Operation Oleander (9780547534213) (10 page)

Maybe if I put together an album for Meriwether, she'll remember the good times we had. If she and her dad really do move away, she might want to look at it sometimes. Maybe she'll remember we're friends.

With all the photos next to me in bed, sorted into two stacks, I close my eyes again and try to sleep.

 

“Rise and shine.”

Morning.
Mrs. Johnson is trying to imitate reveille. Not at all like Dad does it, with a real horn.

She knocks—at least she does that before she peers around the partially open bedroom door.

“We're going out. So rise and shine.”

Cara wakes up and grins like a jack-in-the-box. Her hair is a mess—strands of it stick straight up right where the cowlick swirls at the crown of her head. She's still wearing the Cinderella pajamas. But she springs out of bed, ready to go.

“Where to?” I ask. I imagine the PX, and I'm not ready to go back there.

“Shopping.”

“The PX?”

“No. Off post.”

“What if my mom calls?” My voice is tight, taut as Sam's sailboat rope when the wind pushes the mainsail.

“She'll leave a message. If it's important, we can call back.”

I feel the photos next to me. Overnight the two stacks slid together, and I'll have to sort them again. “Could we go to the craft store?”

Mrs. Johnson grins as if all her attempts to spark some interest have paid off. “Sure, maybe an organizer for those.” She nods toward my photos.

“How about an album?”

“Sure, we can do that. Maybe you should send some to your dad.”

I don't say anything to her about the photos. Not these. Because these are for Meriwether.

“We could get some finger paints for Cara too,” Mrs. Johnson adds.

“Not finger paints,” I say, throwing her a warning glance.

Cara's face closes up tight as a day lily bud, and her bottom lip puffs out.

“It'll be okay, Jess,” Mrs. Johnson says. “That's what drop cloths are for.”

Cara jumps up and down, laughing.

I close my eyes.

 

Three hours later we're back, and I dash into the house, my Crafty World package in my hand. I bought a photo album for Meriwether and some card stock and stickers, to make a get-well card for Dad.

“I'm going to work in my room,” I call over my shoulder.

“Jess, where's the drop cloth?”

“On the utility shelves,” I yell down the hall.

I'm unpacking the blue album, lifting the plastic cover off of it and inhaling the new, fresh scent of it, when I remember.

The utility shelves.

No.
I don't want Mrs. Johnson out there. She might snoop around. She might look in the old cooler where my baby photos are stored.

Dashing out to the carport, I call after her. All I can see is her backside where she's leaning over a box. I can't see for sure, but I think it's the Christmas ornament box.

“It's up top. On the shelf.” Near my dad's workbench.

Mrs. Johnson groans as she cranks herself upright. “Creaky old back. Thanks, Jess.”

I wait until she lifts the drop cloth off and closes the utility-closet door behind her.

My face goes red, as if she might guess why I'm suddenly so helpful when I warned her against the finger paints to begin with. “Okay, I'm going to work on my album,” I say.

 

I organize the photos, starting with last year's oceanography camp. Underneath each one I print where we were or who was with us, or what day it was. I try to remember every detail. The scent of half-dry bathing suits hanging from makeshift clotheslines across our cabin. They looked like a booby trap meant to snare rival cabin girls sneaking inside to play pranks. The grit of sand underneath bare feet. No matter how often we swept the tile floor with the frayed broom, the floor was always sandy and damp, as if the tide itself swept in and receded twice a day, leaving behind traces of the gulf.

One photo taken in front of the cabin was of all the girls in our group—we were the Dolphins. Other cabins were sea turtles and gulls and sand dollars. We came from all over Florida—Pensacola, Clementine, Miami, and Tallahassee. We promised to write, and even did a few times. Most recently, one of the girls, Cece, had written to Meriwether and me to ask whether we were coming back this summer. She wanted to reserve the Dolphin cabin again and hoped we would be there.

The evening before the photo was taken, we'd gone for a night swim, supervised by the camp counselors. Meriwether protested that we didn't need babysitters.

