Yearning to Be Whole Again

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Unable to grasp the concept of a faraway war, the girl had absorbed only her mother's mode of transportation. "Mommy works on an airplane," she told people.

Her brothers knew more. T.J., in particular, knew that Iraq was dangerous. For a time, he watched war coverage on television. He saw the violence, heard about casualties. Finally, his grandmother banned the news.

The Essential Phone Calls

In Iraq, Nishimura was attached to a soft flannel pillow adorned with the faces of her three children. "God's gifts," it read. "This is why I Fight!" She hugged it at night, even packing it in her duffle bag when she left the base.

As often as she could, she talked to her children by phone, and they had a ritual: At the end of every call, they counted one, two, three -- and then made noisy kisses in unison.

Now she was back in the United States, still clutching the pillow and talking on her cellphone, the children still thousands of miles away.

In a matter of weeks, Nishimura landed the job in Havre de Grace and found a little duplex to rent -- with wood floors and a big picture window -- using all that she had to cover the rent and security deposit.

There was a little yard. The public school was down the block.

On the day her new telephone service was connected, Nishimura called her children. Then the phone rang.

"Hi, Mommy," her oldest son said.

Her middle child called next.

"Hi, Mommy," he said.

The phone rang again.