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  But later, when they told him that Chloe was dead, Mike remembered one thing:

  I forgot to say my prayer.

  Chapter Three

  Mike climbed the jetway at Philadelphia International Airport in a sort of trance, numb. His backpack hung off his shoulder, and his iPod buds were plugged into his ears, though he played no music. He’d turned off his phone in Afghanistan, to avoid the condolence emails and calls from his former partners and friends. The one call he would have answered wouldn’t come, ever again.

  Mike lumbered into the gate area, where the fluorescent lights hurt his eyes and the Christmas music bled through his buds. It was inconceivable that Chloe was dead. She was worried about him, not the other way around. They’d even made wills and upped their life insurance, in case he died. So it made absolutely no sense that she had died in a household accident, a stab wound, an SW. His wife. It wouldn’t have happened if he’d been home. He had failed her. Chloe had died alone.

  He fell behind the excited and happy travelers, a swollen scrum of scarves and puffy coats who bustled along, rolling suitcases and carrying shopping bags of wrapped gifts. He kept going, head down and one boot in front of the other, past the Jamba Juice and a Gap decorated in red-and-green lights, blue-and-white menorahs, and signs 30% OFF EVERYDAY PRICES. The most time the Army would give him was ten days’ emergency leave, so there was a lot to do in a short time, and Mike told himself he’d get it done, just like in surgery. He’d drape the blasted flesh and perform the steps in the procedure, which was burying his wife and making arrangements for the care of their child.

  He tugged out his earbuds, tucked them in his pocket, and felt his senses assaulted by the sights, sounds, and colors. Afghanistan was tan and brown, except for what was gray; the dry earth was a gray-brown powder that the soldiers called moondust, and the flat-roofed Afghani houses of the Kunar Valley were hewn from gray-black indigenous rock, built into the mountains and covered with gray stones and grayer rubble. Camp Leatherneck, where he’d first flown in, was in the gray-brown-red desert, but at least it had a portable toilet, and he’d been in camps that smelled like smoke and feces, which they burned, creating a stench all its own.

  Mike shook it off, trying to leave it behind, but caught betwixt and between. The aroma of fresh pizza filled the air as he passed the Sbarro’s, and he caught a whiff of a flowery scent from a perfume kiosk. It reminded him of Chloe, so he tried not to breathe. He reached the security exit, where the crowd crammed together into a chute. They’d all be dead if they came under enemy fire, and he felt a bolt of reflexive fear. His heart rate picked up until he reminded himself he was home. A TSA lady smiled at him, showing a gold tooth, but he looked away.

  “Mike! Over here!”

  Mike spotted Bob, who clearly wasn’t himself, showing the strain. Robert Ridgeway was a tall, sandy-haired lawyer, usually a commanding presence, but tonight his shoulders slumped in his camelhair topcoat and his brow furrowed all the way to his hairline, with its expensive layers. Mike threaded his way through the crowd and hugged him.

  “Hey, Bob,” he said hoarsely. He wanted to hold it together, in public. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mike.” Bob hugged Mike back awkwardly, either because of the backpack or the emotion.

  “I still can’t believe it.”

  “I know, Mike.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” Bob gave him a final squeeze, then let him go. His smallish eyes were a weary blue, and he looked older than his forty years. “What can I say?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing to say. It’s not possible.” Mike tried to clear his throat, but it wasn’t working. People glanced over, seeing it wasn’t a typical holiday homecoming.

  “Let’s go. Did you check anything?”

  “Nah, I got it.” Mike didn’t remark the naïveté of the question, which touched him. He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder.

  “I parked in short-term, so no muss, no fuss. Traffic’s crazy.” Bob walked down the corridor, and Mike fell into step beside him, trying to recover. Maybe he wasn’t as good at compartmentalizing as he thought.

  “How’s Danielle taking it?”

  “Terrible. She was in bed the whole first day, crying her eyes out, but she’s coming around.” Bob moved quickly, his topcoat flying open. “The baby’s keeping her in the game, and she’s worried about you.”

  Mike knew Danielle would be devastated. The sisters didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but their differences seemed to dissolve after Emily was born. Danielle was the older of the two and she had helped Chloe with everything. “How’s Emily?”

