I entered the apartment in a very cheery mood, full of energy, and looking forward to seeing everyone. Inside, besides my family—my parents, brothers, and sister, my grandmother—the usual suspects were standing around: Steve Schmidt, Rick Davis, Charlie Black, Brooke Buchanan, and Blond Amazon, along with an assortment of my parents’ assistants, close staffers, the advance team, and of course, the Secret Service.
Something was wrong, though. Everyone was just standing around, kind of dead and super-still. Nobody was moving. It was like they’d been frozen in place. Political people were never quiet or motionless like this, when gathered together. They were always talking on their phones, checking their BlackBerrys, moving around the room, schmoozing. Maybe that’s why they were called “movers and shakers,” because people in politics never just stood around.
We must be losing.
What I didn’t know was that we’d already lost.
Dan Yeary, the pastor of our church, North Phoenix Baptist, must have noticed the look on my face. He came up to me and grabbed my hand and said, “Everything happens for a reason, Meghan. God always has a plan.”
I walked into the kitchen, looking for Dad. I was told to go out on the balcony in the other room. He needed to talk to me. When I found him, my brothers, Jack and Jimmy, and my sister, Bridget, were already there.
Dad pulled us into a semicircle, like a huddle before a football game. I was hoping that this was some kind of sign that he knew a secret—a poll or voting area that hadn’t been reported.
No, that wasn’t it.
“Look, guys,” he said. “It seems we’re not gonna win this thing.” That was it. I don’t remember a lot else, except I thought I’d lose it immediately but I didn’t. I hugged my father, told him how proud I was of him, and just walked straight out the door like a robot. I went downstairs to the other apartment, where Shannon and Heather and Josh were waiting, and I told them what happened.
“What?”
“It’s only five o’clock!”
Polls hadn’t closed; people were still voting all over the country, pulling the lever for my dad. But the campaign’s internal polling was already sure that he had lost.
I hated the way it was ending. Election nights are supposed to go on and on. You were supposed to be up until the middle of the night, dead on your feet and still waiting to hear the news.
Five in the afternoon wasn’t the way it happened.
The sun wasn’t even down.
My dad hadn’t even eaten dinner.
What about Florida? And Ohio? What the hell happened in Ohio? I knew that state so well; it felt like I’d been to every single county, every small town and city, traveled on every highway, byway, service road, visited every possible Cracker Barrel, Olive Garden, and Applebee’s, and met with God only knows how many people.
What about Ohio?
I hadn’t seen this coming—at all. Even in my darkest moments, I figured we had a great chance to win because my dad was so obviously the better choice, the more experienced and dependable leader. Everywhere we went people had been so excited about the election, and excited about my dad. Those conga lines in Miami, the screaming crowds in Indianapolis. Even in the desperate pitch of the stupid seven-city tour of nonstop rallies, deep down I believed that we couldn’t lose.
The feeling of heartbreak was so crushing, so painful, and I blamed myself for not being better prepared for it. If only I were more thick-skinned. Maybe that way I’d be inoculated from ever feeling this wounded again.
What about friggin’ Ohio?
The only thing that I remember doing between five o’clock, when the news of our defeat began to drill its way into me, and the time that I was due back upstairs to regroup with my family for an appearance at the Arizona Biltmore, was holding Melissa’s hand. I grabbed Melissa’s hand and never let it go.
ON THE WAY BACK TO MY PARENTS’ APARTMENT, UPSTAIRS, I broke down in the hallway where the Secret Service were standing, and it made it so much worse that they’d seen me like that.
Upstairs, my dad called out for everybody—family and campaign staff—to gather in one room and he thanked them for the great work they had done for him, and for “just being there.” With a calm voice and no sign of being devastated, he even remembered to thank the Secret Service, which really got me. They were nowhere near the top of my thank-you list, but of course, my dad included them too.
Outside, there was a lineup of big SUVs waiting at the curb. My parents got in the first one, along with Lindsey Graham and me. Just looking at Lindsey made me fall apart, and I started crying on his jacket sleeve.
