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Marrying Daisy Bellamy
Kind of like being in love.
Unlike love, this was an optional training exercise. Although in his opinion, when offered a chance to jump out of a plane, a guy’s only option was to go for it. His work in the field was done, but he’d never been one to say no to a jump. He might be crazy but he wasn’t an idiot who’d turn down the opportunity. He loved the feeling of weightlessness and knowing that beneath him there was nothing but sky. He could see the patchwork countryside of middle New York State—undulating hills, river-fed farmland, a spectacular array of long lakes gouged out of the landscape as if by giant claws.
His altimeter vibrated, signaling that it was time to quit admiring the scenery. He loosed the pilot chute into the airstream.
A wind shear swooped in at the worst possible moment. As the bridle of the pilot chute was supposed to be pulling out the deployment bag of the main chute, control was torn from him.
And just like that, the optional training exercise turned to a nightmare. He was sent careening off target—way off target, way too fast, at the mercy of the stream. Grinding out curses through clenched teeth, he managed to wrestle the deployment bag out. The lines were supposed to release one stow at a time, but they were a tangled mess. The main chute was lopsided, out of control. He worked the toggles to slow the wind as the stream rushed him toward a dense thicket of trees.
He signaled Mayday, let out another string of violent curses and said a prayer.
The prayer was answered, sort of. He hadn’t slammed into the ground at 150 mph, turning himself into a pancake of blood and gristle. Instead, he’d managed to navigate a little and slow down. The landing wasn’t quite what he’d been aiming for, though.
Hanging upside down in his parachute harness, he surveyed the world from a unique vantage point. Pliant branches, covered in new leaves, bobbed up and down with his weight. He could see nothing but green and brown, no sign of civilization anywhere.
Damn. This had been the final exercise of his training here, and it was supposed to go well.
He forced himself to be slow and deliberate as he considered what to do. Blood trickled from somewhere on his face. He hurt in a lot of places; nothing felt broken, though his shoulder flared with fire. It might be dislocated. His goggles were completely wrecked. Just reaching for his utility knife caused him to slip too fast toward the ground, so he went still, trying to plan his next move. Breaking his neck right before commissioning would be the lamest of moves, for sure. And Daisy—he didn’t even want to think about what it would do to his plans for her and hoped like hell this mishap was not a bad omen.
He was still pondering his options, noting the strange feeling in his head, when a crashing noise sounded somewhere in the woods. A few minutes later a small figure in a jumpsuit appeared.
“You’re a damn maniac, that’s what you are,” railed Sayers, one of his training partners. She was a no-nonsense girl from Selma, Alabama, and she reminded Julian of some of his relatives in Louisiana. Except that unlike those relatives, Tanesha Sayers was duty-bound to give aid and assistance to her fellow officer in training.
“Fool,” she blustered, “you’re damned lucky your beacon worked. Otherwise you’d be swinging here till you turn purple in the head and die. Hell, I ought to let you turn purple.”
Julian let her yammer on. He made no excuses for himself; no sense blaming the wind shear. Besides, Sayers was basically harmless. She had an uncanny ability to berate a person roundly and simultaneously get things done. Slated for commissioning, same as Julian, she would make a good officer. She chewed him out, all the while hoisting herself up into the branches where he was caught and using a utility knife to cut him free.
“You got your own knife,” she pointed out. “Why the hell didn’t you get yourself down?”
“I was going to. Wanted to make sure I didn’t cut the wrong strap and land on my—” He plunged to the ground, slamming against the forest floor. He felt the impact despite his helmet.
“Head,” he finished. “Thanks, Mom.” In the unit, Sayers’s nickname was Mom because, although she fussed and bossed everyone around, she cared about each one of them with the fierceness of a mother bear.
“Don’t thank me, fool,” she said. “Just you hold still while I put a field dressing on that wound.”
“What wound?” He gingerly touched his forehead, feeling a warm slickness at his hairline. Great.
She jumped down, landing with a grunt, and radioed the base.
