Going Overboard

by Sarah Smiley

  I Love You, MOM

  I chewed on the inside of my mouth as I read. Then I folded up the note and left it on the counter. I didn’t even bother getting dressed, just threw on a zippered sweater over my flannel pajamas, put on some shoes, and went to Jody’s house, because I needed a dose of reality.

  It felt like therapy to walk into her cavernous house, smell the rubber of playground balls and athletic equipment and sit on the worn plaid couch. I noticed that Jody’s bookshelf was not only unorganized—it was leaning slightly to the right and had nothing but children’s books on it.

  How did she get away with that? I wondered.

  Jody brought me a Diet Coke, then sat on the couch opposite me.

  “So how are you, Sarah?” she asked and leaned closer, with her elbows on her knees.

  I was about to open my mouth and speak when I had an odd thought: Despite knowing Jody for more than two years, I knew very little about her. She knew me the way a psychologist knows her patient, and yet, I didn’t know what made her tick. What were her biggest fears? Did she have any insecurities? Did she really want to carry a gun?

  For a moment I felt exposed and unable to talk. I hated the way I was such an open book. Had I always been such a child in front of Jody?

  But I can never contain myself for long (it’s the baby of the family in me), so I said, “I told you about Dustin’s phone call from Spain, right?”

  “Yes, many times. What about it?”

  “I just feel angry again, that’s all.”

  Jody smiled and leaned back in her seat. “You need to let that go, Sarah. They were drunk off their asses. Do you remember the first deployment, when Steve sent me a roll of film to get developed for him?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, when I picked up the pictures at Wal-Mart, there was a photo of Steve posing with some topless girls on a beach in France.”

  “Oh, my gosh! I would have killed Dustin!”

  “Nah,” she said, waving her hand. “It was hilarious. So Steve posed with half-naked girls on a beach, but he loves me. Heck, if I saw a man walking naked down the street, I’d probably snap a picture, too.”

  I laughed because I knew Jody wasn’t lying. In fact, hadn’t I seen pictures like that in the pile of photographs stuffed in her kitchen junk drawer?

  “So my mom’s in town,” I said, “and I feel like a kid again. I mean, really, am I truly this helpless?”

  “Maybe sometimes,” Jody said.

  “How come Mom can do four loads of laundry before I’ve even made my own bed!” I sipped my Diet Coke and looked at the floor. Then I groaned and said, “Oh, Jody, I’m a mess, aren’t I? Sasha was right. I’m a walking disaster.”

  “Sasha’s a bitch,” Jody said without blinking. “Did you know that she has a maid? And her parents live here in town. So you know what that means—”

  “She has free babysitters?”

  “No,” Jody said, laughing. “She has a safety net. She doesn’t have to do this all alone. Imagine knowing, in the back of your mind, that your parents were just a drive away when things got bad?”

  “My house would be so clean!” I said.

  “Yes, but you’d also be carrying less responsibility. Without our parents close by, you and I subconsciously feel like we’re doing all this crap alone. And that’s a lot.”

  She picked up a tennis ball and tossed it back and forth between her hands. I watched her for a moment and tried to imagine living in the same city as my parents. Would I be more motivated? Would my life suddenly become clearer?

  Jody had a point about Sasha and her parents, but she had missed something important: Without my mom nearby, Jody was my security. Late at night, when I suddenly felt all alone and scared, I was comforted by the thought that Jody was just a few houses away.

  I was about to point this out when another startling thought occurred to me: Did Jody feel the same way? Was it comforting to her knowing I was down the street?

  There was a lump in my throat when I realized the answer was probably no. Jody never called me at four in the morning crying about some noise in the attic. And she hardly ever asked me to babysit her kids. Maybe she thought I couldn’t handle it. Maybe she was afraid to leave them with someone who accidentally puts cereal boxes in the refrigerator on a regular basis.

  I looked up and saw a greeting card propped up against a travel alarm clock on top of Jody’s television, right next to Mr. Squirrel. The card was glittery, with flowers printed on the front. I knew it must be from Steve, but I played dumb anyway.

