Going Overboard

by Sarah Smiley

  Lynette put a hand to her chest. “That is the sweetest story I’ve ever heard! So you guys grew up together?”

  “Show them the picture,” Courtney said.

  I got my wallet from the kitchen and flipped through pictures of Ford and Owen and Tanner until I came to a yellowed snapshot of two toddlers standing on a pier. I passed the picture to Lynette. “That’s us,” I said. “I was three and he was four. Our dads were leaving for deployment that day.”

  “Look at how he has his arm around you!” Lynette cried. “That’s adorable.” She passed the picture to Trish.

  “So why ‘The Long and Winding Road’?” Trish asked.

  “Well, there’s a line in the song that goes something like, ‘I’ve seen that road before. . . . It always leads me here . . . leads me to your door.’ ”

  I felt awkward speaking words that clearly sound better sung, but Courtney took care of that and started singing the verse in a breathy voice.

  “Anyway,” I said when she was finished, “the song reminds us of growing up together, not seeing each other for a few years while we were in high school, and then meeting up again in college. It seems no matter which way we go, we always wind up back together again.”

  “That is just so sweet,” Trish said. “So what did you use for your father-daughter dance?”

  Apparently Trish had a one-track mind.

  I had to think about the father-daughter song for a minute. “Hmmm,” I said, looking up at the ceiling. “My dad’s not much of a dancer—he’s really quite shy—so I remember we only danced for, like, half a minute and then my brother Will—or was it Van?—took over. But what was the song? I can’t believe I don’t remember this . . .”

  “It was ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ by Frank Sinatra,” Courtney said. “At least, that’s what’s playing on your wedding video.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” I said. “I’ve always loved that song. It’s perfect for a father-daughter dance. I just wish Dad and I had danced together longer. Maybe someday when he’s old and senile he’ll forget he doesn’t like to dance and I can trick him into dancing with me at his old-folks home.”

  Courtney smiled at me in a familiar, sympathetic way. Only she could have known there was more—much more—to what I was saying. But Trish and Lynette just laughed.

  Trish handed me the photograph, and before I put it in my wallet, I stared at it and thought about my and Dustin’s wedding day.

  We were married in a small wooden chapel in Fort Monroe, Virginia. It was the middle of July, but the weather was unseasonably mild, without a cloud in the sky. The only glitch in the whole event was the fact that I had broken my right leg walking in platform shoes six weeks beforehand. The first time I walked without crutches was just days before coming down the aisle. Yet anyone who didn’t already know never would have guessed; there was so much adrenaline coursing through my legs that day, I walked down the red-carpeted aisle without the faintest limp.

  I remember Dustin was especially handsome in his military choker whites and fresh haircut. The smile on his face as Dad escorted me toward him shined like a lighthouse guiding me through the haze of relatives and friends who stared at me and whispered, “Good luck,” as I passed by.

  Luck? Was I going to need that? Why not just love and happiness?

  My hands were shaking, so Dad patted them and said, “Don’t be nervous. It’s just a bunch of people we know.”

  Then, at the altar, he gave my hand to Dustin and kissed me on the cheek. In that moment, I was transformed from an “03”—Navy lingo for “third-born child”—to a “30”—“first spouse.” I was officially someone else’s dependent.

  “BUNCO!” Jody yelled from across the room at the head table and rang a bell. It was time to switch tables. Lynette and I had won, so we moved up to table number two, joining Melanie and Sasha, who wore a cropped top to flaunt her new navel ring and flat tummy. The bell rang again and Sasha threw the dice. Everyone was quiet and awkward for a moment. It’s always hard to switch tables and start a new conversation. Kind of like speed dating for friends.

  Finally Lynette broke the silence. “So do a lot of the wives in the Club have children?”

  “Paul and I have a daughter,” Melanie said. “We’d like to have more though.”

  Sasha handed the dice to me for my turn. “I have four children,” she said. “Three girls and a boy.”

  I was afraid Sasha might start her woe-is-me-I-have-four-children talk and never stop, so I spoke up before she could continue.

  “I have two boys,” I said. “Ford is two and Owen is two months old.”

