The Spring Girls

Three

"Girls!"

"Mom's up!" Amy exclaimed, as if I hadn't heard her. Amy shoved her sparkly gold iPhone into her pocket and rushed to the living room.

I grabbed my coffee mug from the counter and refilled it. I started a new pot for Meredith and plodded into the living room. When I entered, everyone was on the couch, save Amy, who sat on the floor at Meg's feet. Beth's soft voice was reading the password to Meredith's laptop for the tenth time this week.

"We got a letter," Meredith started to tell us. Her hands were wrapped around a coffee mug, and her face turned to mine. Her light eyes were swollen and tired. Another holiday without my dad. I thought it would get easier as the years went by, but Meredith seemed to be taking this one harder than the three before.

"An email? From Dad?" Amy bounced around before landing on Beth's lap.

"Yes. Your dad. Who else?" Meredith told us. She sat her mug down on the side table and I peeped inside of it, but it was empty. It wasn't stained with coffee, and it smelled a little sour. Weird.

I felt bad for not being surprised or excited to hear from my dad. It always seemed like the longer he was gone, the tighter I had to hold on to the memories I had of him, and if I read too many impersonal emails from the online version of him, I would forget the life of him.

My dad was always bright, his energy consuming. He lit up and took command of a room with his laughter and his witty commentary on all things. I loved to just listen to him talk; his views on the world were so passionate and fascinating, and I loved it. Meredith said I got my bleeding heart from him. And I was fine with that.

But his bleeding heart couldn't be felt through the coldness of the screen.

I tried to smile for my family's sake.

"Let us read it! Where is it?" Amy tugged impatiently on the sleeve of Meredith's shirt.

"It's an email, she has to open it. Be patient, Amy." Beth petted Amy's hair, and the little one instantly calmed down.

I tried to hide the void expression covering my face, but I was never good at hiding anything, especially from my family. Everyone around me always knew what I was thinking before I ever had the chance to say a word. It drove me insane. I couldn't lie; I couldn't hide my frustrations from my sisters or my parents, no matter how hard I tried. My dad always said I was as open as my favorite book. When I got dropped from the journalism program at my high school and demoted to ad manager of the yearbook, I came rushing through the door. I tried to keep my expression flat, not to draw attention to my failure. But the moment the door opened, every single face in my house turned to me, and my family started clucking around me like crazed chickens. All I said to my mom was "I'm fine," but in that moment I felt like my entire career had ended before it even began. I hated being a young senior in high school. I wasn't even seventeen.

To make it worse, my senior year was to be spent in the sticky-sweet Louisiana sun, where my skin burned while Meg's tanned, and my hair turned to ash while Amy's bleachy blond was kissed by the sun. I'd always hated the sunshine. Really. I knew it was a stereotypical wannabe-edgy teen thing to say, but I didn't care about being cool and dark. I just hated the way I looked when my face was set in a constant squinty scowl and my legs stayed pale year-round no matter how many summer rays beamed down on them. I hated the way the constant sunshine made everyone float around and have an excuse to wear too much suntan lotion and too-bright smiles. It was weird, like walking around in a land of zombies. Sure, not the Walking Dead kind of flesh eaters; these were less brutal, just Army wives and brats with big smiles and too many dangly bracelets and sadness behind their eyes. I couldn't hate that part, though. I was carrying the same sadness. Our post deployed more soldiers than any across the country, and a huge part of family was gone, a dad or mom or husband or wife.

Christmas felt especially brutal this year without Dad. On top of how the glue of my family was sitting in a tent across the globe, we somehow had no money. I didn't get it. I thought about how many times I had heard my parents' hushed, angry voices talk about money. Everyone always said money was the root of all evil, but Meg told me, "It's sure as hell easier to be happy when you are rich," and that made more sense to me. I thought that money must only be evil if you didn't have any.

I missed my friends in Texas almost as much as I missed my dad. Well, one of my friends; I had finally made a best friend right before we got orders to move to Louisiana. We had been in New Orleans for a year, and I hadn't tried to make any friends yet.

That's not true; I made eye contact with the old man next door. Twice. A week later I waved.

I stayed lost in my own jagged trail of thoughts throughout Beth's reading of my dad's email. I did smile once, when she read my name. He missed me, it said. I missed him, too. I figured that I would never miss him that much again, but I had no idea what was going to come into my life, or leave it.

My mom and sisters sighed and cried over the laptop, and Meredith said that she would try to schedule a Skype call with our dad that week. I thought about how his camp in Mosul was probably decorated a little, and it made me feel a bit better. When he was at Bagram or Kandahar, they decorated for almost every holiday. On the Christmas that he spent in Afghanistan he had lobster and steak for dinner. It was the least they could do for those troops who were away from their families for the holidays. This time he was at one of the most dangerous bases in Iraq, so I hoped they at least had a tree. We'd sent him a care package full of candy and cookies from Beth, Bugles from me, toiletries from Meg, and a painting from Amy.

"Don't forget we have the battalion Christmas party today. One of you better get in the shower," Meredith said, and sat back as Amy and Meg fought over who would shower first.

While my sisters showered and attended to their appearance, I lay on my bed and typed a few sentences into my notes. I had been working on the same essay for over a month, which was long for me. I looked at my new book, The Bell Jar, and opened it to the first page.