Somebody mentioned being upset about the Hispanic vote going to Obama. During the early parts of the campaign, my father took hits for his stance on immigration, and Lindsey was right there with him. Some people even started writing “José McCain and Lindsey Gomez” on protest signs. This seemed to be the final sting for Lindsey and Dad. Nobody had seen that one coming.
As we turned into the Arizona Biltmore, a crowd of Obama supporters were standing on a corner with big Obama signs and jeering at our motorcade. They were so pumped up, feeling so good, but somehow still so angry. It was unimaginable to me how anyone would wait for us on the street so they could rub in their victory like that—and glare at the losers.
When I started to lose it again, my parents said, “Enough crying.” Whatever happened, they told me not to cry in public—onstage or anywhere else. I had to be strong for my mom and dad and my younger siblings. I had to be dignified and not hand the media an opportunity to photograph me with tears streaming down my face. I thought of those jerks on the corner, jeering at us with their Obama signs, and I didn’t want them to find a way to have more glory from our loss.
I asked God for help.
He heard me. Nobody saw me cry for the rest of the night.
Crowds were waiting for us at the hotel, and began clapping as we were ushered on foot to a private bungalow that the campaign was using for the night. The grounds of the Arizona Biltmore are beyond gorgeous—sprawling, manicured, three dozen acres of tamed Arizona desert. People were lined up along the pathways clapping. The hotel staff was gathered, and clapping. My dad led the way, and I could only see the back of his head, glimpses of him in the excitement.
Inside the bungalow, I saw Sarah Palin standing in the kitchen. She looked stunning in a deep blue dress with her hair pulled half up and half down, her signature semi-beehive style. I stopped to play with little Piper for a while. She was happy and jumping around, like most seven-year-olds, and didn’t seem to know that we’d lost. I sure didn’t want to be the one to tell her.
While I talked with Sarah, she was holding some papers in her hand, a speech, I assumed.
“Are you going to speak?” I asked her.
“I want to,” she said, “but others don’t agree.”
“You look beautiful,” I said.
When it came time for my father’s concession speech, we had a long walk ahead of us—five minutes that seemed like an hour—to a place on the Biltmore grounds where a stage had been erected. I grabbed my little sister Bridget’s hand. I remember gripping tightly as we walked together. There was more clapping, and more people lined up along pathways.
The warm welcome felt nice, but only momentarily. Looking ahead at my dad, I couldn’t help but think about how this country that he loved so much, more than anything else in life, and had given so much to—this unbelievably intoxicatingly amazing country—did not want him.
It did not want my old father. It did not want my mother, whom it had never really known. It didn’t want my brothers in the military or my beautiful soul of a sister. And it didn’t want me—an over-bleached glitter girl in a too-happy gold dress on such a sad night. The rejection didn’t feel intellectual or philosophical. It didn’t seem like a bunch of ideas or a political party had been rejected. It felt really personal. It felt like us. We had been rejected. And the pain of this was a complete assault on my emotions and senses.<
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My dad wasn’t enough and we weren’t enough—not interesting or evocative or beautiful enough. And we weren’t new.
I cracked a few jokes to push this out of my head. I made jokes about anything and everything. They were like old friends, these jokes. And they would get me through—I knew they would. And they would make Bridget feel better too.
“At least the Secret Service won’t have to put up with me anymore.”
“At least I will never have to eat a Snickers bar for breakfast again.”
I could hear Bridget giggling, softly.
“I’ve gained so much weight that my Spanx are breaking at the seams.”
Out of nowhere, Steve Duprey, the owner of the Concord Marriott, appeared and grabbed my hand. How did he get here? I hugged him. “Kid,” he said, “we had some great times, didn’t we?” Nobody has ever made me feel as good, or pulled me out of such a dark place. And best of all, unlike everybody else in my father’s orbit that evening, Steve Duprey wasn’t crying.