  “Wow, a newborn,” Lynette said. “I have three children myself. Two boys and a girl.”

  Again I thought, just like Mom, who had me and my two older brothers. I was sure any minute Lynette would say she was also from Alabama, drank four Diet Cokes a day, and took bowling in college.

  “My son is also two years old,” Lynette said. “We should get him and your son together sometime.”

  “That sounds great.” I passed the dice to Melanie.

  “Tell me honestly,” Sasha said, looking at Lynette. “Would you ever have guessed Sarah has two kids?”

  I jolted in my seat. I knew Sasha couldn’t mean “Can you believe she’s had two kids and looks so skinny,” because I was clearly postpartum and about twenty pounds overweight. Sometimes Sasha simply had no filter. Thoughts came right from her brain and out through her mouth, and I was afraid of what she might say next.

  Lynette looked at me confused. “Well, I don’t know. I didn’t really think about it, I guess.”

  “I guess you’d have to know Sarah to know what I mean,” Sasha said. “This is the girl who sat on a table at a Ronald McDonald concert when she was eight months pregnant and the table actually broke beneath her!”

  Melanie was holding the dice in her hand and staring at Sasha.

  “This is the girl,” Sasha continued, “who has broken her leg twice and arm once . . . for no good reason! I mean, at least you’ve got to have a good falling story, but no, Sarah’s are always about tripping over a baby gate, or—”

  “I really think that’s uncalled for,” Melanie said.

  “What?” Sasha shrieked. “I’m just telling the truth. Sarah’s like a walking calamity.”

  “If you can’t say something nice—” Melanie started to say, but I stopped her.

  “It’s all right, really. Honestly, it is amazing I haven’t accidentally burned down the house yet or something.”

  Melanie looked at me pleadingly, as though she were the one who needed rescuing. I knew she wanted to say more—that she wanted to defend me—but I expected as much from Sasha, and oddly, I really wasn’t that hurt.

  Sasha was like a tornado: You know you should get out of the way, but you can’t stop gawking. She was loud and obnoxious, but, to her credit, you could never say she was a fake. And despite my difficult relationship with her, I admired how she didn’t feel compelled to hide anything about herself. In fact, she embraced it all.

  Courtney and I stayed late to help Jody with the cleanup. I was washing dishes and Courtney was drying when she said, “So how was your exam with Cute Doctor? I can’t believe you went through with it!”

  “What was I supposed to do?” I said and handed her another clean plate.

  Courtney raised her eyebrows. “Um, like, change doctors!”

  “Have you ever tried to change Navy doctors?” I said. “The paperwork alone could take years!”

  Jody came in from the living room and put another stack of dirty dishes on the counter. “You know,” she said, “I’ve decided it’s kind of sweet the way Sarah thinks about Cute Doctor. I mean, her dad was gone so much when she was little, I bet he’s like a father figure for her.”

  “A ‘father’ wouldn’t do your pelvic exam,” Courtney cried. “Good grief!”

  “It’s not like that,” I said. “He just makes me feel good about myself, I guess.”

&n
bsp; Courtney rolled her eyes and threw a handful of plastic cups into the trash. “Well, for cryin’ out loud!” she said. “You aren’t supposed to feel good about yourself—you’re a married woman, for God’s sake!”

  I turned off the water and dried my hands on a dish towel. “The whole thing reminds me of those Hawaiian dancers,” I said. “The ones who wear coconuts to cover up their . . . well, you know.”

  “Their breasts?” Jody said.

  “Yes, those.”

  Courtney threw up her hands. “Now I’ve heard it all! How on earth does your ob-gyn remind you of grass skirts and coconuts?”

  “Haven’t you ever seen the way men look at those women?” I said. “It doesn’t matter if the dancers are a hundred years old, if they’re married, or if they have twenty children. While they’re onstage wearing those coconuts, the men love them. They’re hypnotized.”

  “So this is about needing a pedestal,” Courtney said.

  I frowned. “I actually have one of those coconut bras. Did you know that? Dustin bought it for me in Hawaii, and he used to ask me to put it on all the time. But now? Now it just sits collecting dust in the top of the closet. He’s probably forgotten I even have it.”

