Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  meth, maybe. I hoped they looked

  for that. Hoped their investigation

  was more involved than asking

  a couple of questions and accepting

  easy answers. The bruising I saw

  looked massive. But what if Ms. Bruiser

  managed to make them believe

  it was only an accident, or admitted

  she went overboard, but only that once.

  There were just too many variables.

  And I never learned the outcome.

  One more checkmark on my worry list.

  PRISONER

  Mine is the dream of the caged

  wolf. He has forgotten his howl

  but still remembers long lopes

  through stiletto woods,

  drawn by desire.

  He is adrift on a current of night.

  Summer trails humid perfume

  and the forest yields a feast

  of decay, but there is more—

  blood scent.

  A notion of movement quickens

  his gait, the chase becomes game.

  She cannot match his speed,

  but he must overtake her to win

  her. Respect is born of

  power.

  At his demand, she flags reverence.

  Some might call their joining

  savage—the mesh of fang

  and fur, the singe of lupine thrust.

  But at the tie,

  he lays her down

  on a pillow of forest. Begs patience.

  Mine is the heart of the caged

  wolf. Roused from nocturnal reverie,

  he paces the perimeter of sleep

  rattled bars. The waxing moon

  casts a pale shadow. He

  looks to the amber sky

  listens to a distant plea,

  water on the wind.

  Finds his song.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  COLE IS A MONTH

  Into his fourth deployment—deep

  in the Helmand Province—when I go

  home for Thanksgiving. It has been

  a casualty-heavy period for coalition

  forces. Roadside explosions and suicide

  bombers have taken their toll.

  Cole sounds grim when I’m able

  to talk to him. Hopefully the troops’

  own turkey-and-trimmings feast

  will boost morale. Maybe they’ll even

  get to have a couple of beers.

  It’s a long drive from San Diego

  to Lodi, and I’m making it alone.

  I asked Dar if she wanted to come

  along, get away from the hospital

  for a couple of days. Spence will

  survive, something to be thankful

  for. But it will still be a while before

  he’s strong enough for skin grafts.

  Darian can’t do much but wait.

  She turned me down, however.

  I’m pretty sure she plans to spend

  the holiday with Kenny. And that’s

  all right by me. I leave very early

  Thursday morning. Driving seventy,

  it will take around six hours. I nudge

  the speedometer to seventy-five. Hope

  the highway patrol feels generous today.

  WITH A STOP

  For coffee and another to pee

  it out, I arrive home a little after

  one. Nostalgia sweeps over me

  as I turn up the long, curved driveway.

  It’s been a dry autumn. The hills

  are parchment brown, beneath

  sprawling, green oak canopies.

  Representative California. I park

  in front of our low stucco ranch-

  style house with a red-tile roof.

  Buster, our golden retriever, lifts

  his head from the front porch, too

  lazy to come investigate. Besides,

  he knows it’s me. I can see his tail

  thumping. I get out of the car, stretch

  a minute, inhaling familiar air.

  Why is it appreciating home comes

  easier after you’ve been away for

  a while? I stop long enough to pat

  Buster’s head, go on inside.

  I hear football in the family room.

  That will be Dad, and I know Mom’s

  in the kitchen. What I don’t expect

  is to see my brother, no longer in Europe.

  Three heads swivel toward me—

  Dad’s, Troy’s, and one very blond one,

  with a cute, freckled face I don’t recognize.

  Hey, Sis. Come meet Gretchen.

  She’s a very sweet German, who

  speaks delicate English and hangs

  on to Troy like he’s her anchor

  here in this crazy country. I say

  hi, hug Troy, and give Dad a quick kiss

  right before the Niners score.

  He and Troy both jump to their feet,

  cheering. Gretchen looks anxious.

  “I’m going to go help Mom with

  dinner. Want to come?” I invite.

  Now Gretchen looks grateful.

  She follows me to the kitchen,

  where Mom is peeling potatoes.

  “Hey. Can we help you with that?”

  Hi sweetheart. How was your

  drive? She keeps on peeling.

  “Uneventful.” I look for something

  for Gretchen and I to do. “How about

  if we open some wine? I know it’s early,

  but hey, it’s Thanksgiving, right?”

  Go for it. The wineglasses are in

  the hutch. Gretchen, white or red?

  Gretchen barely looks old enough

  to drink. But she chooses white.

  I hand her a bottle of each and

  a corkscrew, go off to find the glasses.

  WITH ONLY COFFEE

  And a muffin for breakfast,

  the wine produces a nice, little

  buzz before very long. I try to

  keep it in check, sipping slowly.

  I also try to let everyone else

  do most of the talking. We learn

  Gretchen is from Dresden, but

  she met Troy at a café in Munich.

