? If you can, I swear . . .

  I waited for the bribe. New car? Cash?

  Not even. I’ll never do it again.

  SILLY ME

  I kept quiet. Never said a word.

  I figured it would all work itself out

  sooner or later, and it did. The woman—

  a girl, really, only a few years older

  than I—decided she was in love with Dad

  and confronted Mom at the grocery store.

  Not a pretty scene. I know, because

  I was there. The one that came after,

  at home, was significantly worse.

  In the meantime, I was a wreck. Felt

  disloyal, which I was, and all my silence

  did was buy Dad a few more weeks and

  a couple more rolls in the hay. He was not

  in love with her. Not about to walk away

  from his family, and Mom wasn’t about

  to make him go. What for? All men

  are morally bankrupt. The next one

  wouldn’t be any better. At least this

  one is keeping us well. Anyway, “for

  better or worse.” The priest didn’t give

  me a rating system. She might have felt

  differently had she known Dad brought

  his girlfriend into our home. Their bed.

  But I never told. Mom never found out.

  NOW, THIS NEW SECRET

  This Darian subterfuge I find myself

  mired in. She asked me not to say

  anything to Cole, who still keeps

  in touch with Spencer. Why am I

  always appointed secret-keeper?

  She was tricky about it, too. Called

  and said she had something for me

  to take to Hawaii, and would I meet

  her for dinner tonight. Curiosity

  nailed me. So here I am, in a really

  nice Thai place, sitting across the table

  from Darian and Kenny. And, damn

  it all to hell, I like him a lot, as much

  as I’m trying not to. He isn’t quite

  old enough to be her father, and for

  a guy his age, he’s not only great looking,

  he’s well preserved. The only external

  signs of his four-plus decades are a few

  silver streaks weaving his thick, blond

  hair and a faint network of lines etching

  the corners of his eyes. But only when

  he smiles. Which is most of the time,

  and mostly at Darian, whom he clearly

  cares about. In fact, I’d say he’s gaga.

  He sits very close to her, some small

  part of him always touching her,

  laughs at every semiwitty thing

  she says, but not in a gratuitous way.

  Her assessment of him was spot-on,

  too. He wears an air of quiet intelligence,

  no hint of superciliousness or egotism.

  More Cole than Spence, except nothing

  military about him at all, despite

  his close ties to the Air Force.

  Beyond his (ex?)wife, the Intel officer,

  Kenny is an aerospace engineer.

  He’s taking my lukewarm grilling

  in stride. “Tell me about your daughter.

  How does she feel about the two

  of you?” Does she even know?

  Sabrina is fifteen. Everything’s

  drama, he says. But it would be,

  even if everything were perfect,

  and to tell you the truth, it never

  has been. Not since she was born.

  Tara never really wanted a baby,

  to have her feet so firmly planted

  in regular civilian life. I thought

  things would be different when Sabrina

  came along. But changing diapers

  and mixing formula only made Tara

  more determined to go back out

  into the field. That’s where her heart

  is. Sabrina only knows her mother

  in an extremely peripheral way.

  And she’s a little overprotective of me.

  I NUDGE HARDER

  “So, are you saying she resents

  having Darian in her—your life?”

  I’m not sure “resents” is the right

  word. She’s not used to having

  my attention turned elsewhere.

  I think she likes Darian just fine.

  At least she knows about her. “But

  she’s not happy about the relationship.”

  Not especially. But she’ll get used

  to the idea. He pauses long enough

  to give Dar a soft kiss on the cheek.

  If I have my way, they’ll see each

  other every day before too long.

  They are the two most important

  people in my life. I love them both

  very much. He is so matter-of-fact,

  I believe he believes every word.

  “So, you and your wife are definitely

  getting divorced? And Sabrina is okay

  with that?” Okay, that was blunt.

  So is his answer. Tara is in the field.

  We haven’t had the chance to discuss

  the details, but we will as soon

  as she comes back. Until then, I can’t

  really talk about it with Sabrina.

  But she’ll be fine. She . . .

  You know what Sabrina told me?

  interrupts Dar, who up until now

  has remained completely mum.

  She said her mother has never been

  there for her, that her father raised

  her. And that she wouldn’t care one

  way or another if her mother died

  because who mourns for a stranger?

  Fifteen, going on fifty. How sad,

  if she actually feels that way. My mom

  was not a shining example of motherhood,

  but she was always there for me. And if

  Kenny means everything he’s said,

  divorce is preferable to treading time

  in a marriage that has bled out

  of love. I think that, feeling sorry as hell

  that Darian’s marriage also seems to be

  mortally wounded. Bleeding out.

  I DON’T BLAME

  Kenny for the wounding. Pretty sure

  that happened before he came along.

  And if Darian had to choose someone

  to stitch her up, I guess I’m glad this

  is the guy. Not sure she needs a teenage

  “daughter” who’s needy and likely to

  interfere, but it’s not my call. Think

  I’ll c
hange the subject. “So, did you

  ever work on the space shuttles?”

  He shakes his head. But the Spaceport,

  yes. And some advanced extraterrestrial

  weaponry systems . . . . He goes on to talk

  about this truly fascinating stuff, obviously

  proud of his contributions. A lot of it

  is mind-boggling, so I don’t try to

  absorb the details. The overall picture

  is crazy enough, and this is all unclassified.

  Hate to think about what they’re hiding.

  The food is excellent, the company

  pretty good, too. I have to admit

  Kenny brings out the best in my best

  friend. That, I like. When he excuses

  himself to use the restroom, I know

  she’ll ask, so I straight out admit, “Okay.

  I like him. Just, please be careful. I don’t

  want to see you get hurt. Promise you’ll be

  very sure before making any huge moves.”

  She smiles, but not in the “I told

  you so” way I expected. I promise.

  But I want you to promise me

  you won’t say anything to Cole.

  How can I not tell Cole? We don’t

  keep things from each other. “Why

  not? I mean, if you’ve already made

  your decision to break up with Spence.

  You have made that decision, right?”

  She glances toward the bathroom.

  Gives a weak nod. But I’m not sure

  how to tell Spence. He’s supposed

  to come home pretty soon, and . . .

  Her eyes tell me Kenny is headed

  in this direction. “And what, Dar?”

  Her voice falls to a whisper.

  And I’m scared. Really scared.

  Kenny drops into the seat next

  to Darian. I’m not interrupting

  some covert conversation, am I?

  It’s a joke of sorts, and we all laugh.

  But at the moment, nothing is funny.

  WHAT COALESCES

  Rising from the residual smoke

  of the evening is a maelstrom

  of emotions. I feel better, meeting

  Kenny, witnessing his dedication to Dar.

  I feel worse, intuiting major

  problems to come, on all sides.

  I feel happy, viewing a small

  glimpse of the best friend I cherish,

  the one who has felt lost to me

  for much too long. I feel anxious,

  knowing she is in turmoil

  and only time will tell us how

  things will all shake out.

  This is a heavyweight decision,

  the pressure to make it great.

  Dissolving a relationship that once