Operation Oleander (9780547534213) (13 page)

“Okay, well, you send that photo to me, one with the orphans,” she says, and gives me her e-mail address.

“Will you send me the article? Before you print it?”

“That's not our policy,” she says, suddenly all formal again.

“Can you find out about Warda?”

“The girl from the orphanage?”

“Yes.” Had the Taliban killed her parents? Had they abandoned her at the orphanage? Did she know her own story? I knew mine, some of it. The official paperwork said my birth mother was too young, on her own, couldn't offer me a life. But I wondered about Warda.

“No promises. If the military hasn't said . . .” Her voice fades away. She means that if the military doesn't know or isn't saying, I'd better not get my hopes up.

“This is quite a story,” she says.

“Please—please tell your readers what we were trying to do.” It sounds lame. Good intentions, Mrs. Johnson would say. The road to you-know-where is paved with them.

“Well, I have to run, Jessica—I mean Jess.”

She gets Jess right. But the proof of whether she gets anything else right will be in the story. Maybe I shouldn't send the photograph. What if Warda's still alive and her photo gets splashed on the Internet for the Taliban to see? I flip through the photos looking for one that won't give the orphanage—or Warda—away.

M
OM FINALLY
calls again the next morning. I get on the phone in the living room. Mrs. Johnson is talking to her on the kitchen phone.

“Hi,” I say.

“Honey, I'm still talking to Mrs. Johnson. Like I said, Libby, I'm sorry it's been a few days. I've been waiting until I had some news to share.”

News to share.

“We waited all yesterday for a consultation,” she says.

“What's that mean?” I ask.

“A group meeting with all the doctors on your dad's case. The good news: They have a treatment plan. The better news? We're coming home in two weeks.”

Two weeks. Just two more weeks.

I push down the voice in my head that asks me, “Then what?” and, “Will Dad still be able to work?” For now, I am so happy just that he is coming home.

“Can I talk to him?” Maybe this time he will talk back to me.

“He's sleeping right now. Why don't you send him an e-mail? We can read it when he wakes up.”

We?
Does that mean he can't see?

“What's the plan?” Mrs. Johnson asks.

“First he'll be transferred to the hospital there in Clementine.”

“Another hospital?” I sink to the floor and wrap an arm around my knees. Mom had started with the good news. But there was the other foot, Mrs. Johnson would say.

“Just at first. They have to make sure your dad's stabilized. Then he can come home.”

“After that?” I ask.

“We'll work it out.” Mom's voice sounds like a cheerleader's. One more rah-rah for the team that's losing in the last quarter of the game.

“Mom, tell me.”

The other end of the line is quiet.

Mrs. Johnson says from the other phone, “It's okay. Jess can handle it. Whatever it is. We all can.”

My eyes blur. After everything, she's sticking up for me, and she's been there for my mom, too. That's what military families do. Her husband is still in Afghanistan.

“Your dad's lost his left eye.” Her words hang in the air. “They had to remove it. They've done a lot of delicate surgery to keep the shrapnel from going into his brain. His other eye is damaged.”

“Will Dad live?”

“Yes.” Mom's voice sounds certain on that.

“Will he be blind?” I close my eyes, imagine not being able to see. What would happen to us then?

Mom is silent too long. Then she says, “We don't know yet how extensive the sight loss will be.”

“Will Dad have to leave the army?”

The voice stops again. “He's afraid so. And that makes him sad, Jess. He hasn't really wanted to talk much since the last surgery. Your e-mails would help. I know it.”

“Don't let Warren borrow trouble,” Mrs. Johnson says. “There are lots of examples of injured soldiers being able to stay in the military. The army put all this money into Warren—they aren't going to toss him out because of one eye. Trust me.” She says it with the force of a TV ad.

What would Dad do if he had to leave the army? What would we do?

“Jess, send your dad a note.”

“I will.”

As soon as we hang up, Mrs. Johnson puts her foot down, as she calls it.

“I want you out of the house. Today. Now. Go to the pool or the beach. Call Sam. I'll keep an eye on Cara.” She glowers at me, but I see the gold flecks in her green eyes, and they aren't really angry. This is her mock-angry voice. The one that keeps trying to do the right thing.

