All the Things We Never Knew (31 page)

The phone rang. I answered, zombie-like.

“Hi, sweetheart. We're so worried about you.” It was my mom. I hadn't returned her calls since Sunday, the day after they found David.
What day is it?
I looked at the date on the paper. Thursday.
Oh my God. It's Thursday,
I thought.

“Mom, I just need some time to myself. I'll be okay.”

“Are you eating? Are you able to take care of Sophie? You know I will get on a plane today and come back there.” My mother knew what could happen to me now, the trauma of loss, anger turned inward—depression. My mother had done the hard work of forgiving my father for his infidelity. She'd stabilized on a medication that allowed her to live a normal life.

She was better now—I was not. I knew what she must have experienced in those first few days when she sank into depression, the deadness of winter and the leaves gathering, decomposing. I expected
to be flattened by grief in the days following David's discovery. Instead, my emotions were as flat as the gray sky.

“I promise I'll call you,” I lied.

She repeated herself, which meant she wanted an invitation. “We'll come right back up when you're ready. We'll help with the funeral.”

I did not want her to suffer through this with me. She had suffered enough.

“Thanks so much for calling. You've been so great. I love you.”

The wind outside whistled through the trees. I shivered inside my thick robe. My toes curled in my Uggs. The newspaper stared back at me, the crossword puzzle blank.

Sophie walked into the living room, took a huge breath, sighed, and said, “I am so bored. I want to go back to school.”

She had taken a shower, pulled on her pink skirt and white hoodie, found matching tights and clean shoes, combed her hair, and brushed her teeth. I'd heard her stirring in the kitchen—I thought she was pouring herself a bowl of cereal, but she'd packed her lunch, which she held tightly in a pink and green lunchbox. I guessed she'd packed slices of salami, a pickle, cheese, and maybe some cookies—if we had any. I imagined how I must have looked to her, with my stringy hair and dull complexion, staring out at the nothingness that follows death. I was usually the one bugging her to clean up.

“Are you sure, sweetheart? Are you feeling okay to do this?” I motioned for her to come sit by me. “It might hit you sideways when you're at school, and you could feel unbelievably sad, or mad, or . . .”

“It's terrible here, Mama. It's boring. And sad. I want to go back to school.” She stood her ground, moving her chin sideways in a way only a nine-year-old can
.
It was 8:15. We had ten minutes to get her there on time.

Something surged through my nervous system—an energy that came from Sophie's need. It was time.

I called the school to let them know she was coming back, rushed to my room, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and tennis shoes.
We grabbed our jackets from the closet and both ran to the car. For the first time in a week, I was doing something I knew how to do. I took my familiar route, down Burnside, past the Walgreen's where David bought the antidepressants that sent him into his first full-blown mania, past the bank where he bankrupted us. The further I drove, the more I shivered.

Sophie noticed my silence and the way I clutched the steering wheel.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I gave a fake nod.

“Then could you please turn down the heat?”

I looked at the car heater gauge, blowing hot air at eighty-seven degrees. I was still shivering.

“Oh, sorry.” I turned the heat off and bit my bottom lip. “Truth is, I'm not okay. But someday very soon I will be.”

The stoplight took forever. I studied Sophie's face: David's lips, his cheekbones, and his fair skin. Her green eyes were clear and bright—she'd stopped crying after approximately forty-eight hours. Her grief cascaded like a tidal wave. Now she seemed focused again.

“Sophie,” I said, “your dad loved you so much. It's the one thing that kept him going for so many years. He wanted to see you happy.”

Sophie looked at me with a clarity that made her seem much older. “I know that, Mom, and we've got to have a funeral.”

“Yes, of course we'll have a funeral—I'll make arrangements today.”

The lists of musts swirled in my mind like the yellow sticky notes on my computer: go to the funeral home and have his body cremated, open my home to more strangers and relatives (again), and eat layered lasagnas and casseroles, because all of this is what you do in the week after people die. But what and who is it all for?

“Don't worry, honey,” I lied, “I've got everything under control. Where do you think we should have Daddy's funeral?”

We pulled into her school parking lot, and she opened the door. “He hated churches,” she said. “Maybe we should have it outside, in the park. You know how Dad loved the cold.”

She leaned across the seat and kissed me. When she pulled back to steady her eyes with mine, I felt the goose bumps on my arm grow.

“Don't worry about me, Mommy,” she said. “I'm okay.”

“Do you want me to walk you in?” I asked, my voice breaking.

“Nah.” She gathered her lunchbox and backpack. “I'm not eight, you know.”

She was referring to last year, when she'd broken the news to me that she was a big girl and no longer wanted me to hold her hand and walk her into the classroom. Like all moms, I'd loved the daily stroll inside the school, the clusters of tired moms and working dads hurriedly dropping their kids off. I loved seeing the bulletin boards and worksheets and rows of library books, the mismatched socks and round, soft faces, racing to see who could get to class first.

Now I wanted to go back, to reclaim those years, to hold her hand as long as I could. I opened the car door. She waved at me tentatively from the entrance and then blew two kisses goodbye. She lingered at the door for as long as she could, opening it for the toddlers who came crashing through with their parents.

