While He Was Away (31 page)

•••

They offer to take me out to dinner—somewhere different from Red Earth. Ravi says he texted his sister, the incredible amateur chef. She is up for cooking for me tonight. Or we could get carry-out. They also suggest Total Rush. A movie. A drive out into the country. A drive into Oklahoma City.

“You could come to my house, and we could sit on the back porch,” Caitlin says.

“The mall over in Edmond is still open. We could go there. A new pair of shoes might do you some good. Been known to help me,” Jules says.

I tell them there’s only one place I want to go.

We drive to the viaduct.

I lean against David’s painting of me, big and blue. I still fit inside. This surprises me. I feel so different from that girl.

Ravi, Jules, and Caitlin lean against Jules’s car, watching me, pretending that they’re not.

Ravi doesn’t have his skateboard. I miss the sound of it, skimming so freely over the concrete, up and down the mural.

This surprises me too.

I take a deep breath. How long has it been since I breathed? Has it been since David’s last phone call?

His
last
phone
call
. I close my eyes at the thought.

But I can’t stand here forever with my eyes closed, leaning against what used to be.

I open my eyes again. “Let’s go get something to eat. Something good. Something at Red Earth,” I say.

They smile at me, the three of them, and their smiles are full of welcome.

Hey. Good. You’re still here
, their smiles seem to say.

•••

A week later I’m eating lunch at the kitchen table with Justine and Linda. I’m beat. In spite of the summer heat and the lunch—soup that Justine whipped together out of a few cans and some forlorn vegetables scavenged from the back of the fridge—I can’t get warm. I can’t wake up. All I can think of is bed.

In just a minute I’ll tuck myself back under Plum Tumble. I’m going to stay there until I have to roll out again and get ready for Red Earth. I’ve been back working just one shift for five days, but I’m still wiped out from the last few weeks. I’m still grabbing naps whenever I can. Linda’s worried it’s because I’m depressed, I can tell. And maybe there’s something to that. But I’m not going to stop sleeping when I need it.

I might see a counselor, though. If Linda has her way.

“Now’s the time to get lost in your job. It’s the best way to get over someone. That’s been my experience,” Linda says, blowing on a steaming spoonful of soup. Linda must have registered Justine’s sharp glance then, because she quickly adds, “But that’s just my experience. You’ll tell us what you need, won’t you, Penelope?”

I nod. I finish my lunch. I go to my room, intent only on bed.

But for the first time in a week, I really take notice of Owen’s ring, glinting in the sun on my desk. I pick the ring up. I hook my thumb through it. Then I go back into the kitchen, where Linda and Justine are still sitting, quietly talking. They’re not nearly as herky-jerky anymore. They’re almost comfortable with each other. That’s a relief. I hold the ring out to Justine. I ask her if she would mind keeping it just a little while longer.

“Why?” she asks.

I hesitate only for a moment. “I don’t know exactly. Just a hunch you might want it.”

Which is true, as is what I don’t say:
for a little while I think I need a break from the extra weight.

Justine knits her brow, even as she takes the ring and slips it onto her own thumb. “You won’t forget?”

“Never,” I say.

Then I go back to my room and write an email to David. It’s just a few lines. It’s only been a week since he broke up with me, after all. He hasn’t called or written like he said he would. But I’m not going to wait around anymore. I write:

Hold on.

I think you probably did us both a favor for now.

I’ll still be here when you get back.

And we’ll do what’s right then too.

•••

About halfway through my shift at Red Earth that night, I see Bonnie hovering by the door in the blue jukebox light. She gives me a little wave. I go deer-in-the-headlights still. I don’t know why. I trust Bonnie. I do. But if you’re someone’s mother, whose side are you inevitably on? I don’t want anyone telling me I did something wrong, this is my fault, if I’d only X or Y or Z. I don’t want to hear about David’s troubles from anyone but David. I just want to do my job.

Bonnie is standing before me now. She holds out her hand.

Not knowing what to do, I shake her hand, which feels all wrong. We should be hugging. We always hugged. Bonnie’s expression crumples as we let go of each other’s hands. She’s almost in tears.

“David told me,” she says.

I’ve always liked Bonnie. She’s always liked me. I’m not going to forget that now. I manage something like a smile, though it probably looks like a grimace.

“I’m sorry,” Bonnie says. “I don’t understand my son right now. But if there’s anything I can do…”

“Let me help get the stuff together for that place.” The words rush from me, taking me by surprise.

Bonnie looks equally surprised. “What did you say?”

I clear my throat, try again. “You’ve still got those boxes in the house for the orphanage?”

“And at the churches, library, community center.” Bonnie nods. “It’s a crazy mess.”

“Let me help,” I say. “You wanted my help before.”

Bonnie nods hard, her spiky hair stirring with the effort.

“I can get more stuff too, especially after school starts. Ravi’s already emailed the guidance counselor about it.” Possibilities flood my mind. “I’m thinking I might try to get art supplies. I could get some books on drawing and painting and send those too.”

Then Linda comes over to us and Bonnie just about goes ballistic, telling her what a great person I am. “A real angel,” she says.

When I can’t take it anymore, I slip away to the bathroom. I hide in the same stall. A few days ago I scrubbed off the grafitti of David and me in the nest. There’s some new graffiti now, the typical stuff, written by people I don’t know. Otherwise everything would be completely familiar if I had even the slightest hope that David would call.

•••

Closing time. Almost ready to go home.

