James Callahan spent five years at sea as a Navy lieutenant, and I spent five years on shore, waiting. He said warships were dangerous, conditions were rough, family couldn’t come aboard. So I kept our little home quiet, waiting for him to come back to port each time. Even when I slipped and lost the baby, I bit my tongue and didn’t disturb him. Until the day I was cleaning and pulled a metal box out from under his pillow. The moment I opened it, photographs scattered across the floor. On top was a Family Cruise application form. Applicant: Lily Sullivan—the younger sister of James’s fallen brother-in-arms. In the photo, Lily stood beside James, seagulls and the gray bow of a destroyer behind them, her smile brighter than a California sea breeze. On the back, in James’s handwriting: “You are the lighthouse of my every voyage. —J.” I laughed. I looked around our little home. Not a single picture of the two of us. From that day on, I stopped going to Coronado. Stopped sending texts that vanished into the void. Stopped reheating soup that nobody came home to drink. The ship that had sailed in my heart for five years finally sank without a sound. … “Why didn’t you come pick me up today?” James pushed open the door just as I was sitting at the table peeling an orange, watching the weather forecast on TV. Every time he came home before, come rain or shine, I’d have driven to the base two hours early. “Been busy.” I popped a segment of orange into my mouth, answering offhand, then got up and walked into the kitchen. He followed, trying to wrap his arms around my waist from behind. Before, every time he did this, I’d turn around laughing, rise up on my toes, and put my arms around his neck. But this time my body moved faster than my head— I took a step to the left and slipped out of reach. He didn’t seem to notice. He went straight to his duffel bag. “Long deployment this time. Didn’t have time to grab anything nice.” “Picked up a silk scarf. Lily said women love that kind of thing.” The scarf was ocean blue. The tag was printed in Italian—Naples. He’d brought it back from the Mediterranean. Something bitter rose in my chest. He was always like this. Made up for everything with a little gift, as if that made me part of every leg of his voyage. And then simply assumed I’d be waiting in the same place, next time. “You don’t like it?” Seeing no delight on my face, he frowned. “It’s nice.” I smiled thinly. His frown deepened. He tugged at the top button of his uniform collar. “Emma, are you still upset I didn’t bring you aboard?” “I told you, wives aren’t permitted on the ship.” His voice dropped, edged with irritation. “Why do you never listen? Not only did you not come pick me up today, you didn’t even have a bowl of soup ready. And I brought you a present.” Listening to the accusation in his tone, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The words came out before I could stop them: “Family can’t come aboard, but Lily—an outsider—can go anywhere with you?” He seemed to catch on then to my coldness. He sighed, adopting a put-upon expression. “Come on. Lily’s different from you. Her brother is dead. I promised I’d look after her.” “You’re being childish. Nickel-and-diming about Lily all the time—we’re married, don’t be so petty.” So in his eyes, I was petty. The strength went out of me. I didn’t want to say another word. Seeing my silence, he tried what he thought was kindness. “We’ll drop it this time. I won’t hold it against you. But don’t sulk. Try to be a little bigger about this from now on.” He leaned in, casually, meaning to kiss me and put the argument to rest. I raised a hand and pressed it lightly against his shoulder. He froze. “I’m tired, James.” He was silent for a few seconds, then patted my shoulder. “All right. Get some rest.” “Mm.” I stayed cold. His phone rang. The instant he answered, I heard a familiar female voice on the other end. “James! Something terrible—the souvenirs I bought on this cruise are gone!” Lily. Her voice sounded on the verge of tears. “Don’t panic! I’ll be right there!” James responded instantly, already turning away. “Lily’s got an emergency. I’ll head over. Back tonight!” He didn’t wait for my answer. He ran out the door. I don’t know how long I stood there before I dragged my numb body toward the study. That was where James kept his charts. He’d once pointed to the sea lanes on them and said he’d take me down every one. I walked in. The shelves held wind chimes of shells from Yokosuka, a wooden fishing boat model from Diego Garcia, blue and white pottery from Crete… Five years. His ship had put in at ports in twelve countries. I hadn’t set foot even once in the base right down the road in San Diego. I pulled the blue leather-bound logbook off the bottom shelf. I’d given it to him two years ago for his birthday. I flipped through it idly. Strait of Hormuz, Gibraltar, Naples… Nearly every place he’d been, nearly every page—Lily’s name was there. So she’d been sailing with him for a long time. I was the only one kept in the dark. I sat in the study until deep into the night. Only then did footsteps sound outside the door. James pushed it open and saw the logbook in my hands. His expression shifted, just slightly, then smoothed back into place. “Why aren’t you asleep?” I didn’t answer. He came over and put his arms around my waist, offering an easy explanation. “Lily’s sensitive, you know how she is. She’s got nobody left in her family. After that first time on the ship, she kept asking to come again. I couldn’t very well say no.” “Mm.” I looked down and put the logbook back where I’d found it. My phone buzzed in my pocket. An iMessage from Zoe: The lawyer you had me ask about—military divorce specialist. He wants to know when you can meet. I set the phone face-up on the desk. The screen was still lit. James glanced down instinctively. His breath stopped.
