She knew she wasn’t supposed to be wearing it.
She knew because she’d caught her mom, on more than one occasion, taking one of Carol’s old sweaters out of her drawer, holding it to her face, and breathing deeply. Smelling it. Smelling the scent Carol had taken with her when she went on that mission and never came home.
“Mama?” she’d asked, wide-eyed and confused, the first time she’d seen her do this. “Why are you smelling Auntie Carol’s clothes?”
Maria had looked up, shocked for a moment, looking — just for a moment — like she’d forgotten where she was, what year it was, how much bigger her daughter had gotten in the months since Carol had been gone.
“And why are you crying?” Monica had asked, before running full-tilt into Maria’s room and crawling up and onto her lap.
Maria had sniffed and shaken her head. “I’m just missing your Auntie Carol, baby,” she’d said, and she’d held the old sweater out for Monica to examine. “Some of her clothes still smell like her.”
Monica had taken a gigantic sniff, and Maria had laughed in spite of herself. Monica’s eyes had flown wide. “It does smell like her!” she’d erupted, victorious with her discovery, at first.
And then she’d broken down hysterically crying.
Because it smelled like Auntie Carol, but Auntie Carol wasn’t there anymore.
And, if they believed the Air Force — not that Maria believed the Air Force, not really, not some days — she was never coming back.
Maria had kissed little Monica’s face, and held her, and rocked her, and carried her outside to where she used to lay with Carol.
“Do you remember what she used to tell you?” Maria had asked. “About the stars?”
Monica had wiped her tears with a small fist, sniffled, and nodded. And then she’d launched into wild stories, true stories, about giant balls of gas that created everything that people and plants and animals and the whole world is made out of.
Maria had cried, listened to her, but soft, quiet. Almost unnoticed.
So Monica had never tried to put on any of Carol’s old clothes. To keep the smell on them. Of body spray and engine oil and newly-cut grass.
But one night, a few years later, Monica startled awake from a horrific dream. She couldn’t remember it, not exactly, but it was something about a plane and an engine burning out and she couldn’t fix it and there was a huge plummet and an even bigger crash.
She padded into her mother’s bedroom — the one she used to share with Carol, where Monica would go on Sunday mornings to worm her way in between their warm bodies to snuggle until Maria got up to make them all brunch and Carol got up to “help” — and was about to wake Maria. But her mother was sleeping with a small smile on her face.
And, unless Monica was looking right at her, it was so rare that Maria smiled these days.
It had been a long time without Carol.
So Monica let her mommy sleep. Even though Maria would have told her to always wake her, always, always, if she needed something.
But Monica figured that she could get what she needed from the closet. The back closet of the bedroom that she wasn’t exactly allowed to open, but it wasn’t exactly against the rules to open, either.
Mercifully, the closet door didn’t creak.
And she was careful. Very careful. She stood on tippy toes and leaned her entire face into Carol’s old brown leather jacket, and she took a massive breath. A massive sniff.
Her heart sank.
It didn’t smell like Auntie Carol anymore.
She wondered if Maria had put it on, ever, just to feel like Carol was there, surrounding her, holding her.
Because that’s certainly what Monica wanted, right then. And there couldn’t be any harm in it — the jacket didn’t smell like Carol anymore, anyway.
So she tugged it off the hanger, and she held it close to her chest as she scampered out of her mother’s bedroom.
Both her mothers’ bedroom.
If Auntie Carol ever did come back.
Monica slipped into the jacket, which fit her like a dress, and she hugged it all around her. Safe and warm and protected, and something else, too. It smelled like Maria.
So her mom definitely did this, too. Wrapped herself up in this jacket.
Wrapped herself up in Carol.
Monica couldn’t help it. She lifted her arms — even though they were extra heavy, in Carol’s big jacket — and she zoomed like an airplane, keeping the noises soft so Maria wouldn’t wake.
She hopped onto the couch, off of the couch, all around the dining room table, all through the kitchen. An airplane. Just like Carol and Maria flew.
Except Monica made sure never to crash.
She did land, though. Right next to the refrigerator. She stood, again on tippy toes, to reach for the leftover hot dogs Maria had grilled the night before. She took one out, climbed on the counter to grab a bun, went back in the fridge to grab some ketchup, and…
Splat.
All over Auntie Carol’s jacket.
She gasped and she scrambled for paper towels and she knocked over the tupperware with the hot dogs and it was too much, too much, she’d ruined too much. She plopped down on the kitchen floor and started to cry.
Maria’s arms were around her in what felt like no time at all.
“Baby, what did you do?” Maria murmured into Monica’s headscarf. But the question was soft and sad instead of sharp and angry. Monica shifted to show Maria the ketchup stain.
“I ruined it,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
And Maria’s jaw clenched, and something flashed across her eyes, but it was only for a moment. A short, short moment.
“Shh, baby, it’s okay. It’s okay. Do you know how many times Auntie Carol spilled beer on that old thing? Here, baby, give it to me. We’ll get the stain out together, you hear me?”’
Monica nodded, and she shivered her way out of the jacket.
She felt both heavier and lighter, with it off.
“What were you doing in my closet, baby?” Maria asked as she led Monica into the laundry room, jacket in tender, shaking hands.
“I had a bad dream, but I didn’t want to wake you up, so I thought maybe I could sit in your closet that has all of Auntie Carol’s things, so she could keep me company. But then I saw the jacket, and it doesn’t smell like her anymore, so I thought it would be okay if I wore it. So I did. And I had some flying practice.”
She put out her arms to show Maria, and her mother chuckled dryly.
“And then you got hungry, because being a pilot is hard work,” Maria supplied, and Monica nodded with tears in her eyes. “And then the hot dogs happened.”
Monica nodded again, starting to shake this time. “I’m sorry,” she started sobbing, and in a moment Maria was back down on her knees, scooping Monica into her chest and soothing her, rocking her back and forth, slow and steady.
“I miss her too, baby. I miss her, too,” she whispered, over and over and over again.
Monica never tried on Carol’s jacket again. It was a silent but solemn agreement she and Maria came to, after the night with the ketchup. But she still sometimes saw Maria sitting with it, hugging it to her or wearing it and hugging herself, rocking back and forth on nights like Carol’s birthday, on nights like the anniversary of the day she disappeared, when Maria thought Monica was sleeping.
But then Carol came home.
Then Carol came home and Monica got to hug her, got to tell her about the ketchup stain. Then she got to protect her jacket for her. She was old enough, now. Strong enough now. Skilled enough with the ketchup bottle, now.
She and Carol shared the jacket, now. Even though Carol let Monica wear it more often than not. But Carol still wore it on special nights out with Maria. Special nights like the one where Talos was supposed to be watching Monica, but he fell asleep with the TV remote in his hand and his mouth tilted open.
And Monica crept out into the living room to see Carol and Maria — Carol wearing her now ketchup-stain-free jacket — with her arms wrapped around Maria.
And if it were anyone else, Monica would have immediately covered her eyes.
But it was her moms.
So seeing them on the porch, holding each other and kissing each other, just made Monica want to laugh and giggle and rejoice and fly.
Because Carol was home.
And their family was both back to normal and bigger than it had ever been.