Rising tiredly, she went to the camera and changed the tape again. This time, it was for Michael, but as she sat at the end of the bed, looking up into that small black lens, she felt a rush of loss. After all their years together, she had no idea what to say to him now and no idea if he would even listen or care. She got up and turned off the camera. She placed the two tapes on her dresser, writing LULU on one and BETSY on the other.
And now.
She went to the desk in the corner of the room, remembering the day she’d found it, how Michael had laughed and said, It’s the ugliest thing ever, how many times has it been painted? And she’d taken his hand and pulled him toward it and said, Look deeper, baby.
She sat down at the desk and opened the bottom drawer. In it was the green metal lockbox that she’d bought specifically for her deployment. She lifted it out, set it on the burnished mahogany desktop. Then she took out the stationery she’d bought this week and set about the task of writing her last letters. Hopefully, they would never be read.
To my beloved Elizabeth Andrea, writing this letter is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Not because I don’t know what to say (although I don’t, not really), but because I cannot stand the idea that you will read it, that I will be gone, that you will know how it feels to be a motherless girl …
She wrote and wrote and wrote, through her tears, until she couldn’t find a single additional word to say. And still it wasn’t enough. When she finished, her hands were trembling. Lulu’s letter was no easier; with every word written, Jolene thought about a child who would forget her mother almost completely …
Michael, she wrote at last in this third letter, pausing, her pen held above the paper, her tears dripping now, hitting the paper in small gray bursts. I loved you, beginning to end. Take care of our babies … teach them to remember me.
She folded the letters, slipped each one into its own envelope, and put them in the metal box along with her wallet and her driver’s license.
After she put the lockbox away and closed the drawer, she sat there, staring out at the night, feeling empty. She got to her feet—she was unsteady now, weak in the knees—and went to her closet, where she found her big green army-issued duffle bag. Throwing it onto the bed, she began to pack.
She was so intent on finding the things she had put on her list and folding her uniforms in precise thirds that she didn’t hear a knock at the door, but suddenly Betsy was beside her, staring down at the gaping duffle bag, unzipped and full of desert camo ACUs and sand-colored boots and army-green tee shirts.
“Hey, Bets,” Jolene said.
Betsy walked woodenly toward the bed, her gaze fastened on the small silver tangle of dog tags that lay beside the duffle bag. She picked them up, looked down at the rectangular bit of steel that recorded the facts of Jolene’s service.
“Sierra said you were going to kill people,” she said softly, her voice catching. “And then Todd laughed and said, ‘No she won’t, women can’t shoot—everyone knows that.’”
“Betsy—”
“I saw a movie once, where a soldier was identified by dog tags. Is that what they’re for? To identify you?” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Betsy.”
“You shouldn’t be going.”
Jolene swallowed hard. She wanted to pull Betsy into her arms and hold her tightly and vow to stay home. “I wish I weren’t.”
“Swear you’ll come home okay.”
“Oh, Betsy…” Jolene tried to find the right words, the way to make an unkeepable promise to a girl who would never forget what was said right now. “I love you so much…”
Betsy looked stricken. She made a strangled sound and burst into tears and said, “That’s not a promise!” Then she threw the dog tags to the floor and ran out of the room and slammed the door shut behind her.
Jolene bent slowly to retrieve her dog tags. Putting them around her neck, she sighed tiredly. She would finish packing and then go to Betsy, and try—again—to make her daughter understand.
Tonight was their last night together. Jolene had spent the day with her daughters. She’d let Betsy skip school. The three of them had seen a movie, gone ice-skating, and had lunch at Red Robin.
Now the sun was beginning to set.
Jolene had a plan for this last evening together. She wanted to go to the Crab Pot for dinner. They needed—she needed—one last perfect memory to carry forward like an amulet into the separation that was coming.
For years, the Crab Pot had been “their” restaurant. In the hot, lazy days of a Northwest summer, they’d walked there, strolled along the beach at low tide, often having contests along the way. There were prizes awarded, usually a two-scoop ice cream cone, for the first one to find an agate, a sand dollar, a perfect white rock.
In years past, Michael had come with them. He’d carried brightly colored buckets, plastic shovels, armloads of towels, and bags of sunscreen. But in the months since his father’s death, he’d changed. Maybe if he could go back in time for just a second, just long enough to remember, he could give Jolene the one thing she needed most tonight: her family together before she left. She needed to know that Michael would do a good job with the girls, and that he would be waiting for her return, that she still had a husband to come home to.
“Come on, you guys,” Jolene said again. “Let’s go to the Crab Pot for dinner.”
Only Lulu cheered.
“It’s too cold,” Betsy said, thumbing through the songs on her iPod, adjusting her earbuds. “No one goes to the Pot until summer. Only old people will be there.”
