Free Going Overboard by Sarah Smiley

together myself? Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Maybe you should have married someone else.” I buried my face in my hands.
    â€œHey,” he said, touching my leg, “this is only temporary. Soon you’ll have me home again to help you. Promise.”
    I cried harder. “I’m not cut out for this. Oh, my gosh, I’m not cut out for this.”
    Dustin pulled my hands away from my face. “This hurts me, too, Sarah. I realize you married me thinking I would be home totake care of you and our family. It kills me to know I can’t do that right now. But I’ll be home soon. And you’re going to be fine.” He put a hand to my cheek and grinned. “But seriously, Sarah, don’t sell the house if you find a roach, OK? And try not to burn down the garage or anything.”
    I tilted my head back on the headrest and sighed in spite of myself. “Ha! Very funny,” I said, drying my nose with the sleeve of my jacket. “But, Dustin—”
    â€œI know,” he said and squeezed my hand. “I know.”
    I flipped down the visor to look at myself in the mirror. My brown eyes were circled with red, and mascara was running down my drawn, pale cheeks. The tip of my nose was moist and red, and little blue veins (inherited from my mom) were beginning to appear between my eyes.
    I flipped the visor shut with a thud. “I look like a wreck!”
    â€œNah, no one’s going to look great in there,” Dustin said, and then he turned to look at the boys sleeping in the backseat. “Are you sure you even want to come in, though? You could just go home if you want.”
    I thought about that. Avoiding a long, drawn-out good-bye seemed like a good idea. Besides, when Dustin leaves for a short detachment—and this was scheduled to be a short detachment—I simply drop him off at the curb, lean over the console, and surprise him with a peck on the cheek, then smile and wave as I drive away.
    But no, somehow this felt different and I couldn’t just turn and go.
    â€œI think I need to come in,” I said.
    Dustin patted my knee. “OK.”
    We walked through the automatic sliding doors and the air terminal’s greasy smell comforted me. It is an oddly familiar scent that can take me back to my youth in an instant, like the musty hooked rugs in my childhood bathroom. Was this how otherchildren—children whose dads had offices and secretaries and never left home for weeks at a time—felt when they smelled coffee brewing or the odor of new office-grade carpeting?
    The terminal’s bare concrete walls were yellow—a desperate attempt at cheerfulness, I’ve always thought—but even paint could not mask garish plastic signs on the wall: HIGH VOLTAGE , FALLOUT SHELTER , AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY .
    On the floor there were a few scattered pieces of red, white, and blue confetti left over from another squadron’s recent homecoming. The bits of paper were stepped on and mashed into the stained gray carpet, like the dead pine needles from our Christmas tree at home.
    Metal straight-back chairs were arranged in rows, and families sat in clusters, huddled together and not speaking to anyone outside their circle.
    Dustin carried Owen in his portable seat, and Ford was asleep slumped across my shoulder. His head bumped and wobbled as we walked, and I could feel his breath on my neck. We went past the rows of families, and solemn faces looked up at us with wet eyes. Friends and squadron mates nodded ever so slightly but said nothing—the most sorrowful of hellos, like a congregation acknowledging a grieving widow as she walks up the aisle after her husband’s funeral.
    No, this definitely didn’t feel a like a typical good-bye.
    Dustin found a spot for us near the vending machines and a metal trash can. He set Owen’s carrier on the floor, and I handed him Ford to hold in his lap. Dustin nestled him like an infant,