While He Was Away

by Karen Schreck

  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.

  Six

  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.

  The picture surprised me, the way it showed Ravi sitting across a picnic table from a man—his dad, maybe. In the picture, Ravi and the man are playing chess, intently focused on the board between them. Ravi’s hand is poised above a white piece, a queen, I think. I tried to figure out who was winning until I realized how much time had passed, me lingering there, and then I left Ravi’s page, and I never went back.

  One day Linda passed me in the hall and told me that she thought I was depressed. If I didn’t snap out of it soon, she was taking me to a psychologist.

  I don’t need a psychologist. I need the school year to start.

  For now, I take a deep breath and try again to find my way to David—another message in a bottle flung out to where I believe he is, in care of the U.S. Army.

  Hey there,

  Here’s what hurts for a good cause:

  1. Every part of me, missing you. How are you? How’s Kuwait treating you? Only a couple more days and you’ll be on your way to Iraq. I try to imagine you where you are now. Since I don’t really know what you’re doing, I imagine you doing things I’ve seen you do. Sleeping. Reading. Drawing. Listening to music. Making friends the way you so easily do. Unlike me.

  2. My tattoo doesn’t hurt anymore. It doesn’t itch anymore either, which means it’s healed, I guess. Hope yours are too.

  3. Linda still sometimes goes ballistic, seeing my tattoo. Okay, yeah, whatever, I guess that kind of hurts. I mean, I wish she’d just accept it, you know? When I remind her of the belly-button piercing that she has but I don’t, she usually calms down a bit. I mean, I could have done something way worse than a discreet tat. For instance, I could sport a neon-green domino stud in my belly button like she sometimes does.

  She’s at work now, domino stud-less. She left with a warning: “It’s been quite a week, and I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, but I’ve got something I need to discuss with you, pronto. I’m coming home early, soon as I can, so we can discuss it. You better be here.” I hate the word “discuss.” It never means what it’s supposed to mean.

  4. My head hurts from carrying around all the things I want to tell you that I’ll never be able to fit into an email. When will you be able to Skype? I want to see you, over there.

  5. I’m trying to write a letter to my long-lost grandmother, but I can’t seem to get started. Painful.

  6. It hurts to look at my drawings. They’re that bad. I can’t believe it’s only a month until school starts. I’m supposed to have done stuff this summer, right? Worksheets and journals and readings and drawings? Well, I’ve made a dent. But I’ve still got a long way to go, which should be driving me crazy, except guess what? Except for the drawing part, I don’t care.

  I love you, and that doesn’t hurt at all—or only in a good way.

  Write already, okay?

  Penna

  I press Send.

  •••

  But still I want to hear David’s voice.

  So I do what I’ve been doing for the past twelve days when I feel like this. I pull out the letters he wrote me all last year. I start from the bottom of the stack. The first one is written on the drawing paper that he loved best—which isn’t cheap stuff. It’s written with his Rapidograph pen.

  Penna—

  Can’t sleep. Keep thinking about today, the sculpture garden, you. Geronimo!

  I’m in. I’m totally in. Hope you’re in too.

  I never had this happen before, the way it’s happened with you. We met because we’re doing something we both love to do. I like it that I saw your painting before I saw you, before I knew anything about you, and I thought, I’ve got to meet the person who painted that. You were Painter of Awesome Killdeer first. Friend second. And now—now…

  I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. I’m going to put this in your locker before you even get to school. Find me between classes, or I’ll find you. Have lunch with me. We can eat outside. The weather’s supposed to be great. Oh, that’s right—this is your first Oklahoma fall. It’s the best time of year here, I think, and in the spring. Let’s eat outside every day we can.

  David

  P.S. If you have to stay after school for any reason, I can give you a ride home on my bike after soccer practice.

  There was always a study session or an art project to work on. I found lots of reasons to stay after school.

  •••

  I call Bonnie, but she’s not home yet from work.

  I need to see David at any age. I break down and call Ravi to ask about those photographs.

  Ravi doesn’t answer.

  Probably skateboarding. Or sleeping the day away. Or doing something I don’t want to do right now, or probably ever. Like playing chess.

  I don’t leave a message for Ravi. Holding my cell in my tattooed hand, I will it, I will it, I will it to ring.

  Nothing happens.

  I set the phone on my desk. I’m in the kitchen getting something to eat when I hear it ring.

  I race back to my room, flip it on.

  “Hello?” I gasp, leaning against the bedroom wall.

  “Penna.”

  I willed him.

  “David!”

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Perfectly!” I slide down the wall onto the floor. “This is perfect.”

  “Good.” I hear the smile in his voice. “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah. Missing you, that’s all. Did you get my emails? My letters?”

  “Not with what’s been going on. The only way I could have gotten a letter is if you’d written one way before I left.”

  I swallow down my guilt. “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t called,” David continues. “It’s been crazy here, connection-wise, all-kinds-of-wise. There was this wild, once-in-a-million-years sandstorm that started just after we landed. It screwed everything up. It settled down about a week ago. But then another one came. And we’d just gotten our lines up and running again. Now I just hope we make it to Iraq before another one hits.”

  “You�
�re okay, though?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m just so glad you’re okay!” This is the truth. Just this. Nothing else matters.

  He laughs. “I am. I’m hot. Real hot, all the time. But okay.” David coughs. Clears his throat. “Hear that? That’s me hacking out sand. Can you believe it? I’m still coughing out sand. My eyes and ears are gritty with it. It’s a killer, I’ll tell you.”

  My eyes sting as if I’m the one who braved a sandstorm. Then I realize I’m about to cry. No time for that. I wipe my eyes. “Where are you staying?”

  He laughs. “We call them circus tents. Cute, right? They’re these big white tents with air conditioning and cots and a wood floor. There are about fifty guys in my tent. No privacy. When me and the guy next to me happen to stretch our arms at the same time, we bang elbows.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. But it’s better than sleeping outside, that’s for sure. That would be deadly. Now that the sandstorm’s done, we’re going to have to work really hard. We had our first real drills these last couple days. It was good to get started.”