An hour ago, she’d put them to bed. God forgive him, but Michael had let her do it alone.
Now he was in the family room, standing in front of the fireplace. Bright orange and blue flames danced across a tepee of logs, sending off waves of heat, and yet still he was cold. Frozen, really.
He glanced through the kitchen. In the window above the sink, he could see moonlight skating across the bay.
“They’re asleep,” Jolene said, coming into the room. “We can talk now. ”
Michael wanted to say no, I don’t want to talk, not about this, not yet, not anymore. He knew it was selfish of him, and small, but it pissed him off to be left here as Mr. Mom. Not that he could tell anyone this. He’d look like an asshole if he admitted that he didn’t want this job that had fallen in his lap, didn’t know if he could even do it. How was he supposed to manage a sixteen-person legal firm, defend his clients, and handle the day-to-day minutiae that came with raising two kids? Carpool. Field trips. Meals. Laundry. Homework.
Just the thought of it overwhelmed him.
“How the hell am I supposed to do it?” he said, turning to her. “I’ve got a job to do. ”
“Your mom will be a huge help. She said she’ll hire someone for the store, and that’s perfect. I don’t want a nanny taking care of the girls—they’ll be so scared and confused,” Jolene said. “Especially Betsy, she’s fragile these days, and kids can be cruel. She’ll need you, Michael. They both will. You’ll have to be really present. I want—”
“You want. ” Already he was losing patience with that sentence. “Classic, Jo. You’re the one leaving—but not before you tell me how you want me to handle things while you’re gone. ”
“Not things, Michael. My children. ”
He heard the way her voice broke on that and knew how deeply his words had cut her. Not that long ago, he would have turned to her and taken her in his arms and apologized. Now, he just stood there, dropping his chin forward, staring dully at the scuffed hardwood floor beneath his stockinged feet. The echo of that word—divorce—hung like smoke in the air between them.
She waited a long time. Her breath sounded like waves breaking along a shore, ragged and uneven. He could feel her judging him. Then, quietly, she left the room.
* * *
On Monday morning, Tami showed up after carpool, and honked her horn.
Jolene walked down the driveway and climbed into her friend’s big white truck.
They looked at each other, and in that look—unaccompanied by words—they revealed their fears, their hopes, their worries.
Tami sighed. “How was it?”
“Brutal,” Jolene said. “For you?”
“I barely survived. ” She put the truck in reverse and backed down the driveway. In no time, they were speeding down the interstate toward Tacoma.
“Seth tried to act cool when I told him,” Tami said after an unfamiliar silence that had gone on for miles. “He asked what would happen if I didn’t come back. He’s not even thirteen. He’s not supposed to have to ask his mom a question like that. ”
“Betsy was pissed off. She said she wouldn’t forgive me if I left her. That I love the army more than I love her. ”
“Carl cried,” Tami said softly after another long silence. “I’ve never seen him cry before. It was like…” Her voice broke. “Man, this is hard. ”
Jolene swallowed the lump in her throat. “What’s worse,” she said quietly, “a man who cries when you go to war or one who doesn’t?”
At that, they both fell silent. The miles passed quickly, and in no time, they were at the post, driving up to the checkpoint.
They handed over their IDs, nodded to the soldier, and drove onto the post.
In the hallway outside the Black Hawk classroom, they found several members of the unit seated in chairs along the wall. No one was saying much of anything, except for the younger men, who seemed amped up and eager. Smitty—young, young Smitty, with his braces and pimples and puppy-dog buoyancy—was grinning, going from man to man, asking what combat was like, saying they were going to kick some ass over there. Jolene wondered how his mother felt right now …
Jolene and Tami leaned back against the concrete-block wall, waiting their turns.
The classroom door opened. Jamie Hix strode out. His army-issue hair—short and dirty blond—stood up from his tanned, broad forehead. Lines fanned out from the corners of his gray eyes—they were new, those lines, etched in the days since their deployment had been announced. No doubt he was thinking about his young son. Would his ex-wife use this deployment to take his son away from him? “Your turn, Jo,” he said.
With a nod, Jolene walked into the classroom, where she found a man in dress uniform seated at a long desk with papers spread out in front of him.
“Chief Zarkades?” he said, looking up at her. “At ease. Have a seat. I’m Captain Reynolds. Jeff. ”