Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  season in 2008. Cole and I had

  spent three weeks of the summer

  before playing house on Oahu.

  One of his buddies had gone

  stateside, leaving his off-base

  apartment empty. Cole tossed

  a little traveling cash his way so

  we could use the older one-bedroom

  place as our vacation digs. Well,

  my vacation. Cole had regular duty

  during the weekdays. Came home

  to me the rest of the time, just like

  a regular married Marine might.

  While he was at work, I spent days

  at the beach, roller blading and taking

  my elementary surfing to a whole new

  level. Over that short time, we solidified

  the “two-as-one” of us. I was really

  starting to believe we could make it

  as a couple, albeit an often separated,

  half-a-world-away-from-each-other,

  couple. But then a small dose of reality

  intruded. I had to go back to school.

  Some people would have looked at

  other options—transferring to a college

  in Hawaii, or maybe dropping out.

  When I asked Mom what she thought,

  she offered solid advice. If you withdraw,

  what will you do? Serve piña coladas

  to tourists and waste the last two years?

  Your prepaid tuition is California based.

  Anyway, your young man is returning

  to Iraq in a few months. What’s the point?

  The point was, she had a point. Even

  Cole agreed. So, back I trekked

  to San Diego to start my junior year.

  I settled in just fine. Once again

  got used to long-distance communicating

  with the man who was so central

  to the woman I was growing into.

  They say the military makes you older

  than your years. Ask me, that applies

  to more than just the soldier.

  OUR FIRST ARGUMENT

  Might have belied that idea, however.

  Neither Cole nor I acted very mature.

  I had spent another birthday alone,

  though Cole did send me a dozen

  yellow roses and a framed poem

  he wrote especially for me. A love

  poem, which meant a thousand times

  more than those beautiful flowers.

  I didn’t really expect him to be able to

  deliver them in person. A soldier only

  gets so much time away from his duty.

  The problem popped up when he was

  granted leave to come stateside for

  Christmas. I assumed he planned on

  spending it with me, and decided to

  surprise him with a trip to Lodi. Neither

  of us had met each other’s families yet.

  I figured it was time to introduce him

  to mine. Meanwhile, unfortunately,

  he booked his flight home to Cheyenne.

  When he called to let me know he’d

  stop by on his way back to Kaneohe,

  I freaked. “What do you mean, on

  your way back? I thought we were

  spending Christmas together! I told

  my parents we’d be there. I promised.”

  Without even asking me? Why

  would you do a stupid thing like that?

  The “stupid” slapped. My eyes watered.

  “I wanted to surprise you. Cole, you were

  in Iraq last year, and you’ll probably

  be there next year, too. Can’t we be

  together on Christmas? That’s what

  people in love do. Or is that stupid, too?”

  I do love you, Ashley. But I also love

  Mom. I haven’t seen her in eight months.

  You and I had that great time over

  the summer. This will probably be

  my only chance to visit Wyoming

  before we deploy again, most likely

  in April. You have your entire family, but

  I’m all Mom’s got left. You wouldn’t ask

  me to leave her alone on Christmas.

  You’re not really that selfish, right?

  IN RETROSPECT

  He was totally right. His mom lived

  alone, and she didn’t get to see him

  often. But at the time, disappointment

  overwhelmed every shred of logic.

  “Selfish? Really? You think I’m selfish

  because we actually have the chance

  to celebrate Christmas together, and

  I somehow expected you to want that?

  Because I was so excited to show

  you off to my parents? I want them

  to know you, so they can love you, too.

  Or maybe you don’t want that. Maybe . . .”

  The thought struck suddenly, from

  some hidden place, like a rattlesnake

  unseen in the brush. What if . . . ?

  “Maybe you don’t want that. Or me.”

  Don’t be ridiculous, Ashley.

  “Stupid.” “Selfish.” And now “ridiculous.”

  I blew. “Stop calling me names!

  This is just so . . . so unfair! Fine.

  Go ahead. Go to Wyoming! But don’t

  bother stopping here. All I do is wait

  for you, Cole. I wait for you to call.

  To e-mail. To deploy. To come home.

  To find a little time for me in the craziness

  of your life. I’m tired of waiting. Tired

  of being nothing but an afterthought.”

  I THREW THE PHONE

  Across the room. It smacked the wall

  like a missile, fell to the floor. And then

  I crumbled into a million pieces. A rubble

  of emotion. I stormed. I cried. I cursed.

  I screamed. I was lucky the neighbors

  didn’t call the cops on the usually-so-docile

  single woman who lived next door.

