“She shouldn’t be in the system!”
“I know that, but—”
“She finished her tour three months ago, Nelson! She did 18 months! She finished! Her obligation’s over! She doesn’t owe them anything! She’s not some fucking deserter!”
“I know that, Mike. I’m not talking about you or me, here. But some people could take it as—as favoritism—on the government’s part. Why single her out? Move her to the head of the line?”
“She’s got two kids! She’s got a fucking four-year-old!”
“I know, Mike. But some of the other mothers over there don’t even have a Mike Olsen waiting back at home. Some of the kids are being raised by grandparents, neighbors, foster parents—if you’re lucky, maybe somebody’ll be sympathetic. But it might not go that way. I’ve looked into this, Mike. I’m just being honest with you.”
“Look—just do whatever you need to do. Okay? Do whatever it takes.”
“You bet. Let me make some calls. Call some of these other families. See what’s up.”
“Great. Great. You do that.”
“Mike, listen. Y’know—there are other people out there—women—even a few men—who are in the same position as you. Support groups? Might help to find out who they are and—”
“Yeah. Thanks. I’m already in three support groups. Not to mention taking my kids to soccer and guitar tutoring and trying to keep my fucking job at the same time. But thanks for the suggestion. Just get my wife back for me, please?”
“I’ll make those calls. Have a happy holiday, Mike.”
“You too.”
I pick up Kit in the school office. He’s beet red, miserable, being rocked back and forth by Miss Kelly, a cute twenty-something in a day care sweatshirt with red and green Christmas pins hanging off her chest like ornaments. Tears streak down Kit’s face. He reaches out to me. He’s burning up.
“Is Mommy home?”
“No, honey. Shh. Everything’s fine. We’re going home.”
“I gave him the Advil,” says Kelly. “Call me if you need anything.”
Kit falls asleep in the car. At home, I put him to bed. I spend the next hour yelling at airline customer service reps who don’t want to refund three plane tickets. I catch my reflection in the hall mirror. I’m as red as Kit. I desperately want to lose my shit and explode at someone—and no one’s more deserving than inconsiderate airline customer service drones who are charging me more than $300 to reschedule a grand’s worth of unused children’s airline tickets. It might even be healthy to vent at this person, but I have to remind myself that I can’t do that. I can’t lose my cool. I have to get through this. Remain centered. It’s just money. It’s not important. This sucks, but I’ve been through worse than this. It’s not a crisis. Not yet, anyway. And I still have to deal the presents I already sent on to Florida . . . and Jake.
Jake comes in excited, bouncing off the wall.
“What’s going on?! Where’s Kit?”
“Jake. C’mere.”
He looks at me. I don’t have to say a word. He knows and he’s angry—angry at me, at Maggie, at school, the world, the government. He’s too smart. That’s his problem. He’s not blissfully ignorant like every other twelve-year-old in his class. When I was twelve my friends were stealing candy and cigarettes and hood ornaments. And they were just bored! You wouldn’t even have described them as dysfunctional back then. Jake is smart and creative and incredibly, incredibly angry. How dangerous a combination is that?
“Kit’s got a fever,” I say.
“God-dammit!”
“Jake—”
“It’s not fair!”
“I know.”
“How bad is he? Can he travel?”
“He’s got a 102-degree fever.”
“So, what does that mean?”
“It means we’re staying home.”
“Can I go by myself?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You’re twelve.”
“Gramma can meet me at the gate. It’s no big deal!”
“Jake—no. I want us all together over the holidays.”
“We’re not all together! We’re never all together! Why should we start now?!”
He runs to his room, slams the door. He’s right. Why should he suffer with me? Maybe I should let him go alone. He could take care of himself. He’s twelve—but he might as well be sixteen. Shit—I was alone on a plane when I was twelve, but that was the ’70’s. That was before you had to take off your shoes to get on an airplane.
No. No. Forget it. Not at an airport over the holidays. Where I’d have to let him out of my sight. I can’t explain to Maggie that I let him get on a plane by himself, and I don’t want us separated. He’s just going to have to understand. I’ll have to make it up to him.
I go in his room to try again. He’s on his cell phone.
“Jake—I want to make this work for us, okay?”
He looks up at me with a mix of hate, resilience, and pity. No one looks at me without pity, anymore. Not even my son.
“Danny says I can go with him and his family to Mt. Koda for the weekend. His dad says if it’s okay with you, they’ve got the extra room.”
Shit. What can I say? At least it’s supervised.
“You’re all packed up for the beach!”
“I got out all my sweaters. I’ve got Danny’s dad on the phone!”
He hands me the phone.
“Phil? You don’t have to—I know. You’ve really got the room?”
Jake looks at me, hopefully.
“You’re sure it’s not going to be too much for you? The two of them together? Uh huh?”
I nod at Jake, approvingly. He glows. At least that’s something.
“I owe you, Phil. Thanks. Let me know what the cost is. I’ll get you back. Merry Christmas.”
I hang up.
“Thanks, Dad!”
“They’re coming in an hour,” I say. “You’re going to miss your mom’s call.”
