We'll be friends until forever, just you wait and see.
-- WINNIE THE POOH, A.A. MILNE
I've been home from Washington barely a week, and I'm packing my bags to leave for Birmingham, Alabama, to visit my dad's youngest sister, Katie. Katie is only eleven years older than I am, so she's more like a sophisticated older sister than an aunt. Katie came to be with me as soon as she heard about Pat's death. Before she went home, she told me she wanted me to visit her and her family as soon as school got out, and she wrote me a check to cover the cost. She said it would be good for me to get away. It's difficult to find joy in anything with Pat gone, but I thought it would be healthy for me to be around people in a different setting.
That was before I learned about the fratricide. Now, as I pack my clothes, I'm feeling uneasy about leaving. I've been looking at the 15-6 report and have found many disturbing contradictions. I want to investigate further, but it'll have to wait until I get back from Alabama. Maybe a little break from the report will be good for me anyway.
As I go through my closet looking for a light summer dress, I find the pink one I wore to Pat's memorial service. The sight of it brings back a flood of memories. Feeling suddenly drained, I sit on the edge of my bed. Gently rubbing the linen between my fingers, I recall the anxious days leading up to Kevin's return home with Pat's body.
Patrick had flown to Los Angeles and driven all the way back in just over ten hours, then returned the rental; he'd had no time to process what had happened. Now there was nothing to divert him from the reality of his loss. He looked totally exhausted, and his eyes looked despondent. He said he was going to go home to shower and rest before coming back with his girlfriend. I hugged him and thanked him again for telling Richard in person and driving him home. He hugged me back, but I could tell by the vacant look he gave me that he was consumed by his own thoughts.
Mike, Sherri, and Pat's friends Jason and Tony were still asleep in the house, so Richard and I sat on the front stoop and talked quietly. He was still holding the journal and pictures of his brothers; the axe rested against his leg. We sat silently for a short time. Richard's tired, bloodshot eyes stared out at the trees; his face was drawn and his eyelids were puffy.
"Mom," he said quietly, "I knew something happened. I knew it when I woke up yesterday. I knew something had happened to Pat or Kevin." His eyes were rimming with tears, and when he finally blinked, they spilled over.
"Is that why you called me yesterday?" I asked gently as I stroked his arm.
"Yes. Something wasn't right," he said, choking back sobs. "I was upset all day, then I called to talk to you, but you weren't home from work yet. Eric came home and saw that I was upset. I told him I had a bad feeling about Pat and Kevin. He tried to reassure me, but I was still worried. After a while he asked me if I wanted to go get a drink, so we went to a bar. I called you from the bar, and Uncle Mike answered." He turned to face me and asked earnestly, "Did Mike already know, Mom?"
"Yes," I said wiping my eyes. "We didn't want to tell you over the phone, so I asked Mike not to say anything. We wanted you to hear from your dad. We wanted him to be there with you. I'm sorry. Mike felt terrible about not telling you the truth."
"It's all right. I wouldn't have wanted to be told over the phone," he said, looking at me with his soft, sad eyes. "Mom, when Eric and I walked back to the apartment, Dad was standing outside." He looked down and his tears fell onto the cement. "The second I saw Dad, I knew. I just didn't know which one." Tears ran down my face and I leaned my head on his shoulder as I continued to stroke his arm.
"I could feel the anger building in me, Mom. I yelled, 'What the fuck are you doing here?' I wanted to run away. Dad and Eric somehow got me into the apartment, and Dad told me that it was Pat, it was Pat who was killed." He could barely get the words out. "I tore the apartment apart; Dad and Eric couldn't stop me. When I finally calmed down, I grabbed my journal, the pictures, and my axe, and we left." I leaned my head against Richard's shoulder until neither one of us had any more tears to cry.
It didn't take long for the phone to begin ringing. Fortunately, Sherri and Mike were able to answer it while I drove to school to drop off some books. I wanted to get there and leave before anyone could see me.
Not long after I returned home, Alex arrived. I asked if he had talked to Marie again. He said that he had; she was being very strong, and her parents and sister Christine were with her. He told me Christine was having a rough time. She was devastated for Marie, but in addition, Pat and Christine had developed a great respect and appreciation for one another. Pat had spoken very highly of Christine, and it saddened me to know how hard she was taking his death and to realize how difficult it would be for her in the months to come, trying to support her sister while caring for two little boys, Ryan and Adam. Three-year- old Ryan was Pat's first nephew. Pat enjoyed being an uncle and took pride in the fact that Ryan was so intelligent. Adam, barely a year old, was Pat's godson. Pat only got to see Adam a few times, but I remember him telling me with a big grin that he thought Adam looked a lot like Marie.