  “She’s great. Big. She’s really cute, wait’ll you see her, and she laughs, like, a belly laugh.” Bob didn’t look over. “Danielle will show you. She makes her laugh.”

  “Thanks for stepping in. You guys are a Godsend.”

  “Not me. Danielle did most of it.”

  “Nah, come on. Credit where credit is due. I saw you in that photo at the waterpark. Where was that, Dorney?”

  “No, Sesame Place.”

  “They have a wave pool?” Mike reached the escalator, piling on behind Bob.

  “No. You can’t put that young a baby in a wave pool. It was a kiddie pool.”

  Mike reddened, oddly ashamed. He knew Emily was too young for a wave pool. They reached the bottom of the escalator, where limo drivers lined up in front of glowing hotel ads. The crowd flowed to the right toward the baggage carousels, and Mike sped up to stay with Bob, who kept talking.

  “Glad I bought the snowblower. Snowed yesterday, for six more inches. You believe this weather?”

  Mike couldn’t make small talk right now, so he didn’t try. He knew that Bob felt as awful as he did, but just dealt with it differently.

  “I saw online that Kabul and Philly are about the same latitude, so we have the same weather. Weird, huh?”

  Mike thought it was typical Bob, who prepared for everything, which he actually liked.

  “I was looking at some photos, of Kabul. What a dump! It looks like the Stone Age.”

  Mike didn’t want to talk about Kabul, either. The coffee shops and Internet cafes did business among the rubble and burned-out cars. The children played under the bridges, next to heroin addicts. The Afghani people were grateful, anguished, and angry, in equal measure. The Afghan National Army, ANA, and the Afghan National Police, ANP, were willing but unable. The Coalition Forces were gone or out of gas.

  “I looked online. There’s, like, three cities in the whole damn country.”

  Mike didn’t correct him, unaccountably defensive. Afghanistan was a godforsaken country that he loved. The nights there could be so beautiful it was terrifying. Oddly, Mike had thought none of these thoughts until this very moment. He survived in the FST because he kept his head down and his focus narrowed to one wound, one bleeder, one suture. If he did his job well, he disappeared.

  “Did you know that Afghanistan is twice the size of Iraq?” Bob motored ahead. “I read that Helmand Province is about seventy-eight thousand square miles. That’s huge. Chloe told us you can hear monkeys howl at night.”

  Chloe. Mike felt a thud in his chest. Bob said her name, and it was like breaking a spell, or casting one.

  “Chloe said you saw tarantulas and mountain lions, too. And vultures.”

  Mike didn’t want to think about vultures. Every war probably had vultures. The birds of Southern Afghanistan were varied and beautiful, but they all scattered the same way when an RPG was fired.

  “What a mess, huh?” Bob led him out toward the exit. “We still got troops there. People die every week, but it hardly makes the news.”

  Mike found his mood worsening, his grief descending like nightfall. They left the terminal, joining the noisy crowd at the pedestrian crossing. The cold air braced him and he struggled to acclimate to the density, traffic, and honking horns. Cigarette smoke wafted into his face, and it reminded him of t
he soldiers, who all smoked or chewed. They weren’t under his care long enough for him to lecture them.

  Bob stepped off the curb. “Follow me. I parked where the limos do.”

  “Will the baby be up?”

  “With any luck, she will.”

  “Good.” Mike wanted to hold his baby daughter, a soft little bundle of Emily. She’d barely been as long as his forearm when he left. He would tell her all about her mom. He would make sure she remembered her mother, always. He would show her photos and make sure Emily knew that her mother had loved her to the very marrow.

  “Mike, just so you know, we took the crib and toys and brought them to the house. Danielle wanted to keep as many things the same as possible.” Bob barreled along, his breath steamy in the chilly air. “Danielle loves taking care of the baby, and that’s what family’s for.”

  “Thanks.” Mike would have to hire a nanny to take care of the baby until his deployment ended and he’d already emailed agencies. His parents were dead, and so were Chloe’s.

  “Wait’ll you see the new house. We moved in last month. Finally.”

