by MV Ellis
“Thank you. I might just take you up on that.”
24
Spider
I somehow made it through the week on a combination of almost zero sleep, the sheer weight of responsibility over Mom and Ben, an unending supply of adrenaline, and my nightly calls with Emi. It was a lot. Dealing with the logistics of the funeral with the army on Mom’s behalf was a trial on its own, but doing that while parenting both her and Benji was a load I almost couldn’t bear.
Mom was a shell of a person, wandering the house while staring into space much of the time, collapsing into tears the rest. Small things would set her off—Dad’s clothes in the basket when we came to do our laundry, the delivery of his birthday present to himself that had arrived the day after his death. Neither of us knew what to do with the top-of-the-line bike seat that he would never get to use, and I thought Mom would never stop crying while she clutched it to her chest so hard that her knuckles went white.
Worried about her refusal to eat and limited sleep, I’d called her doctor to the house to see if there was anything he could do. He said her reaction was normal, which I knew, but I was worried that she wouldn’t make it until the funeral. He prescribed short-term antidepressants. The only issue then was convincing her to take them.
Ben was a whole different issue to deal with. He’d swing between seeming to understand and cope with Dad’s death, while obviously being upset, to not seeming to grasp the concept at all. Mornings were the worst. He would bound out of bed, having forgotten why he was staying at Mom and Dad’s instead of at his assisted living apartment, and be full of the joys of a new day. Or he’d want to get back to his own place and his own routine—his part-time job, hanging at the social center with his friends and girlfriend, playing sports. Each day I had to remind him of the situation, then deal with the fallout. It was exhausting.
Between caring for the two of them, dealing with the practicalities, and the huge parade of people streaming in and out of the house—relatives close and distant, friends old and new, Dad’s army colleagues, neighbors, and I didn’t even know who else—we had a freezer full of casseroles none of us had the appetite to eat, and I struggled to find a moment through the day to think straight, let alone deal with my own grief.
By far the high point of every day was when Mom and Ben were asleep and I could call Emi. It would be the same every time. I’d text first, asking if she was awake, and she always was, no matter how late. Our calls were different each time; the only thing they had in common was the fact that they were long, and she was there for whatever I needed.
Sometimes that was listening to my long-winded memories of Dad, the bests, worsts, and everything in between. Other times I’d ramble for hours about utter nonsense, recounting stories from my time playing high school football or sharing my worst tattoo client Hall of Fame.
More than once I didn’t want to talk at all, instead probing her for details about her life. I could tell she was less than comfortable revealing more information about herself, but she’d humored me all the same, and selfish bastard that I was, I let her. Even under the worst circumstances, I loved learning about her in that way, especially knowing she’d never shared much of what she told me with another soul.
The night before the funeral was one of those times. All day, last-minute plans and arrangements had crowded my mind. There was the catering, cars, the eulogies, plans for extra seating outside the church, our suits, flowers, all of the military ceremonial aspects, the wake—all while trying to deal with Mom and Ben, who were both cracking under the pressure. The house had been bursting with people as though we were hosting the wake there before the funeral. But every person came laden with enough food to satisfy an army, so at least I didn’t have to worry about feeding them all.
Still, by the time I texted Emi, I didn’t want to think about what the next day held.
Me: You awake?
Emi: For you, always.
I called her as I sat on the back step, which had become my routine.
“Hey.”
“How are you surviving?” She always seemed to know the right thing to say.
“Surviving is right. I’m hanging on by a thread.”
“You’re doing so well. Most people in this situation wouldn’t know which way was up, and you’re holding not only yourself together but two people who need you. That’s not easy, and you’re nailing it.”
“I don’t feel like I’m nailing it right now. In fact, failing it would be a more accurate description of the situation in my eyes.”
“How the hell do you come to that conclusion? Remember that just like your mom and Ben, you’re grieving, and you have every right not to be perfect all of the time in those circumstances. You get that, right?”
“I do, but sometimes I need a smart and exceptionally beautiful woman to remind me.”
“Oh, well, it’s a shame you only have me.” Her laughter was like black opal—rare and beautiful in its stark simplicity.
“Don’t sell yourself short. You know the only reason I’m still upright is because I’ve had you to lean on through all this.”
“Not at all. You’ve been so strong this whole time. I’m in awe. Besides, even if you have needed that extra boost, you have so many people there for you to help you in any way you need, not just me.”
She was right, of course
“That’s true, but the only person I’ve needed has been you, and you’ve been here to a fault. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Then don’t. Just like you say I apologize too much, I don’t want you to feel the need to keep thanking me for basic shit, okay?”
“I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything. I believe in credit where credit is due, and you’re the glue holding my family together right now, whether you know it or not.”
“Are you going to try to get some sleep tonight? You’ve managed on next to nothing so far, but tonight of all nights, I’m sure you could do with a little more.”
“No doubt, but I know it’s not going to happen. I might not even bother trying.”
“Really? You probably should.” Concern tinged her voice.
