Something Like Normal (5 page)

“Go get some sleep, Mom.”

I finally reach my own room and collapse on the bed—too tired to think about Dad or Harper or even that the mattress is too soft. If I have any nightmares, they’re gone before I wake up again.

Chapter 4

There’s a ceiling fan revolving slowly overhead and I wonder why I smell oatmeal cookies. Then it hits me again that I’m still in Florida, and I wonder if the remembering will ever become second nature. I glance at the clock. I’ve only had a couple hours of sleep, but I’m wide-awake.

I swap my skivvies for a pair of swim trunks and go out to the pool. Most of us lost weight in-country. Because even though MREs are high in calories and designed to sustain a person through the day on just one or two, they can’t replace what you lose hiking around in 110-degree heat with eighty pounds of gear on your back. I was almost always hungry. But just because I can stand to gain a few pounds doesn’t mean I want to get lazy and fat on leave.

I’m about five laps in when I see a shadow at the edge of the pool. I surface and find my dad standing there wearing a pale blue golf shirt and matching plaid Bermuda shorts.

“Hey, champ.” He sounds like a tool. Champ is an old nickname from when I was still drinking the Dean Stephenson Kool-Aid. He alternated it with sport, tiger, and killer. I guess the latter is the most accurate now, but they all come off as used-car-salesman phony. We’re not buddies because he’s deemed me worthy again.

I hang on the edge of the pool and wait for him to say whatever it is he wants to say, my eyes pinned to his. His Adam’s apple drops as he swallows nervously and I feel a surge of satisfaction. For so long I was afraid of him, but now I’m bigger and stronger. “What do you say we go hit the gun range?” he says. “Get out of your mom’s hair so she can get ready for tonight’s dinner.”

“What dinner?”

“We’re having Don and Becky Michalski over.”

My friend Derek’s dad, Don, is the guy who coaches loudly from the stands and gets mad when the players, coaches, and referees don’t do what he says. He gets in fights with other parents. He’s been banned for life from Ida Baker High School after punching their soccer coach. My mom hates him, and his wife is embarrassed to be seen with him in public, so I don’t know why Mom would agree to cook for him. Unless… it’s not about Don. It’s about Becky.

“I think I’ll hang out here,” I say. “Give Mom a hand.”

“You sure?” Confusion flickers across his face. “I’d like to see you in action.”

I’ve never voluntarily hung out with my mother, but right now it beats this lame attempt to show me he’s a cool dad. Also, I scored top marks in boot camp for marksmanship. It’s probably for the best if he doesn’t see me in action.

“I’m positive.”

He stands there as I swim away, and I can see his shadow on the water for a while, as if he’s waiting for me to change my mind. It takes everything in me not to pull myself out of the pool and beat the shit out of him. Instead, I swim.

I’m a hypocrite after what happened last night with Paige, but me hooking up with my ex-girlfriend behind my brother’s back is not the same as my dad cheating on his wife. Paige and I have used each other this way for years, stretching away from each other and snapping back like a rubber band. The only person who stands to get hurt is Ryan, but it’s not as if he’s going to marry Paige Manning, either.

Down in the kitchen, Mom is her pulled-together self again, except for the tiredness lurking at the corners of her eyes. Her purse is looped over her arm, the crumpled list in one hand and the keys to a brand-new Suburban—one of the perks of being married to the owner of a car dealership—in the other. “Want to ride along?”

“Sure.”

She looks surprised. “Really?”

“Really.” I jam my foot into one of my tan combat boots. On the outside it’s scuffed and worn from continuous wear, a spatter of rusty bloodstains across the toe. Inside it smells like shit, but I don’t have any other shoes except my running shoes, and I hate those. I bought a pair of Sambas when I graduated boot camp but didn’t lock them up at infantry school and someone stole them. “So what was Dad’s excuse?”

“He says Steve Fischer invited him over for a drink. He didn’t want to drink and drive, so he spent the night,” she says. “He called to tell me he was okay before he went to play golf.”

I follow her to the garage. “You know I’m going to kill him, right?”

A ghost of a smile plays across her lips as she starts the Suburban, as if she can imagine it and she likes the idea. Then her face rearranges into something more Mom-appropriate and slightly disapproving. “Travis, he’s your father.”

