Page 83 of The Art of Dying

Gina continued, “I’ve spent a lot of time training Apollo. Most of my free time for two years was spent on a myriad of commands and behaviors. It’s my passion but it was a lot of work. And your son’s name is Wes.”

She corrected me as if she was telling me it was spring.

I glanced around. “No one’s within ear shot.”

“It doesn’t matter. It forms a habit. Remember what we discussed when we first met? You never truly know who can hear you. Even trees have ears. Consistency…”

“Is life,” I said, finishing the sentence for her. She’d driven the phrase into my head since I’d arrived. “I told you I’d suck at this.”

“You don’t, actually. And your hair cut is adorable, by the way. It makes me want bangs.”

I frowned.

Gina Harms was a little older than me, taller than me, built like a ballerina, but toned. She didn’t have eggs on her biceps when she flexed like Naomi, but the point was to blend in. Gina Harms had no accent to speak of and no outstanding features. Her clothes were all neutral tones. She wasn’t supposed to look like my bodyguard. She wasn’t supposed to look like anyone.

I pushed Emily’s umbrella stroller back and forth slowly while she slept, turning my face toward the wind so it would blow my bangs away from my eyes. I still startled myself in mirrors at home, expecting to see shoulder-length copper hair, but my reflection was a constant reminder of our lie: a chin-length, mousy brown bob. I wore black-rimmed glasses with no prescription. The kids got used to my new look relatively quickly, but after six months, it didn’t feel like I ever would.

What Ihadgotten used to was Tulsa, growing familiar with its heart and extremities more quickly than in any other town I’d resided. I never shopped in the same area inside of a week’s time, and never frequented the same place twice in one month. Groceries, errands, even the dog park was visited on a complicated schedule—one too irregular for anyone to track.

Oklahoma was beautiful, different from California, but in so many wonderful ways. Within twenty minutes, you could experience the slower, quieter lifestyle of fields and farmhouses on the outskirts, the suburban feel of Trader Joe’s and soccer moms catching up over coffee in midtown. Five more minutes to the center, and at night you’d find dark nightclubs and crowded country dance halls, dodging twenty-somethings ambling across the street toward music thumping from the bars. By two a.m. the streets were nearly empty apart from a dispossessed pedestrian or two. By morning, suit-clad men were lingering on the sidewalks outside high rises, checking their watches while they paid for parking.

Downtown Tulsa had dozens of restaurants with unique atmospheres, big city cuisine with small town service, and there were plenty of things for the kids to do. The friendly people I crossed paths with every time I ran an errand reminded me of Tennessee, not too busy to make eye contact and smile, slowing down to let me pull out into traffic, and complete strangers opening the door for me, for no reason other than just to make a kind gesture.

Tiger could’ve chosen a worse place for us to land. But other than Gina, I’d kept to myself, uninterested in meeting friends just to have to lie to them about who I was and where I came from—not that I’d have time to invest in new friendships. My days consisted of starting breakfast, waking and dressing the kids, feeding them, cleaning up the kitchen, getting Dylan and Emily dressed, feeding Apple, letting Apple out, letting Apple in, and conducting Dylan’s homeschool curriculum while Emily was busy with a craft or playing. I’d start laundry, make the beds, start another load of laundry, just to make lunch and clean the kitchen again. Our afternoons were outside play if the weather was nice, games if it wasn’t and then it was dinner. I was running on four to five hours of sleep, staying up until midnight or one just so I could have a few hours to myself at night. Day in, day out, seven days a week, over… and over… and over.

My only reprieve from the monotony of my days was Gina and the dog park, being able to talk to another adult and hear any coded updates on my husband. Like the rest of my routine, I never left the house at the same time, and we didn’t meet at the same time every day.

I’d been a stay-at-home mom before, but Kitsch coming home was always something I had to look forward to. Even during deployments, I knew he was eventually coming home. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. Now, there was no end, no date for us to finally be reunited and our home to function normally. I was living someone else’s life, and I despised it. Worrying each time there was a knock on the door or every time a stranger approached my kids, praying that each time we left the house they wouldn’t say anything to tip anyone off.

“Is this really my life?” I asked.

Gina turned to me. “I knew it. You’re overwhelmed. What can I do to help?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“But you did.”

Gina waited patiently for me to wrap my voice around the truth. It had become a foreign language, one that I had to speak in code. Still, I hesitated. My husband and children were alive, despite the threat of my poor life choices.

Gina didn’t apply pressure for me to answer, and for that I was grateful. Her temperament was in stark contrast to the nature of her frightening abilities, making her perfect for the position. She wasn’t protecting diplomats or drug lords, she worked with families. Though her smile was warm, Gina was lethal, trained for a myriad of firearms and nothing less than dangerous when it came to hand-to-hand combat—or, so her partner and husband told me—and her dog Apollo would attack on command. But Gina wasn’t Naomi. She was being paid to be my friend. She saw me as a client, and I couldn’t see past that. I was thankful to have her in my life for several reasons, but I felt alone, and it was wearing on me.

She finally spoke again, “There’s an engineer for Red Sea Midstream, Doug Mills. He was hired right after Grant and moved here with his wife. They’re from Louisiana. Well, they lived there before moving to Tulsa for the job, but they’re actually from Ohio. Maybe we should all go out to dinner? They’re solid, Grant vetted them both.”

I frowned, feeling like she’d read my mind. “We both know I’m a terrible liar. I can’t come up with believable answers fast enough. What if I say something wrong? What if the kids say something wrong?”

“A trick I learned a long time ago is to repeat the question. It takes the other person off guard, leaving them mentally deliberating if their question was appropriate. It gives you a chance to think. Let me introduce you to Doug and Lori. It’s good practice. We’ll guide you through it, you make a new friend. It’s a win/win.”

“I don’t want to be introduced toanyoneas Karen,” I grumbled.

Gina chuckled. “It’s not terrible. I once had a client who was given the name Irma.” She made a face. “We just need to shake things up a little for you. C’mon. You’ll love Doug and Lori.”

“Doug. Lori. Karen. We sound like the group no one wants to invite to parties.”

“They’re cleared for contact. That’s the important thing.”

“Are you tired of me?” I asked, only half teasing.

“I think you’re lovely. You’re a fantastic mom. But I see what’s happening. With each passing day you’re a little further away. You’re isolated, exhausted, in a maddeningly repetitive pattern, and it’s all wearing on you.”

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