Going Overboard

by Sarah Smiley

  “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, do you still feel in love? Do you ever wish for something more?”

  I could feel Brent studying my profile. He puffed on his cigarette and exhaled. “Sure, we’re happy, I guess. Although we don’t get to have all the romantic homecomings and separations you and Dustin do,” he said, laughing. “That’s got to be one heck of an experience!”

  I sighed and looked at the concrete. It would be humiliating to tell him about Dustin’s less-than-romantic phone call from Spain. Civilians have such a Hollywood view of military life. Maybe it’s the movies, or too many World War II photographs, but most people think having a husband “off at war” is somehow romantic. I hated to disappoint Brent and reveal the true nature of—the reality of—my and Dustin’s life, so I just said, “Oh, sure—I’m just tired, I guess,” and left it at that.

  We sat in silence for several more minutes before the police arrived.

  “You called the police?” I said, looking over at Brent.

  “Just in case. I wanted to make sure if the locksmith didn’t show up before I have to go to work—”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Brent. Really. And remind me to give you a key for the next emergency.”

  Clearly I was his damsel in distress.

  The police officer swaggered up the driveway in heavy black boots. It seemed like he couldn’t lay his arms flat against his sides, but I couldn’t tell if that was because of all the gadgets hanging off his uniform, or because of bulky muscles under his shirt. He had a mustache that looked like a Brillo pad, and his thick leather belt creaked as he came toward us.

  Brent stood to shake hands. “Good morning, Officer,” he said. “Thanks for coming out.”

  The officer hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “What seems to be the trouble?” he said.

  “My friend Sarah here has locked herself out,” Brent said, “and her children are asleep inside. A locksmith is supposed to be on his way.”

  The radio clipped to the officer’s shoulder squawked and he paused to listen. “Already on the scene. Over,” he said into the receiver; then he looked up at me again. “Well, ma’am, never mind the locksmith. Let’s go ahead and get you inside before all the neighbors wake up and see you sitting out here in your bathrobe.”

  Brent laughed. “Oh, most of us have seen her laundry flying out the front door anyway.”

  The officer looked back and forth between the two of us and my face turned hot. He was imposing and strong in his navy blue suit. But uniforms can be so misleading, can’t they? People see a doctor’s white coat, or a policeman’s badge, and they instantly feel safe. They are comforted by an image or, rather, by their expectations of an image.

  So what impression do people have when they see Dustin in his flight suit? I wondered. And suddenly it occurred to me that somewhere there was a policeman’s wife waking up alone while her husband was across town on my driveway taking care of me. She had sacrificed time with her husband so that he could serve the public. Kind of like I was living alone so my husband could defend the country.

  But did that wife mind being alone? Did she resent so many people needing her husband? Did she want him there to take care of her, instead of here taking care of me? Was she better equipped for the sacrifice than me? Would she collapse under the pressure?

  And, most important, did she have a Cute Doctor?

  The boys were still sleeping when I got back inside, so I went to the computer to check e-mail. I had heard from Courtney, who heard from Sasha, who heard from Kate, that e-mail was working on board the ship now, and a few wives had already received messages from their husbands.

  I sat down in a noisy wooden chair borrowed from the kitchen table and pushed aside a stack of bills and mail before booting up the computer. Our system was outdated and needed replacing, but as I sat there watching the flashing monitor come to life, I knew during the next few months, it would become my “spouse.” By the time the deployment was all over, I’d feel more connected to my in-box and the expectation of e-mail than I would another human being. The concept of “Dustin”—the man I used to smell and feel next to me in bed—would merely become a collection of e-mails stored in a folder marked “Dusty.”

  At least, that was the way it had been for Dustin’s previous deployment.

  Mom liked to tell me that I “have no idea what it was like for spouses before e-mail, when the only way to communicate with your soldier was through the postman!” When Dad first deployed, Mom relied on handwritten letters, often delivered out of sync, to keep her in touch with him.