He stood there for a long moment, then let out a short, impatient laugh. “What’s gotten into you today? Since when are you so damn petty?” “I took Lily out to sea a few times and now you want a divorce?” “Fine. Next deployment I’ll bring you. Happy?” He gave the collar of his uniform another tug, as if coaxing an unreasonable child. Without waiting for my reply, he turned and headed for the bedroom. A few steps in, he looked back. “Lily’s several years younger than you and she’s twice as mature. Take a page out of her book, would you?” Something tight rose in my chest and then, just as quickly, sank away. Once, words like these would have panicked me. They would have sent me scrambling to explain myself. They would have made me wonder if I just wasn’t good enough. But now, all that was left inside me was a flat, level calm. Five years. All I’d done was wait. Waited for every return to port. Sick with no one to lean on, sending texts into a black hole. And him, using the pretext of looking after Lily, leaving me over and over at the exact moments I needed him most. I looked him in the eye and nodded. “All right. I won’t make a scene anymore.” I turned without another word and walked into the guest bedroom. Over the following days, I packed up my things without saying a word. James spent every day at Lily’s place. So he never noticed the things quietly disappearing from the house. The little fishbowl on the coffee table went to Zoe. The old armchair from the living room—the one I always sat in—I dragged out to the curb. Every trace of me was fading from this house, one piece at a time. “This afternoon I’m teaching Lily to read charts. Come along.” James sat at the breakfast table, taking a long pull of black coffee. “You’re always complaining you can’t read a chart—that you never know where I am.” I used to beg him to teach me. He said, “Stuff at sea, you wouldn’t get it. No point learning.” Now he was volunteering—but only as a tag-along to Lily’s lesson. The doorbell rang. Lily stood on the doorstep in a white cotton dress, a beige canvas bag over one shoulder. She flashed a bright smile. “Hi, Emma.” I said nothing. The air went stiff for a moment. Her eyes reddened instantly. Her fingers twisted in her skirt. “Emma, do you—do you not want me here?” “If it bothers you, I won’t come again.” She turned to leave, all wounded. James’s brow snapped together and he stepped past me in one stride, catching her by the wrist. “Where are you going?” He turned to me, exasperated. “Emma, I told you. Lily is Ryan’s sister. That makes her my sister too.” “If you can’t stand her being around me, then forget it—I won’t bring you along next deployment either.” Disappointment crept up like cold seawater, chilling me from head to foot. Ryan. That name was the shield he lifted every single time. As if all he had to do was say Ryan died saving my life and every grievance of mine had to be pressed back down, silent, without so much as a whimper. James didn’t look at me again. He led Lily to the door of the study, pushed it open, and went in. Under the lamp above the chart table. He spread out the massive Pacific chart, bent over it, ran his finger from one port to the next. “This is the Strait of Hormuz. This is Gibraltar.” “Last year going through Hormuz, the swells were monstrous. The destroyer rolled like she was going to capsize.” He tilted his head toward Lily, voice gentle. “You were hiding in your rack, terrified. Remember how many texts you sent me?” Lily laughed behind her hand, tears still glittering at the corner of her eye. “Thirty-seven. You said it was fine, and just like that, I wasn’t scared anymore.” They stood shoulder to shoulder at the chart table. The floor lamp threw their shadows against the wall, pressed close together. I stood in the doorway of the study like a spectator. I remembered that day. CNN had been running Persian Gulf coverage all day long, gray warships and heaving swells filling every frame. I paced the house, sick with worry. I sent text after text until the screen was full of them. The next day he finally replied: OK. Everything they’d been through together—I’d known nothing about any of it. My chest ached, faintly. I turned and went back to my room to keep packing. If I’d known nothing, then James’s future was something else I no longer wished to be part of.
