While He Was Away (8 page)

This—
this
—is what I came for.

I imagine David running wild and free around his backyard, his now aging, very cranky and creaky German shepherd, Mars, trotting along spryly behind him. Ravi is there too, somewhere in the shadows. David was such a beautiful boy. Still is. I’d smile if my jaw weren’t clenched so tight, if I didn’t feel so awkward standing beside Ravi.

“We pretended we were knights in shining armor,” he continues. “We used sticks for swords. Once I accidentally stabbed David in the side.”

“I know that scar.” My voice comes out in a croak.

“I always wondered if it was still there. I felt terrible about it.” Ravi shakes his head. “I suppose I still do.”

“What else?” I say. “About David.”

Ravi picks up a stone, weighs it in his hand. “He really looked out for me. He took it hard for me more than once.” Ravi gives a low laugh. “And he taught me how to belch the alphabet. That was about the closest I ever came to being cool as a kid. Got me through a whole year of recess, probably. I’ve always wanted to thank him for that.”

“You still can.”

Ravi looks at me. “I did. I wrote him a letter last night, after work. I had some time to kill.”

I go cold. Someone did it before me. Wrote David.

“I’ve got to go.”

I’m on my bike. I’m out of here.

Ravi calls out to me. “I’ve got some great pictures of David if you ever want to see them.”

“Sure,” I call back to him. “Someday.”

“I was thinking of sending the pictures to him, but—”

But
what
I don’t know, because I’m too far gone to hear.

•••

I sit at my desk and write a letter on the thin, blue international paper that I stocked up on at the post office last week with David standing by my side.

Dear David,

I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I miss you so much.

Don’t forget to let your tats get some air so they can heal. But only when it’s safe, okay? Play it safe. I’ve bumped my ring a couple of times, and it hasn’t been fun. And a ring is one thing, a finger is one thing, but your chest—you’ve got to take care of that.

Have I mentioned I love your chest?

I love your chest.

Not much has happened here. Well, except you know my grandmother—the star quilter, Plum Tumble maker? I’m going to find her. Linda isn’t happy about it, but, oh well.

I chew on my pencil. Bad habit. I decide not to tell David yet why I feel so drawn to searching for Justine. No need to mention anything about a heroic soldier who died in battle. Nope. Don’t think so. Positive, encouraging things. That’s what I need to write.

It’s pretty here today! Bright blue sky. Hot and windy, but what else is new, right? I went for a bike ride. I needed to burn off some energy now that you’re not around to help me do it. If you know what I mean.

I talked to your mom this morning. She sounds so much like you, on the phone especially. Made me want to talk to you in the worst way. Will you please call as often as you can?

Nagging, I know. I thought only thirty-year-olds and up did that!

Take care of yourself, okay? Eat everything in sight. Drink bottled water. Keep under cover.

Nagging again! Sorry!

I love you.

Penna

I type something similar into an email sent care of the U.S. Army (same address he had at OSUT, which is somehow comforting) and send that off too, so it’ll be waiting in his inbox.

Then I carefully write the address he gave me on the outside of the letter (David was told if his mail was addressed even the slightest bit incorrectly, he’d pay with sit-ups or chin-ups or worse) and walk it over to the nearest mailbox.

By the time I’m home again, I’m starving. I wolf a sandwich standing up in the kitchen. The sandwich settles like a brick in the pit of my stomach. I sink down on a kitchen chair.

I’m losing it. I’d better do something. Fast.

I push myself out of the chair. I go to my bedroom and start searching for Justine.

By late afternoon I’ve found all of the older Justine Weavers that the Internet’s White Pages can reveal.

At eighty-six, she’s living in Baltimore, Maryland.

At eighty-nine, here’s another one, making her home in Eustace, Florida.

Ultimately, I compile a list of five age-appropriate Weaver candidates.

I check my email. Nothing from David, though he’s surely landed by now. I check his Facebook page. Status unchanged. No surprise there. But it’s nice to see his profile picture: the photograph we took of our hands set in plaster. I press my hand to those hands, then I turn away from my computer. I turn up the ring volume on my cell. I sit there for a moment feeling horrible. Then I get back to work on finding more Justines.

Hours later my neck aches. I rub the sore spot as I’ve seen Linda do after coming home from Red Earth, which helps a little.

I eat two bowls of cereal, down a few glasses of milk, gnaw on some stale cookies. I think about watching TV. Sleeping. Staring at the towering prep pile of worksheets and readings for senior year that I’ve barely even dented. Just staring. That’s all. Doodling awkward, sloppy portraits of David in my sketchbook, pretending I’m building up my college portfolio when anyone can see my drawings are confused and flat, his features all wrong. At least the ones were that I drew this afternoon, taking a break from Internet searches. So much for beauty and truth and all that. I don’t know light from shadow.

I stand in the middle of the kitchen, tearing out one stupid portrait of David after another, crumpling them up and throwing them on the floor.

He’s been gone twenty-four hours, and I’m really, truly freaking out.

I can’t remember his face.

In our eleven-month relationship, we’ve been apart eighteen weeks already. We’re about to be apart for another fifteen months. Minus the three-week leave. Which equals what?

What are our odds?

I’ve successfully ruined every single drawing I made this afternoon. I stare at the crumpled pile at my feet. Easy come, easy go.

Easy go, far away to war.

