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“Not a damned thing. That kind of turbulence often doesn’t come with a warning. I’m sure he did everything he could to get them through it. As soon as I know more, I’ll call you.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“I’m really sorry to have to give you this news.”
“It’s not your fault.”
After we end the call, I feel sick. There’s no way Mike could’ve been at fault for the crash. I simply can’t hear that and go on with my life. The shock reminds me of the first days after the accident, like I’m wading naked through hip-deep snow. I’m hot and cold and shaking while trying to decide if I’m going to vomit.
That’s where Tyler finds me. His alarm has gone off, and he’s gotten himself up and dressed, which is his one job every morning. “You didn’t come in,” he says.
“Not yet, honey.” I force a smile for him and reach for him, enveloping him in a tight hug that has him immediately squirming to break free. I let him go, and he takes his soothing body heat with him. I need to get the girls up and dressed. I need to feed the three of them. I need to function even though I can barely breathe.
I’m in a grief-fueled fog as I go through the routine that’s so familiar to me, I could do it in my sleep. I navigate the daily argument with Sophia, who hates to have her hair brushed, and the daily battle with Laney, who can never find anything. Can I send her to preschool in a mismatched pair of shoes? I’m about to when she pops out from under her bed with one of the missing tennis shoes.
They have cereal and juice for breakfast, the girls and I walk Tyler and Sophia to the bus stop at the corner and then return home for the ride to the preschool with Laney. My babies are growing up fast, but even still, every day feels like a year without their dad. I have fantasies about what our life would be like with him here, but I can’t allow myself to indulge in them or I set myself back. Today is going to suck badly enough without going there.
I pull up to the circle driveway at the preschool and get out to help the teacher unbuckle Laney’s seat, which tends to be difficult to get undone.
My mother can’t get over the drive-in drop-off at preschool. She makes jokes about whether you can order a side of fries with your babies.
Thinking about those things keeps my mind off the bombshell from Steve’s call. I drive home, trying to keep my shit together so I won’t crash the car, but once I’m inside the house, I slide to the floor inside the mudroom and break down into the kind of heartbroken sobs that remind me too much of the raw grief of the first few days after the crash.
I have so much to do. I use these kid-free hours to geteverythingdone so I can focus on them when they’re home, but I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t do anything but cry. Of all the things that might’ve come from the NTSB report, the one thing I did not expect was that they’d blame Mike.
My phone rings. It’ll be my mom. We talk every morning around this time after I get the kids off to school. She’ll worry if I don’t answer, so I take the call, trying to hide my current emotional state from her. “Morning.”
“What’s wrong?”
I laugh even as tears spill down my face. She could hear my distress in one word. “Nothing more than a pending NTSB report that’s going to put the blame on Mike for the crash.”
“What? No. That’s not possible. He was an excellent pilot.”
“Yes, he was, but that’s what the report will say. Steve got a heads-up.”
“I don’t know what to say, Iris.”
“Neither do I. He said… There could be lawsuits.”
“My God. They can sueyou?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure about anything. Steve said they have insurance. I just don’t know.”
“Do you want me to come over, sweetheart?”
Monday is her lunch day with her girlfriends. “No, no, that’s okay. I’m going to pull myself together and get on with it the way I have all along.”
“I’m so sorry that this is happening right when you were starting to get your sparkle back a little. Daddy and I say all the time that we wish there was something more we could do to make this easier for you.”
“I wouldn’t still be here without you and Dad, so don’t worry about what more you can do. You’re already doing everything.”
“We wish it could be more.”
“I appreciate you guys so much. The kids had a great weekend.”
“We had fun. It’s so quiet here after they leave. We miss them right away.”
“When Mike first died, I worried that no one else would ever love them as much as I do, but you guys do, and Mike’s family does, too.”
