The Places We Sleep
Page 9
104.
Afternoons
at our house,
Mom nails the role
of merry parent, singing out loud
like a Dickens caroler:
“This shall be a holiday to remember!
A Christmas of firsts for the Woods!”
She instructs me, “Chin up. Be joyful!”
her finger poking the air
for emphasis.
So we try new things—
or the things Dad usually does
when he’s not too busy with work—
like building fires,
shopping for a Christmas tree,
and stringing lights around our house.
Mom works extra hard
to appear convincingly
spirited.
It’s almost like Dad’s gone already
since he’s on the base
practically full time now.
In the cold night air
when he finally gets home,
we stand back in the yard
to admire the twinkling lights
that I’ve wound around
the porch columns.
And I can sense he’s impressed,
but I need him this once
just to say it.
105.
Mom
goes overboard,
trying to make Christmas perfect,
doling out
present after present
like a crazed elf.
My loot piles up,
and my stocking spills over
with chocolates,
colored pencils,
and paintbrushes.
Dad gives us
personalized canisters of Mace,
tied with decorative
red ribbons.
“How romantic!” Mom laughs
and plants a kiss on his cheek.
He also pulls
from behind his back
a stuffed pink poodle,
just like my purple one,
except this one is sporting
Army fatigues, and he
tosses it
lovingly
to me.
Big surprise—I miss!
A stuffed dog and Mace!
He must be trying to decide
if I’m a teenager yet or not.
To Mom, I give a picture
I’ve drawn of Dad and her
on the beach.
For Dad, I’ve made a calendar
with themed artwork for each month.
I’m most proud of January.
“You can cross off the days,” I explain.
“It’s amazing!” he begins,
“but I hate to bring it with me—
in case something happens…
“—to it,” he adds quickly.
“But you have to take it!” I practically whimper.
“Sweetie, your dad loves it,” Mom reassures,
misunderstanding me
or the moment.
106.
Later,
to spread some joy,
I call Camille
and chuckle
“Ho! Ho! Ho!”
into the receiver.
“Ab-bey! I thought you were a perv!”
We get down to talking presents—
my set of paints and brushes,
her collectible basketball jersey—
and we schedule a movie date.
Then
like she can read my mind
and knows I’m worried about Jacob
because I snapped at him
that day on the bus,
she says,
“I can bring Jakie
as my gift to you!”
and we conclude our Christmas call
all giggles
and silly goodbyes.
107.
Then,
like any other Wednesday,
the day Dad departs arrives.
We’re military. We should be
prepared for this.
Dad heads to the base
before the sun begins to rise.
Mom and I delay at home,
eating bowls of loud cereal.
Mom mostly stares at hers.
The hangar on the base
is draped in red, white, and blue,
and a soldier plays the trumpet.
I spy a few kids who look familiar.
Families crowd the bleachers.
Several babies are crying
and young children yawning.
The soldiers look exactly alike
with varying heights
when they march in and file
into the neat rows of chairs.
As always, I’m confused at first
by the perfect sameness
of their uniforms and movements.
I sway forward on the bleachers
and close my eyes for a moment,
then spot Dad when he stands
and walks to the podium to say
some official words. Mom motions
to him and grabs my hand—
and I don’t pull it away.
Finally, we all wave the small flags
someone has passed out to us.
For what seems like only seconds,
the camouflaged soldiers break away
from their rows—and we locate Dad
and hold onto him.
I don’t know what
words we say, but tears affect my vision,
and Mom wipes her nose with a tissue.
Then, in no time, he returns
to the formation, and they march
from the room
and out onto the tarmac.
In a big crying crowd, we follow
and watch the plane open up.
One by one
soldiers begin to disappear—
and then Dad is gone,
and I wish
I could’ve thought more clearly
or placed something special—
like a good luck charm or our latest wishbone—
in his hand, or hugged him harder,
or told him I loved him.
Did I forget
to tell him
that?
108.
Two words. Maybe it was a phrase?
B positive
almost like a message to someone, like a secret code,
almost like something I imagined he whispered,
almost like a bumper sticker or Army slogan
or strange jargon
painted on Dad’s combat boots.
B positive
I know I saw it.
There’s no mistaking it.
I’m not making it up.
So I ask Mom.
And she cracks the code.
“His blood type,” she laughs
hysterical-like, as if she’s just revealed
the punch line of a joke.
Through a forced grin, she adds,
“At least we had Christmas together!”
“His blood type on his shoes?”
I fail to comprehend.
Perhaps he wrote it
so I would see it as he walked away.
Was it an omen?
No, the very sound of it is uplifting:
B positive
B positive
B positive
“That’s your blood type, too,”
Mom tells me,
pulling me from
my stupor.
JANUARY
109.
“Happy 2002!”
—Mom and I hug each other
as the ball drops
in Times Square.
We clink fizzy drinks
and zone out to the TV—
Jackson, Kate,
Uncle Todd, and Dad
crowd our sleepy minds.
“New York is picking itself back up.” Mom sighs.
Then we settle
into the couch,
under a blanket we share,
where we’ll sleep into the light
of a brand-new year.
I’m in Mom’s arms,
like when I was little,
and as I drift off,
I whisper
Goodbye
in my head
or maybe out loud
to 2001
and tick off the year’s life-changing events:
the year we moved to Tennessee,
the year of the terrorist attacks,
the year my period arrived,
the year Aunt Rose died,
and the year Dad left for Afghanistan.
When I wake,
Mom and the magic of the night
are gone.