  “Where did you get that card?” I said, nodding my head in the direction of the television.

  “Um . . . ah . . . that?” Jody scratched at her head and seemed to be searching for words. But I knew she was searching for a lie. Most military wives are reluctant to boast about mail from their spouses until they are sure others have received just as much.

  “It’s from Steve, isn’t it?” I said.

  She smiled apologetically. “Yeah, it is, Sarah. But he only sent it to me because he knew Michael had been sick and I was feeling really stressed out.”

  I looked back at the card. Dustin would never think to send me a card “just because.” The year before he had even forgotten my birthday! Why don’t I have a husband who sends me cards with glitter on them?

  I remembered a story Dustin’s mom often tells, about how when he was four years old he brought her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in bed because she was sick and her husband was deployed. “Wasn’t that so thoughtful of him?” my mother-in-law likes to say, apparently taking pride in the fact that her young son had the wherewithal to take care of his ill mother. But the story just gives me the willies. First, should a young child be expected to take care of his mother? Should he be the man of the house just because Daddy is gone? And second, when did Dustin lose this ability to be so attentive to others? Why now, as an adult, did he seem to defiantly avoid any situation in which he is the father?

  “Well, anyway,” I said, slumping back into the couch, “just so long as Dustin’s mother doesn’t get a card before I do! After all, she got to talk to him on the phone when he should have been in bed with me.”

  Jody smiled. “And how is your mother-in-law?”

  “Same old, same old,” I said, and then, “I bet I wouldn’t have all this trouble with Cute Doctor.”

  “But you’re not married to the doctor,” Jody said. “You’re married to Dustin.”

  So diplomatic!

  “And you’re happy about that, right?” she said.

  “Right.”

  When I got back home, there was another note from Mom waiting on the counter.

  Sarah, I’ve taken the boys to get new shoes. Be back later to make dinner. There’s a message for you on the answering machine, and I think there’s an e-mail from Dustin, too. Hope you don’t mind. I got online to check my e-Bay auctions. Mom

  I went to the computer first. Mom had already straightened the stack of bills there, and I almost couldn’t find the mouse because she had tucked it away behind the computer monitor.

  I opened my in-box and felt a twinge of excitement in my stomach when I saw a message from Dustin, waiting in bold type, like a present ready to open.

  Dear Sarah,

  Thanks for the message. It’s good to get updates about the boys. Sorry to hear you locked yourself out, but I’m glad Brent was there to help. Wish I could have seen you standing there in your cowgirl shirt.

  Things are still busy out here, but I’m eating better than I have in my life. A lot of the guys complain about the food, but I’m just glad to have three meals a day and something different every night. I had fish yesterday. Have you ever thought about learning to bake fish? You’d probably like it.

  I heard your dad will be coming on board the ship with us tomorrow. I hope I get to see him.

  Got to run to a brief for my next flight.

  Love, Dustin

  I reread the message a few more times, trying to
read between the lines. But I should have known better; Dustin is rarely that manipulative.

  I hit REPLY and stared at the blank screen, with my hands hovering over the keys. I didn’t know where to begin or what to say. I had been so anxious for his reply, and depressed each time I checked my messages and found nothing. But now I was frozen. How do you truly stay close to someone who is so far away? Are e-mail updates really enough? Could I actually tell Dustin all my thoughts and experiences in one message? How does a marriage survive on e-mail alone? I was beginning to feel closer to the people who were physically near me—Jody and Courtney, my neighbors, my children, and, yes, Dr. Ashley—than I was to Dustin.

  I reread Dustin’s message again. This time it seemed sterile, like something you’d expect from a stranger. Who addresses his wife as “Dear Sarah” anyway? I thought. Why didn’t Dustin write “Hi, Honey” or “Hey!” or something more personal like that?

  I clicked out of the message screen, deciding not to reply, and closed my in-box. When I went back through the kitchen, I decided not to listen to the phone message blinking on the machine. Instead I lay facedown on the living room floor and kicked my feet against the carpet. I must have fallen asleep there, because the next time I opened my eyes, Ford was crouching down beside me and looking directly into my face.

