The World: According to Graham (26 page)

The front door closes behind George and I, and we turn west, heading for the park. Exercise is a byproduct of this outing. I really just want to talk to my mom without any danger of Rachael overhearing the conversation. I’ve reached the point where I need to call in the big guns—my wise, quirky and fabulous mother.

George and I run for about ten minutes before I spot a park bench that isn’t occupied. It’s in a somewhat obscured location, nestled between two cherry trees. Its chipped green paint with initials and names carved into it tells of better days, but there’s something about the permanence of the scarred wood that I like. Yes. It’s beaten up, but it’s still functional. Its place of importance between these two trees—heavy with pink, red, and white blooms—makes it dignified and purposeful. I do something that I normally don’t do—I pull out my cell phone and snap a picture of the scene.

As I’m taking my seat, I pull up the photo and make sure that the lens captured the colors and image as I’m seeing it now. After studying it for a few moments, I make it the background on my phone. I don’t think of myself as an artist, but I’ve come to discover that I have a strong affinity for the outdoors. This is another moment that I’ve found solace in Mother Nature.

“Hi Mom,” I reply when she answers the phone.

“Graham, honey, how are you?” Her voice isn’t sappy or overly sympathetic. She’s my mom. It’s her “I’m worried about you, but I’m not judging or making you feel uncomfortable” voice. This is one of the many reasons that I adore her.

“Shitty.” One word, but it’s the best way that I know how to express my state of mind.

“It’s only been a few days. Of course you’re still struggling. How is Rachael?”

“Shittier.”

She gives a rueful laugh. “Do you remember when Kelly was diagnosed with breast cancer?”

“What does Kelly being sick have to do with us losing the baby? Come on, Mom. I’m calling to hear your wise words. I don’t need a more depressing trip down memory lane right now.”

George walks over and sniffs a blossom that has fallen to the ground. He looks at it curiously, picks it up with his mouth and lies down at my feet.

As I’m opening my mouth to tell him to drop it, he spits it out and it rests about an inch past his nose. I bend down and stroke his back for a being such a good dog and not eating it.

My mom continues as if she hasn’t heard a word that I said. “We were all so distraught over her diagnosis. I mean she just had become a mom. She was so young. As a family, we cried and spent the days and nights mourning the diagnosis.” She pauses for a beat. “You remember, Graham. You were in D.C. interning for the presidential campaign. We talked every night on the phone. I saw a real change in you after that summer. I think it made us all face some of our worst fears.”

I don’t bother to tell my mom that my change happened before Kelly’s diagnosis when a certain fairy named Rachael Early steamrolled my life.

“About five days after the diagnosis, I was over at Kelly’s house, helping to pack her for the surgery. She looked like death warmed over—grey skin, lifeless hair, hollow cheeks and dead eyes. As you know, your sister doesn’t leave the house without her full makeup.” Boy, do I. I think we were late every Sunday for church because Kelly couldn’t quite get her eye makeup right. “I looked at her and asked, ‘Kelly, do you want to live?’ She got so angry at me. She screamed at me, ‘Of course I do.’ Then, I replied, ‘Well start acting like it.’”

That’s my mom in a nutshell. She says the words that no one else is willing to say.

She laughs. “Kelly was so angry. She cried, and dramatically threw herself on the bed. After ten minutes of letting her scream at me, at the world and finally at herself, I drug her into the shower and made her wash her body. Then, I took her to the neighborhood spa and paid to get her hair fixed, nails painted and an hour massage. On the way home, she asked me why I did all of this when she was about to lose her left breast and her hair. I replied because we are not a family where we lie down and die. We fight, and when we do, we must look the part.”

The sun is beginning to set behind the trees, which turns the normally pink blossoms to a Creamsicle orange. I run my hand through my hair. “Mom, where are you going with this? I need help with Rachael, not a trip down memory lane.”

“I’m getting there, boy,” she replies. “I believe that half the battle is attitude. It’s okay to cry and scream and be mad at the world. You guys suffered a loss that is immeasurable, but you have to mourn while still moving forward. Even if it’s something simple like making a goal to do one normal thing a day. For Kelly, it was getting up with her little girl every morning. No matter how sick she was or how miserable she felt, she made breakfast and watched cartoons every morning with your niece. Then, as she adjusted to everything, she found a new way of being a mom. Help Rachael find her normal again.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I reply, not really sure that she helped me at all, but just hearing her voice is comfort enough.