I fell in love with David, I remind myself. I didn’t fall in love with a soldier.

So why can’t I draw a decent portrait of his face, the face I first loved, with the thick, curly hair and crazy crooked grin and deep brown eyes?

Freak out, make lists. That’s what Linda always does.

I kick aside the crumpled portraits, turn to a blank page in my sketchbook, and begin.

Why I fell in love with David

and why it’s a good thing I did

1. Linda and I have moved around a lot.

A lot, a lot. From central Ohio to the boondocks of Michigan at the beginning of middle school. (Bad, bad experience.) Then from Michigan to Chicago in the middle of freshman year. I was a dork. Lonely. (Sniff.) And misunderstood. (Sniff, sniff.)

2. Previous boyfriend choices have been not so good.

Sophomore year I figured out how to look less like a dork—no braces, good skin, all that stuff. Guys took notice. The wrong kind of guys, who were good at making me feel a little less lonely and only slightly less misunderstood. One in particular got drunk and got me drunk. Not just once, but several times.

The last time, he tried to rape me. I showed him who was stronger. But still. No one would listen to me when I tried to explain. Only Linda. And so…we moved.

3. Once again I was new to town.

I was lonely. (Sniff.) And misunderstood. (Sniff, sniff.)

Also, I was not going to make any more stupid mistakes.

4. I made a teen community art mural instead.

And there was David.

5. David was,
is
, different.

He got—
gets
—the art thing. He wants to make art too. He understood me.
Understands
me. David was—
is
—safe. David was—
is
—home. David was—
is
—David.

6. And he always will be.

7. Enough. I’m a believer. Again.

I rip the list from my sketchbook. But I don’t crumple it up and throw it on the floor. I take it up to my bedroom and put it under my pillow.

I’m freezing. My room is icily gusty. We’ve only got window air-conditioners, which mostly just stir around the warm air. But once in a while my unit kicks into high gear, and then there’s this arctic wind. I turn off my unit. After it gurgles to a stop, I realize how much noise it makes doing what it does. My room is now horribly quiet. I can hear my thoughts. The list helped while I was writing it, but now I’m right back where I started.

I turn the air conditioner back on. I pull the storage box of winter clothes from under my bed. I put on a wool sweater. I put on my fleece. I pull my fleece’s hood over my head. Doing this, I think of Ravi in his sweatshirt. I don’t want to think about Ravi in his sweatshirt. I suck in an icy breath, blow it out.
Breathe
in, breathe out.
That’s what the drill sergeant kept saying to the poor guy who went kill-crazy in that online video of OSUT. I should have never watched that.
Breathe
in. Breathe out.

I’d put on a pair of mittens, but of course I can’t because of my tattoo. I breathe on my hands instead. I start pacing. I stalk past my dresser, then stop short and backtrack to it. I stand for a long moment there, staring down at my little white jewelry box.

I keep the photograph of my father in the bottom drawer of this box with all the old butterfly, dolphin, and peace sign necklaces and rings from my early elementary school years, when I lived in places like Orlando, Pittsburgh, and Syracuse. When I was little, I used to pull out the photo all the time.

Now I open the shallow drawer. I pull out the photo—one Linda says she took just before she got pregnant with me. My father is standing on a beach, feeding Fritos to seagulls. His eyes are wide open—
joyful
, I thought in fifth grade, but now I think
wild
. Too wild to trust. Almost manic, maybe. His tawny hair stirs in the wind. He’s wearing a peacoat and a blue-striped sailor’s shirt. He looks like an ad for Fritos gone all wrong.

I pluck him from my drawer and dangle him between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand. Then I march into Linda’s room, and I stick him underneath the tall stack of shoeboxes at the back of her closet.

I’ll show him who’s stronger. And her too. Let her find him next time she makes me move.

Warmer now, I walk back to my room. In the blink of an eye, I can rid myself of jerks.

Not
David.

My head is swimming.

All I want to do, all I can do, is sleep.

•••

Morning sunlight pours over my desk. But the brightest sun can’t outshine the fact that there’s still no news from David. It’s been twelve days. He said it would be a few hours. I keep telling myself the phone lines are down, the Internet too. Bonnie’s made calls, and that’s the case. Bad weather. Still. I can’t help but wonder. I can’t help but freak out once in a while.

I’ve written him twelve positive and encouraging letters that basically say the same thing:
Weather
is
wonderful! Wish you were here!
I’ve given him updates on my tattoo and asked him about his. I’ve thrown in other stuff as well, details about all the things I miss about him, all the things I want him to take good care of so he can bring them home to me.

I’ve avoided Linda. That’s the only other thing I’ve successfully done in the past twelve days, besides freaking out, making my list, sticking Dad in a closet, seeing a few matinees, and watching my tattoo heal. I haven’t continued my search for Justine. I can’t try to make contact with one other person, only to fail. When Linda’s around I keep my bedroom door shut and stay inside my room. I sleep, read magazines and mysteries, try to draw, and do some of the prep work I’m supposed to do for senior year, or check on Facebook “friends” who are really acquaintances (or sometimes not even that).

Once I even clicked from David’s (un-updated) page to Ravi’s, which was, of course, blocked to me because I’m not his friend. Which is fine. I don’t want to be. Not really. Not even after studying his profile picture. I expected it to be some kind of skateboarding shot—him flying off a jump, maybe, with the sun blowing out the sky behind him. But no.