  Mike swallowed hard, remembering that Chloe had been so happy to have them closer, after they found out he was being deployed. But even that hadn’t helped her, in the end. She had died alone. Mike felt a wave of guilt so powerful it almost felled him.

  “I told the contractor, I’m not paying the last installment until you’re done.” Bob stalked through the parking lot, with Mike following. “The only good thing about a lousy economy is that it gives people like me leverage. Cash is king, baby.”

  Mike hung his head. The Army didn’t know any details of Chloe’s accident, except that she cut herself by accident. He couldn’t listen to another minute of small talk. “Bob, what happened to her?”

  “Huh?” Bob turned, his blondish eyebrows lifting.

  “Chloe. What happened to her?” Mike heard his voice break. He stopped walking. He didn’t want to take another step until he knew everything. The chattering crowd flowed around them, their rollerbags rumbling on the frozen asphalt.

  Bob faced Mike, his forehead creased. “Let’s talk about it at home, okay?”

  “Can’t we talk about it here?”

  “Mike.” Bob looked crestfallen. “Mike, please. Can’t it wait? Danielle knows more than I do. She can explain.”

  Mike understood. They both felt a little lost without their wives, who knew how to make this easier. They were just two guys in a parking lot, trying not to embarrass themselves in front of strangers. “Okay.”

  Bob turned away, raised his key fob, and chirped his black Mercedes to life.

  Mike knew that Bob heaved a sigh because a cloud of steamy breath wreathed his head, rose into the air, and floated off.

  Vanishing like a ghost.

  Chapter Four

  Mike entered the house behind Bob. It was warm and lovely, like something out of a magazine. Crystal lamps shone from mahogany tables, and a navy blue patterned sofa and matching chairs sat around a gas fireplace, flickering behind smoked glass. Holiday cards lined up on the mantel, and a Christmas tree decorated with tiny white lights blinked like electrified stars. Wrapped presents were spread on a carpet of fake snow, and the air smelled of pine, from a scented candle.

  “Danielle, we’re home.” Bob walked ahead, taking off his topcoat.

  Mike hung back and tugged down his ACU shirt, trying to make sense of his situation. One day he was covered in blood and he had a wife, and the next he had no wife and he was here. He set the backpack on the Oriental rug, worried it would leave moondust.

  “Mike, oh, Mike.” Danielle came toward him from the back of the house, throwing open her arms, reminding Mike so powerfully of Chloe that he almost lost it. He met Danielle and hugged her close, knowing if he started crying, he’d never stop. Danielle looked a lot like Chloe but wasn’t exactly Chloe, in the way sisters echo each other but aren’t exact replicas, and as Mike held Danielle, he felt the agony of losing Chloe and the joy at having her again, even if an echo was as insubstantial as thin air.

  “I’m so sorry.” Danielle clung to him, sniffling in his arms, slim and vaguely stiff in a white blouse and pressed jeans. “I know you loved her, so much.”

  “You, too.” Mike breathed in her floral perfume and peach-scented hair conditioner, the scents that were almost-but-not-quite Chloe. “I’m so sorry you lost her, too.”

  “She was my best friend. She was a great sister, and a great mother.” Danielle’s tone strengthened, recovering. She patted his back. “We’ll get through this together, as a family. We’ll pull together, and I’ll be there for you and Emily, and so will Bob.”

  “Thank you.” Mike released her, managing to keep it together, and Danielle smiled up at him with glistening eyes, her lower lip trembling.

  “Everybody sends their love and sympathy. All the old teachers at the middle school, and even some of her old students. Your partners have been calling and they sent a card.” Danielle sniffled and managed a shaky smile. “I was so touched by that, because Chloe liked them all, so much. People are posting on Facebook, too, on Chloe’s wall, sending you and the baby love and sympathy, which is nice.”

  “Is she awake?” Mike felt an overwhelming urge to see Emily.

  “No, she’s not, I’m sorry.” Danielle wiped her tears with her index finger turned on its side. “I tried, but she fell asleep.”

  “I want to see her anyway. Is she upstairs?” Mike went to the staircase and looked up to the second floor, his hand on the banister.

  “Yes, she is.”

