Have fun in Wichita.
I smile. This is the weirdest relationship I have ever had. We text all the time and know everything about each other’s lives, but we never meet up for that much-talked-about coffee.
We decide to take my bitchin’ minivan so we have room to stretch out and the boys can watch a movie. Don’t judge me. I wish I were the type of mom who has endless ideas for car games and the energy to play them, but I am not. What I do have is an endless supply of DVDs that I pull out for any car ride longer than forty-five minutes, because that is Max’s breaking point.
The boys snuggle up to their pillows in their car seats as we take off and about ten minutes into The Lego Movie, they are passed out.
“So what is the charity you work with?” I ask Garth as I steer the van onto I-35 South. The weekend morning traffic is light.
“The Wounded Warrior Project.”
“You know, my mom volunteers for them. She hosts a Proud Supporter event every year with her church group.”
“I know. That’s where I met her.” Garth seems to smile at the memory.
“Were you helping out at the pancake breakfast or something?” I sneak a look at him.
“Something like that.”
“Wait, are you a vet?”
He nods. “I did two tours in Afghanistan.”
“When?” I say a little too loudly. Shit! I check the rearview to make sure the boys are still sleeping.
“Oh, 2004 to 2006.”
“Were you in combat?”
“Well, I wasn’t there for the weather.”
“Did you get hurt?”
He shrugs.
“I took some shrapnel in my left side. I got off easy compared to some of my friends.”
“Holy shit! I can’t believe I didn’t know this about you. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It never came up.”
We both stare at the windshield, watching miles of highway slip beneath us before I speak again.
“Do you mind talking about it?”
He chuckles.
“No, not at all. What do you want to know?”
I think about that for a minute and self-edit the inappropriate questions that race to the tip of my tongue.
“Um, what do you guys miss most when you were over there?”
“It’s different for everyone,” he muses. “Everyone misses home in one way or another. Could be your family, your bed, wearing jeans, normal food. For me, it was Campbell’s tomato soup.”
“What?” I start to laugh. “Tomato soup?”
Garth nods. “Don’t ask me why, but the whole time I was away I craved tomato soup. When I came back, I couldn’t get enough of it.”
I shake my head. “Too funny. I wonder what I would miss.”
“Whatever it is, I guarantee it won’t be what you’d expect it to be.”
As we are passing Emporia, which is just about halfway, I ask Garth if he needs a bathroom break.
“That would be great,” he says.
I pull off the highway and head to the first gas station I see. While Garth finds the restroom, I fill the tank. Of course, the lack of car movement makes the boys wake up, and they ask to go to the bathroom, too. And get a snack. And get water. And start the movie again. By the time I take a pee break and we’re back on the road, a half hour has passed.
“What time does this thing start?” I ask, glancing at the clock on the dashboard.
“Noon. We’re good for time.” Garth reclines his seat a bit and gets comfortable. “So, have you talked to Nina?” he asks as casually as he can.
“Nope.”
His disapproving stare almost gives my cheek a tan. My shoulders sag.
“I know I need to. I hate not talking to her.”
“So what’s the problem? Pick up the phone.”
“I will. It’s just way past time and I don’t even know what to say to her.”
“Well, neither of you has been a particularly good friend at this point, so maybe start with ‘I’m sorry.’”
I start to argue, but don’t have the heart. He’s right. Nina and I have never before gone this long without talking.
“I’ll call her when we get home later.”
“You’ll feel better,” Garth says and shuts his eyes. “Mind if I take a catnap?”
“Go for it. I’ll probably sleep on the way back.”
“Guess that means I’m driving, then.” Garth smiles to himself.
Before long, he’s out.
*
As we pull into the parking lot of Hartman Arena, I can already see it’s a big event. We park nowhere near the entrance and have to hike to the doors. The boys are practically bouncing out of their shoes. Neither has ever been to Wichita.
Inside, Garth is greeted like he’s a regular at these events. Everyone waves or says hello or pats him on the back.
“Wow, I feel like I’m with the most popular boy in school,” I say to him.
He rolls his eyes. “Not quite. But if you go anywhere often enough, people are going to get to know you.”
We stop at a cluster of tables with a huge Wounded Warrior banner hanging above them. A clean-cut, good-looking older man gives us a big smile over the crowd around him.
“Garth, man, how are you?”
“I’m great, Jack. How are you doing?”
“I’m good.” He looks at the boys and me.
“I’m Jack.”
“Hi, I’m Jen.” I go to shake his hand and see that his right arm is gone. He offers his left hand and I’m a bit thrown. I rebound from the awkwardness with my usual grace and style.
“Oh, sorry, uh, hi.” I change my handshake position to a wave. “This is my son, Max, and his friend Zach.”
The boys are staring with their eyes and mouths wide open.
“Where’s your arm?” asks my chip off the old block.
“I lost it,” Jack says solemnly.
“Where did you lose it?” Max is almost whispering.
Jack puts his one hand on his hip.
“Well, if I knew that, don’t you think I’d go get it?”
Max starts to giggle and then so does Zach B.
Garth steps in.
“Sorry, where are my manners? Jen, Jack and I served together in Afghanistan.”
“Nice to meet you.” I give him a grateful look.
“You, too. How do you know this jarhead?”
I turn to look at Garth and raise my eyebrow.
“‘Jarhead.’ I like that.”
Garth gives me a fake scowl.
“I’ve been training Jen for the Kansas City Mud Run in April.”
“Well, you’re in good hands. He is one tough mudder himself. Are you signed up for today?”
“Nope,” I say. “We’re just spectators and supporters of the cause.”
“Well, you better get in there. It’s about to start. Garth, why don’t you guys sit in our section?” Jack offers.
“Great, thanks.” Garth steers me toward the arena. “Come on, guys, let’s get some seats.”
*
The indoor mud run is really impressive. The course takes up the entire floor of Hartman Arena, which is the size of a professional hockey rink.