I tried several times to call Marie that morning, but I couldn't get through. Richard could see I was very anxious, and he asked if I wanted to go for a walk around the Pretty Road. "The Pretty Road," I said with a smile. "I would like that."
The "Pretty Road" is the endearing name Pat and Kevin had given Bertram Road when they were three and two. Richard was at least seven before he knew it as anything else. Bertram runs along the opposite side of Los Alamitos Creek, parallel to our road. It has a storybook quality -- narrow, winding, and canopied by trees. It also has light traffic. When the boys were little, we would go for wagon rides on Bertram after dinner, or I might take them during the day if they became restless. About the time Richard was one year old, he was usually the only child in the wagon, for although Pat and Kevin might start out riding, they would eventually get out and run along the creek, climb on rotted logs, pick up leaves, or hang from trees.
The houses on Bertram are unique, rustic, and cozy. There is also Saint Anthony's Church, built in 1858; La Foret, a French restaurant housed in a structure originally built in 1848; and the Hacienda Cemetery, which dates to the 1850s and since 1898 has been the resting place of thirteen-year-old Richard Bertram Barrett's left arm. He lost it in a hunting accident, and the law at the time required that the arm be given a proper burial.
Richard and I walked Bertram Road in relative silence for about a quarter of a mile, and then he asked if I remembered when Pat was eight or nine and had brought home a fish from the creek. Along with the tightness in my throat, tears of delight formed in my eyes.
***
I had been in the kitchen with Richard making cookies. We heard Pat, Kevin, and their neighbor friend, Ryan Kerr, coming up the driveway, yelping in satisfaction. They were taking turns carrying an old, rusty toolbox. Richard and I met them outside the door. Three sets of excited eyes looked up at me as Pat opened the box. Inside was a fish. I thought it was a trout, a little less than a foot in length. (Remember, this is a fish tale.) It flopped around, gasping for its last breaths of air. Pat bent over and picked up the squirming fish, holding it out to me. "Look, Mom," he said beaming with pride. "I caught him with my bare hands!"
"You caught him with your bare hands!" I shouted in amazement.
"Yes, Mom, he did," Kevin confirmed with a big grin.
"He didn't use a fishing pole, Dannie," Ryan said.
Richard looked at me eagerly. "Mom, you can cook it for Dad for dinner."
I clumsily took the poor, slippery fish from Pat and admired it, then put it back in the box. Richard knelt down next to the fish and gently touched it with his finger, watching it squirm. I let Pat know how awesome it was that he had caught the fish bare-handed, but I informed them that I couldn't cook the fish for Dad because there was too much mercury in the creek, and mercury is poisonous.
We all looked down at the fish as it stopped moving. I told the boys the fish was dead and they should probably bury it on the back hill. I told Pat he had quite a talent, but he shouldn't catch fish from our creek anymore because fish suffer if they are not in water, and since we can't eat the fish, we should let them swim. I also reminded them they shouldn't spend too much time in the creek water. They went out back and buried the fish. When they came in, they scrubbed their hands before sitting down to a plate of oatmeal cookies.
***
Now I looked up at Richard and smiled. "Yes, Rich, I remember." The rest of the way home, we expressed our concern for Kevin. Talking about what we thought he was going through was too painful for both of us; we just tried to concentrate on the fact that he was alive and would be coming home.
When we walked up the driveway, we could see that Patrick had returned, along with several of his brothers, their wives, and my mother-in- law, who brought my mom. As we passed by Syd and Peggy's house, Syd approached us with a solemn expression and handed me the newspaper. I looked at it, and a sick and unnerving feeling came over me. I recalled being in Kevin's room in Washington State, just before Pat and Kevin were deployed. I noticed Kevin had a picture of himself in his Ranger uniform on his bookshelf. I picked it up and told him I thought it was very good. A short time later, I asked Pat if he had a Ranger picture. He told me he wasn't too wild about his picture; he'd show it to me later. He never did. I could not have imagined I would see that picture for the first time on the front page of the paper with Pat's obituary.
As I walked lethargically into the house, Sherri handed me the phone. It was Marie. I went to the back room to talk to her without disruption. The last time I had spoken to her, I was hysterical. I needed her to know I was all right. I asked her how she was doing, and she said she was in shock. She couldn't believe Pat was gone. She told me she was grateful that her parents and sister were with her, but she felt like a zombie. I told her I understood that feeling, and that maybe feeling that way was good, at least for a while.