  Bob came up, his topcoat off. “Mike, why don’t you eat, then go see her. She’s not going anywhere.” He loosened his tie, making deep wrinkles in his neck skin. “How about it, huh? Come in the kitchen. Danielle made turkey chili.”

  “I made it the way you like it,” Danielle added gently. “I have shredded cheddar. Eat first, then go see her. You don’t want to upset her.”

  “Okay.” Mike didn’t want Emily to see him such a mess. He was supposed to be a father, not a bowl of Jell-O.

  “Here, come with me.” Danielle took his elbow. “People have been dropping off casseroles and pies, too. When was the last time you had a good meal?”

  “I don’t know.” Mike let her steer him into the kitchen, which smelled of spicy chili, but he had no appetite.

  “Go, sit down, please.” Danielle gestured at a pine table with long benches instead of chairs, which reminded him of the mess hall at Bagram. It was set for dinner and stood against a wall of windows. He checked outside reflexively, but they were safe. Snow shimmered in an encrusted carpet, and frosted evergreens were illuminated by spotlights. In Afghanistan, they would say the house needed light security, making itself a target from the air.

  “The house is really nice,” Mike said, trying to get normal.

  “Thanks.” Danielle crossed to the stove, which was huge and shiny, of black enamel. Walnut cabinets and glossy black granite countertops ringed the huge kitchen. “It was a labor of love.”

  “Ha.” Bob pulled out the bench and sat down opposite Mike. “By love she means money.”

  “Bob, ahem, I earn money, too, remember?” Danielle shook her head, without rancor. She was a graduate of Penn Law School, but had never practiced and worked as the office administrator at Bob’s law firm, The Ridgeway Group.

  “Are those Emily’s toys?” Mike gestured at the family room, which had a custom entertainment center, tan sectional furniture, and a beige carpet covered with toys, a playpen, and a baby swing.

  “Yes.” Bob grunted. “The girls have taken over my man cave.”

  “Bob, really?” Danielle came over with a cup of coffee and set it down in front of Mike. “Here we go, with Half & Half.”

  “Thanks.” Mike didn’t take his coffee that way anymore, but didn’t say so. He kept looking at the toys, which he didn’t recognize, though he’d gone with Chloe to Toys R Us before he was deployed. It was their big shopping trip with a
newborn Emily, who slept through the whole store. Still they’d had a blast, going through the aisles.

  We need diapers, Chloe had said, pulling him away from the Barbie cars.

  But this is automotive excellence. When can we get her one of these?

  “You okay, Mike?” Danielle asked, from the stove.

  “Fine.” Mike turned from the toys, his heart aching. “Danielle, what happened to Chloe? Do you have the details?”

  “Oh, honey.” Danielle waved him off with a wooden spoon. “Let’s talk after. Dinner’s ready now.”

  “No, tell me. Please.” Mike braced himself. “I want to know everything. Who found her? Did you?”

  “Now, you want to talk?”

  “Yes. Please?”

  “Okay.” Danielle set the spoon on a ceramic rest, lowered the heat, and came over, sitting next to Bob. Her lower lip puckered, and she laced her fingers together in front of her, a smallish bony fist on the table. “I found her. I was out with the baby for the day, to give Chloe a break. I thought it would be nice if you and Chloe got a present from Emily. We got Chloe an ornament, and you a book.”

  Mike tried to listen without emotion. He didn’t want to think about the ornament Chloe would never get, picked out by their baby. He felt broken and woozy. He sipped his coffee, which didn’t taste like anything but heat. His hand was shaking.

  “The police think that Chloe cut herself on a knife, then hit her head on the counter when she fell.” Danielle bit her lip. “You know she fainted when she saw blood.”

  “So it was an accident, with a knife.” Mike knew that much. He wanted to know more, everything.

  “Yes. It was on her forearm. I didn’t look. She was in the entrance hall, face down. They think she was trying to get to the door.” Danielle’s eyes glistened, and Bob put his arm around her. “They think she knocked herself unconscious, and when I came home that night with the baby, I found her.”

  Mike squeezed the mug. He wanted to crush it. He wanted to drive shards into his palms.