Writers Forum - Northern California

ANNE

It is utterly amusing of how my marriage has turned in to a relationship with a small plastic box. The norm for me these days is a silent conversation through a laptop computer. Emotionally hot and physically cold at the exact time. I have an everyday relationship with an absentee husband through words spoken, written and implied and every conversation condensed. Imagine arguing with a spouse in an email format. Getting mad and walking out on the computer just doesn’t have the same effect as in person. Add to that, my husband is in a war zone. Consequently as a good wife, I don’t create arguments, cry, long for intimacy or make a thousand other confessions married people might do. We pocket those words for the sake of stability and survival.

It’s difficult for me to tell you my story as there is so much to tell. I’ve tried to explain the situation when asked by others, but my life so entwined with grief, loneness, death and miracles, strange lands, strange people and every day normal reality that most people get lost at hello. Therefore, forgive me if I don’t start at the beginning and since I don’t know where the end is, it’s impossible to start in the middle . . . Thus, I am going to start in the moment:

This morning is like every other morning for the last few months and the first thing I do is start up my computer and sign onto my email account. I have it timed perfectly. The balance of my life linked to this one action. In the time it takes the laptop to boot up, the teapot whistles and I’m prepared to face what might be on the monitor. I yearn for the typical morning chitchat that most couples have. My husband Jack would have made Turkish coffee for me and a little breakfast too, if I were hungry. Instead, right about now Jack is eating dinner in a mess hall on the other side of the world and for me this morning its tea and toast, alone with an internet spouse and a dog at my feet on a cold, cold day.

As I pour my first cup of tea, I anxiously await to hear the alert tone of AOL signifying that Jack has logged on. It’s such a trivial thing but that little click, that maddening polite chime is in itself the signal my husband has survived the day. I’m not subject to what to make for dinner, are his favorite jeans washed, or what date night movie we’ll see on Friday night. If my husband hasn’t signed on by the time I am up in the morning, it means dark, heart-bumping hours until I hear from him. For me, the consequences of that jingle might be that my husband isn’t coming home.

Funny how life turns a three sixty without any warning. Make that a seven twenty. I was a simple American girl with an ordinary life until nine-eleven. Jack Warren, the police officer I met and married fifteen years ago, volunteered to serve in Iraq as a police advisor. My brother, a Green Beret Marine medic was serving in Afghanistan, when he was shot and killed. Thirty-two days before Jack deployed. One large lump to swallow and then another.

Until now, Jack and I have been at each other’s side since our first date. It wasn’t the typical romance then and it certainly isn’t now. My first encounter with Jack was when I was speeding home in my powder blue, jacked-up, four-wheel-drive Chevrolet pickup. It was a beauty and it was a Saturday night. The Rolling Stones cried their dissatisfaction on the radio and my big tires cut a path over the neighbors’ grass . . . Opps! Jack was on duty. He flashed his blue and red lights and then his badge. However, he was decent and merely gave me a warning. Maybe he resisted writing me a ticket because I straightly parked in my driveway, but I insist it was because my very short skirt flipped up when I slide off my seat . . . purely by accident of course. Gosh, that seems like a million years ago.

The teapot whistle blows, AOL chimes and my heart double thumps. I have an email from Jack

Nov. 28
How are things going? I’m still trying to figure this place out. Military is torturing us with their power point presentations. I’ll take water boarding any day! Marines flew over the palace in their gunships today. Showing off, setting off their flares. Problem was; they landed on a few of our tents and burned them down. Got great pictures! If the internet stays up, I’ll send them to you. Love you, Jack.

I respond with trivial local news; the latest gossip about a city council member caught in a sex scandal, a friend’s retirement, and I ask whether Ivan, Jack’s last interpreter, is using the fake mustache I mailed. I open the attachment, expecting to see a picture of tents on fire, but instead it is a picture of Jack with his team of police advisors.

In the picture, Jack stands casually elbowed up to a tan colored, dust covered, armored suburban topped with spare tires and gear. Two front bumper mounted antennas rise as high as flagpoles and a large winch dominates the front grill. Jack is dressed in khaki pants bloused into tan desert combat boots and a black tee shirt. An easy smile is under dark cop style aviator shades and a camouflage watch cap shades the rest of his face. Loosely wrapped about his neck and tucked under his black flak jacket is a red and white checkered shamagh, an Arab scarf. A smile lifts my mouth as I look at his picture. Style drapes that man as easily as air.

His bulletproof flak jacket resembling a nylon vest has large pockets stuffed with ammunition clips and survival paraphernalia. A huge dagger, he calls a pig sticker, is strapped to his right chest pocket and a radio transmitter is clipped on the other. Confidently, he stands in the sun with four other men dressed similarly in bulletproof vests, leg holsters and sunglasses. Jack stands only slightly taller than the others do and he is a bit thicker in the chest. However, there is a significant difference between them. Jack is loaded for bear . . . true to his form with twice as much combat gear on his person than the others. I can trust my man will not be going down without a fight! I would never have guessed that our life would end up like this and here I am, stuck at home. Life sucks when you’re a girl.

Jack and I are fortunate in that we are closer than most married couples are. Sure, we have our sandpaper moments. Like any couple, we’ve had to work at our relationship a time or two, but it’s been worth it. Jack is my best friend. Besides that, what keeps us together, even now, is that we know we have ‘it’ . . . Jack calls it passion, I call it chemistry . . . fizzing over Petri dish chemistry.

Some days I’m realize how hard this is and I want to cry. I have to cry, but I can’t. Cliché and all . . . if I start I won’t stop.