Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  THE GRUNT CODE OF HONOR

  Keep each other’s backs, at all costs.

  Your buddy is your brother. I’m grateful

  for that. In more ways than one. Today,

  I’m happy to be driving up to the North

  Shore with Cole. We cut up the center

  of the island, where it’s mostly pineapple

  fields. It’s prettier driving up the East

  Shore, but it takes longer, Cole explains.

  Since we got such a late start, I figured

  this way would be better. It’s forty-five

  minutes from Honolulu, with Cole

  driving sort of like a maniac. It might

  not be so bad, but the Jeep is both window-

  free and roofless. Nothing but a roll bar

  between our heads and the cloudless azure

  sky. “Glad we’ve got a windshield. Not big

  on bugs in my teeth.” That makes Cole

  laugh. When we get to Haleiwa, he pulls

  into the parking lot of a little market.

  Stay here. I’ll be right back. He goes

  inside and I wait, stomach growling,

  enjoying the tepid breeze blowing off

  the sea. The day is perfect. This time

  of year is usually the start of the rainy

  season. The weatherman on the radio

  complains about how dry it’s been, but

  considering the state of the Jeep,

  I’m quite content. Cole emerges,

  carrying two big shopping bags

  and grinning like a leprechaun.

  A very tall, very buff leprechaun.

  “You look unusually happy.”

  Maybe the happiest I’ve ever seen

  him, an observation I don’t make

  out loud. He puts the groceries

  in back, jumps over the rocker

  panel, into the seat. I am, my lady.

  I am. I thought we could lunch at

  Waimea Bay. You’ll like it there.

  It’s a short drive to one of the most

  famous beaches in the world. Rain

  or no rain, the ocean is rough,

  the breaks big. I’d love to see them

  when they swell to thirty feet. “Wish

  you would have borrowed a board, too.”

  Oh, hell no. You might think you’re

  Surfer Girl, but I wouldn’t let you

  out there on a board. The guys who

  ride over here are fucking insane.

  I bristle more than a little at the idea

  of him thinking I need his permission

  to do anything. But I refuse to argue.

  THERE’S A NICE PICNIC AREA

  With tables beneath a fringe of palms.

  We find one empty, and Cole spreads

  his feast—deli sandwiches, papaya

  and pineapple salad, baked barbecue

  chips. My favorite. He remembered.

  And now, the piece de resistance.

  “Champagne? Are we celebrating

  something?” Surely not deployment.

  Maybe. He pops the bottle—the first

  bottle. He bought three. Pours two

  plastic glasses. Hands me one, lifts

  the second. Here’s to you and me.

  It’s even good champagne. My curiosity

  is screaming, but this is his party. We

  sip. Eat. Surf watch. People watch.

  Several climb a huge rock, jutting out

  into the ocean. They jump, catching

  the turquoise water swirling around

  the outcropping’s feet. As my head grows

  fuzzy, I ask, “Think we should do that?”

  Are you kidding? I know it’s supposed

  to be safe. I also know there’s a major

  rip out there. A wise grunt only

  takes measured risks. Not that

  every Marine follows the Corps

  recommendation. Some guys are,

  like, total jerk-offs when it comes

  to offering up their necks. He thinks

  awhile. Once, I watched this kid—

  he wasn’t much more than eighteen—

  mess with a fucking sand viper,

  just to prove it couldn’t bite through

  his boot. You know what? It couldn’t.

  But when the snake struck, the kid

  fell backward and his weapon went

  off. Asshole shot himself in the foot.

  His boot couldn’t stop a goddamn

  bullet. He laughs. Mean laughter.

  A little shiver runs up my spine

  and the mouthful of sandwich

  I’m trying to swallow sort of lodges

  in my throat. Champagne takes care

  of that. It takes care of a lot, including

  chasing away the image of a striking viper.

  AFTER LUNCH

  Wearing my hot purple bikini

  and a cool champagne haze

  I open a big beach blanket,

  spread it over the tree-shaded

  sand. Cole lies next to me, and

  we smoosh into the cushion

  of the sand. It folds up around

  us. I snuggle my head against

  his shoulder. “Hey. I thought

  you didn’t like the beach.”

  This one is better than most,

  he admits. But anyplace is better

  when you’re this close to me.

  We fall quiet for a while. Listen

  to the wish-wish of gentle surf.

  “One day we need to play tourist.

  Visit the other islands. Maybe ride

  bikes down a volcano or something.”

  He shakes his head. Once I leave

  here, I’m never coming back.

  Can’t stand being on an island.

  No place to go but round and round.

  We haven’t really talked about

  life after the Marines. His initial

  commitment is another three

  years. But after that . . . What?

  “So, you’re thinking about leaving?”

