Pieces of Me Page 20

  “Hey. Happy Thanksgiving!” I say.

  There is a strange white noise on the line and then I hear him.

  “Emma, it’s Adam.”

  “Oh, hey you! I thought it was Kate, but Happy Thanksgiving to you too! How are you?”

  Adam speaks again. The line is bad and he sounds very far away. Muffled. As if he or the phone is underwater.

  “Emma. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, I can hear you. Adam?”

  “Em, listen. I haven’t got long. Where are you? Has she called you?”

  “I’m at home. Has who called? What’s going on?”

  “Shit.”

  “Adam?”

  “You need to go to Kate, Emma. Go to Kate.”

  “Why? What’s—”

  “They just lifted the comms blackout. I couldn’t call you earlier.”

  “Adam, what’s happened?”

  “Can you hear me, Emma? You need to go to Kate. It’s Dave.”

  “No…”

  “It’s Dave, Emma. Dave is dead.”

  PART THREE

  POST-DEPLOYMENT

  40

  Kate is leaving.

  No one stays forever, I am learning that now. Some leave in ways that are more unexpected than others. But everyone leaves, eventually.

  I sit in my car, around the corner from Kate’s house. I can see the removal van parked out on the street, which must have been there since early morning. One of the removal men is leant against it, a phone raised to his ear. In his other hand is a cigarette. He flicks ash onto the road. I am envious of his cigarette. I have not smoked since Baghdad, but recently I have been thinking about it more.

  I pull down the sun visor and examine my face in the mirror. It is blotchy and pale. I draw my fingers across the puffed-up flesh under my eyes.

  Kate is out by the truck now too, talking to the removal man. Charlotte is balanced on her hip. I open the car door quickly, not wanting her to see that I have been sat here, gathering the courage to say goodbye. I pick up the bag of doughnuts that I bought on the way over, the way I used to when the men were gone. Or not gone, but away. Now gone means something different. I take a breath and leave the car, stepping out into the bracing air and the day of Kate’s departure.

  Kate walks across the lawn when she sees me. The grass is wet from the melting frost and I wonder if the damp will seep through her trousers, but she doesn’t seem to notice. We meet in the centre of the lawn and I embrace her, feeling the cold of her cheek against mine. Charlotte gurgles between us, her woollen hat slipping to cover her eyes.

  “You okay?” is all I manage to get out. She nods, lips pressed tightly together.

  A figure appears in the doorway of the house. It is Kate’s mother, June. She came down from Oregon the day we found out and has stayed here since. Her presence is reassuring. Strong. I can see where Kate gets it.

  I wave to June. She calls for us to come indoors, saying she’s just made a fresh pot of coffee. Kate draws away from our embrace.

  “I definitely need more caffeine,” she says. She looks tired, but who wouldn’t, with a dead husband and newborn baby and house to pack up.

  “Early start?” I ask.

  “Early start and long night. Charlotte was up with colic, then when I came down to the kitchen this morning, Harvey had been sick and Noah had his hands in it.”

  She gives a tired laugh and I can’t help but laugh too, even though it still feels strange to laugh when Dave is dead. For a brief moment our bodies remember happiness, but then the muscles of our faces relax out of their smile and Dave is still gone.

  “That’s a lot for first thing in the morning,” I say to Kate. She nods.

  We go inside the house. A couple of pieces of furniture are still there, but the photos, the toys, the piles of laundry, all the things that make it Kate’s home have gone. Kate sees me looking around the house.

  “Strange, isn’t it?”

  I nod. This place was a comfort to me while Adam was away, and again when he got back. There is something reassuring about the deep sadness of her house. There is no need to tiptoe around, as I do with Adam, navigating unspoken ghosts and feigning normality. In Kate’s house we sit on the sofa, cuddled up with Charlotte and Noah and Harvey, eating food that June has prepared, trying to heal our wounds with love. I think it is better that way.

  But now Kate is going back to Oregon. It’s where her family and Dave’s family all are. It is where the children will have grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. Somewhere Kate will have support. I told her I thought she was doing the right thing. Her mother couldn’t be expected to stay in Colorado forever and Kate needed family around. I silenced the voice inside me that said, no, don’t go, not you too. I have no claim to grief. My husband, a version of him, is still here.

  I knew when Kate’s family became my own that it wouldn’t last forever.

  June pours us each a large mug of coffee while I place the doughnuts on top of the paper bag. We sit at the kitchen table where I have sat with Kate a hundred times before, talking about our husbands’ deployment or trying to talk about anything else.

  “How are you, sweetie?” asks June.

  “I’m okay thanks, Mrs Collier.”

  “And Adam?”

  I take a sip of coffee, taking my time to answer.

  “Quiet,” I say. “Very quiet.”

  What I mean is he is silent. Some days the only sounds I hear from his mouth are those that escape his lips amid uneasy dreams. He is withdrawn. Sad. Angry. But all he says is he is fine.

  “Don’t worry, dear, that’s normal. You know, my Bob barely said a word for years after he got back from Vietnam. He came back to himself eventually of course, but it wasn’t fast. That’s just the way it is with these army men.”

