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Page 27“So, Seth, what’s the deal with you and Betsy? One day you guys were thick as thieves, and the next thing I knew you were gone.”
“She started hanging with some girls—I call ’em the bitchwolves. Sierra and Zoe. They think I’m a loser. I guess Betsy agrees now.”
Michael frowned. “I don’t think she’d say that.”
“Think again,” Seth mumbled. “I’m not the most popular kid in school.”
“Neither was I,” Michael said. “And the quarterback—Jerry Lundberg, by the way—is doing time. High school was probably the highlight of his life.”
Seth took a drink of Coke. Then he said, “There was a bombing yesterday. I saw it on CNN. A helicopter went down. Did you know that when one of our soldiers is killed, they shut down communications on base until the relatives can be notified? I was, like, waiting for a call. They’re fine though.”
Michael had been in court all day. He hadn’t watched the news when he got home. “I didn’t know,” he said, his voice tight.
“Mom keeps sending me these pictures of her and Jo. They’re like vacation photos; girls just want to have fun. She thinks I’m stupid.”
“No,” Michael said quietly. “That’s not the reason.”
Seth looked at him. “My dad says we need to believe she’ll be fine and she will be.”
“Yeah,” he said, glancing down at his half-empty beer.
“I’m afraid I’ll forget her.”
Michael looked away. He understood how that could happen, how you could forget someone. Hadn’t he done it himself, hadn’t he forgotten Jolene while she was standing right beside him?
Michael didn’t realize how long he’d been silent, but then Seth cleared his throat and said, “Thanks for the Coke, Mr. Z. I better get home. My grandma calls the National Guard when I’m late—and in our family, that’s no joke. She calls Ben Lomand, and he chews me out.”
Michael smiled. “Good to talk to you, Seth. Tell your dad I say hi.”
When the kid walked away, Michael added, “You should come around sometime, see Betsy.”
Seth turned to him. The sadness in his dark glance surprised Michael. “I wish.”
If Dante had lived in modern times, Michael had no doubt that going to the mall with your daughters would have qualified as one of the circles of hell. Especially when you were there to find a birthday present for your twelve-year-old daughter’s on-again best friend. So far, they’d been here an hour and found nothing. He was so tired of looking at glittery headbands and ripped-neckline tee shirts and posters of boy bands he could scream.
They were in Wal-Mart now, drifting through the makeup aisle. Lulu was like a pitbull straining on a leash; she kept grabbing Michael’s hand and surging forward, yanking him toward some cheap, sparkly thing.
“There,” Betsy said, pointing to a small, neon-pink case that held an array of makeup items. “She’d like that.”
“Is Sierra allowed to wear makeup?”
He looked at her, seeing the mascara smudges beneath her eyes and the blush that looked like war paint. “Right. And you don’t. Fine. Get it. Let’s go.”
“It’s expensive.”
“Get it.” He would have paid anything, really, just to get out of there.
Lulu said, “I want something, Daddy,” and tugged at his hand.
“I need wrapping paper and a card,” Betsy said.
Michael was pretty sure he groaned aloud. Still, he followed her out of the makeup aisle and toward whatever came next, all the while listening to Lulu shout: Stop, Dad! I want that and that and that!
In the gift-wrap aisle, Betsy stopped so suddenly Michael ran into her. Lulu yelled, “Geez, Betsy—”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Betsy said.
“Come on, Betsy, can you wait ’til—”
She turned on him. “Now.”
She said it so forcefully, he frowned. With another sigh, he followed her to the restrooms, although it set Betsy off, caused her to hiss at him to stop following her, but what could he do? Lately he’d developed an irrational fear that he’d lose one of the kids. He had nightmares where he said to Jo, I don’t know, I just looked away for a second.
He sat down in one of the uncomfortable chairs to wait.
“Daddy, play patty-cake,” Lulu said, raising her hands like a mime.
“Huh?”
Before Lulu could start whining, Betsy came out of the bathroom, looking pale and terrified. She moved awkwardly, as if her knees didn’t bend right anymore.
He rose, instantly worried. “Betsy?”
She glanced around. When he said her name again, louder, she flinched. “Shhhhh.”
He moved closer. “Honey? What is it?”
Betsy looked up at him. Her mouth was unsteady, her eyes huge. “I started my period.”
Michael’s stomach literally dropped. “Oh.”
Lulu immediately shrieked.
“Stop it, Lulu,” Michael hissed. To Betsy he said, “What do we do?”
“I need … something.”
“Something. Right.” What she needed was a woman, but that wasn’t going to happen. He took hold of her hand and led her back through the store. She walked woodenly, kept putting her hands behind her, hiding the back of her pants.