  Eventually. I mean, everyone

  does, right? I can only advance

  so far as an enlisted. And who

  knows what vile new conflict

  the Pentagon has in mind?

  A nervous thrill rushes through

  me. Does he really mean it?

  I kind of thought he might just

  stay entrenched in the Corps

  forever. This is all news to me.

  Would you still love me if you

  had to put up with me every day?

  I nuzzle tighter against him.

  Kiss his chest. “Of course I would.

  Especially if you promised to take

  the trash out. Dumpsters scare me.”

  Hang on. He gets up, goes over

  to the table. When he returns,

  he has two glasses of champagne.

  Remember I told you I had a surprise?

  He hands me both glasses, reaches

  into his shorts pocket. Extracts

  a small gold box and opens it,

  anticipation in his eyes. Inside

  the box is a diamond ring. Blood

  rushes so loudly in my ears, I barely

  hear, Ashley. I love you. Marry me.

  Rewind

  COLE LEFT FOR IRAQ

  The second time in the spring

  of 2009. Our relationship

  was a little over two years

  old. It still felt very young.

  Time together. Two baby steps

  forward. Longer time apart.

  Half a dozen giant steps back.

  Figure in a major argument

  just weeks before deployment,

  everything felt shaky, at least

  to me, when he shipped out.

  He would have disputed that.

&n
bsp; As far as he was concerned,

  we stood, inextricably linked,

  atop rock-solid ground. I’m not

  really sure why I let him believe

  that. Maybe it was, at least in

  part, because Darian often shared

  Spence’s accusation-filled letters

  with me. I didn’t want Cole to think

  those things about me. I would

  never fool around with someone

  else unless Cole and I severed

  our relationship completely.

  At least, that’s what I told myself.

  COLE’S BATTALION TOUCHED DOWN

  At Al Asad Airbase in the lovely

  sandstorm-ridden Al Anbar province,

  where summer temperatures hover

  around one hundred ten. Not long

  after they arrived, he e-mailed:

  THE BASE ITSELF ISN’T SO BAD.

  WE’VE GOT A POOL. AND A GYM.

  AND BECAUSE BRASS AND POLITICOS

  FLY IN HERE A LOT, THE FOOD IS GOOD.

  I MISS YOU ALREADY. LOVE YOU ALWAYS.

  Their mission was security—keeping

  the local citizenry safe, whether or not

  they liked the idea. Running regional

  detention facilities. Those guys definitely

  didn’t like the idea. Manning checkpoints.

  Handling dogs trained to sniff out IEDs

  and insurgent weapons caches. Some

  units stayed on-base while performing

  their duties. Off-hours were spent taking

  online courses and improving their fitness

  in general and martial arts in particular.

  For most, boredom was once again

  their most obvious enemy. They got

  regular care packages and mail, and

  computer time was generous. The “lucky”

  ones, however, were sent to COP Heider,

  a joint operations command outpost on

  the Syrian border. Here, they were also

  charged with security. High-priority,

  much-more-dangerous security.

  LIVING CONDITIONS

  At COP Heider were austere, as Cole

  later explained. Later, because when

  he first arrived, there were no computers.

  They were on order, but it would be some

  months before they were installed. Mail

  was delivered, but it crawled in and out.

  With communication largely impossible,

  I didn’t hear from him for many weeks.

  Unless you’ve experienced the stress

  of not knowing your soldier’s status,

  you can’t possibly understand it.

  Is he or she safe outside the wire?

  Uninjured? Alive? You stumble through

  each day the best you can, pretending

  everything is fine. It simply has to be,

  in your waking mind, or you’d dissolve

  into a useless mass of shattered hope

  and broken promises. Promises like:

  I’ll always come back to you, Ashley.

  You are my collateral. My reason

  to return, no matter what. Believe it.

  Belief is easier when your soldier can

  contact you. When “collateral” isn’t

  paired in your paranoia with “damage.”

  I COMBED THE INTERNET

  For news of casualties. Found

  a nameless few. Since Cole and I

  weren’t married, the Corps wasn’t

  bound to release information to me.

  It was probably my biggest frustration.

  At least, it was until I met Jaden.

  He was a senior at State. Everything

  Cole wasn’t. California native. Liberal

  arts major, focused on film. Fact:

  he had more money than ambition,

  something his parents didn’t argue

  with. He was stunningly Irish, with

  black hair, fair skin and indigo eyes.

  Worst of all, he was unfailingly patient,

  when I made it clear from the get-go

  I was not on the hunt for a new man.

  I wasn’t. But goddamn it, I was lonely.

  More than a little scared. Tired of playing

  lady-in-waiting to a tiger-eyed soldier

  who might very well be dead. The night

  I met Jaden, I’d finally decided enough

  worry was enough worry, and sleep

  would come easier under the influence.