He keeps packing. Tears start running down his face.
“I know. Tell her I miss her. A lot.”
I hug him and he grabs me tightly.
“I know it’s not your fault, Dad. I know it, but I gotta get outta here. I feel like I’m going crazy. I gotta do something. Get outta here—get my mind off it. Something. Something. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I know, Jake. I know. You’re right. You’re completely right. It’s the best thing. I wish I could go with you. It’ll be good for you.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Jake.”
“Maybe if Kit gets better you guys could come meet us?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
An hour later and he’s gone.
Kit wakes up, crying, but falls back asleep, thankfully. I’m exhausted. At 6:30, Maggie calls.
“Thought I’d call before you jumped on the plane!”
“No jumping tonight,” I say. I tell her everything.
“I delivered a baby today,” she says.
“Iraqi?”
“Half and half. One of our boys knocked up a townie.”
“He do the right thing?”
“They got married in the clinic this morning. Birth is the only good thing that happens here.”
“I feel sorry for the baby.”
“Yeah. I feel sorry for all the kids here. And the soldiers. And the locals.”
“And us,” I remind her.
“There’s people that have it worse than us, Mike.”
Why does everyone feel the need to tell me that all the time?
“You wouldn’t believe the way these people live. It’s awful.”
“You hear anything on your end?”
“They say they’ve requisitioned personnel, but—”
“They always say that.”
“We got two new doctors this week.”
“Anyone go home?”
“No. Not from here. It can’t be much longer, Mi
ke. It can’t be.”
“I miss you, honey. The kids miss you terribly.”
“I know. I miss you, too. Mike, you’re sure you’re okay with Kit?”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t believe I missed both of them. Shit. Some fuckin’ Christmas.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll call Sunday.”
“Call Sunday night. Jake’ll be home by then.”
“You did the right thing, Mike. He needed it.”
“Yeah.”
“I love you.
“I love you, too, honey.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Kit sleeps across my lap as I watch A Christmas Story. That’s the one about the little kid who just wants a B-B gun for Christmas. I first saw that when Mags was pregnant with Jake and we were still living in our little apartment in Portland. Mag was in her third trimester and having a lot of pain. She fell asleep across my lap and I watched the movie with the sound off, a warm, uneventful moment. The kid in the movie opens up all his presents. No B-B gun. Then the father says look in the back, over by the corner. And there it is, all wrapped up in a long box, hidden the whole time.
Three weeks ago, we were all watching TV—my mom, Jake, and me. Kit was asleep. And a story comes on the news. Insurgents near Abu Ghraib have taken hostage an American doctor from the 118th Medical Battalion clinic. Maggie’s clinic, and the hostage is a woman. The media, the American government won’t release the name of the hostage. I spend all night on the phone talking to the military. What information do you have? What are they doing? Why can’t you identify her? Just tell me if it’s Maggie. Tell me if it’s Jake and Kit’s mother. All night long. Nothing. Nothing. Until it’s all over. No. No—don’t worry. Rest easy. They’ve identified the body. It’s okay. It’s not her.
Not this time.
Four in the morning. I’m freezing, still lying on the couch. Kit’s still lying across me but the blanket’s slipped onto the floor. Kit doesn’t notice, but my teeth are chattering. I hear a door open. Someone’s downstairs.
My heart beats like a trip hammer. Someone’s in the house at four in the morning? The day before Christmas? A burglar? A neighbor? Jake? Maggie? The door to the TV room creaks open. I hold my breath, pretend to be asleep.
It’s my mom.
“Mom?” I whisper, not realizing how out of it I am.
“I caught the red eye back,” she says.
“You didn’t have to come back. You’re ruining your holiday.”
“It’s not a holiday without you and the boys, Mike. C’mon. You two need to get to bed.”
She picks up Kit, who curls up in her arms.
“I packed up the gifts and brought ’em back, too.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “You’re the best.”
I watch her gently put Kit to bed. He’s already improving, cooling down, breathing evenly. Who needs Florida?
I get into bed. Alone.
Things will work out. They always have. They always do.
She’ll be home soon.
I just have to believe that.
The Dolphin
DERRICK AND JOHN COME OUT OF A THEATRE ONTO the street, in mid-conversation. John stops suddenly to stare, amazed, at a giant, offstage ceramic dolphin.
DERRICK: And I didn’t find the characterization at all believable. Especially in the second act, when it was obvious—
JOHN: Hey! Hey! Look at that dolphin!
Derrick stares at John, extremely annoyed, and walks away from him, down the street.
DERRICK: Never mind.
John chases after him.
JOHN: What? What were you saying?
DERRICK: Forget it—I don’t feel like repeating myself—
JOHN: Derrick—Derrick—I’m sorry. (beat) I said I was sorry.
DERRICK: You don’t even know what you did.
JOHN: I know what I did.
DERRICK: What did you do?
JOHN: I stopped to look at the dolphin.
DERRICK: You have no idea.
JOHN: Could we just stop? Could you just drop it?
