On my way home joy and disbelief crowded my thoughts. The crate sat next to me, on the passenger seat. I almost locked it in place with the seatbelt, but decided that was going too far. Still, I touched it now and then as I drove and let my hand rest on the lid for the full length of a stoplight.
Before I’d left, I promised Grandma Adele that I’d return the crate soon—well, someday.
“It’s okay, honey,” she’d said. “It’s yours now.”
“Are you sure?”
She patted my cheek, then tweaked my nose, like she used to do when I was little. “Yes. Just know that it wasn’t the easiest decision I’ve ever made.”
A spate of tears filled my eyes and she brushed them away. “Shh. There comes a time when every mother needs to let go of her daughter, and a time when every seventeen-year-old daughter needs her mother.”
So I’d left Grandma Adele’s knowing that I carried my mother—or a piece of her—in the form of an Iraqi ammo crate with rough rope handles.
Only when I reached the driveway did I realize I didn’t have a plan for getting the crate inside. If Dad had heard me leave, I was toast, especially since I didn’t bother to call from Grandma Adele’s. I killed the engine and lights quickly, then sat while the Jeep grew cold. I felt the March air in my fingertips that rested against the crate’s lid and on my cheeks, where my skin was still tender from tears.
It was stupid to sit in the cold and risk getting sick in the middle of swim season. I eased from the Jeep, then took silent steps to the passenger side, unwilling to leave the crate by itself. As an afterthought, I grabbed the CD with Kylie’s artwork, along with the abandoned bread and cheese from earlier.
I left the crate on the front porch and cracked the front door for a quick reconnaissance. If Dad was awake, I’d wait until he went back to bed. If he was asleep, I’d return for the crate.
Inside, the house felt quiet, a hint of smoke still lingering in the air. No TV from the den and Dad’s bedroom door was closed. I doubled back for the crate.
I was halfway up the stairs when a floorboard creaked in the hallway below. My heart rate doubled in a flash, my palms wet against the crate’s rope handles. I teetered on the step and held my breath.
“Princess?”
I cringed. At least Dad wasn’t so mad he wouldn’t call me princess. Of course it wasn’t me who almost burned down the kitchen tonight, but my pulse pounded so hard in my ears I couldn’t think.
“You went somewhere?” he asked.
“Just to Grandma Adele’s.” My voice squeaked and I swallowed, trying to sooth it. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Uh, sure,” he said, his tone contrite.
Ha, I thought. There were lots of things I never told Grandma Adele, and he should know I wasn’t a tattletale. I gripped the rope handles tighter and the crate bounced against my thighs. Clearly, there were things I never told Dad.
We stood like that, not talking, but not not talking either. After the night we’d had, that was something. “I’m kind of tired, Dad,” I said, “from swimming.”
“Oh, of course, princess. Go to bed. Good night.”
“Good night,” I said.
Maybe it was silly to take the steps by two at that point. Maybe I should’ve thought about traces of ice and mud clinging to my Chuck Taylors. All I know is one giant step later, I went soaring forward, the crate coming with me. Its lid flew open, smacking me in the forehead. The teapot spilled out and landed on a step with a clatter. I dropped the crate to stop the teapot from rolling down the stairs. The wood hit the landing with a solid thud.
No way Dad didn’t hear that.
He pounded down the hall. I peered over my shoulder and saw his barefoot on the second step from the bottom.
“Princess? You okay?” Another step. “What the hell was that?”
I couldn’t let Dad upstairs. He’d recognize Iraqi anything. And that conversation would go from bad, to worse, to terminal. I groped for something else, another explanation, an excuse. Then my gaze fell on Kylie’s CD, the case open on the step above me.
“Sorry, sorry,” I said. “It’s just props.”
“Props?” He sounded perplexed.
“For the swim show. I had them in the Jeep. I meant to bring them in earlier.”
If he didn’t laugh, then at least his tone was lighter. “Go to bed, princess. And maybe think about sleeping in tomorrow.”