He doesn’t get a free pass because we share DNA. If anything, that’s even more reason to kick his ass. “You can’t let him get away with it, Mom,” I say. “Just because—”

“Let’s talk about something else.” Her hands grip the steering wheel with such ferocity that she could probably rip it right out of the dashboard. Subject closed. I guess that’s only fair. She’s been artful at avoiding the subject of Afghanistan, and I suspect it’s because she read an article somewhere on the Internet that said I’ll talk about it when I’m ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready, but I guess I owe her the same respect.

“None of my clothes fit and I need new shoes,” I say.

Her smile shifts to wide. “Now, that I can do.”

On San Carlos, we pass a veterans’ club. It’s a sketchy little place not affiliated with any other club in the country, but there are always cars in the lot. Pops, who was a Marine with the 3/7 in Korea, brought me there once for lunch when he was down from Green Bay for a visit. “Hey, um—do you want to get some lunch?”

I’m not really the type to join a veterans’ organization—especially since I’m still active duty—but I could use a beer and… I don’t know. Maybe I won’t feel so out of place there.

“Here?” Mom eyes the place skeptically. “Um—sure.”

Inside, the veterans’ club is more of a dump than I remember. The walls are painted with emblems from all the armed forces branches, only they’re amateurish and out of proportion. The tables wobble and the chairs don’t match, but the bartender gives me a membership application he calls a formality.

“Iraq?” he asks.

“Afghanistan.”

“Marine?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Semper Fi, son.” He shakes my hand and I see his
Death Before Dishonor
tattoo. Kevlar got one exactly like it on his back after he graduated boot camp, and the saltier Marines in our platoon ragged on him mercilessly about it. “You’re welcome to stay for lunch,” the bartender says. “The special today is fish sandwiches with fries and coleslaw.”

I order two sandwiches and a pitcher of beer, which he draws for me without so much as blinking.

“Travis.” Mom frowns as I pour the beer into plastic cups. She leans forward, keeping her voice low. As if we’re doing something naughty. “You’re not twenty-one.”

“I am a veteran of a foreign war.” I hand her a cup. “More importantly, I’m thirsty.”

At first we don’t talk about Dad. We don’t talk about anything, really. We drink beer, agree the fish sandwiches taste good, and speculate on what kind of fish it is.

“I’ve been thinking about seeing a lawyer.” Mom refills our glasses. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and she hands me a paper napkin. Dining room manners tend to lapse when there’s no dining room—or even a table. Most of the time we ate sitting on the ground, where there was no lack of places to sit, and “Hey, save me a seat” was a running joke between me and Charlie.

“Yeah?” I ask.

She nods. “I’m—I’m kind of scared.”

“Why?”

“We’ve been together a long time,” she says. “I don’t know how to be alone. Or what I would do with myself.”

“You could go back to school.”

She gives me a wobbly smile. “Maybe you and I both could.”

I have three years of active duty left, but she thinks I’ll use my GI Bill to get an education. I don’t tell her I still have no interest in college. I can’t envision myself as a teacher or an accountant or a lawyer. Or even married with kids.

Charlie always knew what he wanted. Some nights in-country, we’d lie on our backs on the ground with our boots propped up against the schoolhouse wall, pass a cigarette back and forth, and he’d talk about how he wanted to go to culinary school when he got out of the Marines.

“I want to be a chef, Solo,” he said. “But not like those pretentious guys who make teeny-tiny dishes no one can pronounce, you know? I want to have a restaurant where regular people can try gourmet food without feeling stupid or wondering which fork to use.”

I never pointed out that most regular people aren’t all that interested in trying food like that, because it was his dream and who was I to stomp all over it?

“What about you, Trav?” he asked.

“I don’t know, dude,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go recon.”

He laughed because we learned real fast that you always make fun of the hard chargers who talk about reenlisting or going recon. Reconnaissance Marines are specially trained scouts. Elite. A lot of guys join the Marines wanting to go recon because they think it’s cool, but they go through some seriously rigorous training. I was only a year out of high school and no closer to knowing what I wanted to do with my future. I was only joking with Charlie but now—I don’t know. I think I could do it.

Now Charlie is dead, and I’m having trouble even picturing a future with me in it. Still, I humor my mom. “Maybe. Anyway, you should see a lawyer. I’ll go with you if you want.”