THE SKY WAS DARK AND CLEAR. AS WE WALKED ONTO the stage at the Biltmore, I looked up at the stars shining and they made me feel strong. Before us, the golf course of the hotel was a sea of people, mostly silent.
My dad started to speak. I looked at him standing next to Sarah Palin in her dark blue dress and thought, I have to remember this. I wanted to hold on to every single moment. The sky. The stars. The stage that was full of people I loved. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.
Dad was starting to look sad, but he would keep it together, he always did. When things were hard, he always said, “I’ve been through worse,” and I knew that he was talking about being a prisoner of war. Back in the apartment he had said how lucky he felt to be part of a small group of people who had become a nominee for president. He always held on to his perspective. He held on to things that were good.
My father’s speech was perfect, so beautiful, the most glorious concession speech, but listening to it was one of the hardest things I will ever have to do. Down below the stage, Heather was taking pictures of us—the way she always did—but her face was streaked with tears. I remember thinking how awful, how awful, this is all so awful, but at the same time thinking how beautiful too.
Caring about your country was beautiful. Finding hope in a leader was beautiful. Even losing was beautiful.
Then I looked out, beyond where Heather was, at the people gathered on the golf course to hear my dad. So many of them were crying; it was a sea of crying faces. I was so moved by this, so crushed, so happy. Look at how much people loved my dad, and loved politics, and loved this country. This counted for something. This counted for everything. There was so much love all around, and spirit, and faith. And I saw that I was lucky—so lucky—to be John McCain’s daughter and to have been a part of this, the pain and the beauty. And above everything else, I saw that God had a plan and my father being president of the United States was not a part of it.
I don’t really remember walking off the stage. Emotion can be like a drug and wipe everything out of your head. But I do remember being backstage and seeing Sarah Palin’s mother crying hysterically—wailing, and making loud sobbing sounds and hugging little Piper. It was hard to witness. All the other Palins had their game faces on. They knew what their job was. But Sarah’s mother couldn’t do it.
Then, for some weird reason, Sarah stepped back onstage by herself. She was waving to the crowd, saying hi to the cameras, almost as though she were in Alaska—not Arizona. What was she doing? I was shocked. It was as if she wanted to make the night about her, and not my dad. She was trying to have the last word, and the last wave.
What else did she want or need? What was driving her to do this? Possibly it was unconscious, this dramatic bit of upstaging, and she couldn’t see how it could look to us or anybody else. She was supposed to leave the stage, but she couldn’t go along with the plans, even then—even on the last night—and just follow my dad and the rest of us back to the hotel bungalow. She didn’t have a go-along side to her. And I saw something that I hadn’t really wanted to see before: Losing wasn’t an end for her. It was a beginning.
As for me, I was perfectly ready to say good-bye. Good-bye to the campaign. Good-bye to politics. Soon it would all be behind me. I told myself: My dad will never run for president again. I will never have to go through this again.
My father and family had given so much to the Republican Party over the years, but I didn’t want to give anything more. The party couldn’t see or admit how damaged it was. And I didn’t want to stick around and watch it—losing its way, forgetting its heart, missing its chances, and completely missing the point. That night I was standing at its funeral and saying good-bye.
Chapter 22
And Then There Was Rock Band
I woke up alone and the apartment was quiet, an echoing silence. So this is what defeat is like, I thought. Nothing and nobody and no sound.
We hadn’t made plans for losing. In the mind-set of our family, if anybody had ever said, “This is what we’ll do after we lose,” it could have jinxed everything.
Plans for winning? Oh, we had lots of those. My father had spent the last two years talking about nothing else—all the things he was going to do when he won, the things to fix, the war, the economy, health care. But now the talking had stopped. The rallies were finished. And I woke up in my parents’ guest apartment in Phoenix alone in bed and wearing my gold glitter dress and a smeared game face of election night makeup. I looked like I had been in a car accident.
My pain was dull but throbbing somewhere, way down inside me, like somebody had given me a shot of Novocain directly into my heart.