  “Mommy?” he said. “You asweep?”

  I blinked and tried to bring his face into focus.

  “Got new shoes, Mommy,” he said, pointing to a shiny white tennis shoe on his left foot.

  I pushed up onto my knees and pulled him into my lap, pressing my nose against his wispy brown hair. He smelled like sleep and graham crackers and orange juice. Then he reached up his pudgy hand and grabbed my hair hanging down in front of his face. I hugged him tighter.

  “Will Daddy be home this day, Momma?” he asked.

  “Not today. But Mommy’s here and I love you very much. You know that, kiddo?”

  My mom came in from the garage with Owen asleep in her arms. I stood and met her in the kitchen, where she hurriedly handed me Owen and went back out the garage door, mumbling something like “Hardly have time to make dinner” and “Won’t be able to put down the new mulch.”

  She came back in with an armful of groceries, which she unpacked and put away in what I figure must have been record time. Before I knew it, Mom was chopping vegetables for dinner.

  I hadn’t even moved from my spot against the wall holding Owen.

  When we finally sat down to plates full of spaghetti and warm bread, I was exhausted just from watching Mom’s whirlwind of activity.

  “Well! What a day!” she said, smearing butter on her bread. “I feel like we got a lot done, don’t you?”

  “Um, sure.” I leaned over to cut Ford’s noodles into bite-sized pieces. “But about the paint—”

  She looked at me confused. “The paint? . . . Oh, yes, for the front room. What about it?”

  “Do you really think I need it? I kind of like the color I have in there.”

  “Oh, no! Gosh, no! It’s way too dark and it clashes with the oil painting Doris gave you.” She took a sip of iced tea, then smiled. “But, of course, if you like it that way, it’s fine with me.”

  Ford grabbed a stick of butter and squished it in his palm. Without hesitation, Mom started wiping his hands with a cloth. I thought how I might have left the grease there until he was definitely done.

  “So what did Dustin have to say in his e-mail?” Mom asked.

  “Not much, really. Same old stuff.”

  “Those things are always disappointing,” she said. “Same with phone calls and letters.”

  Here it comes, I thought, the speech about being grateful we even have e-mail!

  But Mom surprised me when instead she said, “When your dad would call from overseas, I always felt deflated for a few days. Funny how you look forward to hearing from them, but it never lives up to your expectations.”

  “Just like the prom,” I said, and Mom nodded her head in agreement.

  There was a brief silence and then Mom said, “Hey, did you ever check that phone message?”

  I looked across the kitchen to the blinking red light. “No, I forgot, actually. I’ll check it later. It wasn’t Dustin, was it?”

  “No, but it was a man,” she said.

  “Oh,” I said absently. I was cutting pieces of bread for Ford.

  Then, after hesitating a moment, Mom said, “I wasn’t listening closely, so I’m not sure, but I think it was your doctor.”

  I nearly dropped the knife. “My doctor?”

  “I think so. You’ll have to listen to the message. But I think that’s what he said.”

  I got up from my place at the table and walked toward the blinking light like someone being drawn to a UFO. What I wanted to do was listen to the message alone, but now Mom’s eyes were following me and it would be too obvious. She would never accept it if I said, “Well, I’ll just listen to it later.” And she would be curious if I took the machine into my room and closed the door.

  So I pressed the blinking button.

  “One new message,” the automated voice said. “Message number one.”

  There was a beep and a pause, and then Dr. Ashley’s smooth voice was filling up the kitchen and echoing off the walls.

  “Hey, Sarah, this is Dr. Ashley. Just want to see how you’re doing since your last visit. If you need anything at all, just give me a call. You have my number. Guess I’ll see you soon. Take care.”

  The machine beeped again and the light stopped blinking. I looked over my shoulder at Mom. She was watching me closely and I felt awkward, unsure what to do or say next.

  “Your doctor calls you by your first name?” she said.

  I turned to face her. “He’s not much older than me, so he probably feels weird calling me ‘Mrs.’ ”

  Mom knitted her brows. “But he calls you at home to check on you?”

