Every Day Without You, Chapter 1 complete

Fucking bagpipes.

It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.

But we Irish love our bagpipes.

Michael, especially. So, I thought it would be a nice touch for the service.

But this was shortsighted. It didn’t occur to me how loud the bagpipes would be, if I was stuck right next to them.

I’ve always enjoyed bagpipes at outdoor activities.

St. Patrick’s Day parades.

Notre Dame football games.

I hadn’t considered how different it would be at an indoor funeral.

In a church so crowded we passed capacity hours ago.

Before the service, while my kids and I followed the casket to the altar and stood—for several minutes—directly in front of the bagpiper.

Or now, ten minutes after I eulogized my husband. Their dad.

The sustained whine of the drone pipe is deafening, bouncing off the stained glass and the painted vault above the nave. We’re surrounded by beauty, and utterly miserable.

There’s no escape. We’re pinned in by hundreds of people. The priest is ten or fifteen feet ahead, taking his time with his Latin and incense.

My friend’s been a priest for ten years, but I can’t take Father Alex seriously. Vestments and incense cannot rehabilitate the guy who once asked if I knew about the burning bush, then proceeded to unzip his fly and light his pubic hair on fire.

In a bar.

Father Alex inches toward the back of the church, swinging his incense, making everyone cough. Moving at a glacial pace, like he has money on how long he can drag the recessional out. Like he’s purposely tormenting us, forcing us to stand on display while Seamus O’Hara—or whatever his name is—wails in our ears.

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. How Great Thou Art.

In the narrow space between the back of the bagpiper and the front of my husband’s casket, I hold my teenagers’ hands. We mask our reactions to the maddening volume of the fucking bagpipes. Can’t be seen wincing on the national news.

Anna spotted the cameras when we turned to shake hands during mass. She nudged me and inclined her head to one, and then I spotted the other two. One on each side, and one in back, just off the aisle.

This is a detail I didn’t get wrong. I was explicit. No press. The funeral was to be closed. The press were there last week, when Michael lay in state at the Capitol. They were at the service at the National Cathedral. They’ve gotten their video and photos and twenty-four-hour news cycles.

I wanted this last memorial to be private. Or, as private as possible, with a thousand people in attendance.

This is too much. No one—especially no teenager—should have to mourn while the world watches on television.

As if our grief is their entertainment.

I force my jaw to relax. Clear my face of any expression that can be dissected on CNN. Deep breaths. In…two…three…Out…two…three. It will all be over soon. Soon, no one will care about us. We just have to get through this last bit.

My fingers itch to rip those pipes off and beat the reporters with them, but I can’t be the headline. I won’t make this worse for Anna and Will.

I’m all they have left.

 

The door to the limo closes, sealing us in silence. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but my ears still ring.

The music was beautiful. But I have a headache now, and this day is already hard enough.

I look around the interior. When I was a kid, I thought this would be fun. Riding in a limo. The height of luxury. Kevin McAllister with a large cheese pizza.

But my first limo ride, the day of my mother’s funeral, was the opposite of comforting. It was sterile. Cold.

Now, twenty-four years later, I compare the space. Bench seats. Built-in cooler. Water bottles. Antiseptic smell.

All the same.

This might, actually, be the same limo. How much have limousine styles changed since 1998?

I should focus on more important things.

Burying Michael. Taking care of the kids.

But I haven’t been able to focus for two weeks, and now I’m thinking about limos. Our wedding limo was nice. Twenty-two passenger Navigator. Disco lights. Champagne. Earth, Wind, and Fire blaring as our friends sang September and we kissed in the back seat.

This limo hasn’t experienced fun.

This part is identical to Mom’s funeral. I gave the eulogy that day, too. But, as we rode to the cemetery, I couldn’t recall anything I’d said. I remember standing on the altar, shocked by the sheer number of people.

Mom was fifty-six. Her friends were still alive.

I’d never thought of that before—that more people come to a funeral for someone who dies young. My grandma’s funeral was our family and ladies from her red-hat club. At ninety-eight, she’d outlived the people she’d loved most.

Today was more packed than Mom’s service. Michael was only fifty, but it wasn’t just his age. He was like a magnet. His enthusiasm, his kindness, his ridiculous good looks. He drew people in. Everyone loved him.

To my left, Will stares out the window. To my right, Anna leans on my shoulder.

My thoughts are scrambled. Too loud. People will be at the house soon. Do we have enough alcohol? Is there enough alcohol in the world for a day like today? When can I take Anna shopping for dorm bedding? How long are Michael’s parents staying?

Does Michael miss me, wherever he is? Does he feel this same hollow space in his chest?

My feelings turn on a dime. One minute, I ache. Missing him is a physical pain. The weight tightens around my lungs.

The next moment, I’m so angry he left us.

Anna distractedly asks, “Will all the flowers from the church be at the house?”

I start to answer, but Will squeezes my hand, snagging my attention. He’s gritting his teeth. Outside his window, I see more press. And picket signs. Slogans like “You’re Going to Hell.”

Points for simplicity.

If Michael were here, he’d joke that he’d truly arrived if the Westboro Baptist Church cared enough to picket his funeral.

But he isn’t here. And the seventeen-year-old next to me looks like he wants to rip the door open and tackle the mob.

I’ve no doubt he could do it—his wide shoulders shock me every time I look at him. The product of hours in the gym and on the football field. But he wouldn’t get far. With the president’s motorcade behind us, the Secret Service would take Will down before he reached the grass.

“Will?”

He focuses out the window.

“Will.”

“Yeah?” Still glaring.

“You know what your dad would say?”

“He’d say, ‘If they’re shooting at you, you know you’re doing something right.’”

I smile at the quote from The West Wing. He’s right. That’s what Michael would say.