I asked her if she was comfortable telling me how she had gotten word of Pat's death. As Pat's next of kin, she was the first person notified. She said she had been ready to leave work at about five thirty. One of her co-workers asked her to follow him to the conference room. Something in his behavior made her believe something was wrong. When she walked into the room, there were three people in class A uniforms, the dress uniform. She knew from military briefings that if soldiers wearing class A uniforms came to inform family members of a soldier's condition, it meant the soldier was dead.
I couldn't imagine how surreal that situation must have been for her, how stunned she must have been. She said she called her parents immediately from work. They made arrangements to get to her as soon as they could. The military chaplain drove Marie home in her car, and the other officers drove in the government vehicle. Two of Marie's friends from work followed behind. Marie said when she called her brother-in-law Alex from her cell phone, he already had been informed by her parents. He had told Christine, who would fly to Washington with her mom and dad to be with Marie. Alex told Marie he was on his way to my house, but she warned him that I didn't know yet. She wanted him to get in touch with Mike first so he could be there with me, and that's when he called my mom. By the time I contacted Marie at her house, Alex was only a few miles away from me. The three officers at Marie's were trying to direct the female soldier to my home and locate Pat's father. Marie's friends found an address for Pat's dad on the computer, but it was out of date.
Marie had spent hours trying to make sure everyone was informed before word of Pat's death broke on the news. She was under such terrible stress. I marveled at her strength and composure, but I was grateful her parents and Christine got to her as quickly as they did. I asked if she had heard from Kevin. She said she had, but he hadn't been able to tell her much more than he had told us. I told her to call if she needed anything or just wanted to talk. I hung up, thinking how proud Pat would be of his wife.
For days, from early morning until late at night, my house and yard were crowded with people. Family, friends, co-workers, and neighbors brought support, food, flowers, and ... toilet paper. I remember a friend calling me early on Saturday, the 24th of April, asking if there was anything we needed. I told her so many people were coming that we would need bathroom tissue. Obviously, she had let everyone she spoke to know I made this request -- nearly every other person that came up our driveway carried a package or two of toilet paper.
This became greatly ironic when several hours later Richard came out of the bathroom to inform me that my septic tank had backed up into the bathtub. We had fifty guests paying respects and twenty packages of toilet paper, and we could not operate the toilet. Richard, Mike, and I walked dazedly past the guests in the house and yard to see if the septic tank had leaked outside. There was a putrid puddle forming outside my bedroom, and Mike motioned several curious people to keep away. He said he thought a pipe might be clogged with roots.
I looked up at the eucalyptus tree where Pat would often sit when he was young. The light shining through the leaves and shredded bark was so bright, my vision blurred and I diverted my eyes. After a few seconds, I looked back at the tree and teasingly implored, "Pat, what is it about the major events in your life that make my septic tank explode?" Tears ran down my face, and I chuckled out loud as if I were really talking to him. Richard's sad eyes brightened faintly, and he hugged me before we both walked back in the house.
I dialed the maintenance company I had called before the wedding rehearsal dinner nearly two years before, but I got no answer. Patrick suggested I call a friend in the construction business to see if he could recommend a service that worked on Saturdays. He suggested San Jose Plumbing. The woman who answered was very pleasant. I told her what had happened with the septic tank and explained there had been a death in the family and I had a lot of people at my house. She said she would speak to the owner to see if someone could come out. She asked for my address and phone number, and then she asked my name.
"Mary Tillman," I said hesitantly.
"Okay, I'll call you back Mrs. .... oh ... Tillman. Mrs. Tillman, I'm so sorry for your loss." Her voice trembled, and I was afraid she might cry. "I'll call you within five minutes."
Minutes later the phone rang.
"Mrs. Tillman, the owner will be out in less than forty-five minutes. His name is Kevin Garza. I hope everything works out with the septic tank. Again, I'm sorry for your loss."
"I appreciate that, thank you. Good-bye."
My brother, Patrick, and Richard let people know someone was coming to look at the septic tank. In the meantime, Peggy and Syd kindly offered their bathroom for use by my guests. Within a half hour, Mr. Garza arrived. He validated Mike's suspicion; an overgrowth of roots had caused the pipe leading from the house to the septic tank to clog. He spent four hours and about that long the following day digging up my yard and repairing the pipe. He refused to take any money. Several weeks later, I estimated the cost of his work and sent him a check. Within days, he mailed the check back.
In the first days after Pat's death, my friend Judy McGrath flew in from Atlanta, and Richard's friend Michelle flew up from Los Angeles. Aunt Katie came from Birmingham. I was touched that she came out to be with us, and I was strengthened by her presence. I was grateful to have all my friends and family around us. At first, I was able to carry on conversations and function fairly well, but gradually the reality of Pat's death, my fears for Kevin, and my lack of sleep caused me to become increasingly anxious, until I psychologically withdrew. Months later, my friend Sherri told me I spoke to people and carried out tasks, but I wasn't really there. "Your eyes were gone," she told me.