“I probably should, but I probably won’t. How did you meet him?”
“Hmm? Him who?” The concern morphed into confusion.
“Tommy.”
“What? Where did that even come from?”
“The thought has been bothering me for a little while, I just didn’t know how to broach it.”
“But then you thought you’d just throw the grenade out of the blue?”
“Basically, yeah. I guess one thing losing my dad like this has taught me is that there’s no time like the present, and there may not be a future, so best to say and do shit in the here and now rather than regret not doing it later.”
Another heavy silence dragged out between us. As awkward as these pauses were, I’d learned to go with it when I spoke to her. It was as though she needed time to recalibrate or to get her head together. Nine times out of ten, she’d answer me eventually, if I left her to do her thing. I waited.
“High school. We dated on and off for years, but then when we graduated, I went on to college, and he just kind of did the hood rat thing. We didn’t keep in contact, but we ran into each other at a party in our old neighborhood one summer, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“So you were together what, like eight years or something?”
“Kind of.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s complicated. We hooked up at the party, then didn’t see each other again for a long time because a few weeks after that, he went to jail for five years.”
“Jesus. That wasn’t any kind of misdemeanor.”
“Nope. Armed robbery.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah. It’s bad, but it’s not what you think. He and two of his doofus friends were drunk and high and thought it would be funny to hold up a gas station. It wasn’t like a premeditated bank job or anyt
hing like that. Not that I’m trying to excuse or explain his terrible behavior.”
“So you kind of dated him when you were too young to know any better, and then you hooked up one time after that. How did you end up at a point where he was holding you hostage at gunpoint?”
There was a long and heavy pause. Again I let it drag on, determined not to let Emi off the hook without answering.
She exhaled long and hard before speaking again. “Like I said, it’s complicated, but despite what you saw of him that day, he can be—I mean was charming when he wanted to be. Hard to believe, I know.”
She was right. I found that impossible to believe.
“When he got out of prison, he sought me out,” she continued. “He explained the robbery away as a childish prank gone wrong. He caught me when I was vulnerable and felt like I had limited options. I thought he was as good as it would get for me. By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late.”
“I’m not blaming you for what he did, but it makes me so sad and angry that someone as incredible as you would think a guy like that was all you were worth. You deserve the moon, the stars, and all of the fucking solar system. You deserve more than he could ever hope to give you if he lived to be a thousand years old. You deserve more than any man can give you, including me. Not that that knowledge makes me want you any less.”
The line was silent for so long I almost thought we’d lost the connection.
“Emi?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. In my mind I’ve been calling you Chris.”
What? It seemed like a day for random questions and declarations.
“It started to feel weird referring to you as Spider,” she explained. “I mean, I know that’s what everybody else calls you, but it just feels too… impersonal, or friend-zoney. I don’t know. I’m not making sense, but I guess I often don’t. Make sense, I mean. All I know is a nickname like Spider doesn’t feel right for someone I’m…. Sorr— Is it okay if I call you Chris?”
“Chris?” The word felt strange on my tongue. Apart from formal situations like doctor visits and all of the preparations for Dad’s funeral, I was unused to anyone calling me by any variant of my real name. Not even my parents ever did. Had. Not for many years, anyway.
“Sorry.”
“Emi.” The warning tone in my voice was clear, and she corrected herself.
“I mean… don’t feel obliged to say yes. It was just a thought.”
“No, I don’t want to say no. It was a good thought. It just took me by surprise, that’s all. But now that I’ve had a moment to think about it, I like it. Something special just between the two of us. Chris. It’s perfect.”
25
Spider
“You may have known my father as Lieutenant General Macauley Christopher Williamson, or just Mack. To many of you, he was a soldier, a leader, a role model, and a commanding officer. To some of you, he was a formidable presence, a force to be reckoned with. To others, he was a friend, a neighbor, a pillar of the community. To my mom, he was a loving husband, a best friend, and a partner in life.
“Yes, he was all of those things to all of those people, but to me he was just Dad. It was as simple and as complicated as that. He taught me how to ride a bike. He used to get on his hands and knees and give pony rides. He was my moral compass, guiding me mostly patiently through life, showing me the way so that, in his words, ‘you won’t turn out to be a total asshole.’ He answered my endless questions and listened to my meaningless chatter. He read to me, played with me, built forts with me, and carried out countless practical jokes on me. He fumbled his way through what must’ve been the most awkward ‘birds and bees’ talk in the entire history of the world, long after it was needed, but at least he tried.
“He was everything Benji and I ever needed in a father and more. Everything Mom needed in a partner.
“We lost a good one last week, and we’ll all be the poorer for it. The dad-shaped hole in my heart will never heal, but we were all richer for having had him in our lives for as long as we did, and for that, I’m eternally grateful. Rest in peace, Dad. We love you.”
