“But the facility there…” Sgt. Palumbo strains to explain. “It’s a mortuary. They ID bodies, embalm them, and ship them home for funeral services. There would be nothing for you to do there, Abby.”
“I know it probably sounds strange, but that’s how I feel, and I can’t stay here and just wait for administrative work to be done while he’s over there all…all alone.”
“Abby…” Sgt. Palumbo shakes his head. “This is not a good idea. Dover is a military facility. They’re—”
“Don’t worry,” she assures him, “I’m not expecting any special treatment there. I just need to be there, for John. I’ll book a flight for tomorrow, pack tonight, and…” She turns to Sharice. “You’ll tell me if I’m missing something—something important that I should be doing? I don’t have any experience with…this sort of thing.” And Sharice, she knew, had helped other women through it, more than a dozen times in the past few years.
“Of course.” Sharice’s countenance softens. “But, really, you’re doing just fine.” She looks down at the cake platter. “I suppose there isn’t a wrong or right way to do any of this.”
It’s the first visible streak of compassion that Abby has seen in her mother-in-law all day, and she is reminded that grief strikes people in different ways, at different times. Sharice has just lost her oldest son; who can fathom the emotional journey that lies ahead of her?
By the time the visitors thin out, leaving Abby with an exceedingly clean kitchen and half a fridge of leftovers, Abby is sure she has weathered a month of Mondays. In truth, it’s just after seven.
“I’m taking this one next door for a bath.” Suz nods at Sofia who is playing a game in the living room with a stack of Abby’s coasters, pretending they are plates containing “very delicious foods” that must be kept in a very specific order on the coffee table. “Do you want us to come back and stay with you?”
Abby remembers the night Suz learned Scott had been killed, how Suz had put Sofia to bed, then spent most of the night on the floor with Abby going through photographs of Scott from boyhood, his college days, their wedding, Sofia’s baptism. She’d been happy to be there for Suz, but right now all she wanted was to be alone.
“I’ll be okay.” Abby shoots a glance into the kitchen, not sure where her mother-in-law is lurking. “Actually, I just want to be alone right now.”
“Well, give a holler if you need me.” Suz swoops down and lifts Sofia to her hip. Sofia objects that she hasn’t given out all the delicious foods yet, but Suz promises the coasters will be here next time she comes to play. On her way out, Suz stops to put a hand on Madison’s shoulder to say good-bye.
Madison’s face is illuminated in the light of the computer, and Abby thinks she looks so mature for her age. On looks alone she could easily be mistaken for a college student, with wise periwinkle blue eyes and honey-blond hair streaked with pale gold that falls in a curtain over her shoulders. But beneath the smooth veneer of beauty, Madison possesses a naiveté that is very much sweet sixteen, a quality that Abby hopes will endure.
“Here’s something you might want to look at,” Madison tells Abby once Suz has left. Needing to escape the annoying conversations around her, Madison agreed to send out a mass e-mail with pertinent details about John to friends and relatives, and manage the deluge of responses that Abby didn’t have time to handle. “You got an e-mail from a guy named Flint. Wasn’t he one of the college friends at your wedding?”
Abby nods. “Dave Flint. He was one of my suitemates in college. Suite, as in we shared a set of rooms,” she clarifies with a slight smile.
“He’s in Iraq,” Madison says. “Is he a soldier?”
“A reporter. Actually, he likes to be called a journalist. He works for a newspaper up in Seattle.” She leans over Madison’s shoulder to read Flint’s email.
Abs, sorry to hear about John. There are no words…. I’m on assignment in Iraq, not far from his FOB. Will head over there and see what I can find out. Reach out if you need me.
—Flint
“Why is he going over to the base where John was stationed?” Madison asks.
“Because he thinks the information he can gather will help me,” Abby answers. “Or because there’s a story in it for him. Flint is a good friend, but journalism runs deep in his blood.”
Madison looks up from the computer, the blue screen reflected on her pale face and hair. “Would you give him John’s story? Not the hero profile they all want to hear, but the real story of John.”
“I don’t know. I won’t sanction inflating John’s life or death just because it makes for better entertainment, and I’m not sure that Flint would be able to work within those parameters.” She closes Flint’s e-mail, scans a few others, then shares a few personal things about the people Madison is writing to, to help fill her in.
“Thank you for doing this. I want to get the word out, but I don’t feel capable of sitting at the computer and fielding e-mail right now.”
“I don’t mind. And you’d better get packed. I got you on a morning flight to D.C.” Madison opens some papers that were discreetly folded closed and hands them to Abby. “It leaves kind of early, but it was a choice of early morning or take a red-eye tomorrow night.”
“This will be fine,” Abby says, eager to be out of here and on her way. She’ll stay with her parents in Sterling, Virginia, until John’s body arrives at Dover Air Force Base, which is about a half day’s drive from D.C. Staring at the flight itinerary, which shows a short stopover in New York, Abby senses the small segments of reality falling into place around her, like autumn leaves covering her path.
She’s flying off to meet John’s body. He’s dead.
This is all horribly real.
The door to the back patio slides open, and Sharice returns to the house, along with her husband and Sgt. Palumbo. From the way their conversation stops when they see her, she suspects they’re discussing John. Or, more specifically, the many mistakes she’s making by flying to Dover.
“It just occurred to me that we should place an obituary in the papers,” Sharice says, joining Abby and Madison at the computer. “Would you like me to handle that?”
“It would be a huge relief,” Abby says honestly. “I won’t have time to do anything here, since my flight leaves early in the morning. But do you think we could get the media to play down the hero angle and point up what a wonderful human being John was? Keep it short and to the point? I’d hate for them to puff him up as a war-loving hero.” Especially since he didn’t believe in this war.
Behind Sharice’s back, Madison glances up from the computer and rolls her eyes, but Abby forges on. “John would want something simple. As he used to say, ‘Give it to me straight.’”
“I’ll mention that,” Sharice says, “though the obit writers will do what they want. No keeping them in line.”
“I know you’ll do your best,” Abby says, forcing herself to smile. She’s been forcing it so much today, her jaw aches.
“I’ll say good night now,” Sgt. Palumbo says, “but Abby, I’ll call you on your cell in the morning. We’ll pin down the details for the ceremony over the next few days.”
“Arlington Cemetery,” Sharice says knowingly. “I’m counting on it.”
Abby thanks the sergeant and turns toward her bedroom, suddenly feeling exhausted but knowing she won’t be able to sleep. No…sleep is not the thing she needs. What she longs for now is the solace of a hot shower, a chance to be alone and cocooned within the rush of water, a place to let the tears flow freely, to sob and howl without someone patting her back and trying diplomatically to make her stop crying.
“Well,”