A knock at the door. I opened it. My neighbor, Mrs. Martha, stood there holding a still-steaming casserole dish, a checkered cloth draped across the top. “Emma, I saw James was home. I made a chicken bake, thought the two of you—oh?” She glanced past me and saw the two figures standing side by side in the study. Her face changed on the spot. She shoved the casserole into my hands. Her voice was low, but every word had a barb in it. “Lieutenant Callahan. Emma sits at home waiting for you. Drives out to the Coronado piers before sunup. Rain, wind—doesn’t miss a day.” “You come home and spend it with somebody else, and leave her standing to the side?” The rustling in the study stopped. Lily came out, eyes red. “Mrs. Martha, you’re misunderstanding—” “Misunderstanding, my foot. I’ve got eyes.” Mrs. Martha’s face was pure disdain. “These girls now, all day long, only thing on their minds is stealing somebody else’s husband—” She didn’t finish. Lily covered her face and bolted out the door. James snatched up his service jacket and went tearing after her. Passing me, he flung a cold sentence over his shoulder. “So this is how you talk about Lily to the neighbors when I’m not home.” “If anything happens to her, I will never forgive you.” I stood in the empty doorway. The casserole was still hot. The steam blew up into my face. Mrs. Martha looked stricken. “I’m sorry, honey. Did I make it worse?” My voice came out rough. “You’re not what’s wrong with us.” I suddenly remembered that winter. The wind at Coronado had been strong enough to knock you off your feet. I’d stood on the pier in a down parka for three hours, waiting. He’d stepped off the ship. Lily had called—said she’d twisted her ankle and couldn’t get down the stairs. He’d left me alone in the parking lot. The sea wind slid down my collar, cold as knives. Halfway home something warm ran down my leg and stained half my pants leg red. I called James. He didn’t pick up. Not until the next day did he send back a few brief words: Underway on short notice. Back at sea. I didn’t want him blaming himself, so I never told him about the pregnancy—or the miscarriage. Now I knew. There was no emergency underway. He’d just taken Lily out on the ship, on the spot, to smooth her feelings. … When James came home that night, his face was darker than a Pacific storm. He stood in the entryway, still in his service jacket, and led with: “Are you happy now?” “Lily cried for hours. You’re going to Mrs. Martha’s tomorrow to set the record straight.” “Lily and I are clean. You’re the one who imagines things all day long.” “If you can’t handle her being around…” He paused. “Then there’s no point continuing this marriage either.” “Done?” I stopped what I was doing. James frowned. “I can’t handle it.” He blinked. “What did you say?” “I said—” I touched a hand to my belly. There had once been a small life there. “Go find Lily. We’re getting divorced.” James straightened up sharply. His face went ugly. “Emma Whitaker. Remember what you said today. Don’t come crawling back begging.” He expected a fight. Because in the past, with our precious little time together, I never had the heart to spend it in silence. So I always bowed my head, gave ground, let him go to Lily. But now I simply turned, walked to the nightstand, and pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside was a thin manila envelope. I took it out and laid it on top of the nightstand. The iMessage Zoe had sent an hour earlier still lit up the phone screen: Divorce papers drafted. Look them over. Sign if the terms work.
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