My legs wobbled. I sank to the stairs and sat there long after he left. I hated lying to Dad, and during March, I did a lot of lying. But that was about survival, not important things. I looked at the crate. Was this survival? Or was it important? Neither, I decided. This was a secret, like the tuna and pea hot dish, only this one I shared with Grandma Adele and my mom.
The aluminum teapot glinted dully in the light from my room. I realized, belatedly, that Dad must have headed upstairs earlier and turned on the light so I wouldn’t have to grope in the dark.
I shut my eyes, feeling like the worst daughter ever.
Then I contemplated the things—my mom’s things—on the steps. I carried the teapot to my room, then came back for the rest. I placed the letters and empty photo album back into the crate, scooped up the spilled photos and postcards, trying not to peek at any before I had the chance to really look at them.
One by one, I removed the items and placed them on my comforter, all lined up—dress right dress, as Dad would say. There wasn’t much here. Some photos of people I didn’t know, most of them looking as sandy as the background. Lots of “any service member” mail—paper snowflakes from elementary schools, all sorts of cards—but none of it personal. What, I wondered, did Grandma Adele expect me to find? My mom wasn’t here in this crate. I didn’t know why I expected her to be.
I plopped onto the bed and something shifted inside the crate, a dry scraping like wood against wood. I jostled the bed again, and again, that light scraping sound came from the crate.
I sat up and peered inside. Only then did I notice the bottom of the crate looked odd. Without thinking, I curled my fingers around the center panel and tugged. A splinter shoved its way into my thumb, grit coated my hands. Under the false bottom, I discovered a spiral-bound notebook with lined pages filled with uneven rows of neat handwriting.
A journal. My mom had kept a journal.
And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.
I flipped the pages gingerly. The paper crinkled under my touch. It was dry and yellowed and even smelled old. Inside the front cover, I found a calendar for 1991, with a black X through each day, abruptly cutting off at March 25th.
Instead of speeding up, my heart seemed to slow, each beat carving a new ache in my chest. My fingers trembled against the cover. A wave of dizziness swept over me and I felt pinpricks against my cheeks.
Then, I pulled myself together. I had a journal, my mom’s journal, and I was ninety-nine percent certain that not even Grandma Adele had read it. So at last I had a secret—a secret with my mom—and I didn’t have to share it with anyone.
Pre-Deployment:
December 1990
The New Girl
I stand in the German rain,
staring up at the building where I’d work
if we were staying here.
Where I’d have time to learn my job
if we were staying here.
Where I’d get to know the soldiers—their strengths
and weaknesses. I’d earn their trust.
If we were staying here.
I leave the keys for Paul
and take the trolley home.
He’ll only read the truth on my face.
He always can.
He’ll only worry for me.
He always does.
The only thing worse than being the new lieutenant
is being the new lieutenant in a unit going to war.
I stand in my government-issued quarters,
staring at the walls I planned to paint green
if I were staying here.
Where I’d watch my baby girl take her first steps
if I were staying here.
Where I’d cuddle her each night, learn her secrets and dreams
if I were staying here.
I clutch MacKenna close and wonder
what it will feel like
when she’s no longer there to hold.
The only thing harder than being a new mother
is being a new mother about to deploy to war.
Puppy Chow
Here’s how I meet Master Sergeant Collier:
He has his jump boots propped on a desk
so I can see how worn his soles are.
And that desk is a demarcation line.
Me on one side, a green lieutenant.
Him on the other, a Vietnam vet, a man
with more years in the Army than I have
on the planet.
He pops Puppy Chow into his mouth—
not the snack with powdered sugar, but
bits of kibble you feed dogs, the sort that’s
dryer than the desert.
His crunching grates against my ears.
I feel it in my jaw, and the meaty smell
makes my stomach roll.
One question forms on his lips, which are dusted
with all things a puppy needs.
Hungry, LT?
But it’s not really a question. It’s more like:
A dare.
A test.
My fate.
I eat the Puppy Chow. I really do.