  But at least they didn’t have to deal with the expectation, I’ve often thought. Mom couldn’t realistically expect instant communication with her husband thousands of miles away, which eliminated the frequent disappointment and pain today’s military spouse feels when she opens her in-box a million times a day (“just in case!”) and finds nothing.

  But that morning I was lucky. Once the screen was in focus and the computer had retrieved my messages, the words SMILEY, DUSTIN H., LT appeared in bold type. I clicked on the link.

  Dear Sarah,

  Surprise! Our e-mail is finally working!

  How are the boys? Is Owen doing anything new? I can’t believe I’m going to miss his first smile, and probably when he begins to crawl. I missed all that with Ford also, remember? We’ll need to have another baby just so I can see what the first year is actually like!

  Hey, I want to apologize for the phone call from Spain. I was really drunk (I guess you knew that), and Steve said I made an ass of myself when I was talking to you. I know you were probably hoping for something more. Maybe I can call again soon and make it up to you.

  Work is really busy, as you can imagine. I rescued two pilots yesterday. Their jet had gone off the side of the carrier and I was up in the helo, so my crew performed the rescue. What an incredible feeling to help someone like that!

  Other than that, it’s the same old grind here. We never get a day off, and we’re pretty much working from the time we get up until the time we go to sleep.

  I think of you often and wish our last few days/nights together had been better.

  Love you,

  Dustin

  I printed up a copy of Dustin’s message and took it to the kitchen, where I poured myself a Diet Coke with ice and reread each sentence line by line. I was still angry about the phone call from Spain, but seeing Dustin’s familiar words, and the way he formatted the message perfectly, just like a real letter, made me smile.

  I returned to the computer, put my drink down on top of the stack of bills, and wrote my reply:

  Dusty . . . You won’t believe what just happened to me! When I took Tanner outside this morning, I accidentally locked myself out . . . and I was wearing my cowgirl nightshirt! Brent had to call the police. It was pretty embarrassing. Thankfully, the boys slept through it all and are still asleep now.

  That’s great about your rescue. Will they print up something in the newspaper? If so, be sure to send me a copy.

  Ford and Owen are doing OK. Ford has a lot of questions about where you are and when you’re coming back. Owen, of course, is oblivious. He grinned for the first time a few days ago. Ford was pushing him in the swing, and all of a sudden he flashed this meek, one-sided smile. It was great! Then again, maybe it was just gas.

  Remember the way Ford’s first smile took up half his face? He had that huge half-moon thing going on and no teeth for like a year. I guess some kids need to grow into their ears or noses; Ford has grown into his smile.

  Anyway, Owen had his six-week checkup a few days ago. Everything was fine and he is growing on schedule.

  Well, speaking of, I hear Owen waking up now, so I’d better go feed him. Love you. ME

  I left to feed Owen, and when I returned to the computer several hours later, not only did I not have a response from Dustin yet, but the ice in my drink had melted and condensation dripped down the glass, soaking the bills beneath it.

  “Damn!” I s
aid and stomped my foot. Although I wasn’t sure if I was more upset about the wet papers or the words on the computer screen that read “No New Messages.”

  I took a deep breath and promised myself, “I will not write Dustin again until he writes me first!” Hmpf!

  Interestingly, I felt very mature and in control when I left the room. Go figure.

  8

  YOUR DOCTOR CALLS YOU BY YOUR FIRST NAME?

  Finally—because it was only a matter of time—in the first week of February, Mom decided I wasn’t doing well. She based this on one phone conversation during which I cried hysterically because I thought there was a raccoon stuck in my attic. So she planned a trip to Florida to rescue me.

  The timing was perfect because my dad was leaving for a two-week detachment on board—coincidentally enough—the same aircraft carrier Dustin was on. In his position as a Navy Admiral, Dad made frequent trips to visit the carriers, but this would be the first time he and Dustin were on the same one together, and it placed Mom and me in an unusual situation: We’d be our own mother-daughter Spouse Club.