“I need to write my dad an e-mail.”

“Yes, you do. But not this moment. When you get back.”

I surrender. “Okay.”

She folds her arm, the glint in her eye like a tiny laser. “And where will you be going?”

First she wants me gone. Then she demands to know where.

“The beach. I want to go to the beach.” And suddenly, I do want to go.

“Good. That's settled.” Mrs. Johnson picks up the telephone handset. “Call Sam. Invite him.”

Before the bombing, she wouldn't have wanted me to bother the commander's son, because we're just enlisted. As if we ourselves—Mrs. Johnson and I—are in the military too.

I dial, and Sam answers. “Want to go to the beach?”

“Sure. We can take the boat out too, just on the bay, though.” Sam isn't allowed to take the boat out on the gulf. Not yet.

“To the island again?” The last time we were there was just a few weeks ago. Before the bombing. When Meriwether was still my friend.

Mrs. Johnson puts her hands on her hips. The good-cop act might not last. Not when she hears “island.”

“I'll be there in twenty minutes,” I tell Sam.

I'm readying my speech about why it's okay when Mrs. Johnson opens the refrigerator and pokes around inside. “Best I can offer is tuna salad on wheat. I can whip it up while you change into your swimsuit.”

A picnic. It seems wrong.

But right now I want to go to the beach and sail with Sam to Cat Island. I want to tell him Dad is coming home. I want summer back to normal. And Mrs. Johnson is presenting it to me like a peace offering.

“Thanks.” And I dash off to change clothes.

 

Sam's waiting for me when I get to the small marina near his house.

“I brought sandwiches!” I call to Sam over the sound of the wind whipping the water.

He holds up a red cooler and grins. “Sodas and freeze tarts.” A Mrs. Butler summer special of frozen limeade and sweet yogurt.

I turn back to the pier where the marina begins. Just for a second. As if I'm waiting for someone.

Meriwether.
Normally, she'd be right here, going with us, the Three Musketeers. She'd be tiptoeing across the wooden planks to avoid getting her tiny heels stuck in between the cracks. Wearing fancy shoes because maybe she'd see Caden here.

Don't think that now.
Maybe Meriwether will want to do something this week. Maybe all three of us can do something together.

Sam holds out his hand, steadies me as I step into the boat. It rocks gently under my weight.

As Sam's untying the boat from the dock a voice says, “Hey, Sam.”

I shield my eyes from the sun. Caden. Of all days, and Meriwether isn't here.

Sam says hi, and I nod too.

“Have you seen Meriwether around?” he asks.

“Not since the funeral,” Sam says.

Caden nods. “I didn't go. I—uh—is she out of town?”

Sam looks to me.

“I—I don't know.” None of us talks about what happened.

“Okay, well, I just saw you over here. Know how you guys hang out together. Tell her I said hello.”

“Sure,” I say, keeping my voice plain and neutral, bland as vanilla yogurt. Before, Meriwether would have been thrilled to receive a message from Caden. Is the new Meriwether going to be as happy? I don't know.

After Caden leaves, Sam works the sails like a pro.

Half an hour later, we slide the boat onto shore at Cat Island. We find some shade beside the old fortress. Climbing on it is forbidden—safety reasons. Last year, Meriwether made us dig for treasure here, as if we were Cara's age. Sam and I groaned, but Meriwether was so excited, we couldn't help but enjoy it too. We dug holes around every foot of wall. It looked like giant crabs had invaded, there was so much sand piled high around each hole.

But no buried treasure.

“A reporter called me,” I say.

Sam speaks around his bite of tuna sandwich. “What'd he want?”

“She. She wanted to ask me about Operation Oleander.”

Sam swallows. “What did you tell her?”

“How we got started. About the goat, the school supplies.”

“Did she say anything about my dad?” His voice is as hard as the coquina rock at our backs.

“She asked if your dad is Commander Butler. That's all. I didn't talk about your dad.” Didn't
want
to talk about his dad. Sam looks at me like maybe I poisoned the tuna salad. “She asked me what we're going to do now.”

Sam's gaze turns toward the post across the bay. “What did you tell her?”

