WHO SUGGESTED IT, I couldn’t say, but I think Landon must have. We left the food and plates scattered on the table, easy enough to pick up and start serving when Dad walked through the front door, which I locked.
We crept down the hall, Landon’s fingers threaded through mine, both of us in stealth mode, although with Dad gone, it was silly and unnecessary. But it was a reprise of years before, when we sneaked down another hall, in another house. Once we reached the bedroom, I tugged him inside, flicked on the light, but kept the door open a crack.
The bottom drawer of the nightstand held what we wanted—or so I thought. It’d been a while since I’d gone on one of these raids. I knelt, eased the drawer open, and did a quick scan of the contents. Disturb nothing. That was the first rule. I’d learned that the hard way when I was ten.
The drawer was filled with junk. A Leatherman utility knife. A sweater. An old flash drive. Some floss, because apparently Dad believed people had dental emergencies in bed. I unfolded the sweater, an old Army one, one far too small for Dad, one with the initials EG inked on the label. There, tucked inside the olive-drab green wool, was a silver picture frame, the sort that unfolded to reveal two photographs.
The photo on the right had been taken a short time after I was born. In a hospital bed, propped up by pillows, my mom held me. Dad leaned over her, looked as though he meant to kiss both of us at once.
“Did you ever figure out what this is?” Landon pointed to the other photo.
Dad wore his dress blue uniform, my mom, something strapless and white, and considering this was the late 80s, incredibly simple and elegant. No Princess Diana sleeves for her. They both looked too young. They both held the most essential of GI items. “It’s a dog tag exchange,” I explained to Landon. “They’re trading Army ID tags.”
“That’s a tradition I haven’t heard of.”
“I don’t know if it really is one.”
“So, did you ever … I mean, do you have her dog tags now?”
“No.” I’d searched the ammo crate, a couple times over, in case my mom had hidden a tag in there, or one had lodged between the slats, even as I knew how futile the search was. I never dared ask, not Grandma Adele, and especially not Dad, but oh, how I wanted one.
“You look like her, you know,” he said, “That’s why I wanted to … I mean, now that you’re older, I can really see it. The hair and eyes, those are your dad’s. But here.” He drew the back of his fingers along my cheekbone, his touch so light, I hardly felt it. “And here.” He blazed another trail along my jawline and lips. “That’s your mom. For what it’s worth.”
A lot. He had no idea how much. I wanted to tell him that, but couldn’t. All I could do was shake my head, try to shake his touch from my skin and the tumbled and confused thoughts from my mind.
“You guys don’t talk about her,” he said, as if reading those thoughts.
“Things got worse after the second Iraq war started.”
Landon cupped my shoulders and I leaned into his chest, resting my head against his heart, letting its beat reassure me.
“We better get back,” he whispered. But his mouth inched toward mine. “Your dad will be home soon.”
My eyelids fluttered. I wondered how the boy whose arm I used to sock on a regular basis could make me go knock-kneed and mute. At some point, after an intense kiss, the silver frame wedged between us, Landon said, “I really don’t want to get caught making out in your dad’s bedroom. I value my life more than that.”
I laughed, pulled away long enough to tuck the frame carefully among the junk in the drawer. We laced fingers and hurried to the kitchen. We were scooping rice onto plates when Dad’s key scraped against the lock of the front door.
Despite the endless day, I was too antsy to sleep once Landon left for the night. But since Dad’s expression wavered between How cute—MacKenna has a boyfriend and We really need to talk about this, I made my escape upstairs.
Prom. I heaved a sigh. It was something you’d totally tell your mom about. I had no idea if my mom was clothes obsessed or not. But seeing the wedding photo today reminded me that she could pick a dress. It was a side of her I’d never see in the journal. That didn’t stop my hand from feeling around under the pillow and pulling it out.
The List
February 1991
The List
Cull the battalion is the official order.
How do you tell someone they’re not
going to war?
It’s harder than you think, harder,
possibly, than telling them they are.
It’s telling them they’re not good enough,
not soldier enough. They didn’t make
the cut.
You can tell them it’s logistics.
You can tell them that thirty
Kuwaiti linguists mean
thirty American soldiers
stay in Saudi Arabia,
at Log Base Echo.
And those thirty American soldiers can tell you
it’s bullshit.
Cull the battalion.
Yesterday, Captain Redding gave me the list
of all our soldiers going into Iraq.
My name isn’t on it.
The Temperature of Told You So
Felicia stands behind me in line,
her I told you so hot against
the back of my neck.
Hotter than the desert sun.
Hotter than my shame.
Told you he’s a chauvinist pig.