He wiped his hand on his jumpsuit, and that was when he thought about the ring. He’d carried it around for a long time. Even during the jump, he had kept it in a pocket next to his heart, layers deep, zipped up tight.
When the ring was offered to Daisy, it wasn’t going to be like last time, in the midst of a fistfight on a train platform, for Chrissake. This time.
He ripped open the Velcro collar tab at his throat and plunged his hand inside, fingers grappling with a zipper closure on his shirt.
Sayers knelt down in front of him. “What’s the matter?”
“Just checking for—ah.” Julian went limp with relief as his hand closed around the ring box. He pulled it out and flipped it open to reveal the prize—a certified nononflict diamond in a warm gold setting, engraved on the inner curve with “Forever.” He angled the box so Sayers could check it out.
She studied it thoughtfully. “Sorry, Jughead,” she said, using his nickname, “but I don’t love you in quite that way.”
“Sure you do.” He snapped the lid shut and tucked the box away. “You’re on your knees, baby.”
“Mmm.” She ripped open a blister pack of sterile wipes. “It’s your wounds I love. I swear, Jughead, you are a walking, talking crash test dummy. I love that about you.”
Sayers wanted to attend medical school one day. She was obsessed with blood and guts, the gorier, the better. Julian, with his penchant for going to extremes, had provided her with more than his share of abrasions, sprains, bruises and bleeders during their training.
She cleansed the gash and clamped it shut with a few butterfly bandages. As she worked, she said, “What are you doing, carrying that damn ring everywhere you go?”
“I don’t know what else to do with it,” he said. “Shoving it in the back of my underwear drawer seems a little … well, that’s where I used to stash my—never mind.” He didn’t want to go there with Sayers. “Sad to say, campus theft happens.”
Unspoken was another truth they both understood. If the jump had proven fatal, the presence of the ring box would’ve been a silent final message to the woman he loved, the woman he wanted to love forever.
“I figure I’ll keep it handy and I can pop the question when I know the time’s right.”
Sayers shook her head in disgust as she touched gentle fingers to the row of butterflies. “A word to the wise,” she cautioned. “Make sure the poor girl is present when you whip it out.”
“That’s the plan. I invited her to our commissioning ceremony, so if she comes for that—”
“Wait a minute, if? There’s some question?”
“Well, things have been a little weird for us,” he said. Understatement.
“Oh, now there’s a fine basis for a lasting relationship,” she said, putting away her gear and grabbing his hand. She yanked, helping him to his feet.
He shook out each limb, schooling himself not to wince at the pain. His nerve endings had nerve endings, but pain was only a feeling. Everything was in proper working order—that was the key. Despite the fiery aches, he was sure they hadn’t overlooked a break or sprain. Nope, he was good to go.
“See, here’s the thing,” he said, wading up the chute. “With Daisy and me—we’ve been like a moving target. Nothing is ever simple. She’s got this kid, a great kid, but he complicates things. She’s going in one direction, and I’m going in another, and we can never get on the same page.”
He and Sayers started hiking out of the woods. His heart sped up as he thought about Daisy. “I’m nuts about her, and I know she feels the same. Getting engaged is going to cut through all the extraneous crap and simplify everything.”
Sayers stopped walking and turned to him, putting her hand on his chest. “Oh, honey. Can you really be that stupid?”
He grinned. “You tell me.”
She studied his face, her expression reflecting concern, exasperation and barely suppressed compassion. “My mama once told me never to underestimate the thickness of a man’s skull. I think she was right.”
“What? She’s nuts about me, too,” Julian pointed out. “I know she is.”
“That makes two of you, then.”
It took a while to get back, make a full report, tag and submit the chute for a safety study.
Julian ignored a deep twinge of soreness in his shoulder as he returned to campus, stopping off at the student center to check his mail. He sorted through the small stack as he hiked back to the residence hall. He tried not to let the commissioning ceremony mean too much to him. It was a personal milestone, his achievement to own, and if nobody but his half brother, Connor, showed up for it, Julian would be okay with that.
Then again, he was probably telling himself that, preparing for disappointment.