Her smile slides off her face and I can tell the beer buzz has dredged up some doubt. She glances at her watch. “Travis.” She hiccups. “We need to go. We haven’t bought groceries yet.”

“Give me the keys.” I settle the tab, turn in my membership application, and follow my mom out to the Suburban. She keeps missing the slot on her seat belt, so I have to do it for her. “We should go home,” I say. “We can shop later.”

“Your dad will be mad.” She yawns. “I want a nap.”

I laugh. I’ve never seen her this way. “Okay, then, a nap it is.”

Dad is watching golf on TV, a bottle of beer in his hand, when we get home.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” he says. “Linda, did you remember to buy beer?”

She nods and holds up three fingers, then uses her other hand to bend one finger down so she’s only holding up two. “Two pitchers.”

My mom is wasted. It’s kind of… cool.

His eyes narrow. “Have you been drinking?” He turns his glare on me. Cool Dad is gone. Real Dad is back. “Travis, you got your mother drunk?”

I shrug. “You can blame me if you want.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?” He’s on his feet now, eyes blazing, voice sliding up an octave. “We’ve got company coming tonight and nothing is ready.” He turns back to her. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. You have all the time in the world to buy socks for Travis and to google all night with strangers about your son in Afghanistan, but I ask you for one little thing—”

“This isn’t about Travis,” she says.

“Of course it’s about
Travis
,” he spits. “It’s
always
about Travis.”

“Mom.” I keep my eyes on him. “Why don’t you go up and take that nap? I’ll take care of everything.”

“But—”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got it under control.”

She plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “You’re such a good boy.”

I am nowhere near good right now.

“I thought the military would have matured you,” Dad says when she’s out of earshot. “But you’re the same disrespectful little punk you were before you left.”

I grab the front of his shirt in my fist. It takes this little punk no effort at all to pull him toward me. He looks scared, and he should, because there’s not much in this world more frightening than a pissed-off grunt. “You know what I was doing at six o’clock this morning? Sitting in the kitchen with Mom, who waited all night for you to come home. So don’t fucking talk to
me
about
respect
.”

He doesn’t say anything and his eyes are wide. I shouldn’t feel good about that, but I do.

“You want to be pathetic and screw around behind Mom’s back because she pays attention to someone other than you, that’s your business,” I say. “But I won’t be your excuse.”

I shove him a little as I let go and he staggers backward. If I wanted to drop him, he’d be on the floor right now, but this was my warning shot.

“I’m going to the grocery store.” I grab the keys to the Suburban. “Gotta make sure
Becky
feels welcome.”

Dad’s tanned face goes pale. He pulls out his wallet. “Do you—do you need some cash?”

“Not from you.”

It isn’t until I get to the Winn-Dixie that I realize I have a problem—I didn’t bring Mom’s list. I have no clue what people cook for dinner parties, even for people they hate.

I head for the meat department.

“Can I help you?” the butcher asks.

“What would you cook if you were having a, um—dinner party?”

Jesus, I feel like an idiot.

“Well, a roast is always tasty,” he offers. “Or pork chops. Or even lamb chops.”

Lamb chops? I walk away from the counter and stand in front of the cooler full of meat. I have no idea what to buy. I don’t even know what most of it is. This is a nightmare.

“Do you need help?” a female voice from behind asks.

I’m about to throw an offended no over my shoulder when Harper comes up alongside me, all green eyes and tousled hair. I could probably look at her forever and not get tired of that face. “If I say yes will you think less of me?”

She shrugs, but I can see a smile at the corner of her mouth. “I already do think less of you.”

“You’re not planning to hit me again, are you?”

“Well, I wasn’t
planning
on it, but I try to keep my options open.” She puts her plastic shopping basket in my cart. “So you’re having a dinner party?”

“Yes, I mean, no. My mom is, but she’s—not feeling well, so I figured I’d come buy the stuff, take it home, and cook it.”

She cocks her head, skeptical. “Do you know how to cook, Travis?”

“How hard can it be?” Her eyebrows lift and she doesn’t say anything at all, which makes me laugh. “Okay, no. But I want to do something nice for her.”

Harper’s smile is like standing in a patch of sunshine and feels like a reward. “So maybe you should try something a little less complicated, but still good,” she says. “Like… okay, I have an idea.”