“Look at this, will you?” Tom yells from the bar. He’s pointing at the television, a war story.

I don’t turn away. I make myself watch the footage: Mortar fire in a marketplace. Another IED doing its dirty work. Another jeep blown to bits somewhere. And shrouded bodies.

“‘Death blossom,’” the reporter says.

Death blossom
, I think.
I have to find out what that is. Death blossom.

Tom flings a damp towel at the TV. The towel hits the screen with a thwack, only briefly obliterating the image before it falls to the floor.

“Enough already,” Tom says.

“Where is it this time?” I ask.

When Tom tells me, I really listen. We stay way past closing, him talking, me trying, really trying, to understand.

The weekend before school starts, Tom drives Justine and me over to the viaduct. Justine wants to see what I painted there. She’s seen my drawings and sketches. Linda was the one who suggested I show her the mural. We were over at Tom’s, sitting on the back porch. Justine had had a few bad days, but this was a good one.

“Penna’s mural is incredible, Mom,” Linda said.

That was the first Linda ever called Justine that. We all went very quiet.
Mom
. The word seemed to echo in the warm air.

Now, holding Justine’s arm, guiding her around the cracks in the dry streambed to stand before the tall killdeer in their single nest and the sloppy, gorgeous paintings of David and me, big and blue, I realize what I have to do.

Justine squeezes my hand. “So there you are,” she murmurs. “There he is.” She sounds sad saying this, almost like I’ve painted Owen.

I feel sad too. But I don’t turn away. I can look at it. I can see him, me, us for what we were and are. We may not be exactly the same, but we’re still alive. We’re doing the best we can.

I turn to Justine. “Will you help me?”

For a moment she looks puzzled. But then she smiles and nods. “If I can.”

•••

“It’s even better than before,” Linda says.

Morning light strikes the viaduct mural just so, warming the feathers on the painted birds, igniting the golden swatches of the Icon Killdeer’s halo like fire. Linda and Isaac are sitting on the fender of Isaac’s pickup, drinking coffee from a thermos and waiting while Justine, with Tom’s help, and I finish up a much bigger picture of the world.

Ravi, Caitlin, and Jules finished their work on the mural a while ago. Now they’re practicing tricks on Ravi’s skateboard. Back and forth the wheels skim. The steady sound soothes me. When someone falls—and Caitlin and Jules both take their falls—I appreciate the repetitive rhythm all the more. When I get tired I’ve been able to match my brush strokes to it, and that’s kept me going.

Justine is tired. She wearily balances her paintbrush on the open can of gold paint that she used to add the finishing touches to her picture of Owen, a bugle raised to his lips, and to her picture of Ernest, sitting in a chair under Plum Tumble. They look young again, whole bodied and good spirited, there on the front of porch of the little gray house that we’ve all shared.

I touch Justine’s arm. “It’s good.”

Justine smiles. Leaning on Tom, she walks over to the truck. Isaac stands and steps aside, making room. Justine sits down beside Linda.

“Want some coffee?” Linda asks.

Justine nods. And there it is, flashing across her face, her surprise and joy that she is sitting here with us all on a fine late summer morning, sharing coffee.

They’re all right. All of them, sitting there, they’re all right. They’ll wait for me. As will Jules, who painted a blond guy wearing a bracelet with her name on it, who must be Zach. And Caitlin, who painted herself boarding a train bound for the bright lights and big city. (She’s still got that urge to escape this place and make it on Broadway or in LA. She and Justine have been talking.) And Ravi, who painted his father wearing a T-shirt printed with an American flag. They hang out here, waiting for me, holding on.

I look back at the mural. Late last night I made a list of what I wanted to paint this morning, almost too many images to number. A motorcycle. A dirt road. All that and more, simply done, but good enough for me.

Last thing, which is now, because, like Justine, my hand can’t hold a brush anymore, I swiftly outline David in his cape, finally a hero. I’ll fill in the colors and details gradually over the weeks to come. But for now the bold curves and angles of his form are enough for me. Here, he plucks ripe tomatoes from a hardy vine and shares them with the little girl in a red dress. Her bandages are gone. They both look healthy. Soon he’ll be coming home, and God help her, she will be going somewhere that feels like home too.

That’s my wish.

While he (or she) is away, it’s most important to hold on to yourself. Of course there are as many ways to do this as there are people, but we thought we’d offer a few suggestions to help you survive, maybe even thrive, during this challenging time. If, as you read through our tips and resources, you realize you have others to share, please visit
whilehewasaway.com
. Karen will make sure to post your ideas and experiences there.

• Write constantly. Even when you don’t hear back for a while. Be open and honest with your communication, so it’s easier to trust each other.

• Learn to be independent, and be supportive. Try to lift his spirits.

• To help your own spirits, spend time with friends and family and others who have endured separations from those they love. Find those people who know how to listen and who will work to understand.

• Make sure you always have your phone on you…and the volume turned up! You don’t want to miss any opportunity to make a connection.

• Send care packages as often as you can—and enough cookies to feed all his friends! Try spraying your perfume in the box to remind him of home.

• Stay healthy. Continue to eat right and exercise. Exercise is a great way to release endorphins!

• Learn the military acronyms, lingo, and jargon so it’s easier to communicate.

• Keep yourself busy. Volunteer or take up a hobby—just make sure you have something to do with your time besides waiting. You might spend the time you’re apart making something for him. You may discover gifts you never knew you had.