Collateral

  And there’s still so much to do.

  Cole came around, not that I gave

  him a choice. I refused to budge

  on the location. I’d already given

  them a deposit. “We can’t afford

  to lose a thousand dollars,” was

  my excuse. “And, anyway, your

  mom said she’s happy to fly out.”

  So that was mostly that. Darian

  and I picked out an amazing dress.

  It’s knee length, strapless, ice blue.

  I’m not such a formal girl after all.

  And it was only four hundred dollars.

  I decided to save as much as I could,

  through simplicity. It’s turned into

  kind of a game, one I’m mostly winning.

  Except when Cole goes all silent

  on me. I try to ignore it when

  it becomes obvious he’s pissed

  at something I’ve said or done.

  I’m sort of getting used to it, though.

  WHEN I TOLD HIM

  About my plans for grad school

  next year, he went completely mute

  for quite a while. Like, a week.

  Finally, he e-mailed back:

  I THOUGHT WE DISCUSSED MOVING

  TO CHEYENNE. BUT I’VE BEEN THINKING,

  AND ANOTHER YEAR IN SAN DIEGO IS FINE.

  FOR ME TO QUALIFY FOR THE GI BILL, I NEED

  TO PUT IN SIX YEARS BEFORE MOVING INTO

  ACTIVE RESERVES. AS FOR CHANGING PATHS,

  WE ALL HAVE TO FOLLOW OUR HEARTS.

  It’s good to know he’s in my corner,

  not that I expected anything else.

  I asked about him requesting a transfer

  to Camp Pendleton. I got this back:

  ALREADY TAKEN CARE OF, AND I EXPECT

  APPROVAL. I’LL KNOW FOR SURE WHEN

  I GET BACK TO KANEOHE. NOT LONG NOW.

  I WANT WHAT’S BEST FOR YOU. FOR US.

  He’ll be back in two weeks. By then,

  I’ll have finished up this semester.

  Each year seems to rush by faster. I hope

  next year tarries. I’m scared, in a way.

  Half of me loves the idea of seeing Cole

  every day. Sleeping with him every night.

  The other half loves my freedom and

  is afraid of losing me to his dreams.

  FRIDAY EVENING

  Postfinals, I go over to Darian

  and Spence’s to celebrate. It will

  be the first time I’ve seen him

  since before the accident. He’s had

  two skin grafts and is healing

  “like a stubborn grunt,” according

  to his nurses. It’s been seven

  months. Still, Darian warned,

  He’s not beautiful. But he has

  come so far, mostly through sheer

  will. He’s even using a walker

  to get around now. It’s amazing.

  Amazing, and he’s more than good

  enough to stand up with Cole

  as his best man. He even answers

  the door. “Hey, soldier.” I give

  him a quick kiss on one cheek,

  trying not to stare at what’s left

  of his ear. There isn’t much.

  His face has a strange texture,

  too. But it’s definitely Spencer

  beneath it, reconstructed or not.

  “God, it’s so great to see you.”

  So great he’s standing here in

  front of me. Not as good as it

  is seeing you. Hey, Dar. We need

  more pretty girls around here.

  Can you work on that, please?

  Yep, most definitely Spence.

  Some things are hard to change.

  OVER LASAGNA

  And beer, we talk about school. Poetry.

  About surfing and nurses (hot and not)

  and wedding plans. Just like old times.

  Except someone’s missing. “Too bad

  Cole’s not here. But he might be soon.

  He asked for a transfer to San Diego.”

  I know, says Spence. No worries.

  He’ll get in, no problem. Cole is

  everything MARSOC could ask for.

  “He put in for MARSOC? He didn’t

  tell me that.” There is a Marine Special

  Operations Command battalion

  at Camp Pendleton. “But that’s extra

  training and more years of active duty,

  right?” I already know the answer.

  Well, yeah. But if anyone was ever

  cut out for special ops, it’s Cole.

  What else is he going to do? Be a cop?

  The question is what else is he going

  to do without consulting with me first?

  Lasagna starts churning in my gut.

  “I . . . just . . . he never said a word

  about it.” Not to me, only to Spence.

  Why the hell does he think that’s okay?

  ANXIETY BUILDS STEADILY

  The rest of the evening. I decide

  to leave early. Don’t need to freak

  out in front of my friends. Darian

  walks me to the door. “Sorry, but

  I’m not sure I can deal with this

  pharm-free.” Xanax is calling to me.

  What did you expect, Ashley?

  I told you there’s no happily-

  ever-after married to a Marine.

  “But I love him, Dar.” That, above

  all, is true. “And after everything

  we’ve been through, it has to work.”

  I’d take some time to seriously

  think it over. Think about what you

  want. Not about what he wants.

  Call me if you need to talk. I’m not

  going anywhere. Not for a long time.

