Everyday Grief
Miles knew when Nicky and his dad were going to scatter Nicky's mom's ashes. Though Nicky might not have understood, Miles did. Maybe because he had more experience with death. He said that he and I, in our own backyard, should have a quiet moment on the afternoon when Nicky and his dad were giving Nicky's mom's spirit back to the woods.
For a long time Miles and I stood with our heads bowed and our eyes closed. I crouched down and leaned over so we could put our arms around each other.
You moms all know how strange it is, our children growing up. Just yesterday Miles was a baby in my arms. Now he is still a child, but he's also a little man I can lean on. I would never put that sort of burden on him, but he is my little rock. We've had practice dealing with grief. We've learned that it will pass. Maybe Miles told Nicky that. Maybe it made their bond stronger.
For months after my husband and brother were killed, I cried every day. Sometimes I cried on and off all day. I remember looking at strangers and thinking they were suffering and I couldn't see it, just as they couldn't tell what agony I was enduring. But if there were some version of luminol, the stuff they use to find blood at crime scenes, to detect the presence of grief, half the people we pass on the street would light up like Christmas trees.
I don't remember when the constant suffering eased up. But it did. I can't remember how I first got through the day without tears. I can't remember the first morning I awoke without wanting to go straight back to bed. Forgetfulness is kind.
I miss my husband and brother and now my best friend. Sometimes the pain is so sharp that I groan out loud. I hear myself, and I think that someone else must have made that heart-wrenching noise. But there is never a day when I'm afraid that I can't live through it.
Having Miles means everything. I've learned to put myself aside and live for my son. Which isn't to say I've forgotten, or that I don't remember every second of the day when my husband and brother died. Every minute of that afternoon is seared into my brain.
My husband and my half brother always disliked each other, though they pretended not to. They were both proud and decent and kind, and it was important to them both that they appear to get along. But that was impossible. Both were alpha males: Chris in his street-macho way, and Davis in his equally hard-headed old-family WASP way.
When we lived in the city, Davis hired Chris, who had become a builder, to contract out the Fort Greene renovations he was doing then. The tension between them improved somewhat when Davis and I moved to Connecticut and they stopped working together. My brother would visit every month or so. Miles adored his uncle. Chris and Miles had special names for each other that Davis and I were not allowed to know.
It was a pity that Davis and Chris didn't get along. They had a lot more in common than you might think. They liked boxing and baseball. They knew a lot about cars. They both cared about me, though I know that was a big part of the problem.
One summer afternoon we were all sitting on the front porch of our house in Connecticut and drinking lemonade. A showy vintage car drove down the road.
Davis said it was a Hudson from a certain year, and Chris said no, it was a Packard from another year. They were both positive that they were right, and the discussion got heated. Finally they made a bet.
"Okay," said Davis. "Here's the deal. Let's check it out in my vintage auto encyclopedia. Then we'll drive to the butcher shop. The loser pays for the ribs and steaks. If we're both wrong, we'll split it." They'd been planning to barbecue. They both got a kick out of grilling, though neither one knew his way around a kitchen or a stove.
"Deal," said Chris. "I'm thinking porterhouse. That's how sure I am."
Davis told Miles, "Go get Daddy's book, Buddy." I hated it when he called our son Buddy. Chris volunteered to go with Miles, who was way too small to carry the heavy volume. His dad was joking about him being able to get it.
All three of my guys leaned over the book as they looked for the mystery car. Miles was so excited. You would have thought that he could read, though he was only two.
Finally Chris said, "Aha! There you go!"
Chris was right. Davis was wrong.
"You win, man. The steak's on me," my husband said. "Let's buy something great." He kissed me, just a casual peck, and went to get his keys.
Were those the last words I heard him say? The steak's on me. Let's buy something great.
Davis was driving the 1966 Camaro he took out for fun drives in the summer. Chris was riding shotgun beside him.
I know what the last words they heard from me were. They were always the last words that anyone in my family heard from me before they left the house. I couldn't let them leave without saying: I love you. Drive safely.
To this day I thank God every waking moment that I put my foot down and refused to let Miles go along with them. He wanted to be a big boy, to go for a ride with his dad and his uncle. But he needed to take a nap if he was going to make it through dinner. And I thought the guys might have more fun if they didn't have to worry about him, if they didn't have to buckle and unbuckle him from his car seat, if they could skip all the fun stuff I did all week.
Later the cops would say that a truck came barreling up Route 208, way too close to their side of the road. Davis swerved to avoid it and lost control, and they slammed into a tree head on.
Just like that.
Treasure every moment you are lucky enough to spend with your loved ones because we never know what will happen just a few heartbeats later.
I just looked down and noticed that there are tears on my keyboard. So I guess the healing process hasn't progressed quite as well as I thought. As I'd like to think.
Thank you, sweet moms, for listening and responding.
Love,
Stephanie