DERRICK: Could I stop?! Could I drop it?!
JOHN: Yes. Could you drop it?
DERRICK: It’s not about you? It’s about me?!
JOHN: It’s about both of us, obviously, or we wouldn’t be arguing.
DERRICK: You’re right and I’m always wrong.
JOHN: You said that. I didn’t say that. You said that.
DERRICK: You said, “Could I drop it?”
JOHN: That’s not what I meant.
DERRICK: Of course not. You never mean what you say.
JOHN: Sometimes I do. Most times I do. This wasn’t one of those times.
DERRICK: How am I supposed to know when you mean something and when you don’t?
JOHN: You can ask me. And then we can argue about it for a few hours. That always clears things up.
DERRICK: So, now, I’m making us argue?
JOHN: Yes!
Derrick walks further ahead. John chases after him.
JOHN: I just wanted to look at the dolphin!
Derrick turns.
DERRICK: I don’t care about the fucking dolphin!
Derrick turns back and continues walking.
JOHN: Whatever I did! I’m sorry!
DERRICK: You’re just trying to get out of it!
JOHN: Right!
DERRICK: So, don’t apologize! It’s meaningless! It’s insulting!
JOHN: Tell me what to say. Tell me and I’ll say it! I’ll say whatever you want me to say!
DERRICK: I can’t tell you what to say all the time. How can we have a relationship if you don’t know what you do?
JOHN: Sometimes people just do things and they don’t think about it! I can’t even remember what happened ten minutes ago! Tell me what I did, and I promise I won’t do it again!
Derrick turns.
DERRICK: You cut me off!
JOHN: I’m sorry I cut you off!
DERRICK: You’re not.
JOHN: I am. I am. Look, look, if that’s what I did—I’m sorry!
He turns and walks on. He chases after him.
DERRICK: You’re making me crazy again!
John catches up and runs alongside Derrick.
JOHN: Okay, look—I remember, I remember—you were talking about the show and then I saw the dolphin and I got excited and I cut you off. I saw the dolphin, and that’s all I saw. I blanked. You could’ve been saying anything to me.
DERRICK: Okay.
JOHN: You could’ve been telling me anything, and I couldn’t’ve cared less.
DERRICK: Fine.
JOHN: All I wanted, right then and there, was to look at the dolphin. To show you the dolphin. It was like a white noise in my head!
DERRICK: Okay—enough.
Derrick stops.
DERRICK: This isn’t working.
JOHN: Hey. Of course, it’s working.
DERRICK: I knew—I knew this wouldn’t work. We have too much history.
JOHN: History’s a good thing. Where would we be without history? In caves!
DERRICK: I was enjoying being single again. Taking classes.
JOHN: You can still take classes.
DERRICK: Dating.
JOHN: You can still take classes.
DERRICK: We’re just too different, John.
JOHN: We’re not different.
DERRICK: You should be with some fun, frolicky guy. And I should be with someone I don’t make crazy.
JOHN: I don’t want someone fun and frolicky. I want you.
DERRICK: Okay.
JOHN: I’m sorry.
DERRICK: . . . okay.
JOHN: And . . . I’m listening.
Confession
MOM—I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not sure how to put this.”
“Carrie. Just tell me. You know you can tell me anything.”
“Okay. I—I’m—I’ve thought about
this for a long time. And I’ve come to find that I am compatible with people of the opposite gender.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“I find that I am compatible with people of the opposite gender.”
“You mean—you mean that—you like boys?”
“Well—that sounds creepy and weird when you put it like that. But basically, yes. I’m more interested—and attracted to—people of the opposite gender as me. Not all of them. But as a grouping classification on the whole, yes. That’s right.”
“Okay. I think I understand. Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“So, is this new? I mean—were you going back and forth on this?”
“No.”
“You weren’t going back and forth?”
“Nope. Not at all.”
“So, then you’ve always known you were straight?”
“Well, that’s a weird word, isn’t it? Straight? Like if I wasn’t straight—I’m what? Crooked?”
“I mean—the point being that—this isn’t a new thing for you?”
“No. I mean I didn’t think about it at all when I was, like, what? Four? But basically—yes. I’ve always known that I was—”
“Normal?”
“Compatible with people of the opposite gender.”
“Normal?”
“I would never put it that way.”
“Maybe I’m just confused.”
“By what?”
“Well—I didn’t—I didn’t ever think—or imagine that you weren’t straight.”
“Mom—”
“Normal.”
“Labels!”
“I mean—maybe—maybe at some point I did. Sure. At some point, every parent worries. But you always had boyfriends. And not just as a—as a cover. So—”
“So?”
“So, I guess I just don’t understand what you’re confessing to, exactly.”
“I just told you.”
“I know, but—”
“I’m coming out to you.”
“As straight?”
“Oh my god!”
“As ‘compatible with the opposite gender’? Wow—that is a mouthful!”
“Yes.”
“But—Carrie—you don’t need to do that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s assumed.”
“By whom?”
“Whom what?”
“I don’t know. I’m asking you.”
Miserable Love Stories Page 9