Two Minus One

by Kathryn Taylor

  When I learned my next-door neighbors were moving, I experienced a major blow. I had removed myself from Face-book, so I had seen no posts that would have alerted me to the change. I realized that something was amiss only when I noticed strangers touring their house one day. When I spoke with my neighbor and learned the news, I knew another unexpected and painful loss was about to occur. This family had reached out in friendship from the moment we had met. All three had provided sincere and constant support to me when I was left alone. I would miss them greatly, and I was despondent.

  My daughter had done all the research and arranged for delivery of a much-needed new vehicle. When I arrived to pick it up and sign the paperwork, the sales rep had sold the car to someone else. I suggested that the situation sounded like a classic example of a bait and switch. The general manager suggested that I would be happier with another dealership that could locate and service my new vehicle. Fortunately, I identified an alternative, though it was much farther from my home. Less than a week after I received my new vehicle, a tow truck backed into my car as I waited in the parking lot to meet a friend for lunch.

  There was also the small patio that had been created in my backyard the weekend before the fateful trip. It had looked perfect upon completion, but then heavy rains had washed it out and it had already been redone three times. It remained barely usable and not at all what I had envisioned as I strove to maintain the home’s appearance. If it happened that I would need to sell at a future date, the patio would surely have to be rebuilt. But for now, I could give it no further thought.

  Finally, as expected, my husband’s brother died several months after the trip to the lake. While I had always admired and respected him, no one in the family had communicated with me since our trip to the lake, so I had not had the opportunity to say goodbye. I received only a perfunctory text from my husband telling me that his brother was gone. I lost the connection with his brother’s wife as she, too, disentangled herself from a family that had little use for her now that her husband was deceased. I lost my relationship with his children and grandchildren, whom I had worked so hard to blend into a loving and compassionate unit.

  I needed to refinance my home in my own name, and when it was time, I discovered that conventional loans were unobtainable without a six-month history of spousal support. I had only two months. I was walking Lucy one day, and when we stopped to play with Stella, her best puppy friend, a neighbor’s dog got loose and attacked—not one of the dogs, but me. I was left with a deep wound, a lasting scar, and a dog not quite as socially confident. Lucy required one-on-one training at the cost of $100 per hour, which was certainly not in my budget. I hoped to avoid stitches and the series of shots I would require if the dog had rabies.

  My father had heart valve replacement surgery. My sister-in-law, who we all thought had successfully battled breast cancer and who had been in remission for years, was suddenly confronting the disease once again. While she remained stoic and optimistic about the recurrence, my brother was clearly worried, and I feared for what his life would become if he were to lose her. My father and brother both resided in distant states and deserved my attention. So, once again, I prepared and froze food for all, then embarked on the thirteen-hour trip to provide support. I was relieved to see my father meet me in the drive with the use of a walker, and I savored the lovely three-day visit with him and his wife.

  My time with my brother and sister-in-law was not as pleasurable. While my sister-in-law was fatigued but in good spirits, my brother was less than welcoming. His initial complaint against me was that I had failed to arrive at the exact time he wished—even though I had determined my arrival time in advance with his wife. Respectful of the need of privacy for all, and wishing not to intrude on their lives, I stayed at a hotel, rather than in their home. My choice irritated him even further. I believed his anger resulted from his concern for his wife, and was determined to remain upbeat and helpful. That, it appeared, was the problem. He told me that I was “too nice” and making his wife “think about her condition.”

  I wondered, Would his wife not know about her condition if she were treated unkindly?

  Later, he told me to terminate all communication until I received word from him that I could once again be a part of their lives.

  I remained confident that, as siblings, we would resolve the issue over time and heal this wound. But for now, I was forced to deal with yet another painful and unexpected loss.

  I departed ahead of schedule and texted my therapist to arrange an immediate meeting upon my return. I was confused about how I could possibly be “too nice” and “too mean” at the same time. As we sat in her office a few days later, she explained to me that people, in addition to substances, could prove toxic to our well-being. I clearly understood her message and, for the time being, knew that I would distance myself from my brother, as well as my husband.

  I reached a significant turning point in my journey when I received word from my daughter of an unexpected and potentially life-threatening health scare she was facing. She had provided so much daily support to me throughout this ordeal; she deserved the same loving attention and backing from me as she confronted this unexpected obstacle. It was time I leave behind the role of victim to resume the role of mother. I was much more comfortable with and successful in that position, and, at that moment, I was reminded of my priorities: there was nothing more important to me than my daughters.

  I phoned my attorney and informed her that I had no strength left to fight the marital battle. The divorce would have to go on without me. I was unsure of the logistics that statement would entail, but I would no longer be available to address insignificant arguments or unwavering and unreasonable offers. When real movement occurred, I could be notified and would do whatever was required. Until that time, I would trust her to act in my best interest, and I would focus on what really mattered in my life.