I wandered around my house and yard and through groups of people. There are bits and pieces of conversations I remember, but I mostly recall being watchful of Richard. For the first forty-eight hours after learning of his brother's death, his face reflected confusion, shock, and loss. After that, it was clear Richard was fighting anger. Thankfully, many of his, Kevin's, and Pat's friends were at the house almost around the clock. Peggy and Syd brought over all their lawn chairs, and the young people sat around the yard telling stories about happy times, trying to distract Richard from his grief and fury over Pat's death and his concern for Kevin. Looking back, the one thing I regret about that time was that I didn't stop everyone from bringing alcohol. I understood that the drinking helped numb their pain, but it also prolonged it.
At night, when it got chilly, Richard and all the friends lit firewood in the barbecue and stood around it to stay warm. One night the wood didn't burn very well, so the guys squirted lighter fluid on it. They nearly set the big elm on fire as flames shot up, licking the overhanging leaves. My friend Judy overheard Richard say he was going to make a fire pit by digging a big hole in the yard so they could sit around it. Judy was afraid he might actually carry out his idea and kept a close watch on him for several days.
Because Pat's death was newsworthy, there was a constant stream of media people trying to talk with us. Peggy and Syd, my sister-in-law Joan Tillman, and Sherri did a remarkable job intercepting phone calls and keeping reporters who drove out from coming up our driveway. Sherri's husband, Jim Greer, is a deputy sheriff, and he had the sheriff's department send cars to the house to ensure our privacy. I must acknowledge the fact that members of the press behaved quite respectfully regarding our request not to be disturbed. However, I vaguely recall Patrick calling the police when a press helicopter continued to fly over our house.
I believe it was very late Sunday night, April 25, when we got a call from Kevin. He was in Germany. He told his father and me that he would be arriving in Dover, Delaware, sometime the following day. Everyone was reassured to know he was out of Afghanistan. The Army was arranging for Marie to fly from Seattle to Dover to meet Kevin and Pat's body.
When Marie called to tell me about the arrangements, she also indicated the memorial service would probably be May 3. My chest froze when I heard the date -- the day before Marie and Pat's second anniversary. I wanted to say something to comfort her, but a quality in her tone of voice made me believe it was best to let it go. I told her Pat's dad, Richard, and I had considered flying to Dover as well but decided it was more appropriate for her to go herself. Pat, Marie, and Kevin had made the decision that Pat and Kevin would enlist. The three of them had shared the previous two years of their lives together. They went through the excitement, boredom, frustration, anxiety, and monotony of military life. Kevin and Marie needed time alone together to absorb their loss. I learned later that the Army did not follow through with the flight for Marie. She was able to get to Dover only because a generous man anonymously offered the use of his plane.
Richard answered a call on the morning of April 26; it was Maria Shriver. She told Richard that she and her husband, Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, had just read a newspaper article about Pat, and they wanted to give their condolences. Knowing her family history of coping with tragedy made Richard extra appreciative of her call. He told her that Pat had admired the public service of her family and respected Arnold Schwarzenegger for being a self-made man, someone who set goals for himself and accomplished them. Ms. Shriver told Richard he should tell her husband that himself, and she handed the phone to the governor.
Richard was thrilled to speak to him. It was the first time I had seen him smile in days. They talked for a short time, and then Richard asked Governor Schwarzenegger if he might be able to speak at Pat's service. When Richard told him the date, the governor said he would be visiting wounded troops that day at the military hospital in Germany -- so he would not be able to attend. He then asked to speak to me.
The governor was very gracious, expressing disbelief about Pat's death and his concern for us. He told me he regretted his inability to speak at Pat's memorial, but he said Maria would be privileged to represent him. I told him her presence would be greatly appreciated and thanked him for the call. He gave the phone to his wife, who was kind and compassionate. She asked a lot of questions about Pat, and we talked for about fifteen minutes. She told me she would make arrangements to get to the service. I gave her Alex's phone number so she could learn the details. I also told her that she and Pat shared the same birthday, November 6.
I think it was that same day that I learned Arizona senator John McCain would be speaking at Pat's memorial. I didn't know how his presence was arranged, but it seemed fitting. He was the senator from Pat's "adopted" state, and he was someone Pat had admired growing up. Pat had read several books about McCain and his experience in a prisoner-of-war camp in Vietnam. He was amazed at the courage McCain had exhibited. I was pleased to know the senator was going to attend.
