FORT LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS, DECEMBER 2012—Even after nearly a year apart, Maria Rodriguez and her ex-husband easily fell into a smooth routine. It was as if the major had been living with Chris and the children for the last seven months instead of Skyping as frequently as time would allow during her stint in Afghanistan.
They had all moved back in together. Chris and the kids followed her to Kansas for another career advancement—she was selected after her work with the 1st Stryker Brigade, to attend the Army’s Command and General Staff Officers’ Course, another step on her way to the higher officer ranks. Her goal was to make lieutenant colonel within two years. The course was a bit less than a year long, and Chris and Rodriguez had found a house that perfectly accommodated their unconventional family of four. The major was anxious to get to know her daughter, now almost a preteen, and son, whom she almost no longer recognized.
She rented the home, and Chris, who was finally getting used to being a stay-at-home parent after leaving contract work and raising the kids alone, slept in the finished basement apartment. Rodriguez and the kids occupied rooms on the second floor of the house. The first floor was where everyone lived. The two parents dated other people. And they were comfortable enough with one another to talk about their separate lives and to give support when either needed it. When they moved to Kansas in July for the start of Rodriguez’s course, they briefly talked about marrying each other again. It wasn’t a lack of love that had led to their divorce, and Chris was now settled enough to give Rodriguez the support she needed.
But they knew that if they made a go of it again, there would be more pressure to make it work this time. Not only would failure be heartbreaking for them; it would also have adverse effects on two people they never wanted to hurt, who were now old enough to know disappointment. They dropped the conversation, not for lack of interest or for fear of getting involved again but because they thought they had plenty of time to work things out. Perhaps they would circle back to the conversation when Rodriguez finished school.
But on December 20, not long into the flow of their daily routine that included carpools and kids and homework and laughter, Rodriguez’s entire world changed.
Late one afternoon she walked into a house that seemed too quiet and thought immediately that something was wrong. She glanced around the living room, past the sparkly bulbs that hung on the Christmas tree the family had finished decorating days before, but she didn’t see the telltale signs that Chris had made it upstairs. There was no newspaper strewn across the sofa, no shoes kicked off for comfort. She hadn’t seen her ex, who usually started his day by midmorning, since the night before. She sent her kids to their rooms and approached the basement steps. She paused for a moment at the top of the stairwell and listened. Nothing. She heard nothing. She knocked on the door and softly called his name. Still nothing.
She slowly pushed her way into the dark space. The room felt cold.
Straight ahead she saw the shadow of his still body. His arms and legs stretched from one side of the bed to the other. Chris had long ago been diagnosed with diabetes. The illness was, in part, what kept him from returning to the battlefield. She tried, but she could find no heartbeat.
She acted quickly, calling for an ambulance and the police. She was terrified. But in crisis she catered to her intellect first: What’s the solution? What’s the quickest way to get there?
That matter-of-fact approach made her a successful wartime leader. There was no leeway to show fear during combat missions. The slightest emotion could lead to bad judgment that might end a raid before it started. And the only person she was ever fully able to show her emotions to was now gone.
She looked at him and thought of the most meaningful moments of their lives together: their wedding day (they had eloped), trips with the kids to Disney World, his pep talks when she was on the frontlines in Afghanistan. She heard his voice telling her that everything would be okay. She saw his grin, which was bright and carefree and accompanied the jokes he told to cheer her up. Her eyes welled, and she felt the warmth from tears that rolled down her face. She wondered how she would tell her children their daddy was gone.
By the time the police arrived, her eyes were red, her eyelids slightly swollen. As a military police officer, she knew that the cops had to question her. She answered each inquiry as thoroughly as she could.
After the memorial service ended, after family members returned to their lives and her kids returned to school, she sat alone on a white sofa in the living room of the home she had shared with her best friend. She wasn’t sure what the future held, but she knew it wouldn’t be in Kansas.
She stayed at Fort Leavenworth just long enough to finish the officers’ training course. In June she packed up her home and moved her children to Georgia. It would be a fresh start for her kids. And for her, she hoped, a career advancement.