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Show front. My parents weren't listening. As my dad pulled into the carport and turned the engine off, he looked over at my mother. Is it time, he asked. Perhaps because of his tone, I stopped messing around and turned to the front. Was that fear I heard in my father's voice, that edge, that hesitation? My mother sat unnaturally straight in her seat, her breath coming regularly, her hand resting on her stomach. Every now and then she reached a bit higher in the seat, sat even taller. Yes, she said. And we were sent inside to pack clothes. Only now looking back do I think of what the birth of a child might mean for my father. Only now do I recognize the possibilities that both of them faced. Do you want to save your wife or your daughter, the doctor asks. Is it that time? While my mother was in labor, I stayed with Diane DeBobes, a girl a few years older whose father was also in the JAG. I worshipped Diane, wore my hair in braids like she did, tied bows on the ears of my stuffed animals, and ate whatever she sanctioned as tasty. That she would play with me seemed like a gift I shouldn't question for fear it would disappear. That night, Diane and I got ready for bed. My brother Scott was sleeping in the other room with Diane's younger brother, Dennis. There was a sense that at any moment my father would come and get us, would take us home and carry us to bed. I had never slept away from home before and while initially the idea had seemed 53 |