A handful that’s not too big
and not too small, the size that says:
I take your dare, but don’t push it—Sergeant.
Sometimes it’s better to be hardcore
and stupid,
than prissy
and smart.
But it’s never clear which one is which
until much too late.
Mission Always
The Army has a motto:
Mission First. Soldiers Always.
When MacKenna was born, Paul changed it to:
Mission First. MacKenna Always.
This is how we both ended up
Thousands of miles away from her.
After reading those first three poems, thousands of thoughts to match those thousands of miles tumbled in my head. Because that was what they were—free verse poetry. At least, I was pretty sure of that. We did a section in Honors English on the war poets of World War I, and I wondered if those same poets had inspired my mom to write this journal.
I worked to make sense of the few things I knew with what she’d written. I remembered Grandma Adele telling me how my parents had been stationed in Germany, and how she’d come over to take care of me so my mom could go back to work, go back on active duty.
I’d always imagined my mom as beautiful—all gauzy and perfect. Not real. Not someone like me, someone who kept secrets from Dad. Not someone I longed to help, no matter how many years stood between us. I wanted that, more than anything. I ran my fingertips along the journal’s cover. Okay, so maybe I couldn’t help my mom, but maybe she could help me—and Dad.
Maybe, with her help, I’d finally understand everything I needed to about my life.
It was Friday, an early release day, the kind where they scrunched each class into half hours and let everyone go early for spring break. That afternoon, in my spot at the kitchen table, I found a new pair of Pumas and a gift card to Jerome’s Java, the local coffee place. And yeah, I knew it was a peace offering. The charred remains of the curtains still hung in the kitchen window. We’d both been too stubborn to take them down, never mind put up new ones.
Maybe I’d swing by Target, pick out something not on clearance, something very Martha Stewart, something with a puffy valance to hide the shadow of smoke behind the curtain rod.
Something flame retardant.
But it was one of those rare Minnesota March days where the sky looked like spring and the air was doing its best to catch up. It was warm enough—and dry enough—to run. And if my run took me by the strip mall with the Army Career Center? Well, I could stop and look at the posters, couldn’t I? I pulled on my new shoes and was out the door before I could talk myself out of it.
Once there, I realized that talking myself inside the Army Career Center was a whole different issue. If by crossing the threshold, would I also cross from secrecy to betrayal? Staring at the cardboard cutouts of soldiers seemed to be the better option, or at least the most neutral one.
I stood there, oddly immobile, while the whoosh of bicycle wheels sounded behind me. I stepped closer to the window to let the cyclist pass, but the whooshing halted right behind me. In the window’s reflection, I caught a hint of a black and red biking outfit. A black helmet. Serious black sunglasses. This guy thought he was too cool for words.
Then he unsnapped his helmet and palmed it. When the glasses came off, I realized this guy was also Landon. He inched forward with barely a muscle twitch showing beneath those second-skin cycling tights. So few people could get away with that look. But on Landon?
Well, I wasn’t going to think about that.
“You serious?” he asked.
I spared him a glance. “About what?”
He rolled his eyes and gestured at the cardboard cutouts with his sunglasses. “This. This is … big.”
Like it was any of his business. “I’m just window shopping.”
Landon snorted. “They probably see a lot of that.”
This time, I turned away from the window to stare full on at him. That biking outfit was something else. I couldn’t decide if he biked because it suited his lanky frame, or if he’d developed all those lean muscles from biking.
Either way, I wasn’t going to think about that.
“Once you cross over.” He shrugged. “That’s it, you know?”
That very thought had stilled my hand from opening the door and walking in. I turned back to the window.
“O-kay.” Landon slipped the sunglasses back on, “Why don’t we talk posters for the show instead?” He peered over the top of them at me—or at least my reflection in the window. “I’ll throw in matching programs, for free.”
I spun, abandoning my possible future for the here and now. “You’re kidding,” I said. Generally, we ran programs off on the school’s copier and they always looked faded and old, like we left them out in the sun.
“I never joke about printing. It’s far, far too serious a subject.”