I played the game of bros before hos
in this strange world where I am both
and neither.
I played the game and lost.
Felicia steps in front of me, stealing
my place in line—and I let her.
Because she is going forward. Into Iraq.
And I am not.
In Which I Exchange Words With A Chauvinist Pig
I’m working in the TOC—while I still have a job
to do—when a heavy hand lands on the back
of my chair, one that makes the legs
sink into the sand.
Only Master Sergeant Collier can anchor a chair like that.
Only Master Sergeant Collier would dare to, with an officer
sitting in one.
Master Sergeant Collier: You listening to RUMINT again, ma’am?
Me: Never do. What I need is in this operations order.
Master Sergeant Collier: Not all of it.
Me: Like what?
Master Sergeant Collier: Your name.
In Which Master Sergeant Collier Says Most of the Words
Master Sergeant Collier: There was never any question, ma’am, about you going, so Captain Redding never told you. Same way his right arm isn’t on the list.
Me: Was I supposed to read his mind?
Master Sergeant Collier: Yes, but there wasn’t time to send you to training for that … ma’am, I won’t lie. Before you got here, the section worked. I think we did a pretty damn good job, too. But now? With You? We do it better. You’re our glue.
Me: So I went from new to glue?
Master Sergeant Collier: What do you know. The LT’s a poet.
In Which I say Three Words to Master Sergeant Collier
Master Sergeant Collier: Ma’am, there’s no way I’m going forward without you, but if we get into the shit, I want you to stick by me. I’ll get us out alive if I can. But if I can’t ...
Master Sergeant Collier doesn’t waste things.
Not food
Not ammunition.
Not the slightest gesture.
When his hand touches his pistol, I know what he means.
I know he deserves an answer.
Me: Sergeant? Don’t miss.
Choosing sides always had consequences. For me. For my mom. I could see that so clearly now, could see her standing in the desert with Master Sergeant Collier agreeing to what, I wasn’t quite sure. Some sort of pact? I held the journal against my chest, my heart beating so hard, I could feel the thump of it through the cover. I wondered how something so small could contain so many landmines. Was this it, or were there more?
And if there were, would I be able to take it?
Lunch on Monday sent me into overdrive. Actually, I’d been in overdrive since homeroom, or more accurately, since Landon texted me:
See ya at lunch?
And I’d replied with:
Yes.
Why lunch should feel any different than making out in the Black Earth High overflow lot, I didn’t know. But it did. I wasn’t hungry. My mouth was dry, but I couldn’t drink. I approached the table where Constance and the swim boys sat, caught Landon’s eye at the techie table, and the resulting flash of dimple melted away the jitters.
Even so, my hands still shook. I was filled with anticipation, like it was Christmas, or my birthday. Landon scooted his chair next to mine and proceeded to combine our lunches like we used to do back in grade school.
“I see,” Constance said around a bite of raw carrot, “that you’ve filled in the blank.”
I shrugged, but I’m pretty sure my smile gave me away. My cheeks hurt from the strain of it.
“I’m going to be cool at practice,” Landon announced, handing me some dried mangos.
I thought about that for a moment and said, “You’re always cool.”
Constance made a gagging noise, the disgust plain on her face. “Please, the rest of us are trying to eat.”
“No, I mean.” Landon opened his thermal lunch sack and peered inside, as if the words he needed were stashed in there. “I’m going to be ... cool. You know, not—”
“He’s not going to pull you from the water and let you bleed all over him,” Constance said.
“Professional?” I suggested.
“Yeah. That. I’m going to be totally professional. No one will even know we’re going to prom.”
“Oh, you’re kidding me.” Constance cast him a look so disdainful, I nearly choked on the mango. “Just so you know.” She turned to me now. “I don’t do dress shopping, so don’t even ask.”
“You need a dress!” Landon said, too loudly. A few of the tech boys glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Sunday,” he added. “We’ll drive up to the Mall of America.”
“I can get something in town.” A road trip sounded like overkill. Plus it reminded me of the one Nissa wanted to take. I missed her so much. Maybe my mom was better off without Lieutenant Felicia Stover, but was I better off without Nissa? I didn’t think so.
“Tell her,” Landon said to Constance.
Just then, Josh waved an arm over his head, clearly trying to get Landon’s attention.
“I’m being hailed.” Landon left, letting Constance, of all people, to explain the necessities of proper prom-ware to me.
“You can’t buy one around here.” She pried open a package of all-natural, organic mush and proceeded to spread it across some rice crackers. “If you’re going to prom, at least do it right.” She cast a glance toward Landon. “He may be annoying, but he’s got a hot car. Enjoy it.”