  Her dream is to work in publishing.

  As an editor, perhaps, or public

  relations. Whatever will get her foot

  in the door. Meanwhile, she’s living

  off a small inheritance. This is the time

  to travel, she says. Before I must get

  serious. I think then I will grow old.

  Mom laughs. Getting serious

  about a man will make you grow

  old. Don’t you think so, Ashley?

  “Depends on the man, I guess.”

  I’ve been hoping to steer clear

  of talking about Cole. No such luck.

  Ashley’s boyfriend is a soldier.

  Mom tells Gretchen. This war

  has made her much older.

  I WOULD PROTEST

  Except she’s right. I turn twenty-five

  in a week. I feel ten years older.

  It’s the war, yes, and Cole’s fighting

  there. It’s a consequence of worry.

  The oven buzzer sounds. I go to take

  out the turkey. Open the door. Find

  ham. No wonder the smell wasn’t

  familiar. I guess I’d noticed that on

  some level. “Ham this year? Was

  there a turkey shortage I didn’t hear

  about?” We’ve never had ham for

  Thanksgiving dinner. Mom drains

  the potatoes. Nope. Plenty of turkeys.

  Just thought it was time to shake

  things up a little. It’s a lovely spiral

  cut. There’s some pineapple-cherry

  sauce
on the stove. Would you mind

  basting it? It should sit a few minutes

  before we carve it. By then, I’ll have

  these potatoes mashed. Gretchen

  beats me to the pan and baster,

  so I refill our glasses. When I reach

  into the fridge for the Pinot Grigio,

  I notice a beautiful chocolate cheesecake.

  “No apple pie, either?” This shaking

  stuff up thing is slightly disturbing.

  Wonder what else she’s agitating.

  This feels a little bit like a revolt.

  THAT FEELING ONLY GROWS

  As we sit down to dinner. Mom’s chair used

  to always be right next to Dad’s. Today,

  they’re at opposite ends of the table.

  Putting Gretchen and Troy straight

  across from me. We say grace, then

  Mom and I go into the kitchen to get

  the serving platters. Dad gives

  the sauced-up ham slices a hard

  double take. What the hell is that?

  Okay, he has been drinking rum

  most of the afternoon. But that

  was pretty harsh. “It’s ham, Dad.”

  Yes, chirps Mom. And you paid

  a pretty penny for it, and I’ve spent

  most of the day making it special

  for you. Us. Is there a problem?

  It’s not like you don’t eat pork.

  We have ham all the time.

  He looks at her like she’s crazy.

  Not for Thanksgiving. But I guess

  there’s a first time for everything.

  Troy and I exchange “phews.”

  Gretchen looks alternately terrified

  and relieved. We start passing trays,

  bowls, and baskets of meat, veggies,

  and Mom’s homemade buttermilk

  biscuits. And I think it might all

  be perfectly fine until suddenly Troy

  whistles. Hey, Ashley. What’s that?

  Did you forget to tell us something,

  uh . . . kind of important? He’s staring

  at my left hand, and now everyone

  else is, too. I swear, I forgot all about

  the ring, which I just got back, sized,

  from the jeweler’s two days ago.

  “Uh, well, yeah. I guess I did.

  Cole and I are getting married.

  Probably in June. We haven’t set

  a date yet or anything, but that’s

  what we were thinking. I know,

  relatively speaking, that’s not a whole

  lot of time, but I think we can pull

  it together . . . .” Troy is grinning.

  Gretchen is nodding. Dad is shaking

  his head. But Mom . . . I don’t know.

  All color has drained from her face,

  and any hint of a smile went with it.

  Did she have too much wine?

  She kind of looks sick. “Are you okay,

  Mom? I’m sorry I didn’t mention it.”

  MOM FINDS SOMETHING

  Approximating a smile.

  Says she’s fine. Turns

  her attention back to

  her dinner, though she’s

  really only picking at it

  now. It is Dad who says,

  Have you thought this

  through, Ashley? I mean,

  all the way through? Why

  get married now? Aren’t

  things good just as they are?

  Déjà vu, and annoying

  déjà vu, at that. “You sound

  like Darian. God, Dad, I’m

  almost twenty-five. Don’t

  you think that’s old enough?”

  It’s not exactly over the hill.

  Why rush into marriage?

  You’re not . . . Okay, now

  it’s anger-inspiring déjà vu.

  “Pregnant? No, Dad. No

  shotguns involved. And

  as far as ‘rushing,’ Cole

  and I have been together

  for five years. Not exactly

  jumping the gun. Why do

  I have to keep defending

  this decision? Everyone

  should be happy for me.”