“What do I have to do?” I asked, because something this good had to have strings.
“Give me the CD.”
“And …?”
“By today.”
“Today today?”
“Now would be good.”
“It’s at home.”
He swept his hand wide, indicating the route I’d taken to the strip mall. “Run if you want. I can keep up.”
He did, not that my two legs were any match for his two wheels. Much to my relief, when we reached home, only my Jeep was in the driveway. An empty house would make this exchange so much easier. Landon coasted around the driveway, then stopped in front of me.
“It’s inside,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. What did he want? An invitation? Considering the look in those hazel eyes, I guessed he did.
“Would you like to come in?” I asked with mock politeness. “Our tap water is the freshest on the block.”
Landon swung off his bike. “Lead the way.”
In the kitchen, I dug two bottles of water from the fridge. Our tap water might be fresh, but the bottled stuff tasted better.
“Nice place,” he said, craning his neck. “When did you guys move?”
“Eighth grade. My dad got tired of renting.”
“Manly.” He eyed the curtains. “But with that rustic touch.”
Yeah, that pretty much described our house, right down to the mess hanging in the kitchen window. Heat pricked my cheeks. Damn. I’d forgotten about that.
Gravel crunched in the driveway. I glanced at the stove clock and saw that, yes, while it was early, it could be Dad. Yet one more thing I’d forgotten.
Dad charged in. He was in a mood, too, probably geared up for the full-fledged rant on his drive home. It was Friday, and March, and I pretty much expected something like this. Usually, it beat coming home to find him listening to the playlist from hell. Today? With Landon at our kitchen table? I wasn’t sure which was worse.
“Hey, princess,” Dad said. “You won’t believe—” He stuttered, a full body stutter, like a power surge flooded the neurons in his brain. He looked at me, then Landon. I saw him add an item to his mental “things to talk to MacKenna about” checklist.
“Dad,” I said. “You remember Landon.”
I didn’t bother to add Scott. How many Landons could there be in Black Earth? By the way he shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie, I could tell the name didn’t register.
“Get this, princess,” he said, gearing up for the performance with no clue who sat in the audience. “I show up early to a meeting today, which means I was freaking on time.”
Oh, yeah. I knew where this was going. This was the punctuality rant, Dad’s major pet peeve. It had something to do with the Army and pushups.
“So, guess who’s late to his own meeting, the one he set up, the one the rest of us had to attend—or else?”
“Dad—”
“I’m telling you, this never happened when old man Scott ran the place.”
“Dad—”
“He’d stand in the lobby every morning,” Dad continued, totally oblivious. “If you came in a second after eight, he’d take your name and kick your ass—metaphorically speaking.”
“Sounds like my grandfather,” Landon muttered.
“Dad!”
Dad glanced up, eyes startled.
“You remember,” I said each word slowly. “Landon Scott.”
Dad looked unfazed, but that also had something to do with the Army and pushups. Still, instead of slipping off the tie, he tightened the knot. He nodded at Landon.
“It’s been a while,” Dad said. “Didn’t recognize you.”
“It’s good to see you again, sir. I see Scott Industries is treating you well.”
I nearly choked on the water in my mouth. As it was, I sputtered and drops soaked the front of my fleece jacket.
Dad and Landon did this thing where they stared at each other. You know how they say men can’t communicate? Well, maybe they didn’t speak, but I’m here to tell you: There was a whole lot of communicating going on just then.
“So,” Dad ventured. “You’re at Black Earth High for good?”
“Unless my dad ships me off again.” Landon cocked his head and gave Dad another odd look. “Don’t worry, sir. He doesn’t know I’m here.”
Dad morphed again. He was now Paul Meyers, professional parent. “Where does he think you are?”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think much of me at all.”
Dad pulled at his tie again, but the line of his jaw softened, a little more Paul Meyers, a little less Avenging Dad.
“And I should be going,” Landon added. “MacKenna, you have the CD?”
