door.
The look on my daughter’s face froze the blood in my veins.
K ATY’S HAIR WAS BLOND CHAOS, HER EYES WET AND RED. MASCARA smeared her lower lids and cheeks.
I rushed forward and drew my daughter to me.
“Sweetheart, what is it?”
Katy stood mute, shoulders hunched, fingers curled into fists.
Urging her to the study and onto the couch, I reengaged my embrace and began stroking her back. She remained rigid, neither resisting nor responding to my touch.
Seconds passed. A minute. Finally, chest heaving, her body collapsed into mine. Tears soon dampened my pajama top.
My stomach knotted as memories kaleidoscoped in my brain. Childhood tragedies that had elicited similar tears. The death of her kitten, Arthur. The relocation to Iowa of her middle school best friend. The news that her father, Pete, and I were separating.
But Katy was twenty-four now. What could have happened to upset her so profoundly? Illness? A clash at work? A crisis involving Lija? Pete?
As with those long-ago heartbreaks, my response was lightning, instinctual.
Fix it!
But I knew. There was nothing I could do.
Feeling helpless, I caressed my daughter’s hair and made calming sounds.
Gran’s clock ticked a steady metronome. I remembered her gnarled old hand on my small head, her voice soothing me through my own childhood misfortunes.
Outside, a dog barked. Others joined in. A horn honked.
At one point, Birdie appeared in the doorway. Sensing high emotion, or perhaps hungry or bored, he moved on.
Slowly, inevitably, Katy’s sobs subsided and her breathing regained a normal rhythm. Pushing off from my chest, she sat up.
Normally perfect, my daughter’s face set a new standard for makeup gone wild. Backhanding her nose, she dragged clumps of long blond hair from her face.
I plucked tissues from a box and handed them to her. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, then tossed the wad to the floor.
“Coop’s dead.” Barely a whisper.
“Coop’s coming home.” Stupid, but it’s what I said. I’d heard Katy’s words, but my mind had locked down.
“Yeah.” Fighting fresh tears. “In a box.”
I offered more tissues, clasped Katy’s hands. “What happened?”
“You haven’t seen the news?”
“I was in Lumberton all day.”
“Insurgents fired on their convoy. Coop was killed along with an Afghan driver and two women from England.”
“Oh, my God. When?”
“Yesterday.” She drew a tremulous breath. “I heard the story on CNN, never thought anything of it. They didn’t give names, not of the dead people nor the organization they worked for. Then today, they identified the victims. I . . .”
Her lower lip trembled. She bit down hard.
“Oh, Katy,” I said.
Sonofabitch, I thought.
But, yes, that’s how it would work. Identities would be released only after notification of next of kin.
“Have you phoned Coop’s family?”
“Yeah, right.” She gave a derisive snort. “I got some uncle or cousin or something. Basically, he told me to kiss off.”
“What did he say?”
“The guy hadn’t a clue who I was, couldn’t have cared less. Said the memorial service would be private. Thanks for calling. Go screw yourself.”
“Where were they attacked?”
“Some road outside Kabul. Everyone in the convoy worked for the International Rescue Committee. They were taking Coop and one of the Brits to the airport.”
To fly home. She couldn’t say it.
“Two were injured in the second vehicle. All four in the lead car died on the spot.” Katy swallowed. “Of multiple bullet wounds.”
“Oh, sweetie. I am so, so sorry.”
“They were aid workers!” It was almost a shriek. “They dug wells and taught people how to boil water.”
I squeezed Katy’s hands. They trembled.
“The Taliban are claiming responsibility. They say Coop and his colleagues were spies. Spies! Can you believe it?”
Loathing battled sorrow inside me. And mounting fury. It was the Taliban’s usual justification for murder. The
The look on my daughter’s face froze the blood in my veins.
K ATY’S HAIR WAS BLOND CHAOS, HER EYES WET AND RED. MASCARA smeared her lower lids and cheeks.
I rushed forward and drew my daughter to me.
“Sweetheart, what is it?”
Katy stood mute, shoulders hunched, fingers curled into fists.
Urging her to the study and onto the couch, I reengaged my embrace and began stroking her back. She remained rigid, neither resisting nor responding to my touch.
Seconds passed. A minute. Finally, chest heaving, her body collapsed into mine. Tears soon dampened my pajama top.
My stomach knotted as memories kaleidoscoped in my brain. Childhood tragedies that had elicited similar tears. The death of her kitten, Arthur. The relocation to Iowa of her middle school best friend. The news that her father, Pete, and I were separating.
But Katy was twenty-four now. What could have happened to upset her so profoundly? Illness? A clash at work? A crisis involving Lija? Pete?
As with those long-ago heartbreaks, my response was lightning, instinctual.
Fix it!
But I knew. There was nothing I could do.
Feeling helpless, I caressed my daughter’s hair and made calming sounds.
Gran’s clock ticked a steady metronome. I remembered her gnarled old hand on my small head, her voice soothing me through my own childhood misfortunes.
Outside, a dog barked. Others joined in. A horn honked.
At one point, Birdie appeared in the doorway. Sensing high emotion, or perhaps hungry or bored, he moved on.
Slowly, inevitably, Katy’s sobs subsided and her breathing regained a normal rhythm. Pushing off from my chest, she sat up.
Normally perfect, my daughter’s face set a new standard for makeup gone wild. Backhanding her nose, she dragged clumps of long blond hair from her face.
I plucked tissues from a box and handed them to her. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, then tossed the wad to the floor.
“Coop’s dead.” Barely a whisper.
“Coop’s coming home.” Stupid, but it’s what I said. I’d heard Katy’s words, but my mind had locked down.
“Yeah.” Fighting fresh tears. “In a box.”
I offered more tissues, clasped Katy’s hands. “What happened?”
“You haven’t seen the news?”
“I was in Lumberton all day.”
“Insurgents fired on their convoy. Coop was killed along with an Afghan driver and two women from England.”
“Oh, my God. When?”
“Yesterday.” She drew a tremulous breath. “I heard the story on CNN, never thought anything of it. They didn’t give names, not of the dead people nor the organization they worked for. Then today, they identified the victims. I . . .”
Her lower lip trembled. She bit down hard.
“Oh, Katy,” I said.
Sonofabitch, I thought.
But, yes, that’s how it would work. Identities would be released only after notification of next of kin.
“Have you phoned Coop’s family?”
“Yeah, right.” She gave a derisive snort. “I got some uncle or cousin or something. Basically, he told me to kiss off.”
“What did he say?”
“The guy hadn’t a clue who I was, couldn’t have cared less. Said the memorial service would be private. Thanks for calling. Go screw yourself.”
“Where were they attacked?”
“Some road outside Kabul. Everyone in the convoy worked for the International Rescue Committee. They were taking Coop and one of the Brits to the airport.”
To fly home. She couldn’t say it.
“Two were injured in the second vehicle. All four in the lead car died on the spot.” Katy swallowed. “Of multiple bullet wounds.”
“Oh, sweetie. I am so, so sorry.”
“They were aid workers!” It was almost a shriek. “They dug wells and taught people how to boil water.”
I squeezed Katy’s hands. They trembled.
“The Taliban are claiming responsibility. They say Coop and his colleagues were spies. Spies! Can you believe it?”
Loathing battled sorrow inside me. And mounting fury. It was the Taliban’s usual justification for murder. The
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