110.
Back to school.
And Mom is busy, busy, busy—
always grading or lesson planning,
taking deliberate, controlled breaths,
flipping from news station to news station
(as if she’ll catch a glimpse of Dad
on the TV war), stirring
a cup of tea, or repetitively
checking her e-mail.
I thought we’d talk more
with just the two of us here.
But it’s the opposite,
which is okay by me,
for now,
I guess.
111.
Dear Dad,
Mom misses you. She’s still super sad about Aunt Rose.
She talks on the phone a ton to Uncle Todd, Grandma
and Grandpa, and Gram & Gramps.
They all miss you, too!
In Art, I’m creating a monochromatic painting.
Mono means one, as in one main color.
When it’s done, I can send it to you.
Come home soon.
Your monodaughter,
Abbey
112.
I doodle on the corner of the letter I’ve written.
Did it actually happen?
Did buildings really fall?
Or was it just a scene
from a movie I once saw?
Without witnessing something firsthand,
it’s hard to believe in it after a while—
the way it’s hard to believe that someone you know
is no longer living, breathing,
and being.
But if buildings as grand as those
can just vanish…it must be so.
Sometimes, our life with Aunt Rose
feels imagined
like I never really knew her at all.
I try to remember her easy laugh,
her singing voice,
picture her face—
or maybe the face I recall
is her photo face from the flyer we made.
I try to bring tears to my eyes,
but I can’t anymore.
Then there’s Dad
in Afghanistan.
It’s hard to envision him there.
Maybe that tree falling saying is true.
If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it,
does it make a sound?
Although I might revise it:
If your father gets killed in a war and he’s half a map from you,
would you believe that he’s gone?
I don’t know what
to believe in anymore.
113.
A few days ago, my mom and I
stopped at a grocery store near the base,
and all the way down a bright aisle,
way down near the cereal,
we thought we saw Dad, but he
was just some other kid’s military dad.
114.
He’s left us before,
for many months at a time,
but he’s never been this far away,
or maybe I was too young to know.
The house has grown quiet
without him, without his fatherly voice,
his boots by the door, his steady presence
moving through the house, the creaks
and groans and closings of doors
that are distinctly his. Until now,
I’ve never realized how each of us
makes our own unique sounds doing the same things—
like washing our hands or shutting a drawer.
His clothes hang motionless in his closet.
His pillow is unmoved.
His books lie dusty and unread by the bed.
His coffee cup is always clean
and in its place in the cabinet.
His aftershave is full, full, full—
so just once,
I dab it on my neck.
I didn’t realize I would miss him like this.
Maybe it’s because Mom isn’t actually HERE.
She’s just putting on clothes each day,
pretending.
She hasn’t been anywhere really
since Aunt Rose.
115.
Camille’s family
hangs a hand-painted flag
of peace signs and doves
across their front door:
MAKE LOVE NOT WAR.
I cringe at the words, stare
dumbly at the doorbell
forever and a day, deciding
if Dad stands for one
more than the other.
And if they’re against the war,
does that make them against
Dad? Against me?
Can you support one
but not the other?
But what I really can’t figure
is if I’m not welcome
at Camille’s house
anymore.
116.
The mailbox sits cold and empty,
bored and unfriendly.
Dad said it would take a while
for his platoon to get set up,
for him to be able to correspond.
Mom checks the mail
even more often than I do.
From two blocks away,
the mailman sees us coming
and nods his official nod
and looks the other way.
We’re not upset with him.
117.
Jacob must have forgiven me
for snapping at him that day on the bus
because he and Camille slip happy notes
into my locker and try to crack me up
by dancing and goofing off in the halls.
I laugh, despite myself, and forget—
for a few moments—about the war.
118.
Then finally—
A letter!
A letter from Dad arrives!
119.
The battered envelope
smells of faraway places
and contains a page for me
and a page for Mom.
She holds hers close all day
and falls asle
ep with it—
Dad’s words
beneath her pillow.
120.
Dear Abbey,
I hope school is mono-derful (get it—one-derful?)
and that you’re making some new friends.
Tell Camille I say hello.
We’re settling in, but communication
may be difficult at times.
I’m picturing your painting in my head right now.
The landscape here is monochromatic.
I think about you and Mom every day.
Miss you.
Love,
Dad
121.
Mom has joined a “support group.”
It’s her New Year’s resolution.
Over dinner, she briefly explains:
“I had a sister and she died…
and I have to deal with that.”
“But you are dealing with it,”
I insist, searching her face.
“We are dealing, right?”
She looks down at her plate.
“If I could’ve said goodbye
or seen her again, it would’ve
been different, I think.”
Later, after brushing her teeth,
she adds, “Plus, it’ll help me
be stronger, be a better
mother to you.”
I hug her and realize I’m almost
as tall as she is now.
Lying in bed, I decide
on my New Year’s resolution:
To be a stronger person, too.
I make a mental list of courageous things I could do:
Not care
what The Trio thinks.
Speak up in Art so Mr. Lydon sees I have a brain.
Tell the boys on the bus to stuff it.
Tell Dad I love him the next time we talk.
Be more like Jiman.
Like Camille.
Be brave.
Be strong.
But it’s late at night
when so many things
seem possible.
122.
I’m learning life goes on,
when someone you love is in Afghanistan.
In a war.
Sometimes the daily chores—
like brushing my teeth,
my hair, going to school,
and eating three meals—
interrupt the hoping
to hear from him.
The waiting is heavy, especially for Mom.