“That I didn't know. There's no way to get supplies to the orphanage the way we did.”

He dips his head slightly.

“She asked about the investigation, too.”

This time Sam looks at me.

“You don't really think my dad's going to be in trouble, do you?” I ask.

“I don't know.” He says it too fast.

“You do think so.”

The air turns a shade cooler. A cloud has passed in front of the sun. Sam sees it too.

“We'd better get back.” Unspoken is the truth that we don't want to be in a sailboat in a thunderstorm.

I jump up, but I grab his arm. “You think he's in trouble.” My dad's enlisted. His is an officer. Not only that—he's the commander.

“No, I don't. Not after everything's that happened.”

“You mean because he got hurt?”

“That's not what I mean,” Sam says. He snatches up the cooler and heads for the boat.

I follow him, unable to say anything else about the future of what might happen with Dad.

 

That night, after Mrs. Johnson goes to bed, I sneak back into the kitchen and turn the computer on. The green glow illuminates the entire room, and I open my mail program.

I start a new message and hold my fingers over the keyboard. Force down a finger onto the letter
D
and then
e
until I have typed “Dear Dad” for the first time since the explosion.

So many words come into my head and then disappear like mist. It's too soon to talk about Meriwether and her mom. Too hard to describe what happened with the Angustus Church protesters. Too embarrassing to tell him how I handled my anger over the posters.

Everything I write seems false or stupid.

But I close my eyes anyway and let my fingers find the proper keys.

 

Dear Dad:

Remember Sam's church? Church of the Nativity? The one by the bay that has a shell sculpture in front of it? And a fountain in the garden? I went there with Sam, and we lit candles and said prayers for everyone. For you, Dad. For every soldier. For every orphan. It didn't matter we aren't Catholics.

We sang one song I know you like. “Peace Is Flowing Like a River.” Can't you hear it now, how the words float over you and the weight of them is nothing? You can breathe. Breathe with your eyes closed, floating on water? Peace like that?

Dad, that's what I feel when I think how you are coming home.

Love,

Jess

 

There are other things to say. But for right now, this is all I can say. Afraid the words won't sound right, I don't reread them. I press send before I change my mind.

A
T BREAKFAST
Mrs. Johnson blows air over her coffee to cool it. In front of her on the kitchen table is a newspaper. Unfolded.

From the doorway, I can read the banner.
Clementine Times.

I slump into a chair. “Is it bad?”

“Define bad.” Mrs. Johnson stirs a heap of sugar into her coffee. She pushes the paper my way. Above the fold, a photo looks familiar. It's the one of the orphanage that I sent to the reporter. The goat's been cropped out, though. That's not good. The goat meant something. Maybe the reporter didn't understand the rest of the story either.

The caption reads “Local Teens Form Charitable Organization: Good Intentions, Uneasy Outcome in Kabul. See Story in People and Places, page 3.”

I turn the page as if I'm going to uncover an IED underneath that will explode when I touch the paper.

“Jess,” Mrs. Johnson says, “don't take this to heart. Hear? You don't let them get you down. And you don't give up on your dad, either.” Mrs. Johnson wipes up all of Cara's leftover crumbs with a damp cloth.

Mrs. Johnson, encouraging me? Things must be bad. Really bad.

I begin reading on page three. “After Fort Spencer soldiers were deployed, three local teens—all children of military personnel—joined forces to create an organization to help orphans in Afghanistan.” The article goes on to explain how we started. Then I read the next part. “But as is often the case, charitable intentions can go awry. On July 5 the orphanage was attacked by a car bomb, the timing of which also resulted in destruction of a U.S. Army Humvee and led to the deaths of two soldiers from Fort Spencer, Corporal Miranda Scott and Private Josh Davis. (See story on Corporal Scott's Funeral Disrupted by the Angustus Church on page 1.) It also injured Master Sergeant Westmark of Clementine. Some press reports have suggested complicity by U.S. troops in the attack, and though an investigation is ongoing, the consensus to date is that the U.S. troops fired no shots and are not culpable. The fate of the poster child for Operation Oleander's publicity campaign is unknown as of this writing. The orphanage—or what is left of it—is officially off-limits to members of the military.