A Journal for Jordan

by Dana Canedy

  I needed to hold you again to steady myself as we sat there with so many people kissing and rubbing your head. You were tired, I could see, but not fussy, in your blue sweater and tan pants. I knew why they longed to touch you, but I gave up any pretense of politeness and forcefully said no when anyone asked to hold you. As long as you were safe in my arms, a piece of your father was as well.

  I spent the next hour talking about your cesarean birth with people I did not know and letting Grandma King credit her side of the family for your eyes, your height, and the shape of your head. She needed you to belong to her—I understood.

  You met your sister that day, a moment your father had been looking forward to, but not under those circumstances. She stared at you and her sad, dark eyes brightened when I placed you in her arms, and only hers.

  “He looks like Daddy,” she kept saying.

  Your dad wanted so badly for you to know your sister and wrote in the journal that he hoped you would love and respect her. He talked about Christina often—her basketball playing, how pretty she was, funny stories of her childhood.

  Mostly because of his training schedule, but also because he divided his time off between Christina and me, your father did not see your sister as much as he would have liked after the divorce. He spent weeks with her in the summer and sent her gifts, from a telescope to new clothing, but he felt sad that he missed out on so much of her childhood.

  Christina left with us when I could not take a minute more of having to wipe your hands and cheek with liquid sanitizer because another great-aunt or wife of a cousin had kissed your fingers and face. You were hungry and it was past your bedtime, I said.

  Your sister wanted to feed you when we finally made it to our room, and your father would have treasured that sight You spit out most of the strained carrots and apples, which was one of the only times in those two days that I heard Christina laugh. I had met her only once before, but she was family now and I wanted to soothe her any way I could as the would-be stepmother of a hurting sixteen-year-old.

  “How are you doing?” I asked Christina, as she continued to struggle with the carrots.

  “Not too good,” she answered with a shrug. She was her daddy’s daughter, pleasant and quiet, which made me worry. I hoped she was opening up to her aunt and mother.

  “You know that your daddy loved you very much,” I said. “He wanted so much to spend more time with you when he came home. You will always be his first child.”

  Christina said she knew that—but her attention was still on you.

  “He has Daddy’s head,” she said, grinning.

  As more family and friends arrived, surrounding us with so much warmth, all I could think about was how alone and cold Charles must be in that steel box. I imagined it was lined with a plush fabric and remembered that he was wearing his army uniform. I tried to think of him as warm and comfortable. It is amazing the images your mind wants to hold on to when you are grieving.

  I laid you next to me in bed instead of in the metal crib the hotel had provided—I just could not put you in that thing. You snuggled closer to me and I hummed to you as we fell asleep.

  Storm clouds threatened the next morning, which of course would have made your father happy. Rain for the funeral, I thought, holding you at the window. God is in charge of Charles’s homecoming.

  I could not bring myself to dress you in black because your father would not have wanted that; you are our hope and promise and that part of him that lives on. You were so handsome as you looked at a swaying tree branch outside the window in your tiny navy blue pin-striped suit and tie.

  I smoothed my black skirt and put on our coats. It was time to see your father off.

  Charles’s childhood church was already filled with mourners when we arrived—his beloved fifth-grade teacher, childhood friends, a woman who had a crush on him as a girl.

  Selfishly, I wanted your father to myself one last time, but his family and friends had as much right as I did to bid him farewell— no one more so than his mother. I focused my irritation on the newspaper and television reporters at the back of the sanctuary, interlopers who did not even know my soldier. Then I remembered sitting in those same seats in so many churches as a journalist. It occurred to me for the first time how the families whose stories I had covered must have felt about me.

  He would have been home in a month.

  I tried to keep from shaking as I looked at the angel print on an easel next to Charles’s casket, the same portrait that I had taken out of the closet and hung over your crib after he died. As unnerved as I had been when he gave it to me, it soothed me to see it beside him now. It was Charles’s final way of doing what he had done so many times—comforting anyone who needed him.

  As the organ’s song began, my mind rewound to the first time I saw his smile, the first night we made love, the first time I laid you in his arms. I felt so alone in my grief, even surrounded by so many other heavy souls. Then I peered down the aisle and saw Charles’s sister, Gail, sobbing and Christina’s face streaked with tears as she rested in the curve of her mother’s arm. Grandpa King seemed too tired even to breathe; his eyes were dry but his furrowed brow and twitching jaw hinted at his anguish. Your grandmother dabbed at her eyes as she stared somberly at the box now cradling her own baby.

  Her fingernails were freshly painted magenta, which cheered me a little. Hard as losing her only son was, that hint of color suggested she was not about to succumb to her suffering. If a woman can manage to care about her fingernails in the midst of such pain, she is certainly not planning on giving up on life anytime soon.

  Still, Charles would have been uncomfortable with so much grieving over him, and embarrassed by the spotlight on his character and accomplishments. Several mourners made mention of the page in the program that included his long list of military medals, fifty-six in all. They included two Bronze Stars, a Purple Heart, and eleven Army Achievement Medals.