  But I knew Mom’s “rescue” might also involve the overwhelming temptation to return home to Virginia Beach, Virginia, which probably was the best, most logical idea, but one I’d never concede to. Going back with Mom would mean giving up, and it would affirm to everyone (including me) that I am not capable of taking care of myself. So I steeled myself for Mom’s visit by repeating the mantra “I am an adult, I can do this; I am an adult, I can do this.”

  But, of course, as soon as I saw Mom’s familiar brown hair with streaks of yellow-orange, I regressed to the mind-set of a four-year-old, and cried into the lapel of her red blazer, “Take me home with you. Please, Mommy, take me home with you!”

  “Get ahold of yourself, Sarah,” she said. “You have the boys to think of.”

  And with that, she spun into the kitchen and, in minutes, magically whipped up some egg salad for Ford and had Owen gurgling at her “ga-ga-goos.”

  I stood in the corner and leaned against the refrigerator for support.

  Mom has a way of making things happen . . . instantly. And her energy knows no limits. I remember her cleaning bathrooms at two and three o’clock in the morning when I was a little girl and Dad was on deployment. She said it relieved her stress. But as I lay in bed and listened to the clank of the toilet lid and the squeak of the sponge, I often wondered, “What motivation gene am I missing?” Sometimes it takes all I have in me to get up and move wet clothes from the washer to the dryer. And often the clothes never get much farther than that. I simply use the laundry room as my closet and select clothes straight from the dryer. But not Mom; she is the definition of efficient.

  “What we need to do is make a list,” Mom said as she rummaged through my kitchen drawers for paper and a pen. She was opening and closing doors and mumbling something to the effect of “Don’t you ever clean this place? How can you live like this?”

  “A list?” I said. “What on earth for?”

  “A list to get you motivated, Sarah. If we can just get your life organized, everything will be OK.”

  I wondered if Mom remembered who she was talking to—her child who dropped out of Girl Scouts after only one day and quit piano lessons if the teacher made me practice. How busy did she think I was that I needed a list?

  “Mom, I can make that list for you right now, without the paper. Number one, my husband needs to come home, and number two, I need animal control to set traps in the attic.”

  Mom shut a cabinet door and turned to look at me. “Sarah, are you depressed?”

  I sighed and rolled my eyes. “My husband’s gone, Mom. What do you think? Of course I’m depressed. I’m functioning in a constant state of sleep deprivation and mild depression. But I’m growing quite fond of my condition, really. Now, about the raccoon—”

  “There are no raccoons in your attic!”

  She walked out of the room and went around the corner. A few minutes later, she came back with a yellow pad of paper and a pen. She sat on the edge of a kitchen chair, poised to write, with her back as straight as her hair. Ford stared at her, his mouth full of yellow egg salad. He had never seen anyone make a list.

  “Number one,” Mom said aloud as she wrote. “First thing tomorrow we’re going to get some paint.”

  “Paint? What for?”

  “For your front room,” she said flatly. “Number two—”

  “Whoa, wait a minute, Mom. What’s wrong with my front room?”

  “Oh, nothing really,” she said. “It just needs some color is all. Now, for number two, we’ll be going to Target to get some floor cleaner. Those stains on your linoleum are terrible. How do you live like this?”

  I looked down at the floor and didn’t see any stains.

  “Number three,” she said. “We need to get some plastic bins for storage.”

  I was afraid to ask what needed storing.

  There were ten items on Mom’s finished list, but not one of them mentioned mental help, which I knew was what I really needed. Most of Mom’s solutions involved cleaning supplies and magazines about living an organized life. Frankly, her list gave me a headache.

  That night, I played hooky and read fashion magazines on the couch while Mom took care of the boys. I realized it’s probably a good thing I don’t live in the same city as my parents, because then I’d exist in a perpetual state of immaturity and helplessness. It seems whenever Mom is around, I can’t take care of myself—much less my children. It’s so much cozier to go limp and curl up on the couch under a blanket and call out occasionally, “Moooom, could you please get me some cookies . . . and hot cocoa . . . with marshmallows . . . and whipped cream . . . oh, and a straw . . . pretty please?”