We change the subject and I fill her in on the Sons of Liberty. In a couple of weeks, the tour will be in Houston. There are no words to express how excited I am to be home and for my family to catch a glimpse of what I do.

“Well, Mom, I should get back to Rachael. Thanks for everything. I love you,” I tell her to end the conversation.

“Before you go, love, one thing. You’ve suffered a loss, too. Don’t expect everything to be sunshine and roses so quickly. You both need time to heal. As long as you’re moving forward.”

And that’s why I adore my mom. Lots of love mixed with a dose of reality. In a roundabout way, she gave me an idea. Funerals are one way that people mourn their loss and move forward. The ceremony is part of the beginning stages of healing for the loved ones. Rachael and I need to do something that tells the world that our baby mattered, and I think I know exactly how to do that.

“Where are you going?” Rachael asks as I pull a pair of old, tattered jeans over my hips.

It’s Wednesday morning and Rachael made it out of bed before ten o’clock. Progress.

“I’ve got an errand to run, baby.” She looks at me with those same sad eyes that make my chest too tight to expand. “I won’t be long.”

I walk over to where she’s curled up on the couch and kiss the top of her head. “Call me if you need me.”

Turning toward my dog that’s positioned close to the couch as if he’s guarding Rachael, “George,” I instruct. “Take care of our girl.” My words feel redundant.

He just sighs and rolls on his back—his way of begging for stomach scratches.

Walking towards the row of stores at the end of my street, I notice that it’s beginning to warm up. The cherry blossoms are out, creating a rainstorm of pink buds as the wind catches the blooms. Spring is a beautiful time of year in the D.C. area.

I’m surrounded by renewal and rebirth, which contradicts the black mood at my house. Hopefully this is a way to bring some color to our tragedy.

When I reach my destination, I don’t bother getting sidetracked. I head straight for the back of the store to find Frank. He’s a surly guy with a wiry grey ponytail. We met at the dog park. He has a bulldog named Butch which George likes to play with.

“Graham,” he acknowledges me without looking up from the plot of earth that his hands are submerged in.

“Morning, Frank,” I reply. “I’m looking for a cherry tree to plant in my yard. You have any in stock?”

“They’re in high demand this time of year, but I think I might still have one at the greenhouse. Could deliver it by five today.”

“That works. I’ll pay the cashier and leave my address with her.”

Frank doesn’t say anything further. Conversation is over. Strange guy. I think he gets along better with plants and animals than people.

When I arrive back home, neither Rachael nor George have moved. Rachael is staring blankly at HGTV and George is snoozing. I bypass both of them and head through the sliding glass doors to the backyard. Doing a quick survey, I find the perfect spot for our new tree. There’s a sunny part of the yard near Rachael’s office window.

Finding the shovel hiding with my infrequently used yard tools is not difficult. I carry it to the perfect location and dig a hole about three feet deep by three feet wide. The rich smell of earth fills my nose, and the soft skin on my hands stings with the fruit of my manual labor. My shoulders burn and my back aches. It’s a good, therapeutic feeling as if I’m my sweating out my demons.

I realize while I’m in the middle of my dig that planting this tree will mean that I can never sell this house. It gives me pause for only a brief second. No. This feels right. I want to leave some mark on the world, acknowledging that Sam was real and loved and existed. I want something beautiful to bloom out of our loss.

“Graham,” Rachael calls from the sliding glass door. “There’s some guy here with a tree.”

I slam my shovel into the ground near the hole and follow her into the house.

Frank is standing at the front door loving on George, who instantly recognized someone else who would pet him. “Meet you in the driveway,” I call to Frank.

There’s about a six foot tall cherry tree in a black pot sitting near my kitchen window.

“She’s all yours,” Frank says, shoving a piece of paper for me to sign towards me.

I sign my real name, which feels odd. Revere flies out of my pen easier these days. I shake his hand. “Thanks for the help. I appreciate it.”