  Jody was tying up a bag of trash. She stopped and looked up at us. “You know, I kind of get what she’s saying. I can’t remember the last time Steve looked at me the way he used to back when we were younger.”

  I tried picturing Jody in a grass skirt and coconut top.

  “I can’t believe you two!” Courtney cried. “Especially you, Jody! Have you lost your mind? Make your own damn pedestals! Go buy a new pair of shoes. Highlight your hair. Do something—anything! Just don’t get all giddy for your ob-gyn!”

  I stared dreamily at them and shrugged. “I’m Dr. Ashley’s coconut girl. I’m a coconut girl.”

  I walked home in the cold, trying to figure out in my mind how much to pay Lauren. Did Dustin say five or six dollars an hour? I wondered. And what to do about the additional forty-five minutes? I wished my BUNCO night had ended on the hour. It would make figuring out the money so much easier.

  Lauren was sitting on the couch watching The Bachelor when I came in the front door. Her face and the room was tinted blue from the glow of the television.

  “Hey,” she said, looking surprised. And then, “What time is it?”

  “Almost ten. I’m sorry I’m so late.”

  “Not a problem at all,” she said. Then she nodded at the television. “You ever watch this show?”

  I looked at the screen and saw a row of women in black dresses waiting patiently for a rose from the bachelor.

  “Uh, yeah, I’ve seen it a few times,” I said; then I riffled through my purse. “Will thirty dollars be enough, Lauren?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, standing up from the couch to straighten her denim miniskirt with a tattered hem.

  “Ma’am”? Was I really old enough for that?

  “Please, call me Sarah,” I said.

  Lauren smiled. “OK, Sarah it is, then.” She slipped on a pair of bejeweled flip-flops and started toward the door. I followed behind. At the entryway she turned around and said, “Oh, my gosh, Mrs. Smi—I mean, Sarah—I looked at your wedding album—I hope you don’t mind. It was sitting on the piano—and wow! Mr. Smiley is so cute!”

  At first I thought she meant my father-in-law and I must have looked surprised.

  “I mean, your husband,” she said. “He looks just like Tom Cruise!”

  “Oh, my goodness,” I said, laughing. “Well, people do tell him that a lot. But if you knew him . . . I mean, looks can be deceiving . . . I mean . . .”

  Lauren looked at me, confused.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Anyway, it’s actually quite frustrating being married to someone prettier than me.”

  “Oh, stop!” she said, waving her hand. She opened the front door and started to walk out. “Please call me anytime, Mrs.—I mean, Sarah.”

  I closed the door and said aloud to myself, “Mrs.?” Could I be that much older than Lauren? Wasn’t I just like her only a few years ago?

  I had just closed my eyes and gone to sleep when the telephone rang. The pulse of the ringer startled me and I shot up in bed, looking around confused. Then I glanced at the clock. It was ten thirty.

  The phone rang again, and this time Tanner got up from her pillow and stretched.

  “It’s all right, Tanner girl,” I said. “It’s just the phone. Go back to bed.”

  I picked up the receiver on the bedside table. There was static on the other end.

  “Sarah? Is that you?”

  My heart nearly flipped over. “Dustin? I can barely hear you. Is that you, Dustin?”

  “It’s me, babe. Did I wake you up?”

  There was a delay in the connection and our sentences were overlapping each other. Until then I had forgotten how hard it is to talk from overseas.

  “I can’t hear you very well, Dustin. Can you speak up?”

  It sounded like a disco in the background. I heard people yelling and singing over the rhythmic thump of music.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say, Sarah? I can’t hear you.”

  “Are you at a nightclub?”

  “We’re in Spain right now. I’m out with the guys. It’s a little hard to hear.”

  I heard someone’s voice in the background: “Come on, Dustin, another round of—”

  I blinked and rubbed my eyes. “Are you drunk, Dustin?”

  “What, babe?”

  Dustin never calls me “babe” unless he is drunk.

  I decided to ignore his slurred speech. “Hey, Dustin, listen for a minute. I need to ask you something.”

  “Go ahead, I’m listening. But you’ll have to speak up,” he said.

