But she had no choice to make. At that, she felt a kind of peace move through her, an acceptance of the situation and a realization of who she was. She had given her word that if called to serve, she would go.
She hated leaving her children—hated it with a passion that could have crippled her if she gave in to it, but she had no choice. She would go to Iraq for a year, do her job, and come home to her family.
That was what she would tell them … what she would believe.
She was prepared, had always been prepared, for this moment. For more than twenty years, she’d trained for it. A small part of her even wanted to go, to test herself. She wanted to go … she just didn’t want to leave.
She pulled her hand slowly away from her chest, let it fall in her lap. At her feet, a small collection of dried white sand dollars lay in a cloverleaf pattern, a reminder of last summer. She bent down, plucked one up, rubbing the pad of her thumb over the porous surface. Then she stood up.
She was going to war.
*
At one o’clock Jolene called the preschool and arranged for Lulu to stay later, and then she called Michael at work. He kept her waiting long enough that she began to think he wasn’t going to answer, and when he did finally take the call, he sounded preoccupied.
“Hi, Jo. What is it?”
“I need you to come home tonight,” she said.
He paused; she heard him breathing. “I have a lot of work to do. I think I’ll sleep at the office tonight.”
“Don’t, please,” she said, hating how it sounded as if she were begging. “Something has come up. I need to talk to you.”
“I think we need some time apart.”
“Please, Michael. I need to talk to you tonight.”
“Fine. I’ll be on the six o’clock boat.”
For the next few hours, she tried not to think about the future, but it was impossible. As the time for carpool approached, she found her spirits lagging. The thought of seeing her children—looking at them, seeing their bright smiles, and knowing the pain that was coming their way—was terrible. She kept losing her balance, stumbling. Once, in the kitchen, she’d looked at the yellow-school-bus framed photo of Betsy’s school years, and she actually had to sit down.
Help me through this, she prayed more than once.
At the preschool, she parked out front and went inside slowly, hearing the high-pitched buzz of children’s laughter before she even reached the gate that led to the backyard.
“Mommy!” Lulu said, shrieked really, throwing her hands in the air and scrambling to her feet. She ran at Jolene, threw herself into Jolene’s arms.
“Do you have something in your eye, Mommy?” Lulu asked. “Cuz I gotted sand in my face at lunch and it made me cry.”
“I’m fine, Lucy Louida,” Jolene said, grateful that Lulu didn’t hear the thickening of her voice. She carried Lulu out to the car, strapped her into the seat in the back, and drove across town to the middle school. As usual, Betsy was one of the last ones out of the school. She hung back from the other kids, as if she didn’t want to be seen. Then she ran to the SUV and climbed into the backseat, slamming the door shut.
Jolene stared at her daughter in the rearview mirror and felt a flutter of panic. She’s so fragile now …
“Are you going to just sit here all day?” Betsy said, crossing her arms.
How would Betsy get through seventh grade without her mom? What would happen when she started her period? Who would help her?
“Mom,” Betsy said sharply. “Are you brain-dead?”
Jolene drove into the stream of carpool traffic. She meant to start a conversation, say something, but her throat felt tight. When she pulled up to Mila’s house, her eyes stung with tears that didn’t fall.
Her in-laws’ house was a small L-shaped rambler built in the late seventies. It was small in comparison with the newer houses on either side of it, but the land was stunningly beautiful. Set on a deep, treed waterfront lot, it overlooked the placid waters of Lemolo Bay. Giant evergreens studded the landscaping; here and there, mounds of multicolored flowers grew around their rough brown trunks. Mila had turned this yard into a showpiece; every year it was on the local home and garden tour as a magnificent example of Northwest landscaping. The water out front was shallow and clear; in the summer, it warmed enough for swimming.
“Why are we here?” Betsy asked.
Jolene didn’t answer. Instead, she parked in front of the garage and let the girls out of the car. Before they even reached the front door, Mila came around the side of the house. She waved, smiling brightly, wearing a big flannel shirt over jeans tucked into bright orange rubber boots. A multicolored scarf covered her poofy black hair, à la Liz Taylor, and fist-sized silver hoops dangled from her ears. In her left hand was an enameled watering can. “Hey, girls,” she said.