  Everyone keeps on telling me that this is “normal”, but nothing about it feels normal to me. They say it is “understandable”, given “what has happened”. That is how people refer to Dave’s death now.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I say. Kate is leaving and now is not the time to have this conversation.

  June gives my shoulder a squeeze and says she is going to do some more packing in the living room. After she leaves the kitchen, Kate puts her mug down on the counter. She’s doing that thing where she stares at me, evaluating. I know she is unconvinced by my response. After all the time we have spent together, Kate knows when I’m not telling her everything.

  “How bad is it?” she asks.

  “It’s not good,” I say.

  “Has he spoken to anyone at work about it?”

  “He says he doesn’t need to.”

  I remember it being the same in Iraq. None of the men talked about things, not properly. No one wanted to be the weak link, the one to let the team down. Everyone just sucked things up and got on with it, at least until Dave and his Skittles came along.

  “God,” she says, shaking her head. “Dave would never have let him get away with that.”

  She’s right. Dave forced the guys to talk, and there weren’t many people like that. I had no idea how, or if, the other guys on the team were coping and I wasn’t close enough to any of the other wives to ask. Kate had already warned me that the wives could be just as good at putting on a front as the men. They had learned from the pros that showing weakness was bad. They had their husbands to protect.

  “I know,” I say. “I’ve been trying to get him to talk to someone, but he won’t.”

  “Until he asks for help himself, there’s not much you can do,” she says. “The support system is a nightmare to navigate. I hate to say this, Em, but there are so many messed-up guys that Adam won’t be a priority.”

  I nod. I know. I’ve been on the websites, the message boards and forums. All full of the horror stories of the spouses of service members trying to get help. The help never seemed to come until it was too late. There was always something – a DUI, a battered wife, a scribbled note.

  “How about you? Ho
w’re you holding up?” she asks.

  “I’m okay. Trying to keep up with the art shop, the mentoring, that kind of thing.”

  “You’re still spending time with the Iraqis?” She puts her mug down.

  “Yeah.”

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Because they killed my husband? Your husband’s best friend?”

  “Kate. These people I’m helping aren’t the people that killed Dave. They’re people that fled. Normal people like you and me that ended up in a shitty situation. I’m sure Adam gets that. I thought you would too.”

  “Look, Emma, you know I’ve always been supportive of your slightly weird liberal ways. You’re European, you’re different. I get it. But now? Think about who they are, who you’re spending time with…”

  “Kate, I’m sorry, but no. This family have lost people too. They aren’t to blame for what happened.”

  What happened. There. Now I am saying it too. I don’t want to have this conversation with Kate today. Not with everything else going on. She should be my priority.

  “Let’s not talk about this now, Kate. Are you all set? Is there anything I can do?” I ask her.

  “I think we’re sorted,” she replies. She looks relieved too. We only have capacity for so much pain today and the threshold has almost been reached. “The new family moves in next week. I gave them your number, like you said. Hopefully they won’t need anything, but it will be good for them to know someone in the area.”

  Kate’s house is going to be rented by a military family transferring from North Carolina. I can’t imagine different children playing in her garden or another military wife sat on the back porch where we had spent our mornings.

  “You know I’m still here for you too, if you need anything,” I say. She gives my arm a squeeze.

  “Thanks, Em, I appreciate it. But just you worry about that husband of yours. I’m sure I’ll be back,” she says. I nod in agreement, even though neither of us knows whether she will come back or whether Adam and I will be here when or if she does.

  We rinse our mugs and wrap them in bubble wrap, then spend the rest of the morning packing a few final things. Olivia stops by at lunchtime with a tray of sandwiches that we share with the removal men.

  Things have been different with Olivia since she came to the hospital the day we got the news. Neither Kate or I had known that this was Olivia’s second marriage. She lost her first husband – her high-school sweetheart and a nineteen-year-old marine – in the early days of the invasion. She said that it was something that she didn’t tend to share, but it created a bond between her and Kate. It also made her previous insistence on the Family Readiness Group more understandable.

  Olivia looks upset to see Kate leave and, from the absence of her usual make-up, I think she may have been crying. She didn’t even get annoyed when Harvey jumped up at her and left a muddy paw print on her pastel blue skirt, she just ruffled his head and said he reminded her of a dog she had when she was growing up. I wonder what other memories the day is bringing for her.

  “How’s Mike doing?” I ask her.

  She pauses momentarily.

  “Oh, he’s fine. It’s great to have him back.”

  I wonder how he really is.

  “And Adam?” she asks.

  “Yes. Fine. Same.”

  Her new intimacy with Kate does not extend to me.

  Before Olivia leaves she gives Kate a long hug and mumbles something about being “army strong” and staying in touch.

  Eventually, it is time for Kate to leave too. The removal van drives off first, then Kate and her family fill up the car. She and her mother are going to drive the long journey in shifts. The sky is heavy with clouds. The weather forecast says that more snow is coming.

  “You should get going,” I say. “How far are you driving today?”

