Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  Man. As soon as they touched him,

  Spence started swinging. Let’s just say

  the U.S. Marine Corps trains its men

  better than Disney Security does.

  It took Darian screaming and Cole

  interfering to make Spencer back off.

  By then, blood was flowing. None

  of it was Spence’s. We convinced

  him to follow two bleeding guys to

  the Security office. Cole had a long talk

  with the man in charge, and managed

  to persuade him to let Spencer go.

  Darian worked her own magic,

  and the injured security duo decided

  not to press charges. We promised

  to leave the park and not return

  or ask for a refund. By that time,

  Spence had chilled completely,

  and really looked sort of remorseful.

  At least, the guys who escorted us

  to the gate didn’t seem too worried.

  They probably should have been.

  Even Corps mechanics train in

  hand-to-hand combat and lethal

  force. Those two Security dudes

  got off lucky with black eyes and

  bloody noses. Later, over drinks,

  Cole and Spencer had a good laugh

  about it. Darian actually joined them.

  Personally, I was more than a little

  worried that the three of them

  thought kicking ass on a couple of

  guys just trying to do their jobs

  was funny. But I let it go. I let lots

  of stuff go, and that worries me

  some, too. The rest of the evening

  went by without incident. We didn’t

  return to the park, but we did take

  a walk to where we could see fireworks

  over Cinderella’s castle, all decked out

  in holiday lights. It almost made up for the day.

  IN THE MORNING

  We caravanned back to San Diego.

  The guys, of course, drove, and their

  playful game of chicken was truly

  terrifying. “Please don’t tailgate,

  Cole,” I finally begged, one hand

  against the dash, the other gripping

  the side of the seat. This is how

  infantrymen drive. Don’t worry.

  I’ve never rear-ended anyone yet.

  Worrying—or arguing—was pointless.

  In front of us, Spencer cut to the right

  in front of a semi. The truck driver

  laid on his horn. Spence flipped him

  off. “Think there’s any way we can

  convince Spence to see a doctor?”

  They already put him on antibiotics.

  “Not that kind of a doctor.”

  You mean a shrink? What for?

  “Depression. Anger. Impulse

  control. Posing a threat to society.”

  He laughed. You’re describing every

  soldier I know. There aren’t enough

  shrinks in the world to fix all of us.

  YOU CAN TAKE A SOLDIER OUT OF WAR

  Confiscate his weapons.

  Send him home, reunite

  him with his family.

  But you

  don’t want to turn your back

  on him. Better not hand

  him a knife. And if you

  can’t take

  his nightmares, consider

  the guest room. His dreams

  won’t ever desert him.

  The true cost of

  war

  can’t be measured

  in dollars, infrastructure,

  or body counts.

  It is tomorrows, wrung

  out of

  hope by yesterdays

  that refuse to retreat,

  vanish into the smoke

  of memory. Ask

  a soldier

  what he believes in.

  He’ll tell you God. Country.

  The patient hands of death—

  the ones he’s wearing.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  IT’S A VERY LONG PLANE RIDE

  As soon as we land, I call Dar,

  but her phone goes to voice mail.

  “Just got in. Where are you? Call me.”

  Everything seems to move

  in slow motion—disembarking,

  making my way to Baggage. Waiting

  for my suitcase. I don’t know why

  I’m in such a hurry. I have no idea

  how to get ahold of Dar . . . wait. Yes,

  I do. When we were kids, I called

  her house at least once a day, often

  more. I remember the number.

  Her dad answers, and I ask for her

  mom, but he says, She’s on her way

  down. Darian’s beside herself.

  “What happened? Do you know?”

  Copter crash. Three guys died.

  Spencer’s hanging on, just barely.

  He’s in intensive care at the base hospital.

  “Okay. Thanks.” I start to hang up.

  He stops me. Wait. Will you please

  tell Darian I love her? I’d come, too,

  but the livestock . . . I’m so damn sorry.

  MEN ARE AWFUL COMMUNICATORS

  What they leave, dangling

  between the lines, is what

  they need to learn to say.

  What he told me was like a book

  cover, hinting at all the words

  locked up inside. I’m a good

  reader. Then again, I’m privy

  to the inspiration for the story.

  What, I think, he wanted to

  say, if he only knew how, is that

  if he could do it over, he’d be

  a better dad. More caring.

  More involved. More here,

  less there. That his daughter

  means more to him than his

  horse. More than a silver

  buckle. Maybe even that we

  should have pushed him to

  take us out on the circuit, let

  us show the world—his world,

  especially—that we were special.

  That his daughter was every bit

  as brilliant a singer as Carrie

  Underwood or LeAnn Rimes.