I kept my shit together until the last few words. The same couldn’t be said for the congregation. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
A military funeral is all about the details. We took care of every element meticulously. But as I watched it all unfold, feeling like I was hovering above it all in some kind of out-of-body experience, it struck me that the one aspect none of us could control—not Mom, or Benji, or our closest friends and relatives, or any of the hundreds of well-wishers who’d filled the church and then spilled out into the courtyard to watch the funeral on big screens—was the fact that Dad was gone, and he was never coming back.
There was nothing any of us could do to change that. No amount of attention to detail. No level of military honor. No number of prayers or pleas to a God I’d been unsure of before and was now certain didn’t exist, would mean he’d saunter through the door of the church and tell us all to dry our eyes and stop being pansies.
I would have handed over my internal organs if there was even a glimmer of a chance that I could live without them to make that happen. That was the part that got to me the most—the helplessness. I needed agency. I needed to feel like I was in control, if only in some small way. However, I wasn’t in control. Dad dying out of the blue proved that. Anything could happen, and there wasn’t a damned fucking thing anyone could do about it.
Everything else was an elaborate show designed to disguise that depressing fact. Only I was no longer fooled by the Wizard of Oz routine. People had said the funeral would be good for me, for us, as it was a specific point in time in the grieving process. I didn’t even know what that bullshit was supposed to mean.
Did people suppose that I’d just turn off my grief once I’d buried my father? It was a bunch of meaningless platitudes designed to give comfort to people who had no business being comforted. The worst had happened, and there was nothing anyone could do or say to change that or to make it better.
The moment I watched my father’s casket lowered into a black hole in the ground was by far the worst of my life. I’d thought the news of his death and the haunting sight of his still, lifeless body lying on a slab would have been the lowest point, but I was so naively wrong. Seeing Dad’s body go to its final resting place hurt more than I thought it was possible for anything to hurt. Ever.
Blackness. Everything was black. The sky. The hole in the ground. My mood. My soul. My heart. It was the end of the world as I knew it. At the moment the last piece of earth had covered the casket, I died too. Or more accurately, it was as though I had died and been reborn right there. My view of the world had changed, forever tainted by the harsh realities of life that I’d somehow been shielded from before.
I’d never experienced loss, or real emotional pain. Hell, I’d never really even experienced disappointment. Things had always gone my way. I’d say “I’m sorry,” or “Condolences,” or “Deepest sympathies,” to other people, but the words had meant next to nothing to me. Not that I didn’t mean them, I just didn’t connect on a personal level with the emotions they represented. I didn’t understand what it meant to feel the things I was talking about—they were abstract concepts to me.
I knew people went through some terrible shit in life, sometimes extreme, unimaginable, unspeakable things. I hated that that was the case, because I knew it hurt them deeply, but I didn’t feel their pain, and I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to feel that way.
That was until I met Emi. I’d been able to see and feel her pain as though it was my own, and it had hurt me to know how badly she’d been hurting.
Standing at the edge of the grave, my arm around Mom, holding up the skin and bones that was her frame, I briefly considered throwing myself into the pit with the casket. I wasn’t suicidal, but I hated feeling the way I did, and in that tiny moment, anything that would stop that feeling would have been welcome. Hearing Mom’s angu
ished cries as she quivered beside me tore me up inside, but it also pulled me back to my senses. I heard Dad’s voice in my head telling me to buck the fuck up and be a soldier for my mom and brother. I was all they had, and they needed me.
Ben stood on Mom’s other side, flanked by Zed, who I’d asked to be close by in case I needed help with them. I was only one person, and if either of them needed me, I wanted to make sure there was someone on hand right away to deal with the other. As it was, my concerns about Benji seemed to have been unfounded. I kept looking over Mom’s head to check on him, and each time, he seemed to be managing okay.
I still didn’t know if he fully understood the situation. I knew he got that Dad was dead and we were burying his body, but I couldn’t be sure he’d grasped the enormity of what that meant, or that it was forever, not just a temporary thing like a vacation. I suspected that only time would truly tell.
That was no different for anyone. I didn’t know how Mom would cope once the dust had settled, everyone including me had gone back to their normal lives, and all the casseroles had gone from the freezer. How would she deal with rattling around in the home she and Dad shared? Everywhere she turned, she encountered his possessions and reminders of the times they’d spent together. What would it be like for her to go to bed every night to the cold, empty spot where her partner of four decades used to sleep? I had a feeling things would get worse before they got better.
At least Ben had his community, his routine, and his girlfriend, Zara, to go back to. He thrived in the stable and familiar environment of the assisted living facility. Sure, he would miss Dad, just like I would, but his day-to-day life would be the same after Dad’s death as it had been before.
Not so for Mom. The two of them had hit their groove in his short retirement after so many years of dealing with Dad’s ridiculous work patterns and long absences for active duty. They often joked about getting under each other’s skin, or tripping over each other in the house after having hardly lived with each other full-time, but in reality, they’d loved having time. Time without a job to manage or kids to drive from A to B. Time to spend together or apart, depending on where the mood took them. Time to just be. Now that was all gone, and all Mom would have would be time, and nobody to share it with.
