Collateral (31 page)

by coming up out of REM sleep

too quickly. This produces a state

of sleep paralysis. Part of your brain

is aware, the other part is still dreaming.

You can't move, can't speak, can't

chase away the imaginary monster.

There was a time when sleep paralysis

could only be explained through

the paranormal. Some people still

believe it is the presence of evil

and if you only pray hard enough,

God will chase it away, allow you

to wake completely and go about

your day. I'd rather accept science.

The morning I woke up, positive

Cole's ghost was in my bed, needing

to say good-bye, was the scariest

experience of my life. I deal with fear

by research, and what I learned was

sleep paralysis can be linked to periods

of high anxiety. Anxious? Me? Well, yeah.

Where they were ramping up security

ahead of the coming elections.

A Taliban spokesperson warned,

Everything and everyone affiliated

with the election is our target—

candidates, security forces,

campaigners, election workers,

and voters. All are our targets.

Cole's unit was one of several

charged with keeping those targets

safe, and it would not be easy.

Pre-election, three candidates

and at least eleven campaign

workers were killed, and his unit

lost a soldier. During the voting,

across the country, dozens of bomb

and rocket attacks led to even more

deaths at the polls. But the district

Cole was protecting suffered no

casualties. The official word on

that credited good communication

between the locals and the Marines

who oversaw their safety. According

to Cole, it had more to do with

the accuracy of the sniper squad's

scopes. I pretty much believed him.

But he was not exactly

enthusiastic about it being

his mission. He e-mailed:

WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING?

THESE ELECTIONS ARE A FARCE
.

THAT FUCKING KARZAI STOLE

THE PRESIDENCY LAST YEAR
.

THIS ELECTION IS STINKO, TOO
.

ALL WE'RE HERE FOR IS SECURING

THE PLACE FOR MORE FUCKING

FRAUD. PEOPLE ARE AFRAID TO

VOTE. YOU CAN BET THE ONES

WHO DO WILL STUFF THE BOXES
.

He was right, of course.

Widespread fraud tainted

the election. A fifth of the ballots

were tossed. Winners eventually

lost, and losers took their seats

in the Afghanistan parliament.

None of that mattered to me.

All I cared about was knowing

Cole was not among the reported

casualties. They continued to swell.

At that point, he was over half-

way through his deployment.

I was counting down the weeks.

Checking them off the calendar.

Obsessing about dates.

Was still up in the air.

Some from his battalion

would be home. Others

would have to wait for

January to take leave.

I started thinking about

holidays and birthdays

and other celebrations,

how the Marine Corps

defined those for us,

and for every military

family. Would their

soldier make it home in

time? And if not this year,

then next? No promises.

As bad as that was for

me, what would that mean

to a child, waiting for Daddy,

only to be told, sorry, he

won't help you blow out

your birthday candles this

year? You turn four only

once. And what if you turned

five without him there, too?

And what if an insurgent's

bullet meant you'd never

share another birthday

with your father? And why

did I decide to worry about it?

To worry about. Besides Cole, flushing

insurgents, and largely incommunicado,

I was starting grad school, unsure

about the program and the direction

it was pulling me in. My summer hermit

phase had made me uncomfortable

in new situations or around large crowds

of people—like on a university campus.

I was definitely anxious about pretty

much every facet of my life. And sleep

paralysis was only one manifestation.

I also started having mild panic attacks.

Sleep paralysis, only totally awake

and even on my feet. I'd be walking

along, all good, and suddenly it was like

the world began to shrink, everything

closing in around me. Too many people.

Too many voices. Closer. Smaller. Tighter.

Suffocating. I'd freeze in place, unable

to move. My heart would race, crowding

my lungs. All I could manage was shallow,

breaths, ragged and pitiful. A hollow

ringing in my ears disallowed balance.

I had to sit or fall. I learned to drop

my head between my knees and close

my eyes until the world began to grow

wider again. After the fourth “event,”

I went to my doctor and asked for

chemical help. He prescribed Xanax,

told me to avoid alcohol while taking it.

I thought that was probably a good

idea anyway. I'd been drinking more

than I knew was wise. I needed

an excuse to stop. And I did. Mostly.

I wasn't an alcoholic. I didn't drink every

day, didn't often drink to excess or binge.

And could leave it alone completely

for large swaths of time. But I did drink

to be social. To have fun with friends.

Sometimes, to sleep. Sometimes, to forget.

School was okay, though I was glad

I had only two classes that semester.

There was a lot of reading. A lot of writing.

A lot of research. I learned more

than I ever wanted to about human

behavior. Unfortunately, it made me

very aware of some very bad things.

Especially at my job. I still loved

taking care of the little ones, teaching

them things that would jump-start

their regular school experience.

Colors. Letters. Numbers. Telling time.

But every now and again, I couldn't

help but notice signs. Things that

made me uncomfortable. With Soleil,

especially. Over the summer, I'd broken

through the barrier she'd erected

between herself and the rest of the world.