  As my father continued to heal, complications and side effects with surgery and medications set in. His wife, Audrey, contracted bacterial meningitis. I was arranging for my rotation among family members to provide care and support for the two of them, when my father died unexpectedly. I was devastated that I had missed seeing him before his death, and I flew immediately to their home to help with arrangements and support his widow. I helped her to select songs for the funeral Mass, as well as the flowers that would be on display. We ordered red roses from Blooms by Sandy—the same local florist my father had patronized by purchasing countless red roses for his wife to honor each of their special occasions.

  I was also the person assigned to the job of assisting Audrey in sorting through his belongings. We patiently collected prescription drugs and medical equipment to be properly discarded or returned. Others teamed up to mow the lawn, plant flowers in outdoor beds, and clean each room from top to bottom—all tasks that had been neglected during his illness and recovery. I sat with her to sort through the closets and the clothing that had belonged to him. We found unopened packages of socks, T-shirts, and underwear and put them into a pile to donate, along with dozens of pairs of shoes. The coat closet was cleared, and coats that had been his were offered to his son and grandsons. Any that were unwanted were also added to the pile to donate.

  Once again, I found myself purging the belongings of a man I had deeply loved. Eliminating reminders of my husband had felt very personal and very real. I had recognized every item, photo, letter, and piece of jewelry, each of which symbolized a special and personal memory of the nearly fifteen years we had shared, and reminded me of that unexpected loss.

  Going through my father’s belongings was an equally emotional but very different experience. There had been a great deal of geographic distance between us, as we had both relocated to share our lives with our new spouses. Phone calls had been frequent and visits routine, but the miles between us had compromised our day-to-day connection.

  As I handled each of my father’s belongings, I was overcome with a different sense of los
s. Except for the bathrobe I had sewn for him for Christmas many years before, I had few recollections of the occasions on which he had worn these clothes, or the intimate details of the new life he had made with the woman seated beside me. As with my husband’s, my father’s departure was unexpected and created a huge void in my heart where love had once dwelled. However, unlike my husband’s love, my father’s love was ever present, truly unwavering, and impossible to replace.

  As I checked his pockets and sifted through his belongings, I experienced a real sense of the love he had felt for this woman sitting beside me. I extracted dozens of suits from his closet. Each suit was carefully hung with several coordinating dress shirts beside it. Pocket squares, belts, and cuff links were there as well. There was a white dinner jacket and a formal tuxedo. There were matching shoes, with a spit-polished shine, for each of his outfits. I remembered my father’s having had only one suit and perhaps three pairs of shoes during my childhood. When I asked Audrey about the dramatic change, she replied, “Your father liked going out and being with people. He enjoyed looking nice.”

  I learned that his wife and her children had purchased most of these clothes as gifts to help him attain that goal. To me, what I was looking at was the closet of a man who proudly escorted his wife, whom he loved dearly, on his arm whenever they stepped out to enjoy a social occasion. There would be people in need all around town wearing my father’s happy memories.

  As a military veteran, my father would be buried in Arlington National Cemetery. Therefore, I had to gather strength both for services in his town of residence and for a trip to Arlington four months later. At the viewing and service, I began to fixate on the fact that I had been unable to say goodbye to my father before he died, and continually went over the details of our last telephone conversation, the day of his death. I always ended conversations with those I cared for by saying, “I love you.” However, that day, there was chaos on his end, as he was confined in a hospital room and ordered to rehab. His unintelligible ramblings to “get me out of here; I will not stay” left me helpless to calm him or understand his needs. When his wife and her daughter arrived, I asked that he put Audrey on the line as we struggled to soothe his fears and speak with doctors. In the chaos, the phone was passed off without my telling him, “Goodbye, Dad. I love you.”

  Fortunately for me, Robbie had flown in to provide added support, as had my friend Mary-Ann, who drove down from Chicago. My daughters were there as well. Surrounded by family and friends who lifted me both emotionally and physically, I said goodbye to my remaining parent. It was not until the local American Legion unit fired the traditional rifle rounds to honor his passing that I knew he was indeed gone.

  The service in Arlington, as expected, was even more emotional and challenging. Having lived on army bases, I was aware of the protocol and the tradition of the military. I knew how moving the bugle playing taps at the end of the day could be even when one was not mourning a loss. This would be a real test of my emotional strength and well-being.

  When the time for the final burial arrived, I embarked once again on a difficult journey. Lucy and I had grown accustomed to the travel between South Carolina and Virginia. However, the distance from Indiana to Virginia was far more daunting, especially for an elderly widow in the early stages of grieving. Audrey’s children made plans for her to fly directly to Washington, DC, where her daughter and son-in-law would pick her up. It would be a long and arduous trip for her, so I made hotel reservations for the two of us close to Arlington. We left our respective homes to travel toward our final destination on the appointed day. I dropped Lucy off with my daughter in Richmond. The next day, I headed farther north to check in to the hotel and confirm final arrangements.