  Because suddenly I felt very single. Not

  only that, but it felt like the last two years

  of my life had been waylaid. Hijacked

  by this man and his misguided devotion

  to his country, his dead cousin, and his

  mother, in whatever order. I wasn’t even

  in the top three, and I should have been

  number one. That’s what I was thinking.

  What if he never cared for me at all? What if

  his declarations of love were only so much

  bullshit? Could I have been so naïve as to

  construct my entire life around him, when all

  he really wanted was steady, easy sex?

  Why had I made it so easy? Why had I

  made it so good? Why had he been so

  good? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I hadn’t been

  with him (or anyone else) for weeks.

  So why did I feel so dirty? I walked down

  the hall to the bathroom. A dozen steps.

  Turned on the shower, and while I waited

  for the water to go hot, douched with vinegar

  and salt. Then I scrubbed every inch of my skin

  twelve times with Ivory soap. Pure as snow.

  BY THE TIME I FINISHED

  I wasn’t angry anymore. Hurt, yes.

  Confused. Numb, really. The heat

  was turned up, but inside me a deep

  pit of cold seethed. I dressed in sweats

  and furry slippers. Wrapped a big

  quilt around me. Sat on the couch.

  Alone on the couch. Tried to read.

  Uselessly. The noise in my head—

  shrill, sharp splinters of words said,

  and words left unsaid—denied

  concentration. The phone rang.


  Imagine that. It had survived. Sure

  it was Cole, I let it go. But then

  I retrieved it and called Darian.

  She took her best shot at reasoned

  response. Of course you’re hurt,

  Ash. Get used to it, if you want

  to stay with Cole. And you know

  you do. So you have to share him.

  He’s totally worth it. Compromise.

  Then she transformed back into

  the Darian I knew and loved. Either

  that, or dump him and put yourself

  back on the market. Lots of cute

  guys out there, you know. In fact,

  let’s go out and shop for a couple.

  “You’re married, Dar,” I reminded.

  So? He’s gone and I’m not close to dead.

  SHE WAS JOKING

  At least, I was pretty sure she was.

  We made a date to go shopping—

  for Christmas gifts, not other men.

  I hung up, feeling marginally better.

  Darian always could cheer me up.

  Giving advice, however, wasn’t her

  best thing, so I never swallowed

  it in a single dose. Instead, I let

  it percolate. After fifteen or twenty

  minutes, I realized she was right.

  I did want to stay with Cole, and

  he was worth sharing. With his mom,

  anyway. I realized I didn’t need

  the quilt anymore and was folding

  it when the phone rang again. This

  time, I picked up. Cole apologized

  profusely, and so did I. We worked

  out a compromise. He would go to

  Wyoming for Christmas, then join

  me in Lodi. He’d meet my parents,

  and he and I would ring in 2009

  together. “Compromise” is a word

  I’ve learned to embrace—and hate.

  It’s right up there with Semper Gumby.

  I’D LIKE TO SAY

  That initial meeting with my parents

  went well. But everything about those

  few days was uncomfortable, all the way

  around. Even before Cole arrived,

  the energy was strange. Strained. Mom

  and Dad were barely speaking, something

  I’d come to associate with her finding

  out about yet another of Dad’s flings.

  Not like I was about to ask. Instead,

  I did my best to lighten the mood,

  blabbing about ridiculous comments

  I’d heard on campus or the funny

  ideas the kids I worked with had.

  “One little girl told me the way to

  her teacher’s heart was through

  her apple.” I thought it was hilarious.

  Mom sort of smiled. Dad only grunted.

  On Christmas day, we all slept in.

  Opened presents late. If, that is, you call

  cards with checks and gift certificates

  tucked inside presents. Then we split

  up and went to different rooms. Mom,

  to the kitchen to cook. Dad and Troy,

  to the family room for football. I could

  have hung out with Mom, I guess.

  But I was afraid of the discussion.

  Instead, I went to my bedroom, propped

  myself up on my bed to read and wait

  for Cole to call. I waited all day, in fact.

  Finally, I called him. When he answered,

  there was abundant noise in the background.

  Voices. Laughter. Everything our house

  lacked. It made me simultaneously mad

  and sad. I tried not to let my voice show it.

  Failed. “I think Santa missed us this year.”

  Cole said not to worry, he’d be there

  in a couple of days. That Santa hadn’t

  missed his house, had left something

  there for me. Then someone announced

  dinner was on the table. When I told him

  I missed him, professed undying love,

  his response—Ditto—only increased

  the anxiety inflating inside me.

  Pressure, seeking release in a burst.

  I swallowed a pill. Went in search of

  Christmas wine. Found Mom, indulging

  in a little herself. I watched her work.

  Wished for conversation. Settled for

  her mostly silent company. Wondered

  what Cole was doing. As the medication

  kicked in, the stress lightened, gas leaking

  out of the balloon. But not completely.

