Jay Giles (3 page)
Back in my car, I used the car phone, punched in Tory’s number, got a recording. “You know the drill. Leave a detailed message. I’ll get back to you when I can.”
Julian had neglected to tell me Tory had an attitude.
I was hoping that Tory would call while I was at the office. When I hadn’t heard from her by seven, I locked up the place, put the top down on my Saab 9-3, and headed home. In the winter, when the snowbirds were in residence, the commute took forty-five minutes; during the summer it only took fifteen.
I negotiated downtown
Sarasota
streets in virtually no traffic, took the Ringling Causeway off the mainland, an expanse of blue water on either side. A few sailboats were out on the bay; closer to shore were sailboarders and jet skiers. The causeway deposited me on St. Armand’s Key with its exclusive circle of upscale shops and restaurants. I slowed as I navigated the circle. People have the right-of-way, and tonight, like most nights, they were out and about. Strolling, shopping, stopping for a bite to eat, taking advantage of a balmy evening. Past the circle, I drove over the
New
Pass
Bridge
to Longboat Key.
My condo was a couple of miles down the key at the Watergate Club. I turned into the drive, slowed at the guard gate. Given the name of the place, I’d nicknamed the two security guards Haldeman and Ehrlichman. Haldeman was on. Eddie barked as we drove past; I waved and continued to my parking space.
The Watergate Club was a fourteen-story rounded tower on the gulf side of the key. Eight units to a floor. A separate clubhouse building housed a lobby, meeting rooms, and an exercise facility. The pool was on the Gulf side of the clubhouse; the tennis courts on the street side.
I rode the elevator to the twelfth floor, headed down the hall to my two-bedroom, two-bath affair. I had spectacular views of both the Gulf of Mexico and downtown
Sarasota
.
An older couple from
Syracuse
who had decided it was time to go into assisted living sold it to me at a fair price. They’d had a taste for flocked wallpapers, sculptured carpet, and heavy, upholstered wood furniture. The kitchen with its avocado appliances and burnt-orange countertops looked like what it was—something left over from the sixties.
I’d brought in a decorator who in turn brought in a crew of contractors. They got rid of the wallpaper and carpet, reworked wall configurations, completely redid kitchen and baths. The place was transformed. White walls, bleached hardwood floors, modern furniture. The second bedroom had been turned into a library with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The kitchen was all granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. It had the feel of
Manhattan
.
On good days, I was pleased with how it turned out. On the bad days, I could have cared less.
I let us in the front door. Eddie trotted into the kitchen and returned, holding his dish. I fed him, made a salad for myself. He finished his bowl and sat patiently as I ate. As soon as he saw me carry my plate over to the sink, he went and got his leash. We went for a walk in the yard followed by a run on the beach.
I spent the rest of the evening reading, waiting for the phone to ring. Eddie sat next to me, his head resting on my thigh. I rubbed his ears, stroked his head. At eleven, when Tory still hadn’t called, I showered, went to bed and tossed and turned before going to sleep. With sleep came the dreams.
It was autumn. The leaves were changing. There was a nip in the air. The sky was bright cobalt blue, the grass a vivid green.
Claire and I stood on the sidelines of a soccer match. She held a mug of coffee, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
On the field was a shark-feeding frenzy around the ball. For the players in the eight-to-ten-year-old league, the concept of passing had yet to sink in. Our ten-year-old son, Michael, was in the middle of the turmoil. Blond hair, yellow shirt, green shorts, knee-high yellow socks. Wait. Kick. Run. A bit tentative, even though he was one of the older boys.
“Kick it out, Michael,” I heard myself shouting.
“You can do it,” Claire called.
Next to us on the sidelines, Sarah watched her younger brother disdainfully. She was in the twelve-to-fourteen-year-old league. What she saw happening on the field was beneath her. Eddie sat at my feet, watching Michael carefully.
A whistle sounded. Penalty kick. Michael’s team, the Comets, lined up to defend. The boy from the other team got off a good kick, but it sailed high. Another shark frenzy followed the throw-in; then all of a sudden, Michael had the ball on the wing.
“Go, Michael, go,” I heard myself shouting. He ran twenty yards before a player from the orange team intercepted him. If he could get five more yards, he’d have a shot. The two boys fought for the ball. Michael got it past the other boy, kicked. Not enough oomph. The ball dribbled across the field right to their goalie.
“Good try, Michael,” Claire shouted.
The whistle blew. Game over. It belonged to the Comets. Their first win of the season.
Michael charged across the field, jumped up, and hugged me. “Did you see that kick, Dad? I almost scored.”
“You were awesome, Michael.”
We headed to the concession stand. Michael ran ahead to rejoin the team, Eddie at his heels. Sarah’s friends started arriving for her game. I had my arm around Claire’s shoulder. I was happy. Life was full and rich and good.
I woke.
My family was gone. Again.
The emptiness was excruciating. I felt the pain swell and overwhelm me. I would have done anything to have them back; I could do nothing. I felt my eyes fill with tears. At the side of the bed, Eddie put his head on my hand as if to comfort me. I rubbed his ears. It was all I could do as emotions flooded me.