Sam Avery, who sat to her left looked befuddled, but whether it was from her statement, or the odd lunch she was concocting, I couldn’t tell. He looked like he might say something, but a scrape of chairs stopped the conversation. The table rocked and we had three new arrivals: Jodi, Sierra, and Nissa.
“Hi!” Sierra sang, giving the word at least two syllables.
“Leave,” Constance growled.
Sam put a hand on her arm, but she shook her head. “There’s no sense in being nice to some people,” she told him. “Trust me.”
“Con,” Sam said. “You haven’t even given them a chance.”
“Yes.” Sierra cocked her head, her blond hair swaying. “You haven’t even given us a chance, and we’re just concerned about MacKenna and all.”
My insides froze at this. I thought about pushing back my chair, maybe joining the techie table, or just making a dash for the girls’ bathroom, but couldn’t move.
“How’s your dad doing?” Sierra leaned forward, hands clasped together. She looked so sincere, but then so did a cobra before it pounced on its prey. “I hope he got the professional help he desperately needs. You read so many things these days about how veterans just—”
“Shut the fuck up.” Constance’s voice was low, but we all heard her.
“But I was just—” Sierra began, then stopped and rummaged around in her bag. “I printed a few things off last night, about post-traumatic stress.” She tried to pass the papers across the table, but I refused to take them.
Constance, on the other hand, had no problem snatching them from Sierra, wadding the paper into a ball, and throwing it back at her. The paper ball bounced off Jodi’s head and into the path of some oncoming jocks. A Nike connected with the crumpled paper and it went shooting across the cafeteria. I tracked the trajectory until I lost sight of it in the combined forest of human and table legs.
“Really, Constance,” Sam said. In his eyes, I caught the hint of both disapproval and surprise. “She’s just concerned.”
“She’s just a bitch.” Constance sighed, heavily. “Sometimes I really hate my own gender.”
“That’s not what I heard.” Sierra said it in a near whisper, only meant for Constance and, of course, me.
But a flash of pink washed across Sam’s cheeks. He moved to stand, but Constance calmed him with a deft hand to his arm. “Please. Like I care,” she told him. “She’s the only one here who thinks it’s an insult.”
A strange quiet settled on the table. Around us, chatter rose and fell, odd snatches of conversation floated into my ears, all of it disconnected. Sierra had blindsided me. I sat, mute and stupid. Once, long ago, I’d tried to explain dad to the kids at school. Worse, I’d tried to explain him to Sierra. Even back then, she was the sort of girl who could take your words, twist them into something ugly, then spit them back at you, while making everyone else think you’d said them that way to begin with. I had no words to give her now. I wondered if that was worse, to go down without a fight.
Landon returned, scooting his chair across the cafeteria floor. He crashed into the table with so much noise and joy the rest of us flinched. His gaze went from me, to Constance, then darting across to Nissa, Jodi, and Sierra in quick succession. I heard him swear under his breath.
He leaned forward, just slightly, just enough to put an arm around the back of my chair. Nissa glanced up at that. For a moment, it was like the rest of the table wasn’t even there, the rest of the school, that too, was gone. Just the three of us sorting things out without ever speaking.
Nissa broke the spell by standing, her movement so quick, her chair shot from behind her. She gave everyone a final, disgusted look and left. She walked across the cafeteria and sat down at the synchro table. Sierra and Jodi exchanged glances and followed, also without saying a word.
“It’s a beautiful day,” Landon said, his voice making the rest of us jump. “Want to sit outside?”
I did. I wanted to escape. I wanted to be far away when that wadded up bunch of papers came flying back over the cafeteria. On our way out, though, I stole a look over my shoulder at the synchro table. Something about the whole thing made me wonder. I’d seen the disgusted look on Nissa’s face, but I hadn’t felt it. In fact, it hadn’t been aimed at me—or Landon—at all.
I wondered just how miserable you had to be to hang out with people you didn’t even like.
True to his word, Landon was cool at practice. Before anyone dipped a toe into the water, he queued up a new playlist, dug around on his platform stage for the wireless mic, and sang along. His falsetto rippled across the water while he hammed his way through Rhiannon’s My Umbrella. During the Righteous Brothers’ You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling, he got down on his knees and serenaded Constance. That lasted for as long as it took her to cuff him upside the head.
“So, tell me, soldier girl, what do you call this?” she said to me, after escaping Landon’s undying devotion. “A diversionary tactic?”
He’d moved on to some boy band tune and urged the freshman girls to clap along. They only blushed, shook their heads, and giggled behind their hands, all of them in the throes of a major crush.