  I drive home a little too quickly.

  Rush inside, hurrying to e-mail him

  and ask what the fuck he’s doing.

  But as I turn on my laptop, I reconsider.

  Instead, go take a pill. With tequila.

  Dar is right. I really need to get my head

  on straight. It’s feeling a little crooked

  right now. I need order. I drink tequila.

  Reorganize my kitchen drawers. Salad

  forks. Dinner forks. Teaspoons. Soup

  spoons. Perfectly stacked. Steak knives.

  Boning knives. Butcher knives. Ordered.

  SATURDAY MORNING

  I wake up, slightly hung over.

  My head aches, but at least it

  doesn’t feel crooked anymore.

  I take an ibuprofen, drink a quart

  of water. Glance at my computer,

  still dark, on the table. I leave

  it that way. Get dressed and head

  to the beach. The last thing I’m

  going to do is sit inside moping.

  Or make wedding plans. It’s gorgeous

  outside, the kind of day late spring

  gifts Southern California with.

  I’m not alone here. Not nearly.

  I skirt the ocean’s edge, avoiding

  children as best I can. They run in front

  of me, into the water. Duck behind

  me, toward their towels. No bombs

  strapped to their middles. Lucky kids.

  I keep walking, listening to laughter.

  Yelling. The build-crash-lap of gentle

  surf. Noises, lacking danger. I am

  blessed. California is my home. And

  this ocean is my heart. I can’t give

  this up for Wyoming. Was I naïve

  to believe he’d give up Wyoming

  for me? I picture his face. His grin.

  His gold agate eyes, holding on to me

  like treasure. I see him in camouflage.

  In dress bl
ues, surrounded by grapevines.

  I hear him say, I want what’s best for us.

  I STAY OUT ALL DAY

  Walk miles of beach, moving in and out

  along with the tide. By the time evening

  falls, my legs are sore. But my head

  doesn’t hurt, except from thinking

  so much. I will sleep well tonight,

  regardless. When I get home, I realize

  I haven’t eaten all day. I go straight

  to the kitchen, don’t find much except

  eggs, cheese, and enough veggies to create

  a semi-interesting omelet. I get busy on

  that, pull out the skillet, and have just turned

  on the heat when I get a call, not an e-mail,

  from Cole. Hey, beautiful lady.

  He’s working it, and I can’t say I hate

  that. Just arrived back in Kaneohe.

  They brought me home a little early,

  to facilitate training. I’ll be in San Diego

  soon. My transfer was approved.

  I turn off the burner. All of a sudden,

  I’ve lost my appetite. “Oh. Good. Um . . .”

  Just go ahead and say it. “I heard you put

  in for MARSOC. Is that right?” My stomach

  growls, but when I look at the beaten eggs,

  it kind of turns. Tequila might be better.

  Yeah. About that, I didn’t want to tell

  you until I knew for sure I got the transfer.

  I didn’t want to get your hopes up.

  Hopes up? What? “Cole, a transfer here

  is one thing. Special ops is something

  else. You never even mentioned it to me.

  You can’t make a decision like that

  without talking to me first. What’s your

  commitment, if you pass the screening?

  Two years? Four?” I don’t care about

  the answer. That isn’t the point. “I can’t

  do this much longer. That wasn’t our deal.”

  There’s someone else, isn’t there?

  Where have you been? I’ve tried

  calling all day. Is he there right now?

  What? How did we get from figurative war

  widow status to screwing around?

  “There isn’t anyone else! Do you really

  not understand what the last five years

  have been like for me?” I’m glad he can’t

  see me break down. Especially when he

  says, What they’ve been like for you?

  What about me, Ashley? I’m doing this

  for you. For us, and our future family.

  DENSE

  Is not a strong enough description.

  Doesn’t come within a klick of the distance

  between us. Distance that has nothing

  to do with miles. He sincerely believes

  what he’s saying. I know that. And I also

  understand that what I’ve been through

  because of loving him can’t compare

  to what he’s experienced. But where

  does sacrifice end? “Cole . . .” I let him

  hear tears, inflecting my voice. “I love you

  more than I ever thought was possible.

  There is no one but you. I’ve spent

  the last six months planning a wedding.

  Our wedding, you know like in ‘I take

  thee forever.’ But you and I have a problem.

  We don’t communicate like married

  people need to. Grad school was a big

  decision, one I definitely should have

  asked your opinion about. But MARSOC?

  That’s huge.” More like life changing.

  Maybe game changing, too. “Look.

  I don’t think we can rationally discuss

  this on the phone. I’m glad you made

  it back safely, and that you got the transfer.

  See you when you get here. Love you, Cole.”

  I HANG UP

  Before he can argue or offer reasons

  why special ops was his best path

  going forward. I’m sure he has plenty

  of them stashed inside his head.