  After Mom was done putting the boys to bed, she came to sit on the couch with me. I lifted my stretched-out legs to make room for her, then promptly rested them in her lap and had the same warm feeling in my chest of being ten years old and home from school with a cold. Back then I’d sit on the couch while Mom watched Phil Donahue, and when the Loving Care commercial came on, we’d sing together, “I’m gonna wash that gray right out of my hair.” I think I pretended to be sick sometimes just to have those days with her.

  I caught myself dozing off as Mom patted my legs in her lap. She was watching CNN’s Crossfire, which was like a virtual sleeping pill for me, but then again, I never sleep well when Dustin is gone, so I was exhausted. In fact, I feel like I don’t sleep at all when I’m alone. Sometimes it seems like I simply have one eye shut and one eye open for five hours at a time. I suppose this is due to my overwhelming sense of being on guard: The responsibility of being the only adult in the house makes me anxious and restless.

  On that night, however, as I listened to the noise of the television and felt the occasional pat of Mom’s freckled hands, I was relaxed for the first time in weeks. My bones sank into the couch. My eyelids were like lead. And there was almost nothing that could disturb me—not even the sound of Mom calling Doris and making arrangements for her to join us in Florida. Having the three of us—me, my mom, and her mom—in the same house was always scary. It was somewhat like a bickering three-person sorority, except I was the only one still menstruating, and therefore had a legitimate excuse.

  I raised an eyebrow briefly when I heard Mom say, “Just get on a train, Mother, and you’ll be here by the end of the week.” But my tiredness was too great and I fell back asleep.

  I woke up at eleven o’clock the next morning. Sometime during the night, Mom helped me move to my bed, and while I know I’m too big to be carried, I had no memory of switching locations. That’s how tired I was.

  The house was eerily quiet—except for Tanner scratching her neck with her hind leg and jingling her tags—and I had the sense that Mom and the boys were gone, that they had started their day without me.

  I walked out into the living room and saw that I had obviously slept past the boys’ breakfast (pancakes with heavy syrup for Ford; oa
tmeal for Owen) and one of Mom’s cleaning compulsions. The first thing I noticed, after the breakfast dishes neatly stacked in the kitchen sink, was the bookshelf and the way all my paperbacks were now placed side by side on the top shelf, organized according to size and possibly theme (although I was too scared to actually look and see if they were alphabetized). The basket of toys beside the television chest was adjusted ever so slightly to the left to cover the electrical wires that had been visible since the day we moved in. And Tanner’s food and water bowls, which were always in the way, had been moved to a far corner of the kitchen.

  Why hadn’t I thought of these changes myself? I wondered as I stood in the middle of the room and scratched at my bed-head hair. And how does Mom always seem to put my life in order?

  I thought about how many times I had tripped over Tanner’s food bowl, yet it never occurred to me to move it. Tanner was curled up under the kitchen table and saw me looking at her new eating place. I can’t be certain, but I think she had an I-told-you-so look on her face.

  “Oh, mind your own business,” I told her.

  A note from Mom with a new list was waiting for me on the kitchen table.

  Good morning, Sarah!

  I’ve taken the boys out to Target to get a few things. I’ll do the dishes as soon as I get back. When you get a chance, why don’t you start on the following:

  1. Continue straightening and organizing the books on the shelf (I’ve already done the paperbacks but left the hardcover and oversized books for you).

  2. Vacuum under the sofa cushions; you wouldn’t believe all the crumbs I found there!

  3. Go through the stack of papers on the computer desk (did something spill on these?), and when I get back I’ll help you optimize that work space.

  I’ll be coming home with fresh mulch and hope you and I can spread it around the shrubs this afternoon.

  Anyway, try to rest and enjoy this time when you have me here to help.