Others in his detachment were planning on half the civilized world to show up. Julian simply didn’t have a ton of people in his life. His father, a professor at Tulane, had died when Julian was fourteen. Julian’s aunt and uncle, in Louisiana, had lacked the means and the space to take him in. With no other options available, Julian had gone to Chino, California, to live with his mother.
It wasn’t the kind of personal history that gave rise to a host of adoring relatives. Could be that was why he was so at home in the service. The people he trained with and worked with felt like family.
As usual, his mind wandered to Daisy. She came from a big extended family, which was one of the many things he loved about her, yet it was also one of the reasons he had trouble imagining a future with her. His duties meant she’d have to tell them all goodbye. It was a hell of a lot to ask of someone.
Flipping through the mail, he came to a small envelope, pre-addressed to him. He ripped into it, and his face lit up with a grin.
Everything fell away, his worries about the ceremony, the pain in his shoulder, the fact that he had a presentation due tomorrow, everything.
He stared down at the simple reply card: “Daisy Bellamy
He was in a great mood by the time he got back to his room. Davenport, one of his suite mates, took one look at his face and asked, “Hey, did you finally get laid, Jughead?”
Julian simply laughed and grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge.
“You must have finished your presentation, then,” said Davenport.
“Barely started it.”
“What’s the topic again?”
“Survivable Acts in Combat.”
“Which means it’ll be a very short list, eh? No wonder you’re not worrying.”
“You’d be surprised what disasters a person can survive,” Julian said.
“Fine. Surprise me.” Davenport swiveled away from his computer screen and waited.
“Parachute mishap, if you can find a soft place to fall,” Julian said, rotating his sore shoulder.
“Ha-ha. Give me a rocket-propelled grenade over that, any day.”
“A grenade can be survivable.”
“Not to the guy who throws himself on top of it to save his buddies.”
“You want to throw the thing back where it came from, ideally.”
“Good to know,” said Davenport.
Julian wasn’t worried about the topic. The hard part of life did not involve physical tasks and academic achievement. He could do school, no worries. He could run a marathon, swim a mile, do chin-ups one-handed. None of that was a problem.
He was challenged by things that came easily to most other people, like figuring out life’s biggest mystery—how love worked.
That was about to change.
There was no textbook or course of study to show him the way, though. Maybe it was like getting caught in a wind shear. You had to hang on, navigate as best you could and hope to land in one piece. That was kind of what he’d always done.
February 2007
Julian stared at the cover letter from the United States Secretary of the Air Force. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Three different ROTC detachments had admitted him, and now he had confirmation of his scholarship. Crushing the formally worded notice against his chest, he stood in the middle of a nondescript parking lot and looked up at the colorless sky over Chino, California. He was going to college. And he was going to fly.
Although bursting with the news, he couldn’t find anyone to tell. He tried to explain it in rapid-fire street Spanish to his neighbor, Rojelio, but Rojelio was late for work and couldn’t hang out with him. After that, Julian ran all the way to the library on Central Ave., barely sensing the pavement beneath his feet. He didn’t have a home computer, and he had to get his reply in right away.
The author John Steinbeck referred to winter in California as the bleak season, and Julian totally got that. It was the doldrums of the year. Chino, a highway town east of L.A., was hemmed in by smog to the west and mountain inversions to the east, often trapping the sharp, ripe smell of the stockyards, which tainted every breath he took. He tended to hole up in the library, doing homework, reading … and dreaming. The summer he’d spent at Willow Lake felt like a distant dream, misty and surreal. It was another world, like the world inside a book.
To make sure the other kids didn’t torture him at his high school, Julian had to pretend he didn’t like books. Among his friends, being good at reading and school made you uncool in the extreme, so he kept his appetite for stories to himself. To him, books were friends and teachers. They kept him from getting lonely, and he learned all kinds of stuff from them. Like what a half orphan was. Reading a novel by Charles Dickens, Julian learned that a half orphan was a kid who had lost one parent. This was something he could relate to. Having lost his dad, Julian now belonged to the ranks of kids with single moms.