  I called up Brittany, my effervescent,

  fun-hungry friend, and out we went to

  binge drink, which for me meant three

  or four, and for her meant a couple

  more. We did take a cab. Planned

  a return cab, too. Okay, maybe I knew

  all that planning might lead to a little flirting.

  But I did not predict the amazing

  guy who would start flirting with me.

  Brittany and I picked a favorite dance

  club. Ear-hurting noisy, but we weren’t

  looking for conversation. Lucky us

  (or not, depending on how you look

  at what happened later), the SDSU

  crew team was there, drinking, too.

  I went to the bar, ordered well tequila.

  For some reason, the guy—Jaden—

  standing next to me noticed. Have

  you ever tried Trago? It’s brilliant.

  I started to say something flip,

  but then I turned to look at him.

  Despite my certainty that no guy except

  Cole could ever again make my pulse

  pick up speed . . . I caught my breath.

  “Trago? I bet it’s expensive, huh?”

  Speaking of brilliant. His smile?

  Totally. More expensive than Cuervo,

  for sure. Would you like to try it?

  He pointed to the full bottle on the top

  shelf of the bar. Obviously, it was too

  pricey for most of the clientele. My treat.

  I should have smiled, thanked him,

  and said no. Instead, I shrugged.

  Next thing you know, I was drinking

  shots of the best tequila I’d ever tasted—

  with a gorgeous guy, so not my Cole.

  He was a pretty good dancer, too.

  THE THING ABOUT TEQUILA

  Is it creeps up on you. Good tequila

  is even sneakier. Especially when

  you’re totally enjoying the company

  of the guy who keeps pouring shots

  for you. He bought the whole bottle.

  Truthfully, I was grateful to spend

  the evening with him. Brittany deserted

  me early for some guy she hit it off with.

  The last thing I wanted to do was sit

  there, drinking alone, with increasingly

  drunk guys hitting on me. Jaden,

  of course, was hitting on me, too. But

  at least he was respectful about it,

  especially when the Trago loosened

  my mouth and I started talking about

  Cole. He was sympathetic. No

  one in my family was ever drawn

  to the military. Certainly, I would

  never join up. I respect those who

  do, but it must be really hard for you.

  At some point, I started to feel

  selfish—for wanting to talk to any

  guy other than Cole, and for hoarding

  this one, when I had no plans to do

  more than talk. “I should probably go

  and let you tempt some other girl

  with the rest of this tequila.” I started

  to stand, but he put his hand on

  my arm. Stopped me with a simple:

  Don’t go.

  EVERY NOW AND THE
N

  You run into a guy who actually

  appreciates your IQ as much as

  your bra size. Okay, often those

  guys are gay. But not always.

  Jaden and I connected in a very

  special way. As friends. Turned out

  he had regular fuck buddies. No

  one I could get serious about.

  No one as interesting as you.

  I’m not sure what he found so

  interesting. I didn’t feel special.

  But I was glad that he thought

  I was. Over the next month—May,

  and heading into another summer

  vacation for me and graduation

  for Jaden—we hung out regularly.

  Anyone seeing us together would

  have thought we were a couple,

  and other than the sex thing,

  I suppose we were. Under other

  circumstances, I would have fallen

  totally in love with him and if I were

  to be honest with myself, I’d have

  had to admit complete infatuation.

  What I wasn’t at all sure about

  was if our budding relationship

  was because of Cole or in spite

  of him. When I stopped to worry

  about that, guilt crashed into me.

  I’d given Cole my word that I’d

  never cheat on him. I wasn’t. Not

  really. Was I? Was it okay to carve

  my heart, give a tiny fraction to Jaden?

  I knew Cole wouldn’t think so. But

  I still hadn’t heard a single word.

  If he really cared, couldn’t he find

  a way to let me know he was alive,

  he was whole, he was still in love

  with me? Instinct told me he was fine.

  Logic insisted the silence wasn’t

  his fault. I had a pretty fair idea of how

  things worked beyond the wire.

  So what was up with me? It all came

  down to hormone-rattled emotions,

  confusion at my confusion. Love,

  I thought, should be straightforward

  commitment, unencumbered by private

  doubt, internal debate. It should be static.

  IT FELT ANYTHING BUT

  As that summer rolled in,

  hotter than usual. I decided

  to stay in San Diego. In Lodi,

  there would be questions.

  About school.

  Which was relatively good.

  About my major.

  Which I hadn’t changed yet.

  About Darian.

  Who I hadn’t seen in months.

  About Cole.

  Who . . . I couldn’t say.

  Mostly, I wanted to surf.