Look for Me

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ELEVEN YEARS AGO my husband caught re while on reserve duty. He was not a combat soldier; his job was folding laundry. There are women who wonder, when their husbands leave for the army, whether the good-bye kiss at the door is the last one, whether they’l ever see their husbands again. I was luckier: what could possibly happen to someone who served his country by sorting shirts and towels? I didn’t have to live in limbo between one check-in phone cal and the next. Or so I thought. But on the last day of reserve duty my husband caught re, and before I had a chance to see him, he vanished.

SATURDAY

I WOKE UP AND DIDN’T KNOW WHERE I WAS. This happens to me frequently: I emerge in stages from a deep sleep and I can’t remember what time of day it is, or what life I’m living. Am I in my parents’ seven-room at in the desert, waking to a breakfast of rol s and but er and nine percent cheese, or living with neighbors who are tiptoeing around my sofa bed so as not to disturb me, or in my army cot, facing a day of cleaning toilets because I’m in trouble with my sergeant again? Or have I woken in some altogether unknown place, where people wear black capes, say, and hop from place to place instead of walking?

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