Kevin, accompanied by fellow Ranger and friend Russell Baer, arrived with Pat's body on April 26 at Dover Air Force Base. Marie was there to meet the plane. It saddened me that Marie had to make that journey alone, yet I believe it was something she wanted to do and had to, as Pat's wife. I was comforted knowing she would be there for Kevin and he for her: Kevin was not only her brother-in-law; he was a good friend.
Pat's body was taken immediately to Rockville, Maryland, where an autopsy was performed the following day. Kevin and Marie called to let us know they would be arriving home very late Wednesday night, April 28. Knowing Kevin and Marie were heading home with Pat gave everyone a bittersweet sense of relief. My sons' friends all spoke to Richard about doing something special for Kevin. They were devastated by Pat's death but grateful Kevin was coming home alive.
They decided to make two banners. One read "Every Day's Sunday, Baby," based on a baseball adage Pat was particularly fond of saying -- or shouting, depending on the occasion. The banner was so huge that the guys enlisted the help of the fire department to hang it two miles down the road. The firemen generously put up floodlights so Kevin would be able to see it at night. The other banner read "NUB," Pat's nickname for Kevin from the time he was born. That one was hung across the approach to our driveway. We were uncertain how he would interpret the gesture. We knew we were taking the risk of possibly upsetting him, but we all hoped the banners would make him feel loved.
My house was filled with food and flowers. Many people had no appetite, but food was there for those who did. Although I appreciated the flowers and the sentiments behind them, their presence and scent had become oppressive, and my mom and I started placing them outside. Alone with my mom while arranging the flowers, I confided that I was worried about the older of my two younger brothers, Rich. He is two years younger than I am, and at the time of Pat's death, he had been homeless for more than fifteen years.
Rich doesn't cope with the stresses and bureaucracies of this world, but he is tough, resourceful, and resilient. He is also one of the most kind, generous, and unselfish people I have ever known. On Thanksgiving, 1961, when Rich had recently turned four and I six, my mom had us think of a wish while holding a wishbone. I squeezed my little finger around my end of the bone, closed my eyes, and wished for every material thing I had ever wanted. When it was time to pull, I tugged on my end until I heard a snap. I looked down to find I had "won." My mom knelt next to Rich and asked what he had wished for. He looked at her earnestly and said, "I wished for the biggest piece."
I immediately felt a rush of guilt, and I could almost feel my heart break. I knew at that moment that Rich was an innately better person than I was. However, his gentle nature has not prevented him from standing his ground when necessary. He has never suffered fools gladly, and he has been in a position to defend himself more than a few times in his life. Rich was a tremendous athlete. He had amazing coordination, strength, and endurance. Unfortunately, our family moved nearly every two years because of my dad's work, so he never had the opportunity to fit into a sports niche at the schools he attended.
When Rich got out of high school, he joined the Marines, and he excelled. After he was sent to Okinawa, Japan, however, something happened that changed his perception of the Marines and himself. After being discharged, he struggled for years to fit into the conventional world, living in Fremont, California, and San Francisco. He eventually moved south to San Diego and Los Angeles, where he has lived by his wits on the streets. For several years, he came home periodically on holidays, but after a time, he stopped coming home. We have stayed in touch by receiving his calls or sending mail to him at a post office box address.
In 2001, when Pat was playing for the Arizona Cardinals, Rich called to tell me he had been in the Veterans Administration Hospital due to an extremely severe case of cellulitis. He said he had been in the hospital nearly five weeks but was doing much better. I was astonished when he told me he'd been hospitalized that long; he must have been in very bad shape. I asked why he hadn't called, but he just brushed me off, saying he'd been in good hands at the hospital.
During the conversation, I told Rich that Pat had called early in the season to see if Rich would want a ticket to the Cardinals-Chargers game, which would be played in San Diego in several weeks. Rich was thrilled. I asked that he call me a few days before the game in case Pat had anything he needed to know.
Several days before the game, Rich called, and I told him that Pat said the ticket would be at the "will call" window and to bring identification. I also told him his nephew Richard and some of his friends would be there. Peggy and Syd, who had been visiting family in Los Angeles, also decided to go to San Diego to see the game. I told Rich that Pat said the seats should be together, so he could meet Richard inside the stadium. He hung up the phone, clearly happy to be going to the game.
As I recall, the Cardinals won that game 20-17, and Pat played very well. My son Richard called me a day or so later to tell me he had a great time with Uncle Rich. Initially, he said, Uncle Rich sat away from him and his friends, in unoccupied seats, fearing he would embarrass Richard because he was so obviously homeless. But Richard assured him they wanted his company, so Rich moved over to sit with everyone else. Richard said his uncle brought his own bread and meat to make sandwiches, but he eventually allowed Richard to buy him sausages and a beer. Richard said his uncle was very pleased with Pat's performance and cheered and yelled like he hadn't a care in the world.
