Bones of the Lost

in such pain.
    Maybe I should have guessed what was coming.
    Suddenly Katy was sparkling again, enthused about life. The dark shadows under her eyes slowly faded. Her chin reclaimed its cocky tilt. When she visited, it was no longer for hours, but for minutes squeezed in between pressing commitments.
    It was Pete who told me she’d enlisted. In a call like this. Katy had kept her plans secret until the papers were signed.
    “Don’t worry,” she’d said when finally we’d talked. “I won’t be in combat.”
    Right.
    On May 14, 2012, the United States Army opened HIMARS, High Mobility Artillery Rocket System, and MLR, Multiple LaunchRocket System, units to female soldiers for the first time. Early the next year, the military lifted its long-standing ban on women in combat.
    Upon completion of her BCT, basic combat training, Katy requested MLR as her military occupational specialty, or MOS. Following AIT, advanced individual training, she was off to Afghanistan.
    WTF?
    I’ve consulted to JPAC, the military’s central remains-identification lab in Hawaii. I can play the acronym game, too.
    I brought my mind back to the current conversation. “But how did she seem?”
    “Psyched. Talked about doing the same training as the men. Artillery. Cannon platoons—”
    “Oh, God.”
    “She’s a tough kid. She’ll be okay.”
    “You’re right. It’s just—”
    “I know, sugarbritches. You see violent death every day.”
    “Don’t call me that.”
    “She’ll probably end up a general.”
    “You think she’ll make a career of the army?”
    “That’s not what I meant.”
    “Why do you suppose she chose not to enlist in an officer candidate program? She’s a college graduate.”
    “I think it was the time commitment.”
    But Pete hadn’t called about Katy. He’d have done that this morning after he talked to her. I waited for him to get to his point.
    “So what’s the long story?” he asked.
    Really?
    I summarized my adventures at the courthouse and was shifting to the hit-and-run case when Pete cut me off.
    “Sounds like your day sucked. How about dinner?”
    “What’s the occasion?” Wary.
    “Can’t I ask a soon-to-be ex-wife to dinner?”
    I had a hunch what he wanted. Wasn’t about to get roped in.
    “No way I’m playing marriage planner for Summer, so don’t ask.”
    In midlife, most men lust after sports cars. Pete had set his sights on a trophy wife. Summer was my fiftysomething ex-husband’sthirtysomething bimbo fiancée. Best in show for tits. DQ for lack of IQ.
    “You know how she is,” Pete said lamely.
    I knew only too well. I’d agreed to mediate for Bridezilla once already. Ended up catching flak from both sides.
    “She needs guidance.”
    She needs a muzzle and a tranquilizer dart. I didn’t say that.
    The wedding from hell, postponed twice, now loomed near. At least five million people had been invited. School friends, work friends, friends of friends. Facebook boasted fewer chums than Summer.
    “The wedding’s in less than two weeks.”
    “Wait a day. That will change.”
    “She’s panicking.”
    “Give her a Valium.”
    “She likes you a lot.”
    “Look, Pete. Summer is your problem, not mine.”
    “I know, I know. It’s just that I have depositions all week and a trial on the docket the instant we get back from Tahiti. I’ve been running around auditioning photographers, picking up thank-you cards, crap you wouldn’t believe. Every day there’s a new crisis.”
    Typical Pete. For two decades I’d shouldered most of the child-rearing responsibility because his professional calendar always came first. Car pools; dentist, doctor, and orthodontist appointments; gymnastics, ballet, and swim-team runs.
    Maybe if you hadn’t been so busy fussing over your baby bride’s Barnum and Bailey three-ring you’d have noticed your daughter these past months, caught the signs she was about to make a dangerous decision.
    I didn’t say that, either. I waited, annoyed and anxious to hang up and phone for a taxi.
    “Tempe. Are you listening to me? I need the papers.”
    The divorce agreement. I’d signed but not delivered it to Pete. Could have with little effort. So why the procrastination?
    “Right. They’re on my desk at home. I should have given them to you ages ago. Sorry. Of course, come and get them anytime. There’s no need to take me to dinner.”
    “I want to take you to dinner.”
    I started to protest. Pete cut me off.
    “I’ll pick you up out