She Died
A father and his daughters deal with their grief.
Chapter 1
She died. Two small words containing a total of seven letters. How could they cause so much pain? I was going about my normal mundane Saturday when the doorbell rang. It seems to me that it is always jarring when a policeman is at your door. Even if you are white middle class. I suppose it is almost instinctual to be apprehensive. Did I do something, did my family do something, is someone suing me? And then, please don't let it be bad.
It was really bad. My wife was gone. Killed by a drunk driver going the wrong way on the freeway. Just like that my world went dark. I just stood there with tears pouring down my face. I looked at the cop like she had just slapped me. In a way she had. I had just lost my world and this bitch has the balls to be the one to tell me! For a moment I hated her. Then, I invited her in.
She handed me her card. Believe it or not cops have cards now, which just seems odd. Anyway, she handed me her card and told me to call the number on the back to let them know what funeral home we preferred. Then she turned and left. She wasn't rude or stern, or even sympathetic. She had handled this situation and was moving on to the next. She left behind those two words that destroyed my heart.
She died.
Marissa and I met in high school. We became friends immediately and began dating. We started out liking each other, then lusting with each other, then loving each other. The lusting part led to our twin girls Jessica and Stacy. Normally you have the marriage and then the kids. Since we were in high school when Marissa got pregnant, we did it the other way around.
We managed to survive being child parents through our love for each other. It didn't hurt our chances that we had the support and financial help of our parents. Marissa and I not only loved each other, we lusted after each other. We had a wonderful time the night before the doorbell rang. Seventeen years of marriage hadn't dulled our ardor. A drunk driver did.
Jessica found me sitting on the floor by the front door sobbing uncontrollably. I looked up at her, then stood up and pulled her into arms. I am sure I held her too tight, but she was my anchor in that moment.
"Dad what is wrong!"
My words were a rapid-fire jumble that shame me to this day. Why couldn't I be the TV dad who knew just the right way to tell his daughter her mom was dead? "The police were just here. It's your mom. There was a drunk driver. She died. I'm so sorry baby!"
She didn't think less of me then and she assures me she doesn't think less of me now. She held onto me and we cried together. That is how Stacy found us a little while later. Jessica stumbled through the words before I could. "She died."
Chapter 2
The following week was a mind-numbing litany of details that had to be dealt with. Family and friends visited, brought food, and tried to help. "if there is anything I/We can do..." In most cases I knew that the person saying that meant it sincerely. But there is nothing they could have done. The love of my life had died and all I wanted to do was lie down in bed, hug my daughters, and grieve with them. I wasn't allowed to do that because the world needs the details taken care of.
Some people think focusing on the details will help get them through the worst of their grief. I hated the details. I wanted to be left alone with my daughters for just a while. Please just for a while? Nope, stuff had to be done. So, I pulled myself somewhat together and began to Whack A Mole the details. Jessica and Stacy went with me to the funeral home were a "Funeral Director" walked us through the myriad of options. Funeral directors seem to be an odd mix of sympathy and sales. He very sympathetically sold us thousands of dollars' worth of stuff, most of which will either be buried or tossed in a dumpster in a few days.
We struggled our way through the closed casket funeral. I hated the whole process. People I knew and loved would express their sympathy and I would tear up. Folks I had never seen before would stop me to tell me some anecdote about Marissa from elementary school. I couldn't help but think that they were trying to convince me they had a valid reason for being at the funeral. I wanted to say, "I am not the fucking funeral police and I don't fucking care why you are here!" I didn't because I may be sick with grief, but I am not a dick.
Among the worst were the ones who insisted on telling me how horrible some other person's death was. It was as if they were telling me, "See this horrible death? It's more horrible than your death. Doesn't' that make you feel better?" I have a hard time understanding how a person could be that callous or clueless, but it happened. More than once.
Of course, there were the elderly folks who feel the need to recite the number of funerals they had attended so far this year, who they were for, and how all of their friends were now dead. I didn't know what to say to any of that and didn't feel up to trying anyway.
