It is a commonplace that mankind deals with the vagaries of life by searching the heavens for a reason: why was I singled out; why me and not someone else; and why, after all I have done am I tortured? And there are no answers, just as there are no reasons, it is just the way it is.
I am an exemplar of the phenomenon, I was tortured as no man should be when I lost Marilyn, my wife, to a swift and lethal disease. It took her from me just as I began to feel our life together could get no better. We had married seventeen years before, as we finished school and began parallel careers that progressed both successfully and profitably; we had a prosperous and happy life and we had a beautiful child, Madeline, our daughter, on whom we doted. And then fate seemed to determine that we had enough, that our happiness had to be redistributed, that someone else somewhere else was now entitled to the happiness and pleasure we had shared, and it was taken from us.
My daughter and I shriveled in grief and pain, co-existing in a suddenly cold, cruel world, moving like automatons who knew the motions but could never comprehend the reasons underlying our actions.
Grief is forever, but the sting lessens in time. My daughter finished high school and went away to college. Her life began to emerge from the shell we had been put into together. She did well in school, picked a career path, and met a young man who made her whole again. James drew her out and made her laugh again, and between them they began to put together a plan for a life together once they finished their educations. He had taken an ROTC scholarship to help pay for his education, and would have a commitment to the US Army when he finished, and after a few years their life would be theirs, and they could begin a family. The sadness and unhappiness of the loss of her mother would be behind her as she put her own family together. I was so happy for her, and watching her blossom again was helpful to me dealing with my loss and pain. I had looked forward to being a grandfather, and I was supremely happy to lead my daughter down the aisle and present her as my most valued possession to the man she loved and wished to be with for the rest of her life, and in their plan I saw the outlines of my life in the future, as well. I felt as though renewal had begun, and that hope could live again for all of us. My hardened heart began to thaw, and I even began to think again about finding someone to share my life, or should I say, my next life, as there could never be a replacement for the happy life I had before.
My daughter and James moved to a city several hundred miles away to begin their careers, she with a large corporation as a planner, and he into the active army as a young lieutenant in an infantry brigade. He finished his training and was assigned to an active duty post near my daughter's job, and they settled into their new life.
But, as always, the world intervenes. In this case, the events of 9/11 shocked our mutual world. Incomprehensible destruction and mayhem rocked the world and set this country on a war footing. James' unit was immediately put on alert, but he was not immediately shipped out. His unit began advanced training, and he was called away frequently on extended maneuvers, and then finally his unit was mobilized and moved to Kuwait, where they waited in readiness for an expected push into Iraq our leadership was planning.
Against the advice of wiser men, an invasion began and the troops who had been pre-positioned over the border began to move north at high speed, out-running their supply lines and stranding units without fuel or food for days. In a breakneck rush to Baghdad, James' mechanized unit was pushed hard, flogging their humvees over the Iraqi highways near Nasariyah where they came under attack. His humvee was struck by an RPG in the middle of a bridge over the Tigris river, the driver lost control and went over the side where the vehicle landed upside down trapping all inside. James' body was retrieved once the bridge was secured and sent home to my daughter, who was once again seized with grief, as was I.
Now it was her turn to question life itself, to feel as though the entire universe conspired to ruin her happiness. James had drawn Madeline out so completely from the mausoleum we had been cast into when Marilyn died, and now she was pushed back in to ask the unanswerable and try to handle the unendurable once more. I myself was crushed, the bright prospects for my future again destroyed in an arbitrary way, as though an unseen puppeteer pulled strings out of spite, or just indifference to the suffering his actions put into play.
She could not speak to me for months following the funeral, she just seemed to go away, although she stayed in her home. She resumed her work after a brief period, but I could not imagine her putting herself into it as she once had. I would call her and try to draw her into conversation, but she was unresponsive and flat in voice and emotion. I was handling my world in a similar fashion, going through the motions again in my work, to the point that co-workers began to intervene in small ways, trying to draw me out and back to reality. And in those small ways, they succeeded. Though my heart was broken for my daughter, never to be restored, I began to rejoin life and slowly began to recover from this second enormous shock.