“I guess,” I said to Constance. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but considering everyone was grinning, and no one was throwing me nasty looks, I didn’t care.
Plus, Josh had been right. Landon could sing. Voice, talent, no shame. “Why isn’t he in the spring musical?” I asked no one in particular, but Constance answered.
“Do we really need to go over that again?”
The music stopped but Landon looked downright devilish. God, I knew that expression, the naughty ten year old about to do something very inappropriate. And he did. He let his cargo pants drop to the pool deck. A moment later, he pulled his T-shirt over his head. The resulting squeal was like nothing I’ve heard outside a rock concert. He was, fortunately, wearing a pair of blue and orange swim trunks, the colors so obnoxious they made my eyes hurt.
“You have to admit,” Constance said, “the boy knows his audience.”
I caught the hint of admiration in her tone—not that I’d ever call her on it. Landon pestered Kayla and Kylie into the pool and insisted they teach him how to do a ballet leg.
“Patti’s going to love this,” Constance observed.
I glanced toward the stands where Patti stood, looking as though she’d just arrived, the air of the classroom still clinging to her. But she had a hand clamped to her mouth, her eyes lit with amusement. Maybe after Saturday’s emo-coaster ride, we all needed a break.
And I realized that after today, this would be all anyone would, or could, talk about. At least ten girls had their camera phones out. By the end of practice, Landon’s swim routine would be all over YouTube and Facebook. How could I not adore someone willing to humiliate himself for me—and do such a thorough job of it too?
He floated past, Kayla on one side showing him how to scull. Landon winked at me, but I barely saw it. What I focused on was his chest, not the lean pecs, although they didn’t go unnoticed, but the scar near his left shoulder.
A scar. One that hadn’t been there five years ago.
For a second, a wave of dizziness swept over me. Scars, I knew. Scars, I understood. Dad had one, a neat little scar on his left shoulder, above his heart, and an angry, ragged one from the exit wound on his back.
Landon laughed and joked with the twins. Couldn’t they see it? I wondered. Didn’t they notice? Landon Scott had a scar. I didn’t know what it meant except that it was part of the whole mystery of why he’d vanished.
“Hey.” Constance touched my shoulder, her voice low. “You okay?”
“I’m ... I’m going to sit down,” I said. I staggered toward the stands and somehow managed to pull myself over. There, I collapsed on the bench.
“MacKenna, honey, you okay?” This was Patti, right next to me. Yes, with the first aid kit. She was already reaching in to pull out the flashlight.
I rolled my eyes and she laughed.
“I suppose your dad’s been checking?”
“All. Weekend. Long,” I said, giving each word emphasis. “I just didn’t eat a lot at lunch.”
Patti nodded. “Oh, I meant to ask in class. Your essay. Have you finished a draft yet?”
“Almost,” I said.
“Send it and we’ll talk about it this weekend. Sunday maybe?”
I nodded, but my sigh betrayed my true feelings.
“Sit out for a bit and rest,” she told me. “I need to get Landon out of the water and everyone else into it.”
Grateful, I slid from the bench and sat with my back against the tile wall, hidden, alone, my thoughts filled with scars—Landon’s and Dad’s.
I don’t remember much before I was three, but what I do remember revolves around Dad, a tattoo, and a scar. In fact, my sharpest, earliest memory was the first time I saw Dad after he came home from Somalia.
There were no parades, no yellow ribbons, no rushing across the tarmac to greet him. I don’t even remember the drive to the hospital. Someone—oddly, not Grandma Adele—lifted me under the arms and perched me on the hospital bed. Dad sat, propped up by pillows, his shoulder wrapped in gauzy white. He didn’t wear a hospital gown, so his other arm, the uninjured one, was bare.
Back then, I didn’t know what a tattoo was. The inked barbs on his arm looked so sharp, I thought that they must hurt to touch. But right then, on the hospital bed, I needed to touch a single barb. If the tattoo was real, then so was my daddy. At three, I knew that much.
The sheets felt cold against my palms, the bed too hard, but his skin was warm. I smiled up at him, feeling both happy and proud that I’d figured it all out on my own—this was my real daddy. Except. He looked sad.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?”
“Nothing, princess. Absolutely nothing.”
I touched the tattoo again. “What’s this?” Now that he was home, now that he was real, I wanted a name to go with the twisted, pointed strands that circled his arm.
“That, princess, is what they call a mistake.”
The room erupted with laughter and camera flashes. The picture the newspaper photographer took ran with the caption: Hometown Hero Returns.
Dad wasn’t originally from Black Earth. He wasn’t even from Minnesota. But we stayed after that, with Grandma Adele. So in a sense, I guess it was true.
