Going Overboard (25 page)

“You did what?”

“I called Dr. Ashley and told him that I have feelings for him.”

Dustin was quiet for several seconds and I thought he had hung up. But then he cleared his throat and said, “And what was his response?”

“He said he wants to see me in eight weeks.”

“What? You're going out with him?”

“No! For Owen's appointment, and to talk about whether or not he should still be my doctor in light of, well, in light of recent developments.”

“And if he stops being your doctor,” Dustin said, “then what?”

He was hanging on my every word—practically begging me to open up to him—and I wasn't sure what to do with that.

“Then I don't know what,” I said.

“You don't know?”

“No, Dustin, I don't. I'm not the same person you left at the
terminal that day. It's like I've had an epiphany or something, like I've suddenly become alive.”

“You've become alive?”

“Yes, when I see Dr. Ashley, he makes me feel beautiful and funny and . . . alive. I care about what I wear and how I do my hair for the first time in months.”

“Oh, so this is about vanity,” he said.

I paused and wished Dustin could have seen my angry face. Then I said, “Dr. Ashley makes me feel special. And he looks at me in a way I wish you could. I don't know how to explain it. . . .”

I was starting to cry and my words were breaking apart.

Dustin took a deep breath and exhaled. “So I guess my letter meant nothing to you then,” he said. “I'm sorry I called.”

“What letter? I didn't get any letter.”

There was silence on the other end.

“What letter, Dustin? Did you send me something? Dustin? Are you there?”

But he had already hung up, and all that was left was a dial tone.

That letter from Dustin arrived two days later. The envelope was wrinkled and torn, as if it had been around the world and back again before coming to my mailbox. And judging by the postmark—February 20, 2003—I knew it probably had.

14
YOU'LL DO THE RIGHT THING

A
s March turned into April, winter gave way to spring, and the brown dormant grass began to turn green. Oh, sure, the blooming crepe myrtles and yellow flowers were beautiful and the weather was still pleasant . . .
blah, blah, blah
 . . . but ultimately, this was a dreaded time for me, because it meant having to take care of the lawn again.

Why mowing the grass was such a problem, I don't know, because I never actually did it. Not once. That's what I had Brent for. Early in the morning once a week, before the break of dawn, I would wake up to the soft purring of his mower clipping past my bedroom window. It was a comforting sound because it meant that all was well, that my house—my world—wasn't actually falling apart around me. If nothing else, I was going to have the best-manicured grass on the block.

Owen was sitting up now and learning to clap his hands. His round face had filled out, and buds of white teeth were popping through his gums. Sprouts of flimsy blond hair stuck up from the crown of his head, making it irresistible to call him “Rooster.” Yet
he was so thin and small for his age, I sometimes said he was my little kitten—the only cat I would ever like.

Both boys were growing fast, changing like the seasons, and already Dustin had missed so much. Change is difficult for military spouses because it represents time gone by, time that can't be replaced—memories that can't be relived. Life goes on, and children grow up, yet still you're living only to “wait”: waiting for the ship to come home, waiting for a phone call, waiting for the next season.

And yes, waiting for the grass to go dormant again so you don't have to mow it.

Dustin hadn't called in weeks, and the ship's e-mail was on and off, so I didn't have any messages from him either. I felt more distant from him than I ever had. And yet, my mind was decidedly more focused on the next appointment with Dr. Ashley and what would transpire there.

I kept Dustin's letter stuffed in a drawer in my dresser because it was too painful to reread. If only I had waited to get it before opening my big mouth! Now I couldn't take back those words. I couldn't even apologize. The connection between Dustin and me had literally been severed. But in a way it seemed easier and safer to be disconnected completely.

Besides, even if I had had the chance, would I have said anything differently on the phone that night? Would I not have told him about Dr. Ashley? I couldn't be sure. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered, why the heck did I tell Dustin about Dr. Ashley anyway? It's not like I was having an affair. I had nothing to confess or feel guilty about. Did I?

It was a question Jody would certainly know the answer to, if she wasn't so busy moving. Darn it.