When the final bell rang, she was gone.

I went home, turned up the heat, and forced myself to sit down at the computer.

David Krol passed away October 25, 2006.

I couldn't bring myself to write a headline, or a typical obituary full of dates and facts. That wasn't David at all. I typed without editing myself:

He was forever tied to the beauty and forgiveness of the forest and returned there to find peace. He grew up in the old growth of British Columbia, tagging along behind his father, a forester who taught his only son the spirituality that comes from a deep connection to the earth. David would later work as a logger, a builder, and finally a general contractor employing fourteen of his closest friends.

His happiest moments were in the dirt of his Portland garden, where he spent hours of uninterrupted bliss
.

As I wrote, the smell of spring dirt came to me, of garden snakes and Sophie on all fours, crouching low to the ground to pick up a spider or snail, her dad smiling broadly above her. Tears squeezed out the corners of my eyes, and I could no longer resist. I lay on the carpet, weeping. Huge convulsions of sadness came over me, pummeling my body. I wailed so loud my Labrador wandered upstairs to see what was wrong. The wet carpet smelled sour. Star sniffed at my head. I cried for David. For Sophie. I cried because I felt I'd done all I could, and it wasn't enough. Then I closed my eyes to escape myself, my guilt.

The cell phone woke me.

“Hey, you,” Colin said warmly. “Have you eaten anything?”

I looked at my watch. It was already one o'clock.

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

“I'll pick you up in half an hour.”

Colin pulled up in his Range Rover thirty minutes later. He spent a moment looking at the lock on the outdoor gate before he walked in. His cheeks glowed with the cold. His energy bounced against the deadness of my home.

“I'll bring a wrench over and fix that lock,” he said. “It's loose.” He put his arms around me and brought me in close to his chest.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, as he squeezed me. “You are so cold.”

My memory of Colin during this time is that he seemed to call or appear during my darkest moments, like an angel flying too close to the ground. I can't underestimate what his love contributed to my health—a lifeline at a time when most of my strength was gone, and I felt as if I was running on the last drops of adrenalin my body had to offer. He put on a kettle for a cup of tea and rubbed my shoulders as we waited for the water to boil. I was completely aware of the catatonic look of grief I wore during those weeks after David's death, and yet, Colin still came by, often without calling first, offering to help.

Given the trauma and complexity of my life at the time, I certainly could have chosen to shut off my heart, but instinctively, protectively, I knew I needed him. Since childhood, I'd only relied on myself for my care. The unsteady marriage to David had only solidified my belief that we can only depend on ourselves. And yet, with Colin, I was allowing the deepest defenses to fall. I let him take care of me.

He went to the coat closet and gathered my things—a scarf, a hat, my long black cashmere coat. As he tied the scarf around my neck, I felt weird.
I can tie my own scarf!
Why would I have such mixed emotions about finally, truly being cared for? I tried to let my shoulders drop and soften to Colin's kindness. He sensed my apprehension. “You okay?” he asked, holding onto my arm as he locked the door behind us.

 

CHILDREN AND GRIEF

The American Academy of Pediatrics describes the differences between children's grief and adult's grief. Preschoolers may believe that death is reversible or that their loved one really isn't gone for good. Children between five and nine may understand death's finality, yet they may not accept that it can happen to them or their family.

Many therapists confided in me that it is best to let the child's grief be your guide. Sophie's emotions swung wildly during the first few months of David's absence, but she refused to talk about David's death with a third-party professional. Most therapists agree that it is not beneficial to have a child in counseling if he or she is resistant. Some children won't want to cope with the loss of their loved ones for years, or even decades. It is normal during the weeks following the death for some children to feel immediate grief or persist in the belief that the family member is still alive. However, long-term denial of the death or avoidance of grief can be emotionally unhealthy and can later lead to more severe problems.

Anger can be a natural reaction to a parent's death. It is not uncommon for the child to show anger toward surviving family members. The child may temporarily become more infantile, demanding food, attention, cuddling, and baby talk.

An extended period of depression may require assistance from a qualified mental health professional.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The crematorium called again, asking when I would be ready to make a decision regarding David's remains. I called Margaret, a friend and attorney whom I knew could help me navigate this world without collapsing into emotion. When she answered, she didn't run down the laundry list of things she had to do. Instead she said, “I'll be right there.”

Margaret had been the first to offer help in planning the reception after David's funeral. Her timing and generosity were not out of character. Margaret was a modern-day Mother Teresa: she spent her vacations building homes in poverty-stricken areas of Mexico, she volunteered her time for several nonprofits in town, and she still found time for her friends and family. We were both hard workers and had saved wisely. We'd invested in apartment buildings together after a few years of friendship. Margaret did the painstaking work of accounting for every dollar we made. She arrived at my doorstep in a St. John suit and sensible black pumps. She carried two newspapers she'd picked up from the snowdrift and held them away from her clothes.

“Hello, darling,” she said, stepping inside. “Here are your papers. I've called the Bensons for the reception, I've coordinated with the girlfriends so that each person will bring a dish, and I've sent out the announcements.”