  WHICH SET THE STAGE

  For Cole’s visit. He flew into

  Sacramento, and I picked him

  up there. Usually, when we first

  see each other after many weeks

  apart, pent-up love kindles this

  amazing blaze of happiness.

  That time, something felt a little

  off. But I couldn’t put my finger

  on it, other than Cole seemed

  a bit tense. But when I asked,

  “Hey, soldier. Is everything okay?”

  he kissed me with such tenderness

  my initial unease vanished. And

  when he promised, I’m fine. Just

  a little tired, I didn’t look any farther

  for the source of my discomfort.

  His flight arrived late afternoon,

  which meant heavy traffic from

  the airport down the I-5, all the way

  to the CA-99 interchange and

  beyond. As always, Cole insisted

  on driving, but the bumper-to-

  bumper stuff whipped him into

  rage. Who the fuck lives in a place

  like this? he screamed, flipping

  off an equally uptight driver who

  cut in front of us, seeking an exit.

  “Relax, sweetheart. A few miles,

  we’ll be out in the country. No

  traffic there. I promise.” Eventually,

  we found clear lanes, but by

  then I was gripping the seat

  and mostly kept my eyes closed,

  except when I had to give him

  directions. Open highway wasn’t

  much better. He drove like he was

  possessed. I looked for a way

  to exorcise a little common

  sense. “Hey. Slow down, okay?

  Mom’s cooking a special dinner.

  I’d rather not eat hospital food

  instead. You do like prime rib?”

  I like it fine, he snapped. But

  that brought him around. Sorry.

  Can’t stand congestion. In any crowd

  there’s bound to be at least one

  freak. If there’s nowhere to run when

  he goes off, you’re pretty much toast.

  WE MADE IT HOME UNTOASTED

  Stepped out of the car into late-December

  air, the kind that makes your breath

  steam. Yet we stood in the chill, holding

  hands, allowing Cole to gather a sense

  of the place. My home, growing up.

  So much of me. Carbon clouds crept

  overhead, threatening rain there in

  the valley, snow in the Sierra above.

  The smoke of incense cedar puffed

  from the chimney, perfuming the air.

  I turned into Cole, lifted up on my toes,

  kissed him with all the love I held inside.

  Drew back to look into his eyes. “Well?”

  It’s not Wyoming. But it’s pretty nice.

  I smiled. “With you here, it’s amazing.”

  With you there, it would be perfect.

  That was the nicest conversation

  we had for three days. We went inside,

  out of the cold and
into the deep freeze.

  “Hello? We’re here.” It took a minute,

  but finally my parents came to say hello.

  My warm introduction iced over almost

  immediately as Dad led Cole to the guest

  room. Cole turned and glanced over

  his shoulder, a question in his eyes. All

  I could do was shrug. The guest room?

  Really? Dad had to be kidding, right?

  HE WASN’T KIDDING

  My father, the king of impropriety,

  expected decorum from his daughter

  and her first serious boyfriend. Okay.

  We figured we’d deal with that, and

  we did. Sneaking into the guest room

  once my parents were asleep wasn’t

  so difficult. Harder was sharing the dinner

  table, where conversation over rare roast

  beef almost immediately turned to war.

  Dad asked. Cole answered. Mom squirmed.

  I tried to redirect the dialogue toward

  Wyoming, but it kept coming back to Iraq.

  When it moved to the newly elected

  Commander in Chief, Cole made it very

  clear that he would have preferred John

  McCain, who had been a soldier. And

  that awful woman? What about her?

  asked Mom, who leans harder to the left

  than I do. Cole could have chosen

  not to engage. Instead, he offered

  his opinion that Ms. Palin couldn’t be

  nearly as bad as Mr. Obama. It fell

  apart from there. Though the volume

  remained low, emotion ran high.

  We all skipped dessert that night.

  AFTER DINNER

  Dad took refuge in the living room,

  behind a Jon Stewart rerun. Mom

  disappeared into her bedroom. Cole

  and I took drinks to the solarium, sat

  very close on the wicker loveseat,

  listening to rain pelt the glass overhead.

  We exchanged belated Christmas

  gifts. I gave him a leather journal

  and an expensive pen. “So you’ll think

  of me when you write your poetry.”

  He gave me my favorite perfume,

  Secret Obsession. “How did you know?”

  Darian told me. She forgot to mention

  how pricey it was. But you’re worth it.

  I opened the bottle, daubed a couple

  of drops. “It’s worth it, too. See?”

  That led to some seriously hot kissing.

  All would have been forgiven right

  there, except I felt the need to say,

  “I’m sorry about what happened earlier.”