  I had never known about the honors, and Charles had never mentioned them to the rest of his family, either. I understood why.

  It was only by accident that we learned after your father died just how highly decorated he was. Gail and I were getting frustrated because his body had been at Dover for several days after he was flown out of Iraq, and she called the military to ask about the delay in releasing him for the funeral. They told her that it was a military funeral and they had to dress him, and that he had so many medals, some not stocked at Dover, that they had to wait for them all to arrive.

  I was proud, just as I was during his funeral when a captain who had fought alongside him in Iraq and accompanied his body home eulogized him as a man who loved his soldiers and “would not let them do anything that he would not do.”

  The eulogies did not recount all the events that led to those medals, but many focused on First Sergeant King in combat and gave texture to the part of Charles’s life that I knew least about— the part that he intentionally kept from me. In the beginning, he was simply too modest to talk about his heroism; later, he was too worried about upsetting me during my pregnancy to tell me much about his role in the army and the war.

  Then the Reverend Vern Miller, Charles’s childhood pastor, spoke, recalling the boy who helped with church chores, even bringing workers water all day when he was too little to lift heavy blocks for a parishioner’s wall.

  He concluded by sounding one small dissident note: “Chuckie came of age at a time when young people were supposed to believe that the government could be trusted. That was then. This is now.”

  When the color guard marched in to escort your father out of the church and I rose to stand, my legs almost buckled.

  “No,” I wanted to yell out. “Get away from him. I need him here with me. He has to stay; our baby needs him. God, let this be a dream. Please, please let me wake up.”

  But the pain was all too real and we had no choice but to follow your daddy to the cemetery as flakes of snow danced around us. I sat shivering under a green c
anopy with your sister and grandparents and shuddered with each shot of the three-volley salute during a military graveside service. A lone bugler played “Taps” in the distance.

  The color guard lifted the flag off Charles’s casket at the end of the ceremony and folded it with great precision into a tight triangle so that only the stars were visible. According to military tradition, once the triangle is presented, the flag and the soldier are retired. Charles’s career had officially ended.

  A soldier carried the flag as if it were a beating heart and walked slowly past me to Mr. and Mrs. King. He bent on one knee and presented the flag to them, saying, as per protocol, “This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.” Then he gave them a second one.

  I was the “unofficial” widow and apparently not worthy of a flag or a letter of condolence from the president, or of the purple and gold lapel pin reserved for relatives of fallen soldiers, or of the set of your father’s medals that he said he wanted you to have. Of course, I had no one to blame but myself—I had resisted marrying your father for so long. I had gambled that we would have a lifetime to be an official family. I was wrong.

  Then I reminded myself that possessions weren’t important— that he had already given me the thing he valued most.

  I was haunted, too, by the fact that I had not been able to honor your father’s wish to be buried in Arlington. When the time came to plan Charles’s burial, the Kings chose this quiet spot near pine trees in a cemetery near his childhood home. Your grandmother said she needed Charles near so she could visit him, and it was clear that the matter was not open for debate. The Kings plan to be buried beside your dad when their time comes. I understand their decision, but I am just so sad for me and your father. How will we find our way back to each other if we are not buried together? Will Charles look for me? I know my soul will search for his.

  My mother put her arm on my back to steady me. You were awake by then and sat still in my arms, bundled in your coat and a blanket. It was as though you understood the magnitude of the moment and wanted to do your father proud.

  People began to walk back to their cars and I wondered how I would ever pull myself away from Charles’s side. I carried you to your father’s casket and placed your hand on it. Then I gave you to my mother and bent down to kiss the steel coffin, colder against my lips than it had been in the funeral parlor. It was time to go, but I just could not move. Then I felt my mother’s hand on my back again. I saw you wiggling in her arms to stay warm and could almost hear your father order me to get you out of the cold. It was that voice—and it was you—that finally gave me the strength to push myself away.

  It took several weeks back home, but we settled once again into something of a routine—story time in the morning, your nap at noon, bath time at 6 p.m., a bedtime story. Then I would cry myself to sleep or clutch my belly in despair, wishing your father and I had planted another new life there before he left.

  Then your grandmother King called about a memorial service for your father and his comrades at Fort Hood, in Killeen, Texas. I did not think I had the strength to go, but I knew your father would want his soldiers to meet his son.

  Fort Hood had endured an alarming number of military casualties that October, twenty-one in all, and the memorial would pay tribute to all the fallen men.

  When we arrived in Killeen, you awoke as we made our way from the open-air tarmac onto a bus and were hit by the chill of the evening air. Then, suddenly, it seemed as if the universe were playing a cruel joke. We were surrounded by groups of cheerful travelers—military families bubbling in anticipation of being reunited with loved ones returning from Iraq. There was a father in blue jeans clutching a “Welcome Home” sign, a wife applying fresh lipstick. I let them all get off the bus ahead of us.

