Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  administered by personnel weary

  of routine, impolite in response

  to complaint, impatient

  with pain not their own.

  Brain scans.

  Drug screens.

  Pressure checks.

  And in between nutrition

  consultations and post-surgical

  follow-ups, the intercom warned:

  Code 99, waiting room.

  The island emptied.

  Fifteen minutes later,

  the resuscitation team lifted

  Harry onto a gurney, gentled

  thin, white linen up over

  the crumbled sandstone of his face.

  THAT ONE

  Jonah claimed, was what a poem

  should be. Emotion, wrapped in

  imagery. A complete story, in eight

  perfect stanzas. To me, it was one

  small truth I observed while trying

  to help wounded warriors. Some people

  who worked at the hospital were healers

  of physical wounds. Others mitigated

  broken psyches. We did our level

  damndest. But there were so many!

  Daily, it seemed, their numbers

  multiplied. Depression. Post-traumatic

  stress disorder. Garden-variety anxiety.

  Thoughts of suicide. Alcoholism

  and drug abuse. Domestic violence.

  Brains, in need of long vacations.

  Most were salvageable. Some would

  need services the rest of their days.

  A few would shun them, and wind up

  on the streets. But they were alive.

  It’s been a couple of weeks since Luke

  came home, in a box beneath a flag.

  Celine must be drowning in a riptide

  of shock and pain. Possibility

  is a placid sea, easy to navigate until

  roiled up by a random wind of fate.

  If it were me, how long would it take

  to surface and suck in air again?

  I HAVE YET TO RECEIVE

  The wedding guest list from Cole’s mom.

  I can’t move forward without it, so I

  give her another call. She picks up this

  time. “Hi, Rochelle. I was wondering

  about your guest list. I need it to book

  the caterer. Oh, I chose the venue.

  It’s this beautiful winery . . .” I go on

  to describe the place and she doesn’t

  utter a word until I say, “By the way,

  my mom wondered if you’d like to stay

  in our guest room, so you could save

  a little money on a hotel room.”

  I’m confused. I thought you were

  getting married out here. That’s

  what Cole told me. He said it would

  only be a few people so not to worry

  about a guest list, just go ahead and

  invite who I want. June thirtieth, right?

  “Wait. What? When did you talk to

  Cole about it? Because, he and I never

  decided to have the wedding in Wyoming.

  We didn’t even pick the date. Not together.”

  HOW COULD HE

  Possibly think it was okay to choose

  both date and location for our wedding?

  Oh, and then not even bother to let

  me know. That is seriously messed up.

  I’m sorry, Ashley. I had no idea

  Cole had made this decision on

  his own. You discuss it with him,

  then let me know what you want to do.

  “Oh, I’ll discuss it with him, okay.”

  I try not to sound as angry as I feel.

  Not sure it’s working, though.

  This is unbelievable. I hang up

  with Rochelle, shoot Cole an e-mail.

  It definitely reflects how pissed I am

  right now. YOUR MOM TELLS ME YOU’VE

  MADE ALL THE PLANS FOR OUR WEDDING.

  LAST TIME I LOOKED, THAT WAS UP TO

  THE BRIDE. THAT WOULD BE ME, IN CASE

  YOU DIDN’T REALIZE THAT. OR HAVE YOU

  DECIDED ON A DIFFERENT BRIDE, TOO?

  I have no idea where he is or what

  he’s up to. Can’t guess when he might

  get back to me. One thing I know

  is I can’t sit here and wait. Neither

  do I want to spend this Sunday alone.

  It’s late morning. I call Darian, but

  there’s no answer. Probably still asleep.

  Who sleeps in until eleven? Not Jonah,

  I bet. Of course, what makes me

  think he’s alone, or that he’d

  want to do something with me,

  even if he is? Conceited, much?

  Whatever. Nothing ventured, nothing

  gained. I really like being with him.

  I feel weird calling, so I text him

  instead. That way, if he wants, he can

  just ignore it and pretend he didn’t

  see it. SORRY TO BUG YOU ON SUNDAY.

  DO YOU ROLLERBLADE? I’M THINKING

  ABOUT GOING TO MISSION BEACH.

  There’s a great, touristy boardwalk

  and plenty of paved skating. It’s kind

  of cool in early February, but it’s clear

  today, and sunny. That, in itself, should

  cheer me up. I go get dressed and by

  the time I’m ready, there is a return

  text. MEET YOU THERE OR PICK YOU UP?

  YOU CAN ALWAYS CALL IF IT’S EASIER.

  I call and he comes to get me,

  in the Beamer, which is plenty

  big enough for a couple of pairs

  of Rollerblades. Cole would never

  blade with me, or surf, either. And

  I bet Jonah would never go around

  his fiancé, to his mother, to plan

  his wedding, either. Wait. Rocky ground.

  I REFUSE

  To think about the wedding.

  Refuse to talk about Cole.

