Blessed Are the Wholly Broken (11 page)

I don’t remember the specific moment Anna and I looked up from our heartache to realize life continued on. Perhaps it was on a night in June, as we sat on the porch swinging in the cool evening breeze and Anna commented on the lightning bugs flitting across the neighbor’s pasture. Or maybe it was on a sweltering weekend in July, when we ventured forth into town to browse around the square, taking in the booths and activities of the local Tomato Festival. What I do remember is that one night as Anna sat on the couch reading, legs curled beneath her and glasses sliding down her nose, looking so much like she had always looked before our lives had become filled with sadness, I gazed at her and felt, for the first time in months, as if I could breathe.

Slowly, slowly, we pulled ourselves out of the fog. One day we found ourselves going for coffee again, another evening found us renting movies and snacking on cheese and wine. Neither of us spoke of Jeffrey, not for months after our resurfacing, both of us, I suspect, terrified of shattering the brittle calm in which we found ourselves. Our friends and relatives had boxed up any baby equipment I hadn’t destroyed and carted it off to Goodwill. Blankets, pajamas, and tiny baseball caps had followed suit. An uninformed visitor to our house would have never guessed we had at one time expected a baby.

Our first step back into the world had been to return to work, though neither of us had felt capable. Our bosses and coworkers had been nothing but supportive, and we’d been told to take all the time we needed. The world, however, was unwilling to wait forever, and no amount of time would have been sufficient. It was Brian whose tough love forced us to take the step, the only of our loved ones willing—or able— to challenge the gray wall of grief surrounding us.

“You need a routine,” he said to us on a night about three weeks after Jeffrey’s death. He had stayed with us more often than not since Jeffrey died, making the long drive to Memphis each morning before the sun was up. It could not have been easy for him.

He had just made it home that evening, where he found us in nearly the same positions in which we’d been that morning, sitting in the darkened living room. I was brooding in the recliner while Anna chose the rocker closest to the fireplace. If Anna had been perpetually hot before Jeffrey’s birth, she was unnaturally cold after his death. Brian knelt to add wood to the fire, settling it with the poker before tossing his suit coat onto the couch, rolling up his sleeves, and turning to look at us.

“This is no good,” he said, “sitting and brooding like this. You need something to distract you. Something else to demand your attention. Get mad at me if you need to,” he raised his voice to cut me off before I could speak. “In fact,
please
get mad at me; that would be better than watching the two of you sink further into depression. Look, I would never tell you it’s time to stop grieving. Hell,
I’m
still grieving. You’ll always grieve; of course you will. But you also have to live.”

He went to kneel of front of Anna, taking her hands in his. “You need to go back to work. Both of you do. Sitting here, in the dark like this, will only make it worse. Phil,” he turned to look at me. “You know I’m right.”

I did know, and I think a part of me was relieved to hear him say it. I did need to get back to work. I needed to escape the tomblike silence of our house. I needed, as he had said, a distraction from the pain.

The first weeks were difficult, not only for us, but I imagine for our coworkers, too. There is no proper way to express sympathy. To say nothing seems heartless and unsupportive; to say too much is to stir up the emotion the griever is struggling to control. Hugs elicited tears, pitying looks evoked discomfort, hushed conversations led to embarrassment, and avoidance caused hurt feelings.
It’s God’s will, time heals all wounds, part of a greater plan, you’ll have another baby
. All wrong things to say, but what would have been right?

We persevered, Anna and I, and eventually our coworkers turned attention to other matters and we, for our parts, slipped back into the roles we’d vacated with what I can only describe as gratitude. Brian had been right; we needed the routine, a reason to get up in the morning and shower, a reason to get dressed and out of the house.

If going back to work was the first step in reclaiming our lives, scheduling a vasectomy was the second. Birth control pills were too big of a risk for Anna, now that we knew of the factor V Leiden. No matter what, I vowed, I would never put Anna through such heartache again. We’d lost so much at that point; we’d wasted too much time chasing a dream that had led to nothing but sorrow. I could scarcely remember what life had been before the desire for children overshadowed everything. I wanted Anna back; I wanted our marriage back. I wanted to rid not only our house, but our lives of the ghosts of the children we would never have.