I called Madeline and finally got a response. She was in a shocked shell, and though we had always been able to talk, even following Marilyn's death, she did not have much to say. She did agree to come stay with me for a weekend, the first time we would have together since James' death.
I still lived in the home Marilyn and I had built and moved into when Madeline had been about six years old. It was on a rural road near a lake in a pine forest. From the road there was not much to see, but from within we nearly lived in a forest. The back wall of the home was nearly all glass and looked out onto a wall of pine trees with a glimpse of blue lake and sky about a quarter mile away. It was our dream home, and our dreams soared within it. Madeline had loved it from the day we moved in, and Marilyn and I had thrived in our refuge from the world. It was private, yet open and it had been an opportune spot for me to recover. Now I hoped it would do the same for Madeline.
Madeline had always been fond of my cooking, and I made plans to feed her body and soul while she was here. She loved shrimp, and she loved pasta, and she adored green salads, and lately had discovered the joys of good wine. I made no plans outside the house for her visit, preferring instead to play it by ear and let her talk to me, if she wished, or ignore me if that worked, also. She had friends in the neighborhood, but I wouldn't tell them she was coming. She knew where they were if she needed them.
I have never been a doting father who tried to please her at all costs. I have taken the approach that she is an intelligent being and can be talked to at an equal level and can be trusted to make good decisions. I have listened to her arguments, and been persuaded more often than not. I knew that this would be a crucial time for her, she was coming home for comforting, and I would see what she needed and what she wanted from me before I made any moves or plans.
There was so much riding on this visit, for her and for me.
She arrived late on a Friday afternoon, pulling into the drive and parking behind the row of pines that shielded the house from the road. I rushed out to greet her and to help her unload and get her bags into the house. She was so glad to see me, but I immediately worried about her, she looked so drained and, well, grey. There was no sign of the color and vitality that had surrounded her when she went away with James on their honeymoon not so long ago. But it was her, and I was so glad to see her.
In the house, I helped her put her coat away, put her bags in her room, started a fire in the living room fireplace and opened a bottle of a surprising Australian Shiraz Cabernet noted for its warmth and friendliness. It had been one of her favorites not long ago, and I hoped it would bridge the devastation in the middle of our lives. I did not start dinner yet, wanting to see which way the wind blew. Surprisingly, the wine worked. She began to talk around her loss, discussing her job, the drive out, but she never mentioned any plans or hopes or dreams. She was treading water right now, and I was very familiar with that mode in life. I was glad to hear her talking, even at such an uninvolved level, and I lent her my ears and interjected when appropriate, but I wanted to let her speak, knowing that talking was therapeutic.
She wasn't hungry then, but surprised me by asking me to make her a pizza-like creation I had dreamed up for her when she was very young. I would take a slice of white bread and push my knuckles into it, spread pizza sauce from a jar on it, sprinkle some canned parmesan on, and put it under a broiler until it browned. She didn't want it just then, but my plans to make stir fried shrimp and pasta were put on hold. We would make these pizzas together when Marilyn wasn't home to cook for us, and she always loved it. We would eat three or four slices apiece for our dinner. Actually, I still like it, though I never make it anymore for myself.
For the moment, though, we took our glasses of wine, and the bottle, and settled into the couch facing the fire. Night fell shortly, and the room grew dark but for the glow of the fire lighting our faces and the fronts of our bodies and casting the rest of us and the room into varying depths of darkness, with absolute blackness hovering just over our shoulders.
We soon exhausted the small talk and fell into a silence as we stared into the fire.
Fire watching has hypnotized mankind since we learned to tame it. There is an order to flames we can not fathom, and it fascinates us into watching as though we could. It curls around its fuel, seducing and consuming. Two people watching side by side can actually communicate without saying a word, sharing experiences and arriving at a consensus without speaking. Fire watching heals damaged spirits, and renews hope for a better world and a brighter day.
Madeline had been sitting beside me just out of reach, but at some point she leaned over and found my shoulder, and leaned into it. I could have cried that she had sought me out. She held her wine glass on her hip and stared into the flames. It was as though by watching the same spot in the fire our gazes had met.