The sea at night is different. The water felt warmer somehow, and if I closed my eyes and floated, I almost didn't think about what might be underneath me in the dark water. Moonlight flickered across the surface, and I imagined Meriwether and me following the moon's reflection to the edge of the sky. Together we watched the phosphorescence when the surf crested and fell onto the shore. The whole night seemed magical.

Afterward, we changed into sweatpants and stayed up late eating s'mores. The camp counselors gave us each a twine necklace with a dolphin charm as a memento. Then we wrote our dreams on pieces of paper and tossed them into the fire to send our dreams skyward. We didn't share our secrets about what we'd written. Not even Meriwether and me.

The phone rings, and I jump.

Mom.

I pull myself away from the camp and run for the phone in the living room.

“Hello?”

“Jess, I have a surprise for you.” Mom's voice is light and fizzy as seltzer.

“Hello?” Mrs. Johnson's picked up in the kitchen.

“It's my mom. You can hang up,” I say.

“Jess, it's okay,” Mom says. “Libby, I hope the girls are being good.”

I dare Mrs. Johnson to tell Mom everything.

“Oh, we're all doing fine. Just fine,” she says.

She doesn't tell her all the little things.

“Mom, what about the surprise?”

“Hold on now,” she says. I hear rustling on the other end of the line, like something burrowing through tall grass. “Here he is!”

“Dad?” Really, it's him?

Something crackles on the line.

“I'll hang up now.” Mrs. Johnson clicks off.

Now it's just me.

And dead air.

“Dad?”

Mrs. Johnson stands in the doorway from the kitchen. I turn away so she can't see my face.

“Dad?” I hear my own voice rise in tone.

I hear something over the line. Something faint. Too low for me to make out words. Maybe he's talking and I just can't hear him.

“We can't wait for you to come home. I got the photos you sent.” I fill the silence in case it's him.

“Je-ess.” I think that's what he's saying. It comes out like “Jess” but also like “yes.”

“It's me, Dad.”

Had the bombing affected the way he talks? Maybe he doesn't remember the bombing. What if he doesn't know Meriwether's mother was killed?

“Dad?” Still silence.

“Jess.” Mom's back on the line. “Your dad's resting again. But did you hear him, Jess? Didn't you hear him?” Her voice has a hoarseness in it, a voice that wants something to be true.

“I heard him.” Maybe I really did.

Mrs. Johnson edges closer.

“When are you coming home, Mom?”

“Soon. I'm sure it'll be soon.” She repeats the word “soon” as if it's a magic phrase and will come true.

“Mom—” I want to ask Dad about Operation Oleander. What I should do. About the investigation and what it means.

“Jess, I'm glad you didn't upset your dad. Now, I'd better talk to Mrs. Johnson. Get the real scoop on Cara. Is she there?”

“She's here. Bye, Mom.” I pass the receiver to Mrs. Johnson.

I go back to my room and sign the card to Dad. Then I continue arranging all the photos in the album and writing notes under each one. I draw Meriwether's name in curlicues the way she writes her own name and Caden's when she thinks I'm not looking.

I finish and wrap the album in plastic in case it rains and head out the door.

This time, I hope she listens.

T
HE DRAGONFLY
lawn ornament that bobbed in the front garden at the Scotts' house is gone. Did Meriwether do that? Or was it her dad? Or some stranger who came to the door? Someone's also taken down most of the ribbons from the porch railing, but the wreath on the front door remains. So does the American flag, though it hangs limp in the humid air.

Suddenly, the world is still. Airless. Not a breath stirs.

I imagine it's this way only around Meriwether's house. Nowhere else.

I knock, feel the weight of the photo album in the bag on my shoulder.

The curtains don't move on the inside of the windows.

I wait and knock again.

Come on, Meriwether. Please open the door.

Without warning, the door flies away from me.

Mr. Scott stands there, one hand still on the doorknob. Cool air from inside flows toward me like water.

“Mr.—Mr.—Scott.”

“Jess,” he says. “I didn't expect you.”

Does that mean he doesn't want me here?