  She could have been somebody.

  Instead, she ran. From home.

  From him. Straight into the arms

  of a soldier. A brash, half-crazy

  Marine, currently lying in a sterile

  intensive care bed, thinking about dying.

  AS THE BAGS

  Plop from the belt onto the carousel,

  my thoughts go to my own Marine,

  off soon for another chance at accidental

  crash, or completely planned bullet. Why

  do we continue to do this? Why have I

  volunteered for this kind of worry?

  It occurs to me that he ought to know

  about Spencer. I give him a call. Catch

  him post-mess. “I’ve got bad news,”

  is how our conversation begins. Not,

  “I made it home safely.” When I tell

  him the little I know, he is not totally

  surprised. Ah, fuck. I heard about

  the crash. News like that travels fast.

  I didn’t know Spencer was one of them.

  Sucks when they go down at home after

  making it back safe from no-man’s-land.

  Goddamn Sea Stallion. Freaking ironic.

  His matter-of-factness bothers me. This

  is his friend, not just some grunt. I promise

  to call as soon as I know more, snag

  my suitcase, walk to the car, lugging

  much more weight than my bag.

  I GO STRAIGHT TO THE BASE

&
nbsp; When I tell the MP at the gate why

  I’m here, his tough stance softens.

  He takes my ID, notes it in his log,

  hands it back. Really sorry. Give

  Darian my best, please. As he directs

  me to the hospital, I study his face

  better. Oh, yes. He’s the same guy

  who was here the last time I came

  through with Dar, no ID check necessary.

  It could just be my imagination, but

  his somber mood seems to be reflected

  everywhere—the streets are a little quieter.

  The people I do see aren’t smiling.

  When something bad happens to Marines,

  their extended military family shares

  the experience. I still haven’t heard

  from Darian, but I assume she’s here

  at the hospital. I ask a receptionist,

  who directs me to a small waiting room

  outside the intensive care unit. Dar

  is there, rocking gently forward and back,

  staring at the floor. No television.

  No magazine. No company at all.

  Just Darian. Dwarfed by worry.

  I KNOCK GENTLY

  On the doorframe. “Hey,” I say

  quietly. “How’re you doing? I tried

  to call you when I landed, but . . .”

  Her head jerks toward me. Jesus,

  Ash, you scared the hell out of me.

  You can’t just sneak up on a person.

  Then she melts. This is . . . insane.

  She gestures for me to sit next

  to her. I do, searching for the right

  thing to say. We have been friends

  for fifteen years and never shared

  anything quite as profound as this.

  “I talked to your dad. He told me

  a little about what happened. He also

  said to tell you he loves you and that

  he’s really sorry about Spence.”

  She stiffens. Frosts. Really? Isn’t that nice?

  It bugs me—all this outpouring of love

  in times of trouble. People are hypocrites.

  And that includes my goddamn dad.

  Wow. Does she think that about me,

  too? “Dar, I’m pretty sure he meant it.

  Some people aren’t good at expressing

  emotion. When they’re worried

  about you it’s easier.” I change

  the subject to something more

  pressing. “Tell me about Spence.

  What do the doctors have to say?”

  She looks at me with bloodshot

  eyes. Straightforward says,

  He’s got second- and third-degree

  burns over sixty percent of his body.

  If he makes it—and that’s a big

  if—his recovery will be prolonged

  and excruciating. Multiple skin

  grafts. Physical therapy. And even

  with all that, he’ll never be the same.

  “Jesus.” It’s impossible to picture

  Spencer like that. He’s a fighter, not

  a victim. But you can’t fight flames.

  I invoke my not-quite-forgotten

  religion, send a silent prayer to

  the universe. Darian interrupts.

  I don’t know how to feel. At all.

  I’ve been thinking and thinking.

  She lowers her voice. Please don’t

  hate me for this, but know the first

  thing I thought when I heard?

  Problem solved. Yep, that’s right.

  Sick, I know. But that was my gut

  reaction. But then when I got here

  and saw him, bandaged and burned . . .

  Burned! All the love I ever felt for him

  came crashing back. Oh, God.

  He can’t die, Ashley. Not like this!

  She leans into me, cries a long time,

  soaking my shirt with her tears.

  AN IMPORTANT QUESTION DANGLES

  Just there. I’m afraid to reach out

  for it, but when she finally pulls

  away, some inappropriate need

  to know makes me ask anyway.

  “So . . . what about Kenny?”

  Tears glaze her eyes. I don’t know.

  I mean, I was ready to tell Spence

  that it was over between us. I had

  my speech all planned out. The truth

  is, I’m still in love with Kenny.