Pat made sure all of his guests were on the list of people allowed through the gate to see the players before their buses left for the airport. Richard told me Rich seemed proud to be introduced as Pat's uncle and really enjoyed talking to Pat. When it was time for the players to leave, Pat excused himself to talk to some of the other players. He had forgotten to bring extra money for his uncle, so he gathered what he had and collected more from his teammates to give to Rich for being such a great uncle, a gesture that touched Rich. After seeing Pat off, Richard and his friends took Uncle Rich out on the town, and everyone enjoyed his company. But when it was time for the guys to get back to Los Angeles, Rich asked them to drop him off on a corner where he spent time. Richard's voice faltered when he told me how hard it was to leave Uncle Rich behind.
I hadn't heard from my brother for quite a long time. He had purchased a bus ticket to Florida and spent several months there, but he couldn't tolerate the humidity. He ended up calling me shortly after Pat and Kevin told us they were enlisting. When I told him, he was furious. He said the military was no place for two guys who had played professional sports, that there is too much jealousy in the military; he had experienced it himself. He warned that Pat and Kevin would be targets for every petty and resentful soldier and officer they ran into. He was angry with me for "allowing them" to enlist.
I told him that, in fact, Mike and I had tried to talk them out of enlisting, but they had their minds made up. I told him Mike had made a special trip to Arizona to talk to Kevin and that we had an intervention at my house. Marie's parents, Bindy and Paul; Patrick, Alex, Christine, and I met with Pat, Kevin, and Marie after the honeymoon, just prior to the enlistment. It was very painful to recount that story to Rich that day, but I did so in great detail because I believed he needed to hear it.
I explained that as we sat around my table that afternoon, it soon became clear that Pat, Kevin, and Marie were comfortable with their decision and had come to the meeting simply because they loved us and knew that we needed to discuss this more with them. I feared that we would not be able to change their minds. Marie's parents spoke first. Marie's mother made a point by telling Pat there was honor in staying home to care for his wife. Pat did not disagree with her, but I also knew he felt Marie did not need to be taken care of. He knew she was making a tremendous sacrifice by supporting his decision to enlist, because it would mean they would be apart for long periods of time. I believe he and Marie both felt that what they were forfeiting would be worth it, however; it was a contribution they were making together, and they would each grow from the experience.
As Bindy, Paul, and Patrick spoke, my mind started to wander, and their voices faded from my consciousness as I flashed on a memory more than twenty years old: I was driving down a road with my husband in the passenger seat. A squirrel suddenly darted in front of the car. I swerved to miss it, but a second squirrel was right behind him, and I struck that little squirrel. "You just hit Kevin," Patrick said sarcastically. My heart sank; I felt nauseous. I felt awful about hitting the squirrel and didn't understand why he would say such a bizarre thing. It must have been a nervous reaction. As I sat at the table, recalling that incident with great trepidation, I looked at Pat, then at Kevin, and I asked myself: "Which one of my squirrels is going to die?"
At that moment, I became aware that Paul was questioning Pat about the wisdom of giving up so much money from his lucrative football career. Looking back, I know he was simply appealing to Pat's sense of responsibility, but I became outraged. I stood up and yelled, "Why are you talking about money? The boys could be wounded or be killed!" I could see Paul felt terrible. He didn't mean for his remarks to hurt anyone. I looked from Kevin to Pat. "What if something happens to one of you? What about the damage that will cause the one left behind and everyone else who cares about you both?" I was shrieking and shaking.
Kevin's eyes got real wide and he said, "Mom! Get a hold of yourself!" I was clearly scaring him; he had never seen me like that before.
I turned to Pat: "You just got married!" Pat got tears in his eyes. He got up, walked over, and put his arms around me. I was crying into his chest as Marie's parents and Alex and Christine left. Patrick was stunned at my reaction. He stayed for an hour or so to give support, then left. Pat, Marie, and Kevin obviously felt bad that I was so upset, but they had made their decision; I would give them my support.
Rich listened to my recollection of the intervention, and I hoped he appreciated our efforts to talk Pat and Kevin out of enlisting. But it didn't change his fears that something would happen to them, and he continued to express those fears. I remember standing with the phone in my hand, paralyzed with dread and confusion, not knowing what to say or do. I was also thinking about how my son Richard had been afraid for his brothers. My brother was so upset that he ended the call abruptly, without saying good-bye. I understood his anxiety for Pat and Kevin; I was feeling it, too. In fact, I felt it more strongly now. But Rich had been in the military and knew more than I did.