It had been over two years now since the accident. I was in a hurry that morning, an early meeting. Other Merrill Lynch division heads were in town. As the division head for
Detroit
, it was my responsibility to host the group. I dressed quickly, swung through the kitchen on my way to the car, the kids bickering at the breakfast table. Claire was standing at the kitchen counter getting their lunches ready for school. Normally, I dropped Sarah and Michael off on my way to work since it was on the way. That morning, because of the meeting, Claire was taking them.
“You going to be on time?” she asked as I kissed her good bye.
“Should be. ‘Bye, kids.” Still arguing, they didn’t respond. I was out the door and into the car.
Our division meeting, a two-day affair, was being held at the Detroit Renaissance Inn. We’d worked our way through the pre-meeting continental breakfast and chitchat and were listening to the divisional VP, Frank Cates, when a woman from the hotel staff walked out on the stage and interrupted him for a brief huddled conference off mike. I remember seeing Frank’s shoulders sag, seeing him search the faces in the group until his gaze found mine.
He walked over, head down, the woman trailing uncertainly behind. When he reached me, he steered me away from the group to a corner of the room.
“Matt,” he said quietly. “There’s been a traffic accident. A bad one. I hate giving you this news, but they tell me your wife and son are dead. They’ve taken your daughter to the hospital. They’ll have someone drive you to her. I’m sorry.”
The woman from the hotel stepped forward. “Please come with me, Mr. Seattle.” She led me out of the room. A police cruiser waited outside the hotel’s front doors. On the ride to the hospital, I asked the officer if he knew what had happened.
“Not much, sir,” he’d answered politely. “We believe your wife’s car was hit head-on by a vehicle attempting to pass at a high rate of speed. They’re still investigating.”
He put the siren on and soon deposited me at the hospital emergency entrance where a doctor told me briefly about Sarah’s condition—multiple broken bones, severe internal trauma. When I started to ask questions, he cut me off, saying he’d rather talk after they’d made a better assessment of her injuries. He said her chances were not good.
You learn what’s really important sitting in a hospital waiting room grieving for your wife and child, praying for your other child in surgery. It’s not money. It’s not your lifestyle. It’s not your job. I would have traded all that to have Sarah better. Gladly. I’d have given my life for her to live. For my wife and son to be brought back to life.
Six hours after Sarah went into surgery, the doctor came and told me they’d done all they could. The injuries were more extensive than they’d thought. Time would tell. She was in God’s hands.
They let me see her after she’d been moved to intensive care. She looked small and fragile on the big hospital bed, her face swollen, discolored, a ventilation tube in her nose. Her breathing came in short gasps.
She tried. I know she was trying. She held on for six days. I stayed by her bedside, praying I’d see her eyes flutter open, her hand move. I heard her labored breathing stop. Immediately, machines started making noises and staff hustled me out. A nurse came and told me she was gone. They hadn’t been able to revive her. She said it was probably a blessing.
I didn’t know if I could keep going, probably wouldn’t have if family and friends hadn’t taken over. My parents, who had flown in from
Chicago
, watched over me. My bosses at Merrill Lynch provided a paid leave of absence. Friends brought casseroles. But as kind as everybody was, they had to go back to their own lives eventually. When that time came, I assured everyone I was okay.
Only Dr. Adelle Swarthmore, my psychologist, knew I wasn’t. I was a mess, a knot of exposed emotions that I couldn’t untangle. Twice a week I saw her, poured out my heart. She helped me understand that grieving was a human process with known stages and unknown timetables. With her help, I’d gotten through denial, bargaining, and anger, but depression overwhelmed me. Acceptance seemed impossible.
Reminders of what I’d lost were everywhere. One of Sarah’s blue barrettes on the cooking island in the kitchen. Michael’s soccer shoes by his chair at the kitchen table. A book Claire had been reading, open on the sofa in the family room. Each held a memory, a link to what I’d lost.
Eddie saw my slide into depression. Once Michael’s constant companion, Eddie never left my side. In his way, he watched over me. He’d bring me his leash and take me for a walk when I became melancholy. He’d bark when I didn’t get up in the morning. He’d bring me his bowl, reminding me I had to eat. He’d put his head under my hand, letting me know I wasn’t alone. Often, Eddie would go in Michael’s room and just sit—head down, tail still. He missed them, too. Michael most of all. Watching him, I saw my own hopelessness.
To help me cope, Dr. Swarthmore recommended a support group for traumatic death survivors. In an odd way, it worked. The mutual help—the sharing, talking, listening—grated on me, but it made me realize I needed to take action.
I tried the recommended approach of separating personal items into groups to be kept and discarded. When I couldn’t do it, I knew that we had to leave the house. I didn’t have the courage to deal with a barrette, far less whole rooms. Someday, maybe. Not now. Again, friends came to my aid. They boxed up the personal things for me, and I put them in storage. I sold the house and furniture. I took only what I could fit in the car—two suitcases of clothes, the family photo albums, and Eddie.
Dr. Swarthmore felt I was running away. Maybe I was. But I was doing something, taking action, and even she agreed that was good.