Something Like Normal by Trish Doller

Inside it smells like shit, but I don’t have any other shoes except my running shoes, and I hate those. I bought a pair of Sambas when I graduated boot camp but didn’t lock them up at infantry school and someone stole them. “So what was Dad’s excuse?”
    “He says Steve Fischer invited him over for a drink. He didn’t want to drink and drive, so he spent the night,” she says. “He called to tell me he was okay before he went to play golf.”
    I follow her to the garage. “You know I’m going to kill him, right?”
    A ghost of a smile plays across her lips as she starts the Suburban, as if she can imagine it and she likes the idea. Then her face rearranges into something more Mom-appropriate and slightly disapproving. “Travis, he’s your father.”
    He doesn’t get a free pass because we share DNA. If anything, that’s even more reason to kick his ass. “You can’t let him get away with it, Mom,” I say. “Just because—”
    “Let’s talk about something else.” Her hands grip the steering wheel with such ferocity that she could probably rip it right out of the dashboard. Subject closed. I guess that’s only fair. She’s been artful at avoiding the subject of Afghanistan, and I suspect it’s because she read an article somewhere on the Internet that said I’ll talk about it when I’m ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready, but I guess I owe her the same respect.
    “None of my clothes fit and I need new shoes,” I say.
    Her smile shifts to wide. “Now, that I can do.”
    On San Carlos, we pass a veterans’ club. It’s a sketchy little place not affiliated with any other club in the country, but there are always cars in the lot. Pops, who was a Marine with the 3/7 in Korea, brought me there once for lunch when he was down from Green Bay for a visit. “Hey, um—do you want to get some lunch?”
    I’m not really the type to join a veterans’ organization—especially since I’m still active duty—but I could use a beer and… I don’t know. Maybe I won’t feel so out of place there.
    “Here?” Mom eyes the place skeptically. “Um—sure.”
    Inside, the veterans’ club is more of a dump than I remember. The walls are painted with emblems from all the armed forces branches, only they’re amateurish and out of proportion. The tables wobble and the chairs don’t match, but the bartender gives me a membership application he calls a formality.
    “Iraq?” he asks.
    “Afghanistan.”
    “Marine?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Semper Fi, son.” He shakes my hand and I see his Death Before Dishonor tattoo. Kevlar got one exactly like it on his back after he graduated boot camp, and the saltier Marines in our platoon ragged on him mercilessly about it. “You’re welcome to stay for lunch,” the bartender says. “The special today is fish sandwiches with fries and coleslaw.”
    I order two sandwiches and a pitcher of beer, which he draws for me without so much as blinking.
    “Travis.” Mom frowns as I pour the beer into plastic cups. She leans forward, keeping her voice low. As if we’re doing something naughty. “You’re not twenty-one.”
    “I am a veteran of a foreign war.” I hand her a cup. “More importantly, I’m thirsty.”
    At first we don’t talk about Dad. We don’t talk about anything, really. We drink beer, agree the fish sandwiches taste good, and speculate on what kind of fish it is.
    “I’ve been thinking about seeing a lawyer.” Mom refills our glasses. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and she hands me a paper napkin. Dining room manners tend to lapse when there’s no dining room—or even a table. Most of the time we ate sitting on the ground, where there was no lack of places to sit, and “Hey, save me a seat” was a running joke between me and Charlie.
    “Yeah?” I ask.
    She nods. “I’m—I’m kind of scared.”
    “Why?”
    “We’ve been together a long time,” she says. “I don’t know how to be alone. Or what I would do with