  I could deal with another year

  of him on active duty. Maybe even two.

  We’re pulling troops out of Afghanistan.

  But, according to news stories,

  we’ll be replacing regular combat

  grunts with special operations forces.

  The leaner, meaner units will target

  insurgent leaders and encourage

  their ANP brethren to do the same.

  It’s the warfare of the future. Along

  with drones that do their dirty business,

  piloted remotely by guys sitting in comfy

  trailers in the Nevada desert, where

  cameras can show them the damage,

  but not the collateral carnage. I talked

  to a couple of them at the VA hospital,

  fighting PTSD. Sometimes they see

  the results of their surgical strikes on

  TV and it clicks. The video games they’ve

  been playing? Those are real people

  on the far end. Not aliens. Not zombies.

  The Bible counsels an eye for an eye.

  Wonder how many eyes Cole has plucked.

  I’m sure his debt to his cousin has been paid.

  ONE BIG QUESTION

  Comes marching out of the cerebral

  prison I’ve confined it to. I’ve invested

  five years in our relationship, and Cole

  has rewarded me with his amazing love.

  If something were to happen to him

  now, would that half-decade have been

  worth it? And if we get married, ride

  yet another wave of time together, only

  for me to lose him to a bullet, would

  I celebrate those years, or curse them?

  I need to talk to Celine. Almost four

  months since she buried Luke, the shine

  must have worn off the pain by now.

  I give her a call, ask if I can interrupt

  her Sunday for a short visit. She gives

  me directions to her house. On the way,

  I stop off for flowers—a huge spring

  bouquet, yellow roses and orange daffodils.

  I sent an arrangement to the funeral,

  but it likely got lost midst the dozens, most

  of them red, white, and purple/blue.

  Thus the yellow and orange. No reminders.

  EXCEPT THERE ARE REMINDERS

  Of him everywhere. Small flags

  decorate the white picket fence

  protecting Celine’s immaculate

  front yard. They flap, red, white,

  and blue, in the breeze. Inside,

  framed photos of Luke hang

  on the walls, and take up space

  on end tables. Luke, in uniform.

  Luke, holding his girls. Luke,

  kissing Celine. Luke, Luke, Luke.

  A shadow box holds the folded

  flag that had draped his coffin.

  That sits on the mantel of the little

  stone fireplace that takes up most

  of one wall of the living room.

  I’m not sure I could look at Cole

  like this. Not if he was never

  coming back to me. I’m not sure

  how to open the conversation.

  Celine saves me the trouble.

  Sit, please. Can I get you some

  coffee? When I decline, she says,

  Okay, so tell me. What’s up?

  Still planning a June wedding?

  “That’s just about all I’ve been

  doing . . .” I give her a quick rundown

  so we can push small talk to one side.

  I finish with, “Cole’s being transf
erred

  to Pendleton. He wants MARSOC.”

  Ah. And that’s counterintuitive

  to planning for a future together.

  I understand completely. Luke and I

  had a similar discussion once.

  “But you encouraged him to stay

  in, right?” Of course she did. That’s

  what all military wives do—support

  their soldiers, no matter what.

  Celine shakes her head. I told him if

  he reenlisted, it would be the end

  of us. Obviously, he convinced me

  otherwise. Love can be stubborn.

  “So . . . I don’t know how else to ask

  this, other than straight out. And I’m

  sorry, but you’re the only person I know

  who can answer it. Was it worth it?

  I mean, if you had it to do over, would you?”

  I’ve thought about this a lot, Ashley.

  Every day with Luke was a better

  day than one without him. But there

  were way too many of those days.

  I’ll always love Luke, and what

  we were together. But I’m watching

  my children suffer. And when I’m

  alone at night, I get so mad at him!

  How could he do this to us? Her eyes

  brim. Spill. Was it worth it? Probably.

  Would I do it again? No fucking way.

  I SPEND THE WEEK

  Tying up loose ends. Finishing

  my time at the women’s shelter.

  Finding a replacement volunteer

  for the VA hospital. After all, I’m

  getting married. Probably.

  I should be ecstatic. Barely able

  to control my excitement. Counting

  down the days. Somehow, I’m not.

  But how could I call it off now?

  All the plans are finalized. Except

  for the honeymoon, which will

  have to wait until after Cole’s training,

  assuming he’ll be accepted, and no

  one believes he won’t be. People

  are coming from all over to witness

  our “I do’s.” Even Dad’s parents,

  all the way from their retirement

  heaven in Alaska. Weird to retire

  in Ketchikan, yes. But they are

  the tree my father fell from.

  Mainstream is so not the family

  thing. At least, not on my side.

  Cole’s side? Well, they’ll just have

  to get used to us, I guess. I hope.

  I’ve spent a lot of time hoping lately.

  FRIDAY MORNING