Home Front

“But we’ll make it back,” Jolene said.

“Of course we will. ”

They smiled at each other. Jolene didn’t know how she looked, but she saw the fear in Tami’s eyes. Neither one of them was as certain of that as they’d been before.

AUGUST

How do I write about a colleague’s death? How do I use words to expel the fear and confusion that’s uncoiling slowly inside of me? I can’t. I don’t want to write about it. I don’t want to remember the smell of smoke or the terrible sound of ripping metal or the rattle of gunfire. I don’t want to think about Wally Toddan and his young widow or the baby who will never know his daddy’s smile. Or the bride who will walk down a church aisle without her father.

RIP Knife 04, that’s what I can say. All I can say. You were heroes and you will be missed.

Thirteen

After a long, excruciatingly hot day of flying—mostly moving people and Iraqi troops in and around Baghdad, Jolene was exhausted. While they’d been gone, Balad had been attacked again, and this time there had been some serious damage. It was amazing what shrapnel did to wood and metal—Humvees and buildings had been destroyed.

She walked away from the helicopter, with Tami on one side of her and Jamie on the other. No one said anything.

“I need to go to the comm center,” Tami said. “See if they’ve gotten the Internet connection back up yet. If I don’t hear from my family, I’m going to lose it. ”

The three turned slightly, walked down the dark, dusty way between trailers.

It was past midnight, and even this late, the base was busy. At the communication’s trailer, Tami said, “Wait here,” and went inside. She was out a moment later, looking disgusted. “Internet is still down. Damn it. ”

Jolene sighed. They headed across the base; Jamie peeled off from them and went to the DFAC, while Tami and Jolene went into their trailer.

Too tired for conversation, each flopped onto her bed and opened her laptop. They were going to write letters tonight, which—hopefully—they’d be able to send tomorrow.

My loves, Jolene typed.

Thank you for the care package. I can’t tell you what it means to me to get mail. I can tell that Betsy picked out the shampoo—love that strawberry scent—and Lulu chose the sparkly barrette. It looks so pretty in my hair.

We’ve been flying a lot lately. Usually I leave my trailer at 4:30 in the morning, ride my bike to the DFAC (meal trailer), and then go to the helicopter. We’re lucky if we get back to base before nine p. m. We are pooped by then. But I’m thinking of you all the time. Especially when my watch alarm goes off, Betsy. I hope you’re thinking of me then, too.

Yesterday I tried to call home, but the phones weren’t working, so I guess it’s e-mail to the rescue! I bought you presents at the Haji Mart—it’s a kind of street fair set up inside the base. It’s crazy, I can tell you. I bet you’re not surprised that Tami and I have found a little time to shop. Girls will be girls, I guess.

Tomorrow we’re having a party out by the burn barrel. I hear there’s going to be hot dogs and baked beans, just like a beach party at home!

I know I’m super far away, but I’ll pretend that I’m with you for Lulu’s birthday party. I hope the present gets there in time! Think of Mommy when you blow out your candles, baby girl. I love you.

Well, I’m sort of starting to fall asleep on my feet, so I guess I better go to bed. 4:30 will come mighty early.

Betsy, don’t forget to remind Daddy about your orthodontist appointment. You need to go in next week. Lulu, can you send me a picture from your party? I have the last one up on my wall.

Her fingers lifted from the computer keys. She wanted to say something to Michael, but what? He hadn’t written her once while she’d been here. Reaching out to him made her feel like her mother, grasping to bring closer a man who didn’t love her.

I think of you every day and I love you. To the moon and back.

Remember: Only ninety-one days till I get to see you again. Disneyland???? xxxooo

Mom

* * *

Jolene had never even imagined heat like summer in Iraq. Dust was everywhere—in her hair, her eyes, her nose. Her sweat was gritty, and as soon as she showered, she started to sweat again.

From her first day in-country, she’d known that every breath could be her last, and her nights were no better. She dreamed of fires and mortar and babies who forgot their mothers’ faces. She’d made an uneasy peace with death.

Injuries terrified her even more: the RPGs and IEDs ripped bodies apart, flung arms and legs into the sky and the dirt.