Page 201 of Bona Fide

Marty: Like when you dipped out of the trip without telling anyone and flew to Washington DC, giving me a damn heart attack.

Me: Gee, that was my next question. Are you still mad?

Marty: You are such a pain in my ass.

Me: I love you more.

Marty: Have fun fleeing Camp David. I’d love to see how you attempt to do that.

Me: I promised I wouldn’t leave. When will you be here?

Marty: Soon.

Me: Doesn’t make me feel better.

Marty: I know. But I promise I’m safe.

Me: Why couldn’t you come again?

Marty: Duty calls.

Me: I can’t wait for you to be done with all of this.

Marty: That’s something we need to talk about when I see you.

My heart plummets because I know what that means.

I think I know what that means anyway. He’s going to reenlist, and it’s going to break both mine and Mama’s heart. He’s served his time, Mama is as good as she can be, and he doesn’t need to slave away anymore. He doesn’t need to be away anymore.

Me: I’m not going to like the answer.

Marty: Give Mama a kiss for me. I love you.

Me: I love you too.

Rising from my spot, I stride back inside to check in on what Mama is doing in her temporary heaven. She’s already come up with ideas of redecorating, rummaged through every room, alluded to going swimming in the pool, and taken three walks around the premises learning some of the names of the soldiers standing guard.

I find her in the kitchen, making lunch, ingredients are all over—mustard, ketchup, mayo, bread, bags of lunch meat and potato chips. Freshly chopped strawberries are in a bowl, and she’s humming happily to herself—unaffected.

“There you are,” Mama coos with a bright smile. “Your show is on.” I return the smile and approach the kitchen island of beautiful black marble.

“Starving,” I reply. No, I’m not. “Marty told me that he’s back with his squadron but wanted me to send his love.”

“Oh, he texted me too. Told me to keep you out of trouble.”

I mean...he isn’t wrong to assume that.

“And skip out on the free food and lodging, I don’t think so,” I tease. Mama slides a glass plate in my direction, along with a can of Coke.

“Grab your stuff, we’ll sit in the family room.” I reach for my food and drink, following her into the next room, where the seventy-inch TV hangs over a large fireplace, already playing the Boston game.

I can’t watch this.

“Let’s see if that one show is on,” I voice. “The renovation show.” Mama snatches up the remote off the coffee table and starts flipping through channels, talking about the episode she watched last night in her bedroom.

Anything to keep her mind occupied.

Any way to keep my mind from sauntering over to Wade and the trouble he’s in.

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