One group of ladies that I didn't know stood blocking the casket while they discussed the various flowers. A lady would break off from the group and study the card on a particular flower, then report back to the group. Stacy later told me they were comparing relative values of the flowers to the person who sent them and gossiping about the results. The funeral director's assistant (sales associate?) had to ask them to move.
I am sure if Marissa had been looking down on us she would have laughed hysterically at the ridiculousness of the whole affair. Marissa had a wonderful, and sometimes odd, sense of humor. It matched mine, but I wasn't seeing the humor.
Eventually the funeral was over and we were left alone. I was relieved to come home to the quit at first. Our friends had made sure the leftovers were stored properly and everything was in order. When we walked into the house we puttered around the kitchen for a few minutes, but something felt off. I finally realized it was because we couldn't hear Marissa humming or singing to herself as she moved around the house.
Chapter 3
"I'm going to go lay down for a while," I told the girls.
I laid down in the bed we had shared, feeling numb and exhausted. I stared at the ceiling as the tears rolled down my cheeks. I didn't know what I was going to do without her. I knew that she would give me shit about being a big pussy if she were here just to get me to laugh. She's not here and I am lost.
I was trying to be quiet, but the girls must have heard me crying. The bedroom door opened and they both came in. "Scoot over dad," Stacy said as Jessica lay down on the other side of me. We held each other, the sobs came, and the tears fell. We fell asleep holding onto each other.
There is that old saying, "Time heals all wounds". My response to that is, "Bullshit!" I lost the love of my life and that wound would never fully heal. Over time I began to function again, but I didn't heal. For weeks I would start to do something only to find two hours later that I hadn't moved. A commercial on TV, a song on the radio, even a billboard could trigger the tears. My daughters were going through the same thing. The one good thing was that they were very close and were used to leaning on each other. They needed me as much as I needed them. The slept in my bed that night and kept sleeping in it the nights after. We had a hard time being apart while I was at work and they were in classes at the local state college.
Eventually we moved from disabling grief to bouts of sadness, but we continued to sleep together. They were my beautiful rocks that kept me grounded on earth. Without them I think I might have given up. When I had to leave town on a business trip for two days, I didn't sleep the entire trip. I needed them both next to me so that I knew they were safe. To be honest, they made me feel that there was something worth living for. I needed them as much, or more, than they needed me.
I have found that a weird thing happens when I am grieving. It happened when my mom passed away, and again when my father passed. I get horny. I guess it is a natural response to losing a loved one. My guess is that I wanted to solidify the connection with my wife and feel the level of closeness that being intimate provides.
What I do know is that I woke up one night to the whispers of my daughters. I realized that I was spooning Stacy. I had my arm wrapped around her and my hand was on her tit. I also had a raging erection.
"Oh my god! I am so sorry," I was beyond embarrassed and ashamed.
Stacy said in a soft voice, "It's OK dad. I know you didn't realize it was me. Please don't be upset with yourself. I'm not upset with you."
"I feel horrible. I should never touch you that way."
Jessica rolled against my other side and hugged herself against me.
"Dad, we understand. It's only natural for you to get horny. Stacy and I were trying not to wake you, but I guess we were whispering to loud."
I rolled onto my back and they snuggled up to me. It wasn't long before they were asleep. I was scared to go back to sleep. I was afraid I might do something awful to one of my daughters. Apparently, I wasn't too scared because it wasn't long after that I slept as well.
Chapter 4
When I opened my eyes in the morning Jessica was sitting on one side of the bed and Stacy on the other. The blankets had been pulled down and my daughters were looking at my morning wood sticking up like some sort of perverse flagpole! My erection had escaped through the slit in my pajama pants and was on full view. They each laid a hand on my arm as I began to freak the fuck out!
"Dad, please relax. It's alright," Stacy said as she rubbed my arm.
Jessica was rubbing my other arm, "We have been talking and we want to help you."
They lay down on either side of me. Stacy put her hand on my chest while Jessica snuggled against my other side.
"What do you mean by "help me" and please pull the covers up."
Jessica smiled up at me and said, "We can't help you if we do that."