His mom had never planned on being a mom. She’d told him so herself and, in a moment of over-sharing, explained that he’d been conceived at an aerospace engineering conference in Niagara Falls, the result of a one-night stand. His father had been the keynote speaker at the event. His mother had been an exotic dancer performing at the nightclub of the conference hotel.
Nine months later, Julian had appeared. His mother had willingly surrendered him to his dad. The two of them had been pretty happy together until his dad died. Julian’s high school years had been spent with his mom, who seemed to have no idea what to do with him.
He didn’t have a cell phone. He was, like, one of the last humanoids on the planet who didn’t have one. That was how broke he and his mom were. She was out of work again, and he had an after-school job at a car dealership, rotating tires and changing oil. Sometimes guys gave him tips, never the rich guys with the hot cars, but the workers with their Chevys and pickups. His mom had a mobile phone, which she claimed she needed in case she got called for an acting job, but the last thing they could handle was one more bill. Their phone service at the house was so basic, they didn’t even have voice mail.
At the library, he could surf the web and access his free email. He quickly found the ROTC site and used the special log-in provided in his welcome packet, feeling as though he’d gained membership to a secret club. Then he quickly checked his email. That was how he kept in touch with Daisy. They weren’t the best at corresponding, and there was nothing from her today. He had school and work; she’d recently moved from New York City to the small town of Avalon to live with her dad. She said her family situation was weird, what with her parents splitting up. He felt bad for her, but couldn’t offer much advice. His folks had never been together, and in a way, maybe that was better, since there was no breakup to adjust to.
Email only went so far, though. He wanted to call her with his news. And to thank her for reminding him college wasn’t out of his reach. Her suggestion, made last summer, had taken root in Julian. There was a way to have the kind of life he’d only dreamed about. In a casual, almost tossed-off remark, she had handed him a golden key.
The apartment he shared with his mother was in a depressing faux-adobe structure surrounded by weedy landscaping and a parking lot of broken asphalt. He let himself in; his mom wasn’t around. When she was out of work, she tended to spend most of her time on the bus to the city, going to networking meetings.
Julian paced back and forth in front of the phone. He finally got up the nerve to call Daisy. He wanted to hear her voice and tell her in person about the letter. The call was going to add to a cost he already couldn’t afford, but he didn’t care.
She picked up right away; she always did when he called her on her cell phone because nobody else called her from this area code. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey, yourself. Is this a good time?” he asked, thinking about the three-hour time difference. In the background of the call, he could hear music.
“It’s fine.” She hesitated, and he recognized the song—“Season of Loving” by the Zombies. He hated that song.
“Everything all right?” It was weird, he hadn’t seen her since last summer, but her It’s fine struck him as all wrong. “What’s up?” he asked.
She killed the music. “Olivia asked me to be in her wedding.”
“That’s cool, right?” Julian was going to be in the wedding, too, because his brother was the groom. He’d never attended a wedding before, but he couldn’t wait because it was going to take place in August at Camp Kioga. Suddenly it occurred to him to check his ROTC schedule to make sure he was free that day.
“It’s not so cool,” Daisy said, her voice kind of thin-sounding. “Listen, Julian, I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you something. God, it’s hard.”
His mind raced. Was she sick? Sick of him? Did she want him to quit calling, make himself scarce? Did she have a boyfriend, for Chrissake?
“Then tell me.”
“I don’t want you to hate me.”
“I could never hate you. I don’t hate anybody.” Not even the drunk driver who had hit his dad. Julian had seen the guy in a courtroom. The guy had been crying so hard he couldn’t stand up. Julian hadn’t felt hatred. Just an incredible, hollow sense of nothingness. “Seriously, Daze,” he said. “You can tell me anything.”
“I hate myself,” she said, her voice low now, trembling.
The phone wasn’t cordless, so his pacing was confined to a small area in front of a window. He looked out at the colorless February day. Down in the parking lot, Rojelio’s wife was bringing in groceries, bag after bag of them. Normally, Julian would run down and give her a hand. She had a bunch of kids—he could never get an accurate count—who ate like a swarm of locusts. All she did was work, buy groceries and fix food.