On sleepless nights in my cell, surrounded by the sounds of snoring men and muted footsteps, I often lie awake and ponder the irony of life. I’ve come to believe the course of our lives is set. We think we’re making choices; we delude ourselves into believing we maintain some fragile control over our future, but what if that isn’t so?

What if, instead of controlling our own destiny, the universe has decided our fate for us? What if each of us is nothing more than an insignificant cog in the wheel, a tiny particle swept along in some sort of universal plan in which we have no say? What if, no matter what we do, no matter what measures we take to avoid it, our conclusion is predestined? I had vowed to keep Anna safe, to do whatever I could to protect her from a life of pain. How could it be, then, if not for some cosmic irony, that I had killed her?

“Cross went well today, don’t you think?” Brian took the seat across from me. “Your neighbor was clearly a hostile witness for the prosecution. He did a good job of putting your actions into context when given the chance.”

I nodded, somewhat wary, unsure of where this was going.

“Our turn is coming, Phillip. Dr. Gillespie will dispute Cathy’s testimony regarding your ‘violent’ behavior towards Anna on the day Jeffrey was born. We have at least a dozen witnesses willing to testify that you and Anna had a strong marriage, by all appearances, and that you expressed nothing but excitement when she became pregnant with Peter.”

I nodded again, waiting. I knew from previous meetings with my team of attorneys that the prosecution would work to build their case on the premise that I was a violent man who had sworn, angrily and repeatedly after Jeffrey’s death, that I would do whatever it took to keep Anna from having another baby. Their argument, I had been warned, would be that I had been so enraged by Anna becoming pregnant again that I had attempted to kill both Anna and Peter, leaving Anna dead, and Peter gravely disabled.

“Until then,” Brian continued, “the prosecution is going to continue to try to paint you as a violent, angry man. I don’t want you to let it bother you, and most of all I don’t want you to show anger. That would play right into their hands.”

“I won’t,” I said, speaking for the first time. “I’m not angry, Brian.” I wasn’t, at least not with the prosecutors, or the witnesses. Since my initial outburst during Cathy’s testimony I’d managed to compartmentalize my emotions, separating whatever feelings of betrayal I might have originally had from my overwhelming need to be reunited with Peter. I’d do whatever it took to be with my son.

“Good.” Brian sat back, scrutinizing me. “It’s only going to get harder. Soon, they’ll start to call witnesses from the park.”

“I know.” I could recall all too clearly the shocked faces of those who witnessed
Anna’s final moments. “But Brian, they didn’t see what they think they saw.”

“And we’ll work to create doubt on cross. I, for one, think we’ll succeed. Phillip,” he hesitated, “what really worries me is when it’s our turn, when we get to present your defense. You may hear some things that are disturbing.”

“What do you mean?” Surely, if I could listen to weeks of testimony describing me as a monster, I could handle anything the defense had to say.

“I mean that in order to save you, we can’t save Anna.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Brian?”

“I don’t think you’ve been as forthcoming with me as you might have,” he said. “I understand your need to protect Anna, Phillip. Hell, I’d like to protect her, too. But we can’t. To that end, we’ll be bringing forth some witnesses. Her doctor, for one. But also some coworkers, friends from work, people like that.”

“Coworkers?  Why?”

“They have things to tell us,” answered Brian. “She confided in people.”

“Brian, I’ve told you what happened.”

“Yes,” he said, “to some extent. But you didn’t tell me all of it. You didn’t tell me about the months leading up to…to the incident. And you didn’t tell me about the fights. You said it was an accident. But it wasn’t, was it Phillip? You promised me the truth, and now’s the time to tell it.”

Brian was right; there were things I had not told him. I was torn, I think, between wanting to protect Anna, and struggling to maintain the denial in which I’d lived not only leading up until the moment Peter was born, but also in the first weeks of his life. The Anna I see in my mind is the Anna with masses of curls falling down her back, the Anna whose smile lit up her whole face. I see her laughing, reading, sleeping, hiking. What I don’t see—what I refuse to see—is what, in the darkest hours of night, my mind insists I saw that horrible morning.