Rich called several times after Pat and Kevin were deployed to Iraq. He seemed to have come to terms with the fact they were there; he indicated during one call that he had decided to think positively. After that, I didn't hear from him again, and I had no current post office box address. Just before Pat and Kevin were deployed to Afghanistan, I drove to San Diego and hung flyers in and around LaJolla because I knew he liked to spend time there. The flyers asked that he contact me. I wanted to be sure he had the latest information, but I didn't hear from him.
Now, as we placed fresh flower arrangements around my backyard and threw out the ones that were dying, I told Mom I had no way to tell Rich about Pat's death before he saw it in the newspaper. The image of him reading the news for the first time tore at my heart and weighed on me for days, so much so that I didn't want to talk about it to anyone, as I knew I would fall apart. But here with my mom, I needed to say out loud what she must have been thinking. We both just hoped he would call us once he read the news.
There were so many people coming and going that my friends Jim and Paulette Woolridge offered to lend me their camper so close friends or relatives could stay overnight. Several hours later, Jim returned with his huge recreational vehicle. Guests who had cars in the driveway scrambled to move them down to the main road. Navigating my driveway is tricky for the average car, but this RV was gigantic. Jim managed to get it up the portion that ran in front of Syd and Peggy's house, but he stopped at the entrance to my driveway because of the low-hanging power lines. Everyone in the yard milled around, trying to figure out a way Jim could get into my driveway and not block Peggy and Syd's. Meanwhile, I was contemplating how the heck he would get back out.
One of our guests was Ronnie Lott, who had played for the San Francisco 49ers, the Oakland Raiders, the New York Jets, and the Kansas City Chiefs. Pat had met him while he was in high school, and their paths had crossed many times since. Pat had great respect for him as a football player and as a person. He always called him Mr. Lott, and I can't bring myself to call him anything else. Mr. Lott and Richard determined they could get on the roof of the RV and lift the wires up with something long-handled as the vehicle passed underneath. Richard grabbed a rake and Mr. Lott grabbed a broom, then they climbed onto the roof of the camper. Jim slowly drove under the wires as Mr. Lott and Richard raised the power lines as high as they could. I stood in front of Peggy and Syd's, fearing they would fall or, worse, get electrocuted.
As I was standing there cringing, Paulette walked up the driveway. She had followed Jim, but because of all the cars, she had to park down the road and walk back to my house. She came up behind me and stared intently at the scene playing out in front of my house, focusing on the backs of the two figures on the RV's roof. Her expression turned quizzical, and then she said, "That looks like Ronnie Lott's ass." I turned to her and said, "That is Ronnie Lott's ass." I actually laughed out loud.
Just before Kevin was due to arrive home with Pat's body, my friend Marcelle Chapman took me to buy a new dress for the memorial. I had a black dress, one of my favorites, but I refused to wear it. Pat's life represented light; I didn't want to wear black.
Other than taking some books to my classroom and going for a walk with Richard, this shopping trip was the first time I had left my yard since Pat's death. We drove down the driveway and saw that American flags had been hung along both sides of Almaden Road. To my amazement, the flags flanked the road for more than a mile. They were beautiful, waving gently in the soft spring breeze. I was filled with warmth at the efforts of my neighbors. The flags were wonderful, and they were heartbreaking.
Once we got off Almaden Road and onto Almaden Expressway, I began to feel disoriented and nauseous. I suddenly didn't understand how people were going on about their lives; I could not grasp why the world was still turning. When Marcelle and I finally got to the store, we found a simple pink linen dress.
Kevin, Marie, and Russell Baer arrived at the San Francisco airport accompanying Pat's body very late on the night of Wednesday, April 28. Russell left to be with his family in the East Bay, not far from San Francisco. A hearse met Kevin and Marie to transport them and Pat to Willow Glen Mortuary. Patrick, Richard, Mike, and I drove there at around eleven p.m. to meet them. I was so eager to see Kevin and Marie, yet I was filled with dread at the thought of seeing Pat's coffin. At the same time, I felt compelled to see his body one last time. During our conversation before he left Dover, Kevin said he was told by the mortuary affairs staff that Pat's body could be viewed Thursday morning. Kevin said he didn't want to view his brother's body but that if his father and I chose to do so, we could; Patrick told Kevin he definitely wanted to see Pat. In the car, Mike tried to dissuade me from viewing Pat's body. He believed it would be too traumatic for me and that I should remember him as I last saw him.