“Daisy, go ahead and tell me what’s going on.”
“I screwed up. I screwed up big-time.” Her voice sounded fragile, the words like shards of glass, even though he didn’t know what she was talking about. Whatever it was, he wanted to be there, wished he could put his arms around her, inhale the scent of her hair and tell her everything was going to be all right.
His mind scrolled through the possibilities. Had she started smoking again? Was she failing in school? He waited. She knew he was there. He didn’t need to prompt her anymore.
“Julian,” she said at last, a catch in her voice. “I’m going to have a baby. It’s due in the summer.”
The words were so unexpected, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He kept staring at Rojelio’s wife, now on her second trip with the grocery bags. Daisy Bellamy? Having a baby?
At Julian’s school, pregnant girls were pretty common, but Daisy? She was supposed to have, like, this privileged life where nothing bad ever happened. She was supposed to be his girlfriend. It was true, they’d parted ways in the summer having made no promises, but it was an unspoken assumption between them.
Or so he’d thought.
“Julian? Are you there?”
“Yeah.” He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.
“I feel really stupid,” she said, crying now, sounding scared. “And it can’t be undone. The guy … he’s somebody from my school in New York. We weren’t even, like, together or anything. We got drunk one weekend, and … oh, Julian …”
He had no idea what to say. This was not the conversation he’d imagined when he’d picked up the phone. “I guess … wow, I hope you’re going to be all right.”
“I pretty much changed everything for myself. I told my parents, and they’re, like, in shock and everything, but they keep telling me it’ll all work out.”
“It will.” He had no idea if it would or not.
“Julian, I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I feel terrible.”
So did he. “Look, it is what it is.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see me again.”
“I want to see you.”
She breathed a sigh into the phone. “I still want to see you, too.”
“I guess we will at the wedding.”
“Right. So … enough about me.” She gave a weak laugh. “How are things with you?”
It didn’t feel right to share his news with her now. All the energy had been sucked out of him. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she was pregnant … and what she’d done in order to get that way.
“Everything’s fine,” he said.
“Good. Julian?”
“What?”
“I miss you.”
“Yeah,” he said, though he didn’t know what he missed. “Me, too.”
Four
“Hey, buddy,” said Daisy, perching on the edge of Charlie’s sandbox. “Guess what?”
Her son smiled up at her, green eyes twinkling in a way that never failed to catch her heart. “What?”
“You’re going to have a sleepover with your dad.”
“Okay.”
“Does that sound like fun?”
“Yep.” He went back to the trench he was digging in the sand.
The afternoon light filtered through the new leaves, glinting in his fiery red hair. “Silly question,” she said, pushing a toy truck along one of the roads he had paved. “You and your dad always have fun together, right?”
“Yep.” He filled a dump truck with sand. The backyard sandbox was elaborate, a gift from his O’Donnell grandparents for his third birthday. Charlie loved it. His grandpa O’Donnell claimed this was because shipping and transport—the O’Donnell family business—was in his blood, same as his red hair and green eyes.
He looked so much like Logan that Daisy sometimes wondered what part of her their son carried in him. Looking at Charlie felt like peering through a strange lens that took her back across time, to Logan as a child. Before she knew it, Charlie would be starting kindergarten; he’d be the same age Logan had been when Daisy had first met him. That was freaky to contemplate.
Logan’s mother, Marian, loved showing Daisy pictures of Logan at Charlie’s age. “It’s uncanny,” she would say. “They could be twins. Logan was always such a happy child,” Mrs. O’Donnell often added.
A happy child who had nearly ruined his life by the age of eighteen. Daisy suspected Logan had grown up under enormous pressure from his parents. He was the only boy of four kids, and his family was very traditional. Much had been expected of him. He was supposed to excel at academics and sports in school, and he had done so. He and Daisy had attended the same rigorous Manhattan prep school, where she’d watched him swagger through the halls with a twinkle in his eye. He came from a privileged background, and he’d been groomed to carry on the tradition—an Ivy League college, or at the very least, Boston College, his dad’s alma mater, followed by a position in the family’s international shipping firm.
