My Heart Came Home in a Bag

 A couple of days after the service, my husband came home from the funeral home with an even heavier walk, his shoulders down, his eyes to the ground.  In one hand was a plastic bag with handles bearing the name of the funeral home, and in his eyes was some terrible knowledge he knew I would get out of him eventually.

I think there were days following the accident that Tim feared my sanity, and even more than that, feared he would come home one day or walk into a room after waking up to find I had finally made good on my word to get myself out of this situation at all costs.

Bearing in mind that Tim had refused to get help for his depression and mood swings steadily for three or four years prior to the steady erosion of our relationship and subsequent separation, there were times that I questioned his love for me.  Much had happened since then.

 It wasn’t the fact that he was institutionalized shortly after he realized our separation was indeed real, and perhaps irreversible that told me how much he cared for me.  Neither was it his kindness and support during Cory’s last eleven day hospitalization and ECT treatments.  It wasn’t even his determination to get help, and stay in treatment, something I knew firsthand that not everyone was willing to do, no matter how much they professed to love you.  It was the days after this unthinkable tragedy that demonstrated his devotion and unconditional love.

I was checked out of reality for all general purposes.  Without Tim, Jacob and the pets in our home would have went unfed, unwatered, and unnoticed.  One of the ways Tim supported me was to step into my role as Jacob’s caregiver to the best of his ability, considering the fact he’d had a horrible shock, as well, and was mourning his own loss. 

The very first time I saw him do this was minutes after he arrived home on the day of the accident.  I had finally been able to make contact with him, after many fruitless tries.  When I finally got him on the phone, I was screaming into it, crying, hysterical, Cory’s sheet-covered body still within my gaze.  As I told him what had happened, he began screaming hysterically himself.  He was at work at the time, in the middle of a well-populated shop.  He wasn’t supposed to answer his cell during work hours, but I had called so many times, he finally picked up.  As he made sense of my words, pieced out between harrowing sobs, he began screaming, “No! No! No!” and fell to his knees there in front of everyone.

“Just come home, Tim.  Please come home.”  was all I could get out.

And home he came.  He took him over an hour.  He had no car there at work.  No one offered to bring him.  He started walking, disoriented and on the verge of some kind of break down.  He called a cab on the way, who informed him that could not pick him up on the side of the road, it was too dangerous.  He argued with them, finally resorting to screaming his emergency out to the dispatcher, who finally agreed to send a car.

Once he was picked up, the taxi had trouble getting through to our neighborhood.  The main road had been blocked off so the police could reenact the scene.  Cory had been taken away.  Tim saw police cars, fire trucks, lights flashing, cones, and people roaming all over.

I was sobbing on the cold kitchen tile, refusing to come sit in the living room or to sit on a chair, like a normal person.  I was no longer normal.  The floor was where I needed to be, so there I was.  Jacob flitted nearby, undecided of whether he wanted my comfort or if it was safer to keep a distance. 

Tim burst in the backdoor, flinging the door open like a gunslinger in a western.  He stood there a second, and that frame froze in my mind.  His eyes were huge, his terror trying to push its way out of his body.  The expression on his face was one of absolute fury.

He ran across the room and knelt in front of me, taking me in the biggest bearhug imaginable.  His tears wet my neck, as Jake joined us.  We were a family three, lost and bereft without our Cory Girl, the glue that bound us all together in so many ways.  Our embrace lasted minutes, hours?  I’m not sure.  I know that for awhile, there was a sense of comfort, of warmth, of the three of us united in our pain and love.  Our bodies moved together as our shoulders shook, as our tears ran freely.  By the time we broke apart, we would each be on our own journey of grief, and no one path would look like the other.

Eventually, I went to hide in the bathroom.  I sat on the toilet and cried in private.  I may or may not have walloped myself a couple good ones as I thought about what I had done.  In letting her go to the store, I had certainly sent my only daughter, my heart, to her death.

When I came out of the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of Tim and Jacob together in Jacob’s bedroom.  They were sitting on the hardwood floor, with toy cars and bouncy balls littered between them.  Neither of them were talking.  Silently they rolled a car or ball back and forth between their spread legs.

Anyone else would have thought, bless Tim’s heart, look at him trying to distract Jacob.  He is such a good dad.

I, half out of my mind with grief at the time, thought, He still has his boy.  I will never have my girl again.  Hate rose up in my breast.  For a moment, I resented them both, able to be there in their own private world, getting what they needed from each other, when I would never have what I needed ever again in this lifetime.

Now, looking back, I can see Tim was trying to help Jacob, and likely trying to help himself not fall complete apart by doing something.  He was comforting Jacob in a way Jacob was comfortable with, in a way that wasn’t scary...something that spoke of normal.

Tim made many good decisions in the days that followed.  He chose the casket because I could not.  My body physically repelled my being in the showroom.  He chose the cemetery because I could not.  He chose the spot she would rest because at that point, my anger had taken over, making any spot just another hole in the ground.  What difference did it make?

Tim made all these decisions with love and thoughtfulness.  To each question, he asked himself, What would Cory have wanted?  If that isn’t what a father does, that I don’t know what is.

With all of that behind us, but fresh horrors in our minds, I could hardly think of what hard truth lay behind Tim’s eyes as he walked in the door with that bag.

“Honey, the funeral home sent some of Cory’s things home.  It’s what she had on when they got her.”  He gingerly sat the bag on the dining room table in front of me, like a bomb.

My eyes rested on it for a moment, and then searched Tim’s face.  “What took so long?  Was everything ok?”  I asked.

“Yeah…you know, Mark and I just got to talking…”  he stopped, looking away.

“What did he say?”  I asked.

“Honey, let’s talk about this later.  We’ve had some horrible days, and I think–“

“What did he say?”  I demanded.

Tim took a deep breath, and measured me with his eyes.  “Are you sure you want to know?  It’s about her injuries.”

Sharp intake of breath here.  “Tell me.”  I said.

He tried again.  “Are you sure?”

“Tell me.”

“Cory had multiple skull fractures, front and back…a broken neck…a broken arm…and two broken hips.”

I fell into the chair beside me, covered my face, and just wailed.  “I broke her.  Oh my God, I broke her.  I broke my baby!”

I was crying so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.  Tim came over and rubbed my back, reminding me to breathe, just breathe.

“I’m so sorry, honey.  I’m just so sorry”  he said over and over again.

Finally, he fled the room, leaving me alone with that despicable bag.

Knowing I shouldn’t, but unable to stop myself, I opened it and looked inside.

Her glasses, frames only.  Of course, all the glass had been broken out. 

A rubber bracelet.

Her canvas belt from her brand new shorts she’d been so excited about.

Her Very Hungry Caterpillar change purse that had been hooked to her belt loop.  Inside it were her ear buds and a single dollar bill.

All of this was enough to rob me of my sanity right there of the spot.

But there was more.  I examined these objects.  They were all covered with dust, and debris from the road.

And in the bottom of the bag was a heavy layer of dust, dirt, debris.

I breathed in, but couldn’t smell anything but the road.

My heart closed in on itself, and I went away for awhile.