One warm, breezy afternoon, she and I sat on the curb outside her house while bearded men in jeans and white T-shirts loaded all her furniture into a rumbling moving van waiting in the
driveway. As each item emerged it seemed to trigger an unrelated memory: “Remember when the kids colored Easter eggs and spilled the dye on the kitchen floor?” “Remember Michael's birthday when he ate so much ice cream he started shivering?” “Remember when the guys came back from that bachelor party and Dustin had glitter all over his face?”

The sun beat down on our backs, but there was a soft breeze across our winter white skin. It would still be a few more weeks before the oppressive Florida summer weather began.

“You're getting out just in time,” I said, shading my eyes from the sun. “You'll totally miss the humidity.”

Jody had a perspiring water bottle between her feet on the pavement. “Oh, I wouldn't say we're getting out just in time,” she said; then she took a sip of water and looked up at the sky.

Another load of boxes came out the front door and down the sidewalk. Jody looked over her shoulder at the sweaty men coming toward us, but I couldn't stand to see another piece of her house loaded into the truck, so I stared forward.

“I don't know what I'll do without you here,” I said.

“You're going to be fine, Sarah. So long as you keep your head on straight.”

Steve poked his head out the open front door. “Jody, do you want to pack up the wedding pictures? Or are we taking them in the car?”

The last week had been strange, with Steve home. The dynamics of our group tipped out of balance in the presence of male testosterone, and in many ways, Steve was a hindrance to my relationship with Jody. He wasn't even fond of
Sex and the City
, if you can believe that! But Courtney and I wasted no time pressing him for every detail (“Has Dustin lost weight? He looks thin in those pictures.” “Is Derek doing much flying? Did he talk about me?”). I'm sure Steve was as ready as ever to move, if just to get away from all us women.

“I'll be there in a minute,” Jody yelled over her shoulder at Steve, and then to me, “I'd better go help him. I'll be right back.”

She got up from the curb and wiped the back of her pants as she sauntered to the door. She was in no rush—apparently the novelty of Steve being home had already worn off. After she disappeared inside, I realized she had become “one of them”—a woman with a husband.

When all the boxes had been loaded and the moving van finally left its obtrusive spot on the driveway, Jody and Steve and the boys piled into their minivan, which was already packed to the roof with suitcases and supplies for the trip across country.

“Where they goin', Momma?” Ford asked. “Are they coming back?”

I didn't know how to answer him, but in my own mind I wondered if I would ever see Jody again. What are the chances we'll be stationed together next time? I wondered. And even if we are, would it ever be the same? We were closing a chapter in our lives, moving on to the next era, a feeling similar to a college graduation, when you say good-bye to the people who were your closest friends for the past four years, knowing you might never see them again.

I felt change on the horizon.

Boy, was I tired of change.

Jody closed the back door of the minivan and walked over to me. She seemed awkward, and I knew she was unsure whether or not to hug me. So I hugged her first.

“Now my house probably
will
burn down without you here,” I whispered over her shoulder.

She pulled away from my embrace and waved her hand. “Nah, you'll be fine.” Then she glanced behind her to make sure Steve and the boys weren't listening. “And hey, keep me updated,” she said. “About the doctor, I mean. And about Dustin, too. Are you going to that next appointment?”

I shaded my eyes and shifted on my feet. “I can't really think about that right now. One crisis at a time, ya know.”

“Well, anyway,” she said, “I know you'll do the right thing—whatever that is.”

We hugged again, and she was more relaxed and natural this time. “Bye, Sarah,” she said, but I just waved. I couldn't say good-bye. My eyes filled with tears and Jody touched my shoulder. “You're going to be fine,” she said. “And I'm always just a phone call away.”

Then she climbed into the van and settled in her seat before rolling down the window. “Don't go feeding any more cats,” she called out. “And remember, dead batteries don't ‘whine.' ”

I smiled and waved. “Bye, Jody.”

“Take care of yourself,” she said, and Steve eased the purple van out of the driveway.