“You know, Graham,” he begins and stops, as if he needs to collect his words. “I didn’t know that you were one of the Sons of Liberty until someone at the dog park told me. But I’m just real proud to say that I knew you when. You’re doing good, boy.”

With that, Frank turns and walks towards his old, rusted pickup truck.

I shake my head. What a surreal moment.

Now, back to the task at hand. Planting the cherry tree.

I carry the tree through the back fence gate and rest it near the hole that I dug. Next, I walk into the house and ask Rachael to come outside and join me. She looks perplexed but walks outside without asking any questions.

I’ve been rehearsing in my head the words that I planned on using to convince her that planting this tree in Sam’s memory is the right thing to do. Fortunately, I don’t have to say a word. She spies the tree. Then her eyes track to the prepared hole and the location by her window. Rachael turns to me and buries her head against my chest, and her tears mix with my sweat-soaked shirt.

We hold each other, acknowledging silently what this tree means to both of us. It’s a chance at life after our loss. The cherry blossoms will be a reminder that Sam was a part of us and very important, if for only eleven short weeks. Hopefully, they’ll be a reminder that no matter what happens in our future that like the cherry tree, we survived the cold winter of death and came out on the other side as whole people.

“You ready for me to plant it?” I ask as I rub her back.

She looks up at me with large eyes. “Yes. And thank you for doing this.” Her choked up words echo in my heart.

I use the shovel to knock the roots from the black container and place the tree in the hole. Rachael steps back and gives me direction on how the tree should rest in its home. A little turn to the right . . . now straighten it more . . .

When the tree is perfect in her eyes, I begin to fill in the dirt around the roots. Rachael gets on her hands and knees and packs the earth solidly around the base. We work silently, a perfect team without the need for verbal communication.

Once we have a rounded mound, I grab the hose and let Rachael nourish the tree with water. She painstakingly makes sure that it doesn’t wash away the earth. She cleans the trunk and scrapes the soil from the base, exposing a bit of the roots.

The tree seems to have given her a purpose as well as a beautiful memorial to our baby. This was the perfect remembrance.

“Would you like to say a few words, Rach?” I ask, as I use my thumb to wipe a bit of soil from her cheek.

She looks up at me. “No words to be said. They’ll just cheapen the moment. We both know how we feel and what this tree signifies. It’s our whenever and wherever.”

I scoop her up and carry her to the bedroom.
Yes, baby, whenever and wherever.

“Can you hand me that shirt?” It’s Thursday evening and I have to leave her again. She’s sitting on the bed with the laptop resting against her legs.

“Sure,” she replies, as she tosses me my blue and white striped dress shirt.

We haven’t done much of anything for the last four days except watch movies, eat takeout, and snuggle on the couch. I’ve missed recording the radio show, but the mental break has been needed. Our loss still weighs heavy on my heart. I think that it always will, but my concern remains for Rachael. Her phone is still turned off and lying on the kitchen counter. She hasn’t checked it once.

This is the first day that she has shown interest in her book. This morning, she got up before me and made coffee. When I walked into the kitchen, she was sitting at the kitchen table and had her notebook opened in front of her. She seemed to be writing. I turned around and went back to grab a shower and give her a few more minutes to finish her thoughts.

Today. Today has felt a little more normal.

Now we’re in the bedroom preparing for me to leave again.

“What are you typing?” I ask, as I fold some tan slacks and place them in my duffle.

She peers over the screen and replies, “I’m doing some research.”

“Research on what?” I grab three pairs of underwear out of the drawer and some navy socks.

“Do you honestly want to know?”

I turn around and toss my stuff in my bag, then walk over to her. She scoots over, giving me room next to her. I lean against her side, draping my arm over her shoulder. The words on the screen cause my breath to catch in my throat. The headline reads “Miscarriage: Now what?”

My eyes cut to the side, and she’s biting down hard on her bottom lip. “What have you learned?” I decide to ask an open-ended question and see where this conversation leads. We haven’t discussed it after her breakdown on Sunday. I know that she told the First Lady, because Caroline told me that she made the call before they hit the bottle of tequila. Caroline said that she was so poised. She listened to the conversation just long enough to know that she is okay.