Chapter 9 - Contiued
|
Purchase my new book,
|
 |
“Leslie’s on the phone,” I shouted over the noise of running water. “What’s up?” Bob asked, peering innocently around the side of the shower door, water dripping down from his hair and face.
“Robby died this morning,” I said, wanting to suck the words back as soon as I’d spoken them, wishing I’d tempered my words a bit.
The image of his contorted face haunts me to this day. The stunned cry, his wail of protestation, the words, “No way, no way! What are you talking about?” His face twisted with disbelief and instant shattering grief.
I walked back to the phone. Leslie asked when we could be there. I promised we’d arrive the next day and that one of us would call back with details as soon as we’d made the arrangements. I thought of Jeff. “Does Jeff know?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “he came to the hospital.” Thank God, I thought, at least he’s safe.
Bob came in, sat down, and took the phone from me, holding onto it with both hands. His voice choking, he asked Leslie what had happened. As I sat there beside him all I could think about was the trip to Washington, D.C., we had been planning. We were supposed to leave Florida that very weekend to go to D.C. to see Jeff row in an all-day event for the George Washington Crew team, then have dinner afterwards with Robb and Leslie. Later on the full implications of Robb’s death would begin to sink in, but at that moment all I could think about was how the coming trip and everything else from now on would be so different.
When the conversation with Leslie ended, Bob got up and paced the floor, repeating his protestations, ranting at God. “You should have taken me!” he kept saying, then asking why he’d taken Robb instead, sobbing. I watched my husband, fearful for him and the state he was working himself into. I grabbed the ice bucket and rushed up to the ice machine on the floor above. Even as I stood there pushing ice into the bucket, it seemed so stupid. For Christ’s sake, Marilyn, I thought, what are you doing? Just drink out of the bottle. Take giant swigs, you fool, your first-born child is dead. You’ll never touch him again, never talk to him, never hold him in your arms. Besides, all the alcohol in the world isn’t going to make this hideous pain go away.
Nevertheless I walked back down the stairs and made my husband a very strong drink in a glass, using the ice in the bucket. I made one for myself as well, straight Absolute on the rocks. Calls began to come in—other people had heard; others, our two daughters, we thought, needed to be told. When we finally reached them, we discovered they already knew and were beside themselves, bereft and as confused as we were. We called Jeff but he wasn’t in his dorm room. Friends from home began to call; Al, my minister, prayed with us and admitted he had no answer to our questions of “why.” No one could believe it. “We’re so sorry,” they all said and we knew this was true. So many calls poured in from friends and family that the hotel personnel took messages and brought us a list of the names and numbers. A nightmare of conversations and plans—conversations and plans which should never have had to been made—now needed to be made, and bags had to be packed.
Consumed with worry about everyone else’s reactions and in my own state of shock, I somehow remained able to handle the calls; even the mundane and maddening calls to the airline. But two hours later when the news of Robb’s death finally sank into the very marrow of my brain and body, I fell apart; now I was the one racked with sobs, grief swelling up in my throat and through my limbs. Bob came to the fore, making more arrangements and other necessary calls that had to be made.
Finally in bed for the night but unable to sleep, flashes of Robb’s life came to me: Robb as a newborn, so tiny and perfect, so vulnerable. The two of us snuggled in an old three-legged chair as I held him to my breast, me looking at his downy head, his closed eyes—the lids so sheer I could see the tiniest of blue veins—the sweet smell of a newborn drifting up to me. Him seated on the couch at five with his brand-new sister Susan on his lap, a huge grin on his face. Him getting angry a year later, stamping his foot and telling us we needed to send her back, when she began to toddle around the apartment, getting into his things, Bob and I laughing at that. I thought of the holidays, birthdays, other occasions, all the fun we’d had. As I lay there I couldn’t imagine life without him, couldn’t imagine Christmas, Halloween, birthdays, summer vacations. He was just too important to us. He’d been like a rudder that helped guide our family ship. He was so smart, so ethical, so good in my eyes that I’d turned to him many times for guidance. When I stood in the bathroom that night splashing water on my face and staring in the mirror, I looked as if I had aged two decades—my face swollen, my color drained, lines everywhere, eyes blank, hair flying in every direction. The sight frightened me and yet I didn’t really care. None of that mattered now.
The rest of that night is a blur of intense pain, sobbing, denials, and disbelief; Bob and I holding each other in futile attempts at comfort. Both of us kept asking ourselves the soul-searching question, “Why not me, God? You should have taken me.” And the big one: How are we going to survive Robb’s death?