I stood in the middle of the street and watched them drive away, until they turned the corner and I couldn't see the van anymore. When I turned back around to walk home, the road between our two houses had never seemed longer. A lone bird chirped happily in a tree above me.

“Oh, shut up,” I said under my breath.

“What'd you say, Momma?” Ford asked and I stiffened my posture.

“Grown-up stuff,” I said. “That's all.”

Several times during those first few days after Jody was gone, I picked up the phone and dialed her number before remembering and hanging up again. And when I took the boys for a walk and passed her house, I couldn't look at it for fear of seeing the dark windows, which looked uninviting and impersonal without Jody's lighthouse curtains.

I stayed in my pajamas for almost a week straight, which really wasn't a problem, except when the UPS man came to the door with a package and I was still not dressed at two o'clock in the afternoon.

“You all right, ma'am?” the burly man in a brown uniform asked.

At first I was surprised and wondered what he meant. Did I look sick? Then I peered down at my bunny slippers and blushed.

“Oh, my husband's on deployment,” I said. “That's all.”

I felt like I needed a disclaimer tattooed to my forehead: “Don't bother asking why—my husband is deployed!”

On another depressed afternoon, I was sitting watching
Oprah
with my feet propped up on the coffee table when I heard the purr of a lawn mower coming closer in the distance. Must be Brent, I thought and strained my neck to see out the blinds of the back door.

But to my horror, when the purring got close enough that it vibrated picture frames on the living room wall, I saw that it was Danielle, not Brent, who was mowing my lawn.

It was one thing to let my male neighbor take care of me while my husband was away, but even I couldn't accept letting a female neighbor do my chores while I sat on the couch sipping iced tea.

So what did I do? I ran and closed the blinds before Danielle saw me. Then I immediately cursed myself for being such a loser.

I hid away in the darkened room until the sound of the mower had stopped and I knew Danielle was done. But when I dared to creep back out and open the blinds, there Danielle stood at the door with grass-stained shoes and a pair of clippers in her right hand.

“Oh, I was just about to knock,” she said when I reluctantly opened the door. I wrapped my arms around my waist, trying to hide my pajamas.

Danielle looked me up and down and said, “Are you sick, Sarah?”

“A little under the weather,” I said, feigning a cough.

She pulled a white envelope out of her back pocket and handed it to me. “The postman accidentally put this in our mailbox the other day,” she said.

I looked at the return address, which was a series of letters and numbers (FPO AE dash something or other) with no actual words.

“Is it from Dustin?” Danielle asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Oh, that is just so sweet,” Danielle said in a high-pitched voiced. “How romantic!”

How romantic? I stared at the envelope. “Mrs. Dustin Smiley” and the address were neatly typed and centered. Dustin always addressed letters to me that way, which, along with his habit of carrying a neatly folded handkerchief, often made him seem a bit uptight. Frankly, I thought “Mrs. Dustin Smiley” was a bit formal and cold, but to have it typed—on a stiff envelope, no less—was over the top!

I folded the envelope and shoved it in the pocket of my pajama pants.

“So do you need any help out there?” I said, peering over Danielle's shoulder and hoping she'd say no.

“Nope. I've got it covered,” she said. “You just go and rest. Do you have some soup or anything for that cough?”

“Huh?” I said before remembering. Then I covered my mouth and coughed again. “Oh, no, I'll be fine. But thanks anyway.”

Danielle went back to her gardening and I went back to the couch. Then about a half hour later, there was another knock.

“I thought you might need this,” Danielle said when I opened the door, and she handed me a dark bottle of cough syrup.

The rest of the day was filled with joys like Ford drawing on the living room furniture with a highlighter, so I nearly forgot about the letter in my pocket until late that night, after the kids had already gone to bed. I opened the envelope slowly, almost afraid to look inside; then I settled into the pillows on our bed to read. But when I pulled the folded piece of paper out, I was surprised to see
DEPARTMENT OF THE NAVY
embossed at the top. This wasn't a letter from Dustin; it was from Margo's husband.