Ross and I existed as a couple through the deployment by the grace of our e-mail correspondence. Compressed into online identities, fooled, perhaps, by the illusion of instantaneous contact over the ether, we became an affectionate cybercouple creative in the ways we addressed each other (McManpants, Ladyface, Sexy Von Sassyboots), but then mostly lapsing into a crushingly boring blow-by-blow of our financial situation. There was a lot to talk about—our dog’s dubious emergency X-rays, the mystery warning lights on my car, our unexpected household move, Ross’s budget for souvenirs and requests for stuff to include in the next care package, how to file the taxes. Ross was writing from the only place he had Internet access, the ready room, and I felt like I was always talking to his public, at-work side; I wrote from the white-walled silence of our house on base. Our missives, preserved for posterity by Google, would make excellent court documents but really, really dull romance.
During brief port calls, I watched Facebook light up with veiled notifications (Code words! No locations! OPSEC!) from the other wives that the guys were ashore and could now call home, which felt like some kind of weird competition about who would get called first. When Ross skipped a phone call opportunity completely in Japan, I was heartbroken. Incidentally, no correct response exists to another wife’s complaints about her contact with her husband during a deployment. “Oh, I’m sorry” in response to “No, he didn’t call from Japan” feels like confirmation that an unforgivable breach of trust has occurred. “Eh, maybe next time; I’m sure it was hard to get a moment,” on the other hand, feels like denial that it hurts or is even important. Relating to the other wives throughout cruise was like being in a dark room where we felt our way around by swinging baseball bats. Everyone’s cruise, whether it was their fifth or their first, was completely different, and often without meaning to, we ended up smacking each other in the face with well-intentioned but completely inappropriate comments.
Male-deprivation sickness set in. I began to harbor completely inappropriate random crushes, fictional ones that took place entirely in my own head but nonetheless interfered wildly with my emotional thermostat. I felt like a threat to the general population, like my untended need for the simplest bodily sensations of maleness—the smell of aftershave, rough hands, shoulders set above mine—was prying at the hinges of my sanity. I felt like I was growing fangs.
Throughout it all, I had a growing suspicion that Ross was having an okay time. He didn’t miss me, or at least, not to the same extent. I pictured myself on the little shelf by his bed, safely compartmentalized and set aside, our life together shelved and bookmarked and available for periodic reengagement in the rare moments when nothing else required his attention. I couldn’t have articulated any of this, but the feeling of smallness, the feeling of great and impossible distance and an unbridgeable gulf between us, smoldered in me.