Numbly, I nodded. Here was a dilemma. Leave Dad and Landon alone together in the kitchen or forgo full color posters and free programs for the swim show. I decided to run to my room—fast. I tripped back down the stairs, knocked my elbow on the railing, and crashed into the kitchen doorway on my way back, all the time, the CD clutched in my hand.
“Here.” I gulped in a breath and handed it to Landon. “And thanks.”
“Hey, don’t mention it. See you at practice.” Landon nodded at Dad. “It was good to see you again, sir.”
He left, with—I realized belatedly—the only copy of Kylie’s artwork. The front door clicked closed and Dad stared in its direction, not looking at me—intentionally, I could tell. Then he said, again to the door, and not me, “Refresh my memory, princess. Is this the same Landon Scott that vanished after seventh grade?”
I nodded, reluctantly. True, Landon had vanished, never returned to school after Memorial Day weekend, never returned any of our calls, not mine, not Nissa’s. Finally, his mom, with zero explanation, ordered us to stop calling.
“That’s what I thought.” Dad rubbed his temples. “Do I need to refresh your memory?”
I’d cried a lot that summer. Nothing about Landon’s disappearance made any sense. Even now, I probed that memory gently because the hurt lingered, the wound unhealed.
“He’s the host for our swim show,” I said at last. “It’s nothing, really. I barely talk to him except for that.”
“How about no talking? Is that an option?”
I laughed, a coil of tension releasing inside me. All at once, I was glad I hadn’t walked into the Army Career Center, that everything was still the same.
“I’d take that option if I could.”
Dad pulled me close for a quick hug. He smelled of starch and cooking oil. Fridays were popcorn day at Scott Industries. Dad was one of the few brave enough to run the ancient contraption that popped the corn. When he let go and grinned down at me, I could see the start of spring in his eyes. I knew then: We’d made it through another March.
Dhahran:
January 1991
Land of the Free (Haircuts)
The place to find the cheapest haircuts in the Khobar Towers
is the fourth floor apartment of Tower D.
I should know because Paul wields the scissors, and his haircuts
are always free.
Soldiers try to give me their place in line.
I wave away their offers, not wanting
to sandwich time with Paul
between two privates.
The line snakes. Paul's platoon sergeant smirks.
He thinks it's ridiculous that Paul and I
pretend not to be married. He rolls his eyes, mutters,
Officers, and shakes out an unfiltered Camel from the pack he carries
in his ammo pouch.
The sun slants low in the sky, and when my turn
finally comes, afternoon light fills the apartment,
floods the balcony, turning clouds of cigarette smoke
a tarnished gold.
Paul sees me and the scissors snip shut.
He holds himself to impossible standards
while in uniform.
No PDA goes without saying,
but if he can run his hands over every single
scalp in Echo Company, there’s no reason why
he can’t touch mine.
Still, the price of this haircut may be more
than I am willing to pay.
But I sit in the folding chair.
I shut my eyes.
I hold my breath.
Beth, he says, Really?
I nod, tugging my bangs to my nose, hiding
behind my excuse. I only wanted to see him.
But I can't tell him that, not in so many words.
He pulls a strand of hair, then another.
It's like cutting spun gold. And his voice is softer
than the smoke on the balcony.
Two stories above, someone stabs the buttons
of a boom box, and the first notes mingle
with the smoke.
Paul's scissors snap closed.
That song. The unofficial anthem of everyone
in the Khobar Towers,
although I'm sure I've never heard it
before coming to Dhahran.
But you can't walk a block without cheap speakers
distorting Lee Greenwood's voice, or someone belting out,
God Bless the USA!
I'd pull on a gasmask, Paul says, but I'd still be able to hear it.
Paul's patriotism has never been sentimental, and I'm glad to see
my soldier cynic hasn't lost his touch with either words or scissors.
But by the time the song fades, and the Islamic call to prayer
takes its place, the evening sun can barely crest the balcony rail.
A single shaft of light slants through the balcony doors
and illuminates the bits of gold scattered
around the folding chair. And I find myself wondering
how much more of us will be left behind.