  I tried to act casual but realized I was rubbing the sides of my head, where a migraine was beginning to form. “Oh, Mom! Why are you getting all weird about this?”

  “It just seems strange,” she said. “Don’t you think? I mean, is this a Navy doctor? Is he your doctor? The kids’ doctor?”

  I groaned. “Yes, he’s a Navy doctor. He’s the kids’ doctor and my doctor—a family doctor.”

  Mom turned to face Ford again. “I don’t want to pry, but it just seems strange.”

  “Well, it’s not, Mom, so drop it.”

  I went to my room and closed the door. Why did she always have to be so reasonable?

  Late that night, once I was sure Mom had gone to bed, I snuck back into the kitchen and replayed the message from Dr. Ashley. I had the volume turned down to its lowest setting, so I had to lean in close to hear. His voice was familiar and much more soothing when it wasn’t bouncing off the kitchen walls for everyone to hear.

  Was it strange that he called? I wondered. Should he call me Mrs. Smiley? Or was it OK to be just “Sarah”?

  I played the message three more times—I guess on the theory that maybe he might say something new on the second or third run-through—then I picked up the cordless phone and went straight to my closet.

  “You awake?” I asked when Courtney picked up.

  “Of course,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “I’m sitting in the closet.”

  “Oh, dear!” she sighed. “What now?”

  “Do you really think my friendship with the Cute Doctor is inappropriate?” I chewed on my thumb and waited while she chose her words.

  “Let’s just put it this way,” she said. “I couldn’t bare my chest to a doctor who seemed anything less than asexual to me. Doctors are supposed to be invisible. They aren’t supposed to be sexy or cute or involved. They’re supposed to be like parents—only not your parents. They’re supposed to be there for you, but without even the slightest hint of sexuality. It just isn’t right.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?” I said.

&nb
sp; “Um, hello!” she cried, her voice getting all uppity. “You could switch doctors! That’s what I’ve been telling you to do for months!”

  I started to say, “It’s not that easy—” but Courtney interrupted: “It’s not easy because you like him. Because you’re his grass-skirt girl or whatever. Because you, my dear, need a pedestal.”

  The next day, Mom and I loaded the boys in the car and went to the train station to get Doris. The terminal was in the middle of downtown and covered with the familiar smog and soot of most urban buildings. Inside it smelled like greasy metal and travelers who hadn’t bathed, and as always, I found myself wishing I had a personal gas mask for such environments.

  We took our seats on benches that were fitted with thick, oily plastic and I reminded Ford, “Don’t you touch a THING!” (I had my waterless soap just in case.) He was fidgeting and kicking his feet against the bottom of the bench, a blatant rebellion against me. Mom sat with her stiff leather purse held tightly in her lap and rocking Owen’s baby carrier on the floor with the toe of her shoe.

  Neither of us spoke as we stared out at the bustling station. The only noise between us was the thumping of Ford’s shoe against the seat.

  “Ford, stop kicking,” Mom said.

  And he did.

  When an announcement came over the loudspeaker that the “train from Birmingham” had arrived, we collected our belongings (there’s always so much baggage when you have kids) and headed toward the double doors leading to the tracks. Passengers wheeling suitcases whizzed past us without nodding or acknowledging us, much like they do in airports, with only one distinct difference: Train travelers are usually gritty from the long trip and they walk with a slant, as if their equilibrium is trying to adjust to a motion other than the clickety-clack of the tracks. They have no business being so hoity-toity, and I smiled and said hello to every one of them just to prove my point.

  In the distance, through all the hurried travelers in suits, I saw Doris stepping down from a passenger car with the help of a tall, skinny porter dressed in a gray uniform. I smiled when I saw her faded chambray skirt and white top with the sailor collar: She had been wearing the same outfit since I was six years old. She had on a pair of old Nike tennis shoes (hand-me-downs from me) and a purple wool sweater wrapped around her neck like a scarf and covering her brittle silvery hair. She refused to have her hair cut at a beauty parlor like most grandmas, and therefore it always looked a lot like a bird’s nest. Today was no different.