Feminine Products.
There was no doubt about that. He stared at the rows of multicolored packaging, trying to figure out what she needed. Wings! Adhesive strips! Absorbent!
Betsy looked like she was ready to vomit. “Hurry, Dad. Pick one.”
Come on, Michael. Step up to the plate. She needs you now. “Okay,” he said firmly, moving closer to the products, reading the packages.
“Dad,” Betsy said under her breath, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Come on.”
He had no idea what made one product better than the other, so he chose the most expensive and handed it to her.
Betsy gasped. “I can’t buy it. What if someone I know is there? Oh, my God.”
“Right.” He nodded. “I’ll meet you at the restrooms.”
Betsy flushed with gratitude and ran off. Michael hefted a wiggling, complaining Lulu into his arms. All the way to the checkout, she sang “periodperiodperiod” at the top of her lungs. He smiled awkwardly at the lady who rang up the sale, and then hurried back to the bathrooms, carrying a small plastic bag.
Betsy waited for him by the back wall, tapping her foot.
“Do you … uh … know how to use these?” he asked.
“It’s not rocket science, Dad.” He could tell that she wanted to be sarcastic, but her voice wasn’t sharp enough. She took the package and ran into the restroom.
At least fifteen minutes later, Betsy came out of the bathroom slowly, staring at Michael. She looked scared and young; ironic, since this was supposed to be the start of womanhood. Slowly, she turned around. “Can you see anything?”
“No,” Michael said softly. “Your pants are fine.”
“Phew,” Betsy said.
“Can we go now?” Lulu whined.
Michael’s heart went out to her. He knew this was one of those moments that would be filed away and remembered as a day her mother had been disappointingly gone and her father had let her down.
He wanted to give her something that would take the sting out of this memory when she looked back on it. He was thinking that as they passed the jewelry counter. “Hey, Betsy,” he said, “do you want to get your ears pierced? They’re having a special today.”
Betsy gasped and then grinned, showing off the red, white, and blue rubber bands on her braces. “Mom says I have to be thirteen.”
“You’re close enough. And you’re … a woman now, I guess,” he mumbled, uncomfortable saying it. “And we don’t have to tell your mom.”
Betsy threw her arms around Michael and hugged him tightly. “Thanks, Dad.”
“What? Me TOO!” Lulu said, her voice rising.
Michael winced. Really, his youngest daughter had a screech worthy of some prehistoric bird caught in a trap. He looked around, sure people were staring. Please, Daddy, pleasepleaseplease …
Dear Mom:
Dad says I have to write you a letter so I am. I started my period. In Walmart. With Dad.
He bought me pads that were like twin mattresses. Sierra’s mom says that’s what happens when you send a man to do a woman’s job Ugh.
Thanks for not being there when I needed you.
AUGUST
Man, it’s hot. I am getting so used to my own sweat and stink that I don’t even smell it anymore. I’m starting to dream about ice. When I sleep, that is.
The commander called a meeting last night. He told us what we already knew—the missions are getting more dangerous. We’re getting shot at all the time and we land under fire. We’re going to be doing a lot more air assaults, apparently. Yay.
And Betsy started her period without me. Honestly, I can’t even write about that, it makes me feel so bad. I’m missing her life. Missing it.
In the middle of August, Dr. Cornflower delivered his psychiatric evaluation on Keith. His diagnosis: extreme post-traumatic stress disorder. Further, the doctor gave the opinion that Keller was competent to stand trial, that he fully understood the nature of the proceedings.
That meant the trial was a go. A court date had been set.
Michael looked out at the collection of eager, ambitious young faces seated around him. They were at a conference table. Each of the three associates chosen for the defense team had graduated at the top of his or her class and worked at least sixty hours a week. To be a great criminal defense attorney, you had to be hungry, and they were.
“So we have our start. PTSD, as you know, is a diminished-capacity defense, which means we will use it to negate intent. We’ll prove that Keith couldn’t form the specific intention to kill his wife; without intent, it’s not murder one. I don’t have to tell you all that anything less would be a victory in this case. However, juries don’t like diminished capacity much more than they like insanity, so we’ll need experts, eyewitnesses, and statistics.” He assigned tasks—some would research sentencing, some jury instructions, some precedents in Washington State and elsewhere. Others would draft the crucial pretrial motions. “I want to find any case anywhere where PTSD—especially with regard to Iraq—was successful and any case in which it was argued. I will want a draft of our notice to raise the defense by Monday. Hilary, you get started on that. You have all the reports and expert information you need. Make sure you meet all the evidentiary rules. Are there any questions?”