The parking lot of the mortuary was faintly lit. As we walked toward the building, I stayed several paces behind Patrick, Richard, and Mike, trying to gather myself. I could faintly see Kevin's silhouette under the archway leading to the front entrance. He stood tall in his dress uniform. Patrick, Richard, and Mike stopped to allow me to approach Kevin first. He looked at me through eyes glistening with tears reflecting pain, loss, and numbing sadness; yet the set of his jaw was strong and determined. I wrapped my arms around him and felt his tears fall on my cheek as he leaned down to hug me. "Pat is inside, Mom," he said softly in my ear. I cried quietly into his chest as he held me close. Slowly, I backed away and looked at his dignified yet somber face. I smiled at him as bravely as I could. I told him I loved him and was proud of him, and I thanked him for bringing Pat home. I looked on as he tightly embraced his father, then his uncle. Richard walked up to Kevin and looked at him unwaveringly. I wiped tears from my face as they firmly held each other.
The mortuary director approached us. Patrick asked if he could see Pat's body. The director told him he could view Pat in the morning, but Patrick insisted on seeing him right away. It was clear by the look on the man's face that he was apprehensive about obliging the request. Pat's body had just arrived, and he was not sure of its condition. But Patrick was so insistent, the mortician agreed to open the coffin. Kevin said that, like him, Marie had chosen not to view Pat, but that I had to do what was right for me. My brother looked at me uneasily. "Dannie," he said solemnly, "I really don't think you should see him, but if you are going to view him, so will I." I told Mike, Kevin, and Richard that if Pat was brave enough to risk his life and die, I had to have the courage to see him. I realized I could regret it, but as his mother, I felt I might regret it more if I didn't. Richard decided to view Pat as well.
The lights in the hallway of the mortuary were very bright. I wondered how the hall was so luminous when the circumstances were so somber. I walked down the hall next to Kevin as Marie walked out of a room that Patrick, Richard, and Mike had just entered. She looked very thin, and her face was extremely pale. The blue eyes that had always been so happy and vibrant looked cloudy and vacant. I hugged her gently and then moved away, smoothing her blond hair against her shoulder. She smiled at me weakly, and then she and Kevin directed me into the room where Pat's body had been placed. Marie seemed reassured to see us, but I also sensed agitation that I could not quite comprehend at the time. Looking back, she must have felt tremendous conflict, wanting to graciously share Pat with all those who loved him while wanting to protect him and spend time with him alone.
Patrick was already standing over the partially open casket when I walked into the dimly lit room. The mortuary director and his assistant stood uneasily on the opposite side. From where I was standing I could see the white lining of the casket, and I could vaguely make out the top portion of Pat's face. My head became light and my stomach sick. I walked quietly over to a chair next to Richard and sat facing the open door, terrified to look in the direction of Pat's body. Mike leaned over and whispered that it was all right if I wasn't able to view him.
At that moment I glimpsed Patrick reach into the coffin to touch Pat. I looked at the morticians and I saw the trepidation on their faces as Patrick tenderly lifted Pat's upper body. He held Pat for several seconds; then, as Richard approached, he gently laid him down. Richard stood over his brother, speaking gently to him, and then he leaned over and kissed his nose. Mike moved toward the coffin while I sat frozen in the chair, staring bleary-eyed out into the hallway. Kevin walked in the room, avoiding looking in the direction of Pat's body, and knelt down in front of me.
"Remember, Mom," he said, "that isn't Pat; he's already gone."
I looked tearfully at Kevin and mouthed, "I know."
Slowly, I stood up. Patrick, my brother, and Richard stepped back slightly with agonized, helpless looks on their faces. The morticians kept their heads bowed as I walked slowly toward the casket and looked down. My eyes were so clouded with tears that it took me a moment to see clearly; I had to remind myself to breathe. The lower half of the coffin was closed; Pat was only visible from the waist up. He was wearing a white T-shirt. The back of his head was wrapped in gauze and plastic and his face was distorted and bloated; yet there was something familiar about the mouth and eyebrows. His skin looked as though it had been covered with a layer of wax, and I noticed a small concave spot on his head that looked as though it had been patched. I saw that his hands were wrapped in white towels, and the only thing I truly recognized was his left forearm.
I laid my hand gently on his chest, and I said, "Hi, Pat." Through tears, I smiled at him, as if he could see me. I was startled at how absolutely cold and hollow he felt. Pat had been strong, athletic, and vibrant; now he looked small and vulnerable. It was painful to see his broken body, yet it made me appreciate even more how big and wonderful his spirit was. His body, once beautiful and strong, truly was only a casing containing the best of him: character, courage, fortitude, conviction, and strength -- his essence. Kevin was right. That isn't Pat; he's already gone.
***
I realize I am sitting on the edge of my bed clutching my pink dress, having been lost in my thoughts. I notice the time and realize I must finish packing; my ride to the airport will be arriving in less than an hour. I wipe the tears from my eyes, look up at the dimples in my ceiling, smile weakly, and say, "Hi, Pat."