Where were my friends? They had gone, scattered off. Last I’d seen them, after the concession speech, they had come with me to the hotel bungalow for an after-party, where the campaign staff had gathered, the aides, the Bus Nazi, the Groomsmen. I was just trying to get through it, and looked for people whom I needed to thank and say good-bye to, like my tireless web designer, Rob Kubasko. But I lost heart very soon. I didn’t even have the energy to drink much. I was too sad and in shock. I felt unreal, like a person I was watching in a movie.
Shannon, Heather, and Josh had already left by then. I assumed they had wandered back to the ballroom of the Biltmore, where a far larger mass of people—thousands of volunteers, staff, donors, coordinators, speakers, organizers—were doing a grieving/celebrating thing that just seemed way too painful for me. I was supposed to stop by. I said that I’d stop by. Instead, I had gone back to my parents’ apartment building and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
After a shower, I went downstairs in sweatpants and a sweatshirt and tried to find a car. I didn’t care whose car or what car. My parents and a bunch of campaign staff had driven up to our cabin in Sedona—either very late on election night or early in the morning. The doorman brought around a Toyota Prius, the only family car left, and I drove it straight to the Biltmore to find my friends. I was in a crazy mood.
I didn’t want to be alone, but I didn’t want to see anybody either, except Shannon, Heather, and Josh. I needed them the way I’ve never needed friends before. But the press corps was staying at the hotel and, more than anything, I didn’t want to be cornered and have to try to talk graciously about what it felt like to lose.
No more fake stuff.
I was done with that.
But while I was looking for my friends, I ran into Kelly O’Donnell, a TV reporter from NBC, and thankfully one of the normal people. Kelly was very sweet and sensitive, I remember that. But I couldn’t wait to get away.
Shannon and Heather and Josh were in various states of fatigue and inebriation when I found them. They were starving, too. So I brought them back to the apartment and fed them lunch. They started talking about election night and the parties I had missed—the drinking, chain-smoking, the madness and crazy stuff.
I started feeling a little frantic, just thinking about all the people that I hadn’t said good-bye to
. All the people I might never see again. People who had meant so much to me. All gone, disbanded, people whom I had loved, and hated, and loved hating. You know what I mean. They had been my family and my whole world for seventeen months.
I hadn’t done anything right.
I hadn’t thanked enough people, or hugged enough people. The ending had slammed me. I had just survived it—like some kind of explosion—and not thought about anybody else but myself. I wondered when that would stop. When I grew up?
While we were eating, we turned on the TV—an addiction at this point. For the last four months it was always on, in every room, wherever we were. We expected to see Obama on the screen. But Sarah Palin was giving interviews in the lobby of the Biltmore. What? Why the hell was she giving interviews? Was the failed vice presidential running mate supposed to do that? My dad certainly wasn’t giving interviews.
We were shouting at the screen. I think somebody threw a pillow. Sarah was trying to continue her political career, or save it, we figured, and separate herself from my dad and his loss. She was trying to be her own person now, free from us, free of the campaign and my dad. I don’t know if that’s what she was doing, or thinking, but we decided it was.
Our defeat was just hours old, and still too painful, to us anyway—wasn’t she even heartbroken? But it was the very beginning of what would be months of postmortem, the beginning of Sarah and many individuals in the campaign not letting things die or the wounds heal. The fallout from the campaign went on and on and everybody except my dad would want to have their say. Including me.
Election night was like a fire, and when the ashes were left, there would be things that would rise out of them. Nothing is ever really over, it just evolves into something else.
I was supposed to drive up to meet my parents at the cabin in Sedona later that day. But I stalled—hating to say good-bye to my friends, hating to separate after all our months together. I couldn’t stand to think about it. But they had their own lives and careers to get back to. I knew that. But I asked anyway. Would they stay a little longer, get me through the next few days? They weren’t my employees anymore—staffers who were helping me with the blog or my hair. I was closer to them than I’d been to anybody.
Dirty Sexy Politics Page 15