Michael pointed the remote at the TV, flipping through channels. In the silence, he shrugged.
That was enough agreement for Jolene. “Perfect. We’re going, then. Get your coats, guys. It might be cold out.” She spent the next ten minutes herding her family through the checklist—coats, boots, and blankets. She threw four beach chairs in the back of her car, just in case, and ten minutes later they were driving down the winding road that followed the shoreline.
The Crab Pot diner was a local institution. Built fifty years ago by a Norwegian fisherman, it was a small, shingled building positioned on a perfect lip of land between the road and the sand. A weathered gray deck fanned out all around it, decorated with picnic tables and surrounded by fencing draped in fishing nets and strung with Christmas lights. In the summer, red and white plastic tablecloths covered the tables, but in the off-season, when only the locals stopped by, the tables were bare.
Inside, the uneven floor was a thick layer of sand, reportedly brought in from the wild coast near Kalaloch. The wooden walls were barely visible beneath multicolored bits of memorabilia—pictures, expired fishing licenses, dollar bills. Whatever someone wanted to tack up was fine. There were even a few bras and panties stuck in amidst the papers.
Lulu knew just where to go. She marched into the place as if she owned it, went right to the window by the cash register, and pointed up. “That’s us,” she said to anyone who might be listening. There were only a few patrons in the restaurant, and none of them looked up.
The waitress, a white-haired woman who’d been there as long as anyone could remember, said, “Of course it is, Lulu. It’s my favorite picture of you, too.”
Lulu beamed.
The waitress—Inga—led them to a table by the door. “You want the usual?” she asked, pulling a pen out of her hair. It was just for show, that pen; no one had ever seen Inga actually write down an order.
“You bet,” Jolene said, trying to sound happy. “Two Dungeness crabs, four drawn butters, and two orders of garlic bread.”
They took their places on the twin benches—Michael and Betsy on one side, Lulu and Jolene on the other. All through the meal, Jolene tried to keep up a lively conversation, but, honestly, by the time they were taking off their plastic bibs, she was disheartened. Really, only she and Lulu had talked. Michael and Betsy had pretty much communicated by shrugs and grunts. They were both unhappy on this last night, and they wanted Jolene to know it. At least that was what she figured. Michael was paying the bill when the Flynns walked into the restaurant.
“Perfect,” Betsy said, slumping forward in her seat, letting her hair fall across her face.
“Tami!” Jolene got to her feet and stepped around the table, hugging her friend tightly. She should have known they’d all show up here together. Pulling back, she smiled, said, “Photo op!”
Tami and Seth and Carl immediately came together, looped their arms around each other and smiled brightly for the camera. Jolene captured their image in the clunky old Polaroid camera the Crab Pot kept for its guests’ use. It was another part of their tradition; every visit included a family photo to be tacked on the wall. “Got it,” she said. The Flynns gathered around her, watching their picture develop. When it was done—and it was a good one—Carl pinned it to the wall by the door.
“Your turn,” Tami said, taking the camera from Jolene.
Jolene gathered with her family, put her arm around Betsy (how thin her elder daughter was, how gangly) and Lulu (her baby). Michael stepped in behind her. At Tami’s say cheese, they smiled.
Flash.
Then Betsy and Michael drifted away, went outside. Jolene stood there, watching them leave.
Tami took her hand, squeezed it. “Hey there,” she said softly.
Jolene shook her head a little, forced a smile. They walked out to the deck, still holding hands. By now, it was dark. A full moon illuminated the sharp, jagged, snow-covered peaks and sent streamers across the waves.
At the end of the deck, Carl stood beside Michael. Even from here, it was easy to see how uncomfortable they were with each other, these two men with nothing in common except their wives’ friendship. Michael’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets; he bounced slightly on the balls of his feet. The cool night air ruffled his black hair.
Seth walked down to the beach with Lulu. At the waterline, they crouched down, looking at something. Jolene could tell that Betsy wanted to follow, but she held back.
“Go on, Betsy,” Jolene urged quietly. It took a moment, but Betsy finally started moving, walked down the deck steps and across the sandy beach. At her approach, Seth looked up, smiled shyly.
“What are they going to do without us?” Jolene said quietly.
“What are we going to do without them?” was Tami’s reply.
They stood there until the air turned cold in their nostrils and the breeze graduated to a wind, until Carl and Michael had stopped pretending they had something to say to each other. Then the Flynns went into the restaurant and Jolene’s family went home.
By the time they’d parked the car and gone back into the warm, golden house, the mood had grown solemn. Even Lulu seemed affected.
“Mommy,” Lulu said as they came into the family room. “You’ll be back for my birthday, won’t you?”
Betsy rolled her eyes.
“Not before your birthday, Lulu. But Daddy’s going to make sure you have a nice party.”