Soon after the wedding, with war in Iraq brewing, Micheal decided to reenlist in the Army for another four years. He and Christine were talking about starting a family and the promise of a steady job and salary -- even more than patriotic duty -- convinced him to stay in the military. But Micheal asked to be transferred to Colorado -- partly because he was ready for a change of scenery, partly because he wanted to try to avoid being sent overseas. (His old unit, the 3rd Infantry Division, was one of the most active, and was the first unit sent to Iraq.) "I know he believed this was his job and he would go if he had to," says Christine. "If he'd still been single, [being deployed] wouldn't have even fazed him. But we hated being separated. It broke our hearts."

In January 2003, Micheal and Christine bought a three-bedroom, two-bathroom house in Colorado Springs. Then in February, they returned to Christine's hometown in Plum, Pa., for a "real" wedding -- a huge church ceremony with all the trimmings, a DJ spinning Tim McGraw and Faith Hill at the reception. That same month, Christine also learned she was pregnant with their first child -- and that Micheal would be shipping out to the Middle East in April. "We didn't really talk about how we felt about the war," Christine says. "We didn't have political feelings about it. We were just scared on a personal level." Worried he wouldn't be home in time to see their baby being born in the fall, Micheal presented Christine with a going-away present before he shipped out: a small stuffed teddy bear dressed in scrubs to take with her when she went to the hospital.

As soon as Micheal left, Christine starting sending him care packages of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, beef jerky, Newport cigarettes and cans of his favorite ravioli. They started writing letters to each other again -- Micheal liked Christine to spray every one with her perfume, Calvin Klein Escape --although the mail was incredibly slow and it sometimes took weeks to receive them. In his first letters, Micheal seemed optimistic about his mission, writing of how the Iraqis seemed happy to see the U.S troops. But as his unit drove deeper into the heart of Iraq, he wrote of the increased hostility toward Americans.

In a letter Micheal wrote to his mother on May 9 (which she received the day he died) he spoke mainly of dusty, hot hours of boredom, but gave no sense that he was in danger. "Just sitting around with nothing to do now that the war's over," he wrote. "I hope we don't stay here much longer ... I'm so excited about being a dad." "He never wrote me of being scared, mostly just how he wanted to come home as quickly as possible," says Christine.

Even before Micheal left for Iraq, his mother had a strong sense that her son would not be coming home. In February, she began having severe panic attacks. "I couldn't breathe, I felt my heart was pumping out of my chest," she says. "I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep." She tried to hide her anxiety from Micheal, but he could hear it in her voice when they spoke on the phone. "Don't cry, Mom," he told her. "I'll be OK."

On the weekend her son was killed, Ann started to cry uncontrollably while at the furniture factory where she works, wrapping curio cabinets before they're boxed and shipped out. She had a nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach and says that instinctively she knew Micheal was in grave danger. "I knew my boy would come home in a box," she says. "I knew he would, but I never shared it with anyone." The unspeakable grief that gnaws at Ann every moment -- "I feel robbed by my son's death" -- is mixed with a bitter anger over the fact that she believes Micheal died for an unworthy cause.

"This war's political bullshit," Ann says, with fury in her voice. "It's all about oil and land. I think we should pack up the rest of the soldiers, bring 'em home, build a fence around the United States and fuck everybody who ain't American. Let 'em fight amongst their damn selves and let's take care of our own."

On Tuesday, June 17, during a thunderstorm, 100 people gathered for a memorial service in honor of Micheal at Holiday Park United Methodist Church in Plum, Pa., the same church where Micheal and Christine exchanged wedding vows just four months before. Micheal, who was promoted to staff sergeant two days before he died, was awarded the Bronze Star, Purple Heart and Army Commendation Medal after his death. The awards were presented to Christine by an Army colonel at the service. Although Micheal's mother and brother still live in Pulaski, Va., Christine chose to have Micheal's body laid to rest near her parents' home, where she's now living. "I want to be able to take the baby to see him," says Christine. "I know Micheal would want to be nearby."

Getting on without Micheal has been excruciating for his family members. Ann Davis is starting grief counseling this week. Jacob, who says he feels "numb" most of the time, spent the the spring trying not to fail out of school. After selling their home in Colorado Springs, Christine moved back in with her parents. She uses Micheal's shaving cream, she smells his deodorant. She takes the teddy bear with the surgical scrubs everywhere she goes, and it'll be at the hospital in October, when Shea Micheal Dooley is born.

"It's not like Micheal and I spent 50 or 60 years together and then he died of cancer," Christine says quietly. "We still had so much to do. We depended on each other for everything. And now he's gone ... Everything's like a funeral. I know it'll be the same with having the baby. Micheal's death is going to be fresh in my mind for a long time."

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