  EYES STINGING

  I push back from the table, carry

  my plate into the kitchen. Rinse

  it, put it in the dishwasher, along

  with the pots and pans Mom left

  in the sink. Then I step outside

  to cry in private. The back patio

  is in the sun, and warm. But I’m

  shivering. Nerves. Anger. Hurt.

  I’m cold, from the inside out.

  It’s quiet behind the dining room

  window. At least they’re not talking

  about me—about what a fool I am

  or how I’m too young to know

  what I want. Ha. What would

  they say if I told them I’m not sure

  about social work, either? Dad

  would freak, that’s for sure. I can

  hear him now. After all that time

  and money invested you want

  to change your mind now?

  I sit on the old porch glider.

  It has seen better days, for sure.

  The door opens, and Mom comes

  outside. May I join you? She sits

  beside me, knowing I’d never say

  no. We rock gently back and forth

  for a minute. Finally, she says,

  I need to tell you something I’ve

  never shared with you before.

  You know my mother and father

  died in a car accident, right? What

  you don’t know is that it wasn’t

  really an accident. It was a murder

  suicide. Daddy was never right

  after he got back from Viet Nam.

  It was a long time ago, and I was

  little, but I remember how the sound

  of a helicopter sent him to the floor.

  How he heard noises that I never

  did. How if someone looked at him

  in a certain way, he’d go ballistic.

  He was arrested a couple of times

  for starting a fight in a bar. Drinking

  made everything worse because

  then he saw ghosts. Really. I know

  he did horrible things in the jungle.

  Things no amount of alcohol or pills

  could erase. War stains soldiers,

  all the way through their psyches,

  into their souls. I understand that,

  and could almost forgive him for taking

  his own life, to quiet the ghosts. But

  I can never forgive him for taking

  my mother with him. He thought

  of her as a possession. One he wouldn’t

  leave behind for someone else to own.

  And I worry about that for you.

  Cole reminds me of my father.

  IT’S A STUNNING REVELATION

  One I never even suspected.

  I am trembling. Mom slides

  her arm around my shoulder,

  pulls me into her embrace.

  I can’t remember the last time

  we sat like this. Now I am young.

  Like, four or five. We freeze

  in this place, wordlessly watching

  a covey of fat quail foraging

  for several minutes. Finally,

  I clear my throat. “I understand

  why you’re worried for me, Mom.

  But I’ve never seen Cole do

  any of the things you described.”

  Wait. Not true. There was the time

  he heard the helicopter and

  pushed me to the floor. Except,

  he was protecting me, so that

  was not the same thing at all.

  “Cole would neve
r, ever hurt me.

  It would go against his code of honor.”

  Her arm falls away. That’s what

  Momma thought. I want to support

  your decision. I’m just not sure I can.

  THE DOOR OPENS AGAIN

  It’s Troy, checking up on us, though

  he pretends it’s all about cheesecake.

  Dad said I had to ask you before

  I cut it. He also said to ask if you

  bought brandy for the eggnog.

  Mom vacates the slider. I’ll cut

  the cheesecake. Think I’d leave that

  to a man? You up for eggnog, Ashley?

  “A little, I guess. Actually, maybe

  straight brandy. Save the calories

  for the cheesecake. I’ll be right in.”

  Mom brushes past Troy, who

  doesn’t follow. Instead, he comes

  over to me. So you know, I think

  it’s cool you’re getting married.

  I have to smile. “Thanks, Troy.

  You going to be here this summer?

  I don’t think we can have a wedding

  if you’re not going to be part of it.”

  No worries. I’ll be here. I like

  Europe. But it’s not California.

  “What about Gretchen? You

  two look pretty darn tight.”

  Yeah, well. Don’t tell Mom and

  Dad just yet. But Gretchen and

  I might be getting married, too.

  Rewind

  LAST FALL

  As the nighttime temperatures

  in San Diego slid lower and lower,

  toward forty degrees, in Helmand

  Province, Afghanistan, Cole and crew

  celebrated ninetyish daytime temps,

  with nights in the upper sixties.

  They were ecstatic. Up until the first

  week in November, I talked to Cole

  fairly regularly. He was in decent

  spirits. Coming home in just six weeks.

  We knew by then he’d spend Christmas

  in Kaneohe Bay. I’d see him in January.

  Ramadan had ended. Rumor had it

  that during the holy month, the locals

  were grouchier than normal, having

  to fast from sunrise to sunset. Skirmishes

  were common. The Marines worked

  closely with the Afghan National Army

  and Afghan National Police, in an effort

  to allow children to safely attend school

  and allow farmers to harvest their crops

  without Taliban interference. Problem

  was, every now and then a sneaky

  insurgent would find a job within the ANA

  or ANP. And then, all bets were off.