  When Audrey arrived with her daughter, we left the hotel for a bit of a distraction. Her grandson and great-grandchildren had also arrived, in a show of support, and we wanted to spend time with family over dinner, during which we experienced a range of emotions. The following day, we would take full advantage of the museums as we wheeled Audrey through the buildings of the Smithsonian, which she had not visited in years. The cold and blustery winds made being indoors extra appealing—especially for me, having left summer weather and flipflops just days before. As more family arrived, we again shared a meal that evening, before retiring to bed early to prepare for the day ahead. The weather for the day of burial forecast a cold drizzle—typical early-October weather in our nation’s capital. We had all prepared for such conditions, but the morning dawned sunny and warm—a day my father would have noticed and appreciated.

  On average, thirty burials per day occur at Arlington National Cemetery. The precise coordination of handling that many events and moving that many people made me conjure images of an air traffic control center at a major airport. I drove from the hotel to the cemetery, with Audrey and her granddaughter as my passengers. We had a handicapped tag because of Audrey’s frail health and were escorted immediately to a reserved space in front of the main building. We checked in, were directed to the room that had been assigned to our family, and awaited the arrival of the burial coordinator who would guide us through the day. I would have no friends who appeared this time, like superheroes, to offer much-needed soothing.

  Family continued to trickle in, and I was especially relieved to see and embrace my daughters upon their arrival. When our burial coordinator entered the room, he appeared somewhat agitated and demanded, “Who owns the vehicle with the South Carolina plates that is parked in the handicapped loading zone?” That, of course, was me. A difficult experience was having an auspicious start. The vehicle was instantly moved, and we awaited further instructions about how the event would progress. The immediate family was called out to speak with clergy and provide insight for final words.

  The solemn tradition and finely orchestrated protocol of a military funeral is much like that of royalty. In the United States, every soldier has the option of burial in this hallowed place. Enlisted personnel are treated with the same deference as the President. I drove the lead vehicle in the procession, as I was carrying the First Lady—the widow of the soldier about to be put to rest. Before we had even had a chance for our full entourage to assemble behind us, everything ahead stopped and the coordinator once again approached my vehicle. I lowered my window and wondered what I could possibly have done wrong now.

  “Ma’am,” he admonished, in a much softer tone than the one he had used with me previously, “I know you’re from South Carolina. However, we’re in Virginia, and even in Arlington we drive a bit faster than you’re going. Please keep less than a car length between you and the vehicle you’re following.” Not wanting to throw a wrench into such a meticulously planned event, I proceeded on my way, making sure to honor his request. I understood that many families were experiencing the same sense of loss as I was and were waiting anxiously to lay their loved ones to rest.

  We followed the hearse to the previously determined midpoint. All who attended stopped, stepped out of vehicles, and watched with pride and sadness as precisely groomed soldiers transferred the casket to a horse-drawn caisson. Audrey and I stood entwined and squeezing each other tightly. We worked to control our tears and hold each other upright, just as we had done at the memorial service four months earlier.

  When that portion of the ceremony was complete, the procession solemnly made its way through the most precisely maintained acreage in the city of Arlington. At the gravesite, comforting words were spoken, taps played, the flag presented, and rounds fired. The shell casings were collected and presented to the grieving widow, and the family was escorted out—as they had been escorted in—by their personally appointed burial coordinator.

  After the service and the family gathering that followed, we drove back to our hotel. We changed into pajamas, welcomed my daughter, and shared a relaxing and pleasant evening together, reminiscing over a bottle of wine and room service. My daughter returned home that night, and the next morning, after breakfast, Audrey’s da
ughter took her to the airport while I began the drive back to my home. The man we had both loved had been officially laid to rest.

  I WAS WALKING Lucy one Sunday morning the following September, nearly two years after Jim left, when I ran into a neighbor and stopped to chat. I anticipated where the conversation, and the neighbor, would head. I hoped this time it would be different.

  Every Sunday, this woman, her husband, and another neighborhood friend and her husband went for brunch at the clubhouse nearby. I knew this was their routine and their time, and I always tried to ignore the emptiness I felt when they failed to invite me. Today, somehow, I was unable to shake those feelings of loneliness and pain. I wasn’t asking to be a regular part of their group, but could I not be included on occasion? I thought they understood how much it would mean to me. After all, they knew the details of my situation. I did not want to disrupt, did not want to steal one of their men—I wanted only an hour of friendship and an escape from the emptiness of my days. Each week that I saw them, I played my practiced conversational loop in my mind. I would pretend to be surprised by their invitation to include me. I would politely decline but allow myself to be convinced to accept and accompany them just this once. I would thank them for allowing me to join them and wish them a relaxing day.

  I fought back the tears as my neighbor told me once again that she and the others were heading to brunch. My dear pup, Lucy, immediately alert to a variation in body language and sensing my emotional change, led me quickly back to the security of my home. When the garage door closed behind us and we were safely inside, my tears fell. I announced to my pup, as there was no one else there to listen or to care, that it seemed to be time to leave this place and move on.