If he were here.

But he isn’t, so I need to step up. “Let’s look at something that doesn’t make us angry. Look out the other side.” I point. “Down that street is the tiny house where we lived when I was born.”

Will pulls his gaze to me. “How tiny?”

I smile. “I don’t remember it, but Grandpa says the entire house would fit in our garage.”

Both kids smile.

Encouraged, I keep going. “Big Burger’s that way. My mom used to take me there for ice cream. Cherry Mash cyclones. On bad days.”

I nod at the stoplight. “Remember when we’d bring you here to play?”

We’re passing Lakewood Greenway—“Penguin Park” to the locals. The centerpiece of the park is a twenty-five-foot fiberglass penguin. He’s accompanied by a kangaroo, a giraffe, and an elephant. All huge.

Anna winces. “That’s the park where you went down the gross slide?”

Forty years ago, there was a slide inside the penguin. And no way to back out if you changed your mind. Which was a problem the day the boy ahead of me dropped his pants and peed down the slide. He managed to slide to the side of the wet stream.

I wasn’t so lucky.

“Yes, but they plugged the inside before you were born. It wasn’t gross when we took you.”

Will grins. “That’s where you wrecked your car, right?”

I’m happy to be the target of his teasing, if it redirects him for a few minutes. I point past the penguin. “I totaled my first car right there. Six weeks after I got my license.”

Anna smiles. “That’s when the 911 operator thought you were high?”

I shrug. “I don’t know what she thought. I do know when I pulled out my bag phone—” the kids roll their eyes here, “—and plugged it into the cigarette lighter—” now they’re snorting as they try not to laugh, “—I couldn’t think of the name of the park. Or the cross street. So I described my surroundings. When I said a giant, smiling penguin was out the window, she probably thought drugs were involved.”

I’d been wearing my letter jacket, with my name in felt letters across the back. It was a busy March Saturday on the main street near the mall. Everyone I knew honked and waved, while I stood in the rain, lamenting my mangled Taurus.

Until the week I met Michael, that was my most embarrassing moment.

Anna looks down at her hands. “I remember Dad pushing me on the swings. He was mad when I climbed on top of the wooden train and jumped.”

I remember that, too. Michael barely caught her. He said his heart raced, terrified he wouldn’t reach her in time.

“He always worried,” Will says, fidgeting with his tie. “I know I acted annoyed, like I thought he didn’t trust me. But I’ll miss it.”

He did act like he thought Michael didn’t trust him. I’m glad he realizes it came from love, rather than distrust. I nod, “I’ll worry enough for all of us. You’ll just have to deal with me being even more overbearing.”

“I know,” he laughs. “I’m not sure how you’ll get through football season without Dad to talk you off the ledge.”

Right. I hadn’t thought that far. How am I going to do literally anything without Michael?

“You’ll try hard not to get tackled.” I squeeze again and smile, squinting the tears away. “And we’ll figure it out as we go. That’s the answer for everything now.”

The kids wipe their eyes as we turn into the cemetery. Anna squares her shoulders. She doesn’t realize how fierce she is. Her fair skin is pink from crying, but she is stunning in her strength. Red hair glowing around her like a flame.

“It’ll be okay,” I say, for what feels like the millionth time since I got the call. If I repeat it another million times, maybe I’ll believe it. But the crack in my voice undercuts the reassuring vibe I’m going for. “You’re both so strong. I know it’s hard to believe, but we’ll get through this. And when we don’t feel strong, we’ll lean on each other.”

They both nod, neither speaking. The car stops, and I’m out of time to find words of wisdom.

Will reaches for the door handle, tears rimming his red eyes. I put my hand on his.

“They won’t start without us.”

I push a piece of dark brown hair from his eyes. He needs a haircut. But he’s so handsome. So much like Michael.

Will it be hard to see him now?

I squeeze their hands again. “I’m so proud of you. I know today sucks. There’s no getting around it.” I reach up to wipe tears from their cheeks. “The only way is through.” This need to surround them in bubble wrap overwhelms me. To shield them from the hard days ahead.

“I’m sorry about that. Sorry you have to do this. Particularly the extra stuff that’s going to happen out there.” I point out the window.

“I just want to say goodbye to Dad,” Anna says.

Will nods. “Everything else feels excessive.”

Ava cocks her head. “Extraneous.”

Will squints at her. “Superfluous.”

She grins. “Good one.”

Anna has spent much of the past two weeks of shared sibling time quizzing Will on ACT and SAT questions. They keep challenging each other’s vocabulary. It’s either a coping game, or a super-annoying contest of one-upmanship.

I lower my voice, getting their attention. “There will be extra stuff.  Tributes to him being a great American. Twenty-one gun salutes. But I want you to remember that being your dad was everything. He loves you so much.” My breath catches at the error. Loved. Past tense. “He would have been astounded by you today.”

I talk through the knot in my throat. “I know how much this hurts. How it feels like it will always hurt…It fades over time.” I don’t finish my thought.  The ache never disappears.

I lose the fight with my composure, tears spilling over. I wipe my eyes, stuffing clean tissues in my pocket. I need to pull it together. For them.

“I’m so lucky he chose me. That’s what I’m focusing on.” My voice cracks. I shake my head, hoping to clear the self-doubt and show the kids strength I don’t feel. “How grateful I am we can get through this together.” I breathe through the words, willing the shakiness away.

I roll back my shoulders and put on a weak smile, nudging the kids out of the car. As I step outside, I curse. Fucking cloudless day. It’s wrong for the sun to shine. For the grass to be so green. For the world to be beautiful.

Today of all days.

I shut the door, keeping my hand on top of the car as I force another deep breath. I put my sunglasses in place, thinking to myself, It’s definitely the same limo.