I could even make her laugh once

in a while, chase the thunderheads

from her eyes. And when she finally

conquered a difficult concept,

her face lit and she transformed

into the prettiest child, ever.

But some days she retreated

to a place inside where I couldn't

reach her. A place she created

where no one could touch her.

I started watching the interaction

with her mother, a stiff young woman

who rarely smiled and seemed to

communicate by snapping and

barking. If Soleil didn't move

quickly enough, sometimes her

mother would grab her and jerk.

One day, I finally had enough.

I stepped in front of her. “Excuse me,

but do you think that's an appropriate

way to deal with a child?” When I

looked into the woman's eyes,

there was something scary there,

and it went beyond how dilated

her pupils were.
How I handle

my daughter is really none

of your business, now, is it?

She stepped around me, yanking

Soleil out the door. The little

girl had to run to not get dragged.

Soleil arrived at school dressed

in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.

Not so unusual, except it happened

to be unseasonably warm. All

the other kids were in shorts.

I already had my suspicions, so

I decided to set up the easels for

some painting. The kids all slipped

into smocks. When I helped Soleil

into hers, I told her we had to roll

up her sleeves. I've never seen

anyone look quite so scared.

I can't. Mommy will get mad at me.

“But if you get paint on your shirt,

she'll really get mad,” I coaxed.

“We'll just turn them up a little.”

She let me, and the finger-shaped

bruises on her arms were apparent

immediately. I prodded one gently.

“Does that hurt?” In answer,

an obvious wince. “Are there more?”

She trusted me enough to give

a small nod. “Can I see, please?”

Fear clung to her like sweat. I soothed

it as best I could. “Soleil, honey,

I don't want anyone to hurt you.

Ever. I can stop it if you let me see.”

Her eyes, which had been focused

on the floor, turned slowly up

to meet mine. She must have

found what she needed there

because she took my hand, led me

to the bathroom, closed the door.

She turned away from me, lifted

her shirt. The bruising began

in the small of her back, disappeared

beneath the waistband of her jeans.

It was dark. Fresh. “Who did this?”

Her voice was mouse-quiet.

Mommy. She's very sorry.

Of course she was. “Okay, honey.

You want to go paint now?”

Anger seethed. Red. Frothy. How

could anyone do something like

this to a child? We returned to

the playroom and I gave Soleil

a paintbrush. Then I went to call

Child Protective Services. It was no

more than my duty, but it felt

really good to report what I saw.

Later, however, it hit me that

Soleil's mother would probably

blame her for the trouble coming

their way. I went home. Popped

a Xanax. Washed it down with tequila.

Once Child Protective Services

stepped in, it was completely

out of my hands. I knew I'd done

the right thing, but I was concerned

about her safety. Especially as I learned

more about what happened after

someone—like me—reported abuse.

Often the child remained in her home,

if the parents seemed cooperative

and mostly sane. I had a hunch

Soleil's mom was using some

sort of controlled substance. Crystal

meth, maybe. I hoped they looked

for that. Hoped their investigation

was more involved than asking

a couple of questions and accepting

easy answers. The bruising I saw

looked massive. But what if Ms. Bruiser

managed to make them believe

it was only an accident, or admitted

she went overboard, but only that once.

There were just too many variables.

And I never learned the outcome.

One more checkmark on my worry list.

Mine is the dream of the caged

wolf. He has forgotten his howl

but still remembers long lopes

through stiletto woods,

drawn by desire.

He is adrift on a current of night.

Summer trails humid perfume

and the forest yields a feast

of decay, but there is more—

blood scent.

A notion of movement quickens

his gait, the chase becomes game.

She cannot match his speed,

but he must overtake her to win

her. Respect is born of

power.

At his demand, she flags reverence.

Some might call their joining

savage—the mesh of fang

and fur, the singe of lupine thrust.

But at the tie,

he lays her down

on a pillow of forest. Begs patience.

Mine is the heart of the caged

wolf. Roused from nocturnal reverie,

he paces the perimeter of sleep

rattled bars. The waxing moon

casts a pale shadow. He

looks to the amber sky

listens to a distant plea,

water on the wind.

Finds his song.

Cole Gleason

Into his fourth deployment—deep

in the Helmand Province—when I go

home for Thanksgiving. It has been

a casualty-heavy period for coalition

forces. Roadside explosions and suicide

bombers have taken their toll.

Cole sounds grim when I'm able

to talk to him. Hopefully the troops'

own turkey-and-trimmings feast

will boost morale. Maybe they'll even

get to have a couple of beers.

It's a long drive from San Diego

to Lodi, and I'm making it alone.

I asked Dar if she wanted to come

along, get away from the hospital

for a couple of days. Spence will

survive, something to be thankful

for. But it will still be a while before

he's strong enough for skin grafts.

Darian can't do much but wait.