  “We’re aiming for Salt Lake City, but I doubt if we’ll get that far,” she says. “My mum doesn’t like being on the road in the dark. We can just find a motel along the way.”

  Five minutes later, Charlotte is asleep in her car seat. Noah is running a toy truck up and down the back of his grandmother’s headrest. June is on the phone to her husband, letting him know they are about to set off. Kate stands by the open car door, ready to get in.

  “Drive safely,” I say and pull her into a tight embrace.

  “I’m going to miss you, friend,” she says into my ear.

  “I’m going to miss you too,” I say. “Let me know you get there okay. And… I’m sorry about everything, Kate.”

  She pulls back, wiping tears from her eyes, and I do the same.

  “I will. And, Em, you’ve been great. You really have. Thank you. Say bye to Adam from me.”

  “I will. I’m sorry he wasn’t here.”

  She gives me a final squeeze and then climbs in the driver’s seat. In the boot, Harvey moves excitedly from side to side. His tail spills over onto the back seat and tickles Charlotte’s sleeping face, causing her to stir. Noah presses his mouth up against the window and blows out his cheeks at me. Kate fastens her seatbelt and turns the ignition key. She takes one last long look at the house and then exhales slowly, her ribcage collapsing downwards. She holds onto the steering wheel, motionless, and for a second I wonder if she is going to change her mind or say something else, but then she pulls away. I am left standing on the pavement in front of her house, watching the red of her brake lights as she reaches the end of her road, takes a right turn and disappears out of sight.

  I stand there a while longer, not wanting to go home. Eventually I turn and walk towards my car. Adam is back and I have never felt more alone.

  41

  At home, I sit on the sofa. Numb. I am still there when Adam gets back from work.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  He goes to the kitchen. Opens the fridge and closes it again. He pulls a plate out of the cupboard and a knife from the drawer. Still I sit. The bag of bread rustles. The knife is dropped into the sink. I do not need to turn my head to know what he is doing. The routine is familiar through its sounds. They fill the silence. He stands at the counter in the kitchen eating. And I sit.

  When Adam got back from deployment, there was no great romantic reunion. He did not want me to meet him at the airport when he arrived or to pick him up from Fort Carson. He said that he was fine and there was no need to do the “homecoming thing”. What he meant was that there was nothing to celebrate for a team coming home a man down.

  After hours of waiting, tidying and re-tidying the house, changing out of my new dress and into jeans and a sweater, I heard the sound of a vehicle stopping in the street outside. I opened the door just as he was reaching it. There he was. Adam. Home.

  I found my way into his arms without even saying hello. I buried my face into his chest and inhaled deeply. The smell of foreign laundry detergent mixed with aeroplane seats and a body stale from travel. But underneath it was the familiar scent of him.

  “Hey,” he said in my ear and I drew my head back. He smiled a sad, exhausted smile.

  “Welcome home,” I said and released the breath I had been holding for eight months.

  “Thanks.” He lowered his lips to mine and we kissed. Our mouths searched each other for familiarity. Then he lowered his face into the crease where my neck met my shoulder. I put my hand on the back of his head, holding him against me. I do not know how long we stood like that. When he eventually lifted his face, my shoulder felt damp, but he turned away quickly, saying he needed to get his bags from outside. I didn’t see his eyes.

  He came back carrying two large rucksacks and I shut the door behind him, against the cold and against Iraq. He was thinner than when he left and the skin of his face looked stretched over the new angles of his cheekbones. I reached up to touch his jawline, freshly shaven and pale where thick facial hair had previously protected his chin from the glare of the sun.

  We
stood for moment, just looking at each other.

  “Do you want to sit down?” I asked, as if he were a guest. I sat next to him on the sofa, my leg against his, my hand on his knee. My fingers kept on contracting, squeezing, checking he was really there. He put his arm around me and held my body tightly against his. We kissed.

  “How was the journey?” I asked.

  “Fine. The first flight was late, but we made the connection.”

  “Did you manage to sleep?”

  “A little.”

  “Was the flight full?”

  “No. There was a spare seat next to me. It was fine.”

  We kissed again, searching, and maybe there was going to be more, but then we stopped. Amid the intense familiarity was something different. We needed to rediscover each other. To remember.

  “Do you want something to eat?” I asked. “Drink?”

  “Is there beer?”

  “Of course.”

  I was pleased to have something to do. I went to the kitchen and he shifted around on the sofa, then got up to join me. I was stood in front of the fridge when he wrapped his arms around my waist. I leant back into his chest and pulled his arms more tightly around me and closed my eyes. The fridge beeped its disturbance, telling us the door had been open for too long.

  I took a bottle of beer from the collection I’d been building up for weeks. Before he came home, I asked him what type of beer he wanted and he said he didn’t care, so I’d bought one of everything I’d ever seen him drink.

  He opened the drawer where the bottle opener used to be, but it wasn’t there. He tried the drawer above and it was not there either. I opened the drawer at the side of the fridge and handed it to him.

  “So you’ve been doing some rearranging, huh?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I said.

  He shrugged, momentarily a stranger in his own home. I ran through other things that might have changed location and made a mental note to move them back.