“I'm sorry.” Those are the only words that will come out of my mouth.

“I am too,” he says. His face has no muscles, his eyes no expression. “And about your dad. I hope he pulls through.”

I nod. We both nod.

“Is Meriwether home?” The afternoon heat presses down on me, even though the clouds are building overhead, silent and towering.

He looks away. “Meriwether's not here right now.”

“Oh.”

We stand on opposite sides of the door. Neither of us moves.

“Is she coming back soon?” Maybe she went to the pool. Or the beach. Maybe I can find her there.

Mr. Scott rubs his face, hard. “Jess,” he starts. He stops.

I wait, my skin absorbing the heat from the sun the way it does when I sit in a hot car for too long. Melting hot. The colors in the photos might run if it stays this hot.

“I don't . . .” His voice fades.

“I can come back,” I say. “Maybe tonight.” She'll be home then.

He shakes his head. “Maybe you—”

Something inside the house howls in frustration like a caged animal. “Forget it, Dad.”

Meriwether.

Her voice calls from deep inside. From her room. “Tell her to come in.”

She's home after all.

The album burns a hole in my tote bag.

Mr. Scott opens the door wider and shrinks back to let me pass. I have to walk through.

My legs don't want to move. Coming here was a mistake.

One foot and then the other through the door. The cool air envelops me. I am radioactive—that's what Meriwether is thinking.

At the doorway to Meriwether's room I pause. Suddenly, it seems stupid, this gift I've brought.

The throw pillows have been tossed everywhere, as if someone was looking for a valued object hidden in the room. Meriwether has her back to me. On her bed, a roll-on bag lies unzipped. The comforter underneath it half drags onto the floor. The blue medallion sheets have pulled away from the corners. No one could bounce a quarter off the sheets the way army recruits are supposed to.

“Why did you come over?” Meriwether asks.

“You're my friend.”

Meriwether's laugh is strangled.

“You're coming back, right?” I have to ask.

“We're leaving in a couple of hours for Dover. I told you that. Dad wants to get there before the plane does.” The plane with her mother's body in it.

I remember footage of a jet arriving at Dover months ago with bodies of fallen soldiers inside. An honor guard meets every plane and escorts each casket from the plane to inside the waiting area, then to a hearse, then to a commercial flight that takes the fallen soldier home.

In my head I see the tarmac when the plane arrives with Meriwether's mother and Private Davis. The sun will have gone down, but the asphalt will still feel summer-soft underfoot. I imagine I am with the Scotts, waiting for the slow march of soldiers' boots to the aircraft. The steps in unison. The quiet respect, eternal silences between each step. Wondering what I would do if it were my dad.

“Jess, I don't want to go.” Meriwether's voice suddenly sounds frightened, like a little kid's.

“It's important.”
Duty, honor, country.

Love.

Meriwether folds a dress into the suitcase. “You don't know what I did,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“Remember those stupid letters Ms. Rivera made us write?”

“Yes.” I do remember. I slipped my dad's into his duffel bag. The day they deployed. Meriwether did the same thing. We agreed.

“I lied to you. I didn't put it in Mom's bag.”

“Okay.” I frown. “It's not a big deal.”

“It is.” Meriwether clutches a pair of jeans in her hands and looks at me. “She was trying to do all these things for me. A dress for eighth-grade graduation, months away. How crazy was that? All the clothes at the stores were fall and winter. Then we went bathing suit shopping with you. She was trying to make up in advance for missing things, and I got so mad about that.”

“That's okay.” At home, Mom had been short with Dad too a few days before he left. It had left me dizzy with fear. I ran down the block to get away from their argument. When I walked back home, it was over, and we ate pizza like nothing had happened.

“It isn't okay,” Meriwether says, her voice rising. “I told her I didn't care. I hated her making me do all those things. I didn't want her to go.”

“But you did care.” Mrs. Scott knew that. She'd look at me when Meriwether was yanking clothes off the rack and smile. Because even an irritated Meriwether was worth being with.

“I didn't tell her.”