Rising tiredly, she went to the camera and changed the tape again. This time, it was for Michael, but as she sat at the end of the bed, looking up into that small black lens, she felt a rush of loss. After all their years together, she had no idea what to say to him now and no idea if he would even listen or care. She got up and turned off the camera. She placed the two tapes on her dresser, writing LULU on one and BETSY on the other.
And now.
She went to the desk in the corner of the room, remembering the day she’d found it, how Michael had laughed and said, It’s the ugliest thing ever, how many times has it been painted? And she’d taken his hand and pulled him toward it and said, Look deeper, baby.
She sat down at the desk and opened the bottom drawer. In it was the green metal lockbox that she’d bought specifically for her deployment. She lifted it out, set it on the burnished mahogany desktop. Then she took out the stationery she’d bought this week and set about the task of writing her last letters. Hopefully, they would never be read.
To my beloved Elizabeth Andrea, writing this letter is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Not because I don’t know what to say （although I don’t, not really）， but because I cannot stand the idea that you will read it, that I will be gone, that you will know how it feels to be a motherless girl …
She wrote and wrote and wrote, through her tears, until she couldn’t find a single additional word to say. And still it wasn’t enough. When she finished, her hands were trembling. Lulu’s letter was no easier; with every word written, Jolene thought about a child who would forget her mother almost completely …
Michael, she wrote at last in this third letter, pausing, her pen held above the paper, her tears dripping now, hitting the paper in small gray bursts. I loved you, beginning to end. Take care of our babies … teach them to remember me.
She folded the letters, slipped each one into its own envelope, and put them in the metal box along with her wallet and her driver’s license.
After she put the lockbox away and closed the drawer, she sat there, staring out at the night, feeling empty. She got to her feet—she was unsteady now, weak in the knees—and went to her closet, where she found her big green army-issued duffle bag. Throwing it onto the bed, she began to pack.
She was so intent on finding the things she had put on her list and folding her uniforms in precise thirds that she didn’t hear a knock at the door, but suddenly Betsy was beside her, staring down at the gaping duffle bag, unzipped and full of desert camo ACUs and sand-colored boots and army-green tee shirts.
“Hey, Bets,” Jolene said.
Betsy walked woodenly toward the bed, her gaze fastened on the small silver tangle of dog tags that lay beside the duffle bag. She picked them up, looked down at the rectangular bit of steel that recorded the facts of Jolene’s service.
“Sierra said you were going to kill people,” she said softly, her voice catching. “And then Todd laughed and said, ‘No she won’t, women can’t shoot—everyone knows that.’”
“Betsy—”
“I saw a movie once, where a soldier was identified by dog tags. Is that what they’re for? To identify you?” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Betsy.”
“You shouldn’t be going.”
Jolene swallowed hard. She wanted to pull Betsy into her arms and hold her tightly and vow to stay home. “I wish I weren’t.”
“Swear you’ll come home okay.”
“Oh, Betsy…” Jolene tried to find the right words, the way to make an unkeepable promise to a girl who would never forget what was said right now. “I love you so much…”
Betsy looked stricken. She made a strangled sound and burst into tears and said, “That’s not a promise!” Then she threw the dog tags to the floor and ran out of the room and slammed the door shut behind her.
Jolene bent slowly to retrieve her dog tags. Putting them around her neck, she sighed tiredly. She would finish packing and then go to Betsy, and try—again—to make her daughter understand.
*
Tonight was their last night together. Jolene had spent the day with her daughters. She’d let Betsy skip school. The three of them had seen a movie, gone ice-skating, and had lunch at Red Robin.
Now the sun was beginning to set.
Jolene had a plan for this last evening together. She wanted to go to the Crab Pot for dinner. They needed—she needed—one last perfect memory to carry forward like an amulet into the separation that was coming.