  But I should talk about something

  or it will be a very quiet ride to

  Mission Beach. Maybe a joke.

  “So, were you just sitting by your

  phone, waiting for me to text you?”

  In fact . . . Okay, no, not exactly.

  Actually, I was going through

  some of the early submissions

  to our Poetry International Prize.

  “Sounds like a semi-serious way

  to spend your Sunday. Sunshine

  and exercise sounds better to me.”

  To me, too, obviously. Thanks

  for the invitation. Sometimes I

  totally forget about having fun.

  In fact, seems like all the fun I’ve

  had in a very long time is with you.

  I have to admit that’s mostly true

  for me, too. Don’t dare say it, though.

  “Can I ask you something personal?

  Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  Gun shy, I guess. I’ve dated

  a few women since my wife left.

  They wanted to get serious right

  away and I wasn’t ready for that.

  “So, I’m a safe date?” It’s meant

  to be funny, and he does laugh.

  But then he says, I suppose you

  could look at it that way. But

  I also really enjoy your company.

  There’s so much to like about you.

  I’m glad his eyes are on the road.

  My face must be a fabulous shade

  of raspberry. “Thank you, Jonah.”

  Time for a change of subject, I think.

  “Tell me about the poetry prize.”

  You’ve never entered? You should.

  There’s a thousand-dollar prize.

  Have you ever
submitted to our lit

  mag? He goes on to list submission

  requirements, deadlines, and details.

  By the time he’s done, we’re there.

  We lace up our blades, head down

  the bike path and, unlike surfing,

  I can most definitely hold my own

  with Jonah on Rollerblades. It’s a great

  workout and I’m so glad I came, and

  doubly glad I asked Jonah to come along.

  IT’S THREE DAYS

  Before I hear from Cole. His e-mail is a gentle rebuke:

  SORRY I COULDN’T GET BACK TO YOU

  SOONER. IT’S BEEN CRAZY HERE,

  WITH ALL THE PROTESTERS. ARE

  YOU SEEING IT IN THE NEWS THERE?

  KORAN BURNING ISN’T A BRILLIANT

  IDEA. EVERYTHING WE’VE BUSTED

  OUR BALLS TO BUILD IS CRUMBLING.

  IT’S SCARY AS HELL AND I’M BETTING

  A WEEK AFTER WE PULL OUT OF HERE

  THE TALIBAN WILL OWN THE PLACE.

  AS FOR THE WEDDING, GUESS I SHOULD

  HAVE CLEARED IT WITH YOU FIRST.

  BUT I FIGURED YOU’D BE OKAY WITH IT.

  MOM STICKS CLOSE TO HOME. WE CAN

  TAKE THE WEDDING TO HER, RIGHT?

  MAKES THE MOST SENSE TO ME. OKAY,

  NOW THAT’S SETTLED, IF YOU’RE GOING

  TO SEND A CARE PACKAGE, DO IT SOON.

  OH, AND WHAT’S UP WITH SPENCE?

  He thinks things are settled? My reply is terse:

  SPENCE IS BETTER. I HOPE IT’S OKAY

  THAT I ASKED HIM TO BE AN USHER.

  HE CAN’T TRAVEL TO WYOMING WHICH

  SHOULDN’T BE A PROBLEM, SINCE I’M

  PLANNING A CALIFORNIA WEDDING.

  AT A WINERY. WITH FLOWERS AND

  CAKE AND A WHOLE LOT OF GUESTS.

  HOPE YOU CAN MAKE IT. I PUT YOUR

  NAME ON THE INVITATIONS.

  THAT’S BULL

  I haven’t actually ordered

  the invitations. And now

  I’m not sure if I should, or

  even if I want to. How can

  he flat dismiss me and what

  I want in such a condescending

  way? He’s as bad as my dad.

  Maybe even worse. We’ll see,

  when he gets my e-mail. Am

  I ridiculous, expecting a big

  wedding—my first and, with

  luck, only wedding, the one

  I’ve thought about practically

  forever? Am I out of line, refusing

  to do it his way, and “take it

  to her”? Am I psycho, wondering

  who is more important to Cole,

  me or his mother? Am I selfish,

  wanting it to be me? I know he’s

  got a lot on his mind. Bigger stuff

  than guest lists, DJs, and floral

  arrangements. Stuff like bullets

  and bombs and body armor.

  Unique boutique gowns are not

  high on his priority ladder.

  Maybe they shouldn’t be on

  mine, either. I really don’t know

  anymore. Am I just premenstrual?

  Am I just being totally petty?

  Rewind

  JANUARY 2012

  Five years after Cole and I met,

  we had come an incredible distance,

  together and apart. We had transformed.

  Morphed into different people, because

  of each other and in spite of each other.

  In almost every way, we had grown up.

  My growth came from self-discovery.

  Choosing one path, journeying awhile,

  changing direction. I had learned much

  along the way. The elation of first love.