  I was worried about waking the kids, especially Owen, who was finally sleeping in six-hour stretches, but I raised my voice anyway.

  “Dustin, do you think I’m a little—how should I say this—flighty?”

  “What? Why do you ask?” There were hoots and hollers coming from the background.

  “Sasha called me a ‘walking calamity’ tonight.”

  “Did you say a ‘walking calamity’?”

  “Yes, a ‘walking calamity.’ ”

  Dustin laughed. “Well, you always have been my little firecracker. Especially that last night at home. Wow!”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Hey, Sarah,” he said, “you wouldn’t believe this place. It’s amazing. The wine flows like water. The women—oh, my gosh, the women! They flock to us Americans. We’re like rock stars. I practically had to beg them to quit asking me to dance.”

  My jaw dropped open. I had to remind myself to breathe. Was he really telling me this?

  “Dustin, you’re drunk,” I said more firmly than I had meant to.

  “Oh, I’m totally drunk, babe. How are the kids?”

  I couldn’t find any words. My throat was closing in and tears came to my eyes. Here I was diapering babies and cleaning dishes, and my husband was gallivanting around the world having a great time.

  The injustice of it all was astounding, and I couldn’t bear to hear Dustin’s voice any longer.

  “Sorry, Dust. I can’t really hear you that well,” I said. “I think the connection is breaking up. Can you call me back another time?”

  “Sure, babe. Is everything OK?”

  I pretended not to hear. “What’s that, Dustin? I can’t hear you. . . . The connection must be bad. . . .”

  “Connection’s fine on my end,” he said.

  “Sorry, Dust. You’re breaking up. I’m going to go now. Talk to you soon, I guess. Bye.” I bit my lip and hung up the phone.

  After the charger beeped and Tanner settled back down on her pillow, the house was painfully quiet, and I realized I was alone.

  “Tanner?” I whispered. “Tanner girl?”

  Tanner poked her head out from under the bed and I reached down to scoop her up, feeling her frail rib beneath my pal
m. Then I put her next to me as I lay on my back and patted her fluffy fur, trying to picture Dustin in Spain. Was it really as glamorous as it seemed? And what was that he said about the women?

  A tear rolled out of the corner of my eye and dripped sideways into my ear.

  Through the static of the baby monitor, I heard Owen stir in his crib and whimper.

  No, don’t wake up. Not yet. Just let Mommy get some sleep.

  I lay tense and motionless, willing Owen to go back to sleep. But his whimpers soon escalated to full-blown cries, and I slid out of bed to get him.

  The kitchen and living room were completely dark, and I had that feeling of being a child and running to your parents’ room after a bad dream. I could have sworn I felt someone on my heels, chasing me as I walked, and then double-stepped, through the room.

  I got Owen out of his crib and brought him to the couch. When I snuggled his warm body against me, I felt the muscles in my jaw and neck release. I hadn’t been aware they were tense. I stared at Owen’s pink cheeks and round, searching eyes and momentarily forgot how mad I was at Dustin.

  “Your dad may be visiting exotic ports,” I whispered to Owen, “but he’s missing this.”

  When Owen heard my voice and looked up at me with big watery eyes, for the first time I felt sorry for Dustin instead of envying him.

  The clock in the kitchen ticked noisily and Owen’s sucking slowed. Soon he was drifting back to sleep. His wrinkled, delicate fingers were balled up in fists, but the muscles in his mouth had gone lax and his lips glistened with saliva and milk.

  I turned onto my back and settled into the throw pillows. Owen snored faintly, and I could feel his thin breath on my neck.

  How long has it been since someone hugged me? I wondered. Sure, Ford gave me hugs, and Jody and Courtney occasionally draped their arms around my shoulder or patted my back to say hello, but when was the last time someone gave me a tight, meaningful hug? The kind that squeezes your ribs and makes you feel compact?

  So often we take human contact for granted, I think, until we realize we haven’t had much of it for quite some time. I lay there stroking Owen’s fine, fluffy hair and thinking about a study I once heard about children who fail to thrive and grow if they don’t receive enough contact with another human being. Would the same thing happen to adults? I wondered. Could an adult actually fail to grow and thrive without enough affection?