  Nothing can change that, not

  even this. God. Why does life

  have to be so goddamn cruel?

  Don’t look at me like that, okay?

  I get the whole karma thing, and

  if you don’t believe I haven’t been

  thinking about it, you’re wrong.

  Maybe I’m a bad person. Maybe

  I deserve to get my ass kicked.

  But like this? As I understand it,

  karma’s supposed to be about

  squaring things up. Making them

  fair. What’s so goddamn fair

  about Spencer being the one lying

  in there? Karma’s fucked up!

  HER VOICE HAS RISEN

  With each sentence. A nurse passing

  by in the hallway ducks her head

  through the door, asks if everything’s

  okay. Darian deflates her with a sharp

  scowl. Fine. Wonderful. Awesome,

  in fact. Just having a little chitchat

  about karma. Have an opinion

  you’d care to share with us?

  When the nurse smiles, her age

  shows in the way her face creases.

  My daughter has a hamster named

  Karma. I put my faith in science.

  Apparently satisfied we aren’t at

  each other’s throats, the nurse—

  Cheryl, her name tag said—goes

  about her business. “Look, Dar,

  I don’t think you deserve this.

  Accidents happen, and they have

  nothing to do with karma. This must

  be incredibly confusing. I know you

  love Kenny. And he’s definitely crazy

  about you. I also know that a little part

  of you still loves Spence, or you wouldn’t

  be here, beating yourself up. Speaking

  of that, how long have you been here?”

  She looks like hell—rat’s-nest hair and

  wrinkle-scarred clothes. “And when

  was the last time you ate something?”

  She shrugs. I don’t even know

  what time it is. They called really

  early this morning. Woke me up.

  The accident happened yesterday

  but it took a while to . . . She winces.

  Figure out who everyone was. One

  of the other guys came in alive,

  but died before his wife could get

  here. He and Spence were in back.

  The two in front took the worst

  of it. They could only ID them by

  process of elimination. It was awful.

  Knowing Darian like I do, sitting

  around here, waiting for . . . whatever

  is going to get her all wound up

  again. “Hey. Have any food in your

  fridge? Why don’t I cook you dinner,

  and you can get cleaned up? Maybe

  even catch a few z’s. Seems like

  everything’s in a holding pattern.”

  She starts to say no. Reconsiders.

  I’ll go check with the nurse. Be right

  back. While she does, I send Cole

  a text message with the news I know.

  WHEN WE GET TO HER TOWNHOUSE

  I strongly suggest, “Go take a shower.

  I’ll root through your fridge. See what

  I can find
.” She goes off in search of hot

  water. I go off in search of sustenance.

  Not much in the refrigerator. I try

  the freezer and score calzones. Preheat

  the oven. Put them in to bake for twenty

  minutes. About the time they start to smell

  really good, Dar comes into the kitchen, trailing

  the scent of Garnier Fructis shampoo. I know

  because I use it, too. We discovered it together.

  “Calzones, okay? You need to go to the store.”

  I hate eating alone, so I don’t grocery shop

  very often. Usually I just grab a bite after

  the gym. If I see Kenny, we eat out or he cooks.

  She sits on a stool at the granite-skinned

  bar. Actually, I had planned on moving in

  with Kenny after I told Spence. We picked

  out this nice little house at Hermosa

  Beach. Kenny says I don’t have to work.

  I thought I could finish my degree and

  after we got married, maybe have a baby . . . .

  She had picked up speed with every word,

  until the last. The sudden stop reminds me.

  BUT I CAN’T ASK HER NOW

  If ever. The buzzer rings. Calzones

  are ready. I put them on the counter

  to cool, reach up into the cupboard

  for plates. When I put them down

  on the bar in front of Dar, she puts

  her hand on mine. Hey. What’s that?

  The ring. I’d forgotten about it.

  My cheeks sizzle. “Uh, that was

  Cole’s surprise. We’re getting

  married. He wants a June

  wedding. That’s about as far

  as our planning got, so I’m going

  to need all kinds of help from

  you. You’ll be my maid of honor,

  right?” I didn’t realize it, but my own

  vocal tempo had picked up, too.

  It was almost as if I didn’t want

  her to comment too quickly. Not

  that I should have worried, I guess.

  She is quiet as I slide a calzone

  onto each plate, put forks beside them.

  When I ask about napkins, she

  points to paper towels and says,

  Are you fucking out of your mind?

  WORDS HAVE POWER

  The power to soothe. The power

  to skewer someone through

  the heart. The power to render

  someone speechless. I manage

  to stutter, “Wha-what do you mean?”

  The expression on her face is something