  At the end of a corridor leading to the concourse, a crowd of mothers, fathers, wives, lovers, and brothers and sisters waved American flags and broke into cheers and squeals when they spotted their hero. People collapsed in each other’s arms, crying. I cried, too, happy tears for them and sad ones for our hero.

  An officer met us in the concourse with Donna Morris, the soldier’s wife who had been my “battle buddy.” She wrapped her strong arms around us and I began to cry harder. I was releasing the pain of walking past those people with their signs and their soldiers, the pain of a reunion that would never be.

  Donna took you out of my arms and smothered you in her warmth.

  “My God, he looks just like the first sergeant,” Donna said.

  Finally, something to smile about.

  Unfortunately, our bags were lost. After an hour of fruitless waiting, the officer said he would retrieve them later and took us to the Fisher House—a glorious place of comfort and healing. Until then I had never heard of the Fisher Foundation, a charitable organization that makes it possible for relatives of injured soldiers to stay nearby during a hospitalization. In this case, the Fisher House was reserved for the families attending the memorial.

  Our bags had still not arrived the next morning and I was out of diapers and baby food, so I went into the communal kitchen to see if I could find any applesauce for you. A woman in a flower-print dress with sad eyes was sipping coffee. I drifted into the dining room, where a middle-aged couple holding hands nodded hello. A few other people milled about and began tentative conversations, first about who wanted bacon or needed their coffee warmed. But it did not take long for the awkward chatter to fall away. Soon a wholesome-looking woman with shaky hands was passing around pictures of her beloved boy smiling at his high school graduation a couple of years earlier. I sat beside her and let her talk. Herboy was kind, was transformed into a man by the army—and died more than six thousand miles from home.

  I went back into the kitchen, where I was greeted by a man with one of the kindest faces I had ever seen. Isaac Howard was the caretaker of the Fisher House families. He was a black man well past middle age who spoke with a southern accent and wore a brimmed straw hat that he tipped when he said hello. Mr. Howard noticed me looking through the pantry and stepped toward me with a pen and paper.

  “Write down what you need,” he said.

  “Well, I’m out of diapers but my son only eats organic baby food. I’ll just wait for it to arrive with my bags. I don’t want you to go to any trouble searching for it.”

  “Ma’am, just write down what you need.”

  I smiled and thanked him and, sure enough, he returned within the hour with what I had asked for.

  I was preparing your breakfast and watching you crawl around on the hardwood floor. Russ, a man who had lost his son and seemed to be barely holding up, walked slowly into the dining room. You were instantly drawn to him. Suddenly, you were crawling in his direction as fast as your legs could take you. You grabbed hold of his pants leg and lifted yourself into a standing position, reaching up for him. Somehow you sensed his need.

  Russ swept you up in his arms and held you against his face and chest. He closed his eyes as he rocked with you, and you calmly patted his face. I was stunned. Russ dabbed at tears. He remembered when his son was that small, he said, and hugged you some more.

  Moments like that were what Fisher House was about. It was a place where people in the most excruciating pain gathered with strangers who shared a similar grief. Heavy hearts were made lighter and miracles happened. We had just witnessed one.

  The families of those dead soldiers smiled as they watched you crawl, playing with a green toy garbage truck that made burping noises. A woman asked if she could hold you and I said, “Of course.” People passed more pictures around, told stories over tea.

  The atmosphere became more somber by early afternoon; we all retreated to our rooms to start dressing for the ceremony. Soon everyone gathered in the living room, straightening neckties and fussing over hair and makeup, anxious distractions as we waited for the military vans. Most of the convers
ations stopped. One man was upset that he had forgotten a pin that he meant to wear on his lapel to honor his brother. His parents tried to calm him down. The Kings were dignified and quiet, as always, standing erect in the foyer, following you with their eyes.

  Then we stepped out of the safety of our cocoon and into the vans, the sun beaming down on all the suddenly lost souls, oblivious to our grief.

  The army assigned a soldier to escort each family to its pew, but I was somehow left behind and walked in alone at the rear of the procession, carrying you in my arms. I tried to focus on what mattered. We were there to honor Charles even if such ceremonies were more for the living.

  Christina was already seated with her mother and relatives when we walked in and took our seats in the row in front of theirs. Her face lit up when she saw you.

  “You want to hold your baby brother, don’t you?” I said.

  She nodded excitedly and held out her arms, and so you snuggled with her until you became fussy. I wondered whether I should ask Christina if she wanted to move up and take her place with the King family, but I decided it was best not to make an issue of who walked in when and sat where.

  Some families were already weeping. I somehow managed to maintain my composure, until an officer began barking out a ceremonial roll call of the dead soldiers’ names. I knew what was coming and tried to brace myself.

  “First Sergeant Charles Monroe King,” the officer shouted. And then he let the silence linger where your father’s response — “Sir, yes sir” — should have been.

  I shook and sobbed uncontrollably, aching. I looked at you and wondered how we would ever carry on.

  “He needs his daddy,” I moaned to Charles’s sister as she put her arm around me. “What am I going to do? He needs his daddy.”