  The anguish of separation. The meaning

  of sacrifice. Courage. Overwhelming fear.

  Patience. Impatience. Wresting control.

  Relinquishing control. I still wasn’t always

  certain when to wrest and when to relinquish,

  but time is perhaps the best teacher.

  I had withdrawn into self-inflicted solitary.

  Clawed my way out. Retreated again.

  I had pushed envelopes. Pushed buttons,

  allowed mine to be pushed. Decided

  I’d rather be the pusher than the pushee.

  I had come to realize that life is fluid,

  and while that can be a very scary thing,

  riding the flow is better than trying to stop it.

  COLE’S GROWTH

  Had largely been imposed on him.

  Yes, he had volunteered for the ride.

  But how many young people truly

  comprehend the face of war until

  it’s staring them down? You can’t patrol

  unfriendly villages without embracing

  paranoia. You can’t watch your battle

  buddies blown to bits without jonesing

  for revenge. You can’t take a blow to

  the helmet without learning to duck.

  And you can’t put people in your crosshairs,

  celebrate dropping them to the ground,

  without catching a little bloodlust. Paranoia.

  Revenge. Bloodlust. These things turn

  boys into men. But what kind of men?

  I had experienced much in that five

  years. But it was nothing, compared

  to what Cole had witnessed. Suffered. Done.

  Each returning soldier is an in-the-flesh

  memoir of war. Their chapters might vary,

  but similar imagery fills the pages, and

  the theme of every book is the same—

  profound change. The big question

  became, could I live with that kind of change?

  AS I WAS FILLING OUT

  The application to segue out of social

  work and into creative writing, Cole

  was earning the respect of his fellow

  grunts, and working toward the rank

  of sergeant. Getting there involved

  some incidents deemed necessary

  by the NATO forces, and atrocities

  by many Afghani people. Nighttime

  raids netted insurgents, but also flushed

  harmless villagers from their homes.

  Many never returned. In an effort to thwart

  IED planting, some soldiers fired into

  vehicles at checkpoints. As often

  as not, they found no IEDs. Intelligence,

  perhaps faulty, perhaps not, resulted

  in indiscriminate U.S. bombs killing

  innocent civilians, including women

  and children. To be fair, the Taliban

  felt no compunction about using kids

  to carry weapons, serve as screens

  and even as suicide bombers. Children

  as young as six were gathered and taken

  to training camps where they learned

  the fine points of sacrificing themselves

  to Allah. When someone comes at you

  with explosives obviously strapped around

  their middles, you take them out, no matter

  how young they are. Even if they remind

  you of a kid you know back home. Maybe

  even your own kid. Soldiering was ugly.

  After all that, the Taliban wanted to come

  to the table and talk. ANA and ANP troops

  were defecting, or just plain scared of

  what might happen once the coalition

  forces deserted the country. Despite years

  of training and working hand in hand

  to guarantee they would be in control,

  that outcome was anything but assured.

  U.S. troops, including Cole, began to feel

  frustrated. Unappreciated. Downright angry.

  Paranoia, revenge, and bloodlust

&nbs
p; were natural consequences of survival.

  I WAS IN THE DARK

  About most of that. Cole bottled

  his feelings, kept them inside

  where every event shook them

  up like carbonated water. I only

  knew when they finally blew.

  He wasn’t supposed to rant, but

  now and then it happened. Better

  to fire off a barrage of words than

  a spray of bullets, like soldiers who

  wandered all the way off the deep

  end. Some waited until they got home

  and memory or boredom riled

  them up. Then they’d go looking

  for action. Sometimes they took

  it out on strangers—crowds at

  political rallies or random homeless

  guys on the street. Other times,

  it came down on people they knew.

  Maybe even loved. One woman at

  the shelter was married to an Army

  vet. It took more than two years for

  his PTSD to kick all the way into gear.

  He never scared me, she said. But

  one day, it was like the light went out

  in his eyes. I swear I was looking

  evil in the face. I thought he’d kill me.

  He claimed it was the heat that set

  him off, taking him back to Fallujah.

  I made a mental note to make sure

  Cole and I always had air-conditioning.

  TRIPLE DIGITS

  Days, defined by axial lean,

  stretched long and longer

  toward

  the soft release of

  summer night.

  Awaken to the predawn

  caress,

  cool silver light

  wrapped around eastern

  hills, a lover. Slow

  rotation into mid-morning

  cerulean, warm and

  flawless

  as high Rockies hot

  springs. Perpetual

  revolution, the mercury

  pushes past twin digit

  luxury

  into the realm of risk.

  Terrestrial self-defense,

  June’s mad celebration

  lifts,

  wet, on sprays

  of July heat, darkens

  the sky, thunders,

  stuns the earth,

  and for one black,

  electric moment . . .

  Everything is still.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  EARLY MAY

  When I’m not studying for finals,

  I’m working out the tiniest details

  of my wedding. Eight weeks away.