I didn’t know it then, but Dad had already started the paperwork to leave active duty. As a single father, he could request an administrative discharge. I sometimes wondered if that was why he looked so sad. This was a compromise he hadn’t counted on. I was a compromise he hadn’t counted on.
The scars never faded, not the small, almost neat one on the front of his shoulder, or the large, angry one across his back. It was this scar my fingertips worried during the tiny tot swim classes we took together.
“That’s where the dragon bit me,” he’d say, but he never told me what really happened, although I knew it had happened over there, in Somalia.
Back then, I also believed that if I rubbed the scars hard enough, I could make them disappear.
The FAA
February 1991
Life in the Forward Assembly Area
I sleep in static, my cot
next to the TOC.
In case someone needs me.
In case we need to move.
All night, the radios buzz the air.
Wind throws sand against the rain poncho
I’ve lashed to my cot, secured tight
with bungee cords and hope.
I work in static, manning three radios
at once, with an ear turned toward
the BBC on shortwave.
Last ditch efforts to stop
The war don’t stop us
from swallowing nerve agent pills.
Still, we listen.
Because as long as they talk,
we can hope.
The Kevlar Helmet
It’s amazing we can tell
each other apart, one soldier from
the next, the second lieutenant from
the full bird colonel you’re better off avoiding.
All of them weighed down
with flak vest and chemical mask,
ammo pouches and, of course,
identical Kevlar helmets.
Until one of them takes the Kevlar off.
Have you ever seen a man do this?
It’s one smooth move, from unsnapping
the chinstrap to palming the top.
The liner band leaves an indentation
around the head, reminding you
just how vulnerable the human body—
human heart—is.
Still, I can’t take my eyes away
whenever a man does this.
And when that man is Paul?
It steals my breath.
And when it’s Paul before me,
helmet in hand, on the eve
of crossing the border,
into Iraq, it feels like fate
has brought us here.
We stand in that diamond-shaped no-man’s land
between Saudi Arabia and Iraq,
neither one of us daring to move.
All I can do is stare at Paul’s
helmet, and the indentation that circles
his head while I try to forget
just how vulnerable
we both are.
The Slit Trench Latrine Is No Place for a Broken Heart
But it’s the only place to go
where no one will see me.
Battered black plastic stretches
between two wooden stakes.
This hides the trench that’s deeper
than it is wide. But the black plastic
doesn’t really hide
anything at all.
The trench is just wide enough
that you’re better off taking your
chances in the desert—drop your pants
and hope for the best—rather than risk
falling in.
Still, everyone says, “Knock, knock,” as they
approach, like we can pretend
we’re back in the world, like we can pretend
we haven’t lost all vestiges
of civilization.
So in that respect, it’s the perfect place
to hide when you don’t want to be found.
It’s maybe exactly the right place to go
when you have a broken heart.
In Which Master Sergeant Collier Gives Me a Cup of Coffee
The metal canteen cup heats
my numb fingers. I let the coffee
burn my throat.
On purpose.
Master Sergeant Collier: Rough day, ma’am?
Me: You have no idea.
He pulls a photo from his wallet.
Strawberry blond with
a sprinkle of freckles across the nose—
as careless as tossed grass seed.
Give her pigtails and she’s
a farm girl from Nebraska.
Except for the captain’s bars,
and the Airborne badge, the
two rows of ribbons.
Me: Your wife.
Master Sergeant Collier: Yes, ma’am.
Me: She’s over here.
Master Sergeant Collier: Yes, ma’am.
I want to laugh,
or cry.
Instead I scald my throat
with more coffee.
Master Sergeant Collier: The only difference between me and Lieutenant Meyers is I’m older.
Me: And that means?
Master Sergeant Collier: I know when to hang on—and when to let go.
That night, the poems fit my mood—bleak and sad. Everyone had secrets, I thought. Like what happened between my mom and dad somewhere in Saudi Arabia. Something bad and inexplicable—and probably something I’d never know the answer to. Like Nissa’s secret and painful crush on Landon.
Like Landon and his scar. Like Dad and his.
My phone buzzed, a text message popping onto the screen.
Landon: You OK?
Me: Yeah.
Landon: You looked kind of sick at practice.
I thought about saying: You looked kind of scarred, instead, I replied:
Me: I’m fine.
But I wanted to give him more, so I added:
Me: Reading a journal my mom wrote during the war.
My phone dimmed, then went black. About the time I thought I’d killed the conversation—and maybe our relationship—he responded.
Landon: So that’s why you come to school with shadows in your eyes.
For the longest time, I sat there. I was still sitting there when he sent the last text of the evening.
Landon: Goodnight. <3