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” Brian’s voice was soft, mellowed by beer. He leaned his head back against the lounge chair, his face barely visible in the moonlight. I tossed another stick onto the fire and sat back to consider my answer.

“It’s a pointless question,” said Anna as she stretched her bare feet closer to the fire pit and swirled the wine in her glass. “Five years ago, I would have never believed I could enjoy life again. I would have never thought I’d sit at a campfire in the Smoky Mountains with the two of you, drinking beer and philosophizing as if we’re still twenty year old students. I thought, back then, that after everything we’d been through, we’d be irrevocably changed, but as it turns out, life has a way of meandering on. Five years from now, who knows? Who cares? Who even thinks about it?”

“Well, now, that’s a bit of a pessimistic view, isn’t it? Catch your breath, there, Socrates, and tell us what you really think,” said Brian, eliciting a laugh from Anna.

“I don’t think it’s pessimistic at all,” she responded. “At least I don’t mean for it to be. I just mean, I think we both learned a long time ago”—she glanced at me, as if for validation—“that nothing is certain. Given that, does it even make sense to have five year plans? Or ten year plans? What if you put so much energy into the planning of life that you never get around to the living of life?”

I reached across the space between us to take her hand. “I’ll go with Anna on this one,” I said. “I’m not sure mapping out a life through a series of plans is such a good idea. What happens if the plan doesn’t work? Is life a failure, then?”

Brian took a long swig of beer. “Don’t know,” he said. “Define failure.”

“Well, that’s the crux of the whole issue, isn’t it?” Anna reached to the picnic table behind us and refilled her glass. “How does one define success? Is it internal, or external? Is it an abstract idea, or something tangible? Take you for example, Brian.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Brian, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I’m not sure I want to be the example.”

“You own a law firm, for heaven’s sake. You have plenty of money, you travel whenever and wherever you want. You have tons of friends, and women love you. Are you a success?”

“The argument could be made that I’m a failure at maintaining relationships. A roué. A libertine.”

“Could it?” Anna pressed on. “You’re quite able to maintain relationships when you want to. Look at us,” she gestured to the three of us. “We’ve been friends for nearly twenty years. Maybe instead of being a failure at relationships, you’re a success at avoiding entanglements.” She grinned. “It’s all in how you frame it.”

“Ah,” said Brian. “I rather like that.”

“I do think it’s about reframing,” I said, squeezing Anna’s hand. “One person’s idea of failure might be another person’s idea of success.”

Anna leaned over to kiss my cheek, nearly toppling her chair in the process. “You’re thinking of your father,” she said as I righted her, and she was correct; I was.

In some ways, I don’t think my father ever got over Jeffrey’s death. I know he never understood our desire to move on with our lives, leaving the dream of children behind. Perhaps some of it was generational; he didn’t seem able to grasp the idea of family—indeed the
purpose
of family—if that idea didn’t include raising children. While Anna and I were able to reframe our idea of family, he demonstrated through both his words and his deeds that I had failed. I don’t think this was deliberate on his part; rather, he judged me by his definition of success instead of my own, and I simply failed to meet the standard.

Anna and I had used the years following Jeffrey’s death to refocus our energy and attention on our marriage and our careers. That night around the fire, I sincerely thought we had succeeded at both, though I was later to learn otherwise. We were gentle with each other, but I had viewed that as a good thing. We had seen each other’s breaking point. We were aware, as many people are not, that our lives existed on shifting sands. Because of that, we held a deep appreciation for not only each other, but for each day. We had made it through the depths of hell and the other side was heaven by comparison, for the simple fact it wasn’t hell. We would not risk the contentment we’d found by longing for something different. Or so I had thought.

I did not have the sort of relationship with my father that would have allowed me to speak with him of such things in a way he might understand. Because of that, the distance that had always existed between us continued during a time circumstances might have served to bring us closer. When I received a phone call summoning me to the hospital a couple of years after Jeffrey’s death, it was too late. A drunk driver on a sunny Sunday morning along a straight stretch of I-40 had seen to that. Thankfully, I did have some hours with my mother before she succumbed to her injuries. My father, however was already gone.

Across the fire pit Brian stirred, bringing me back to the present. “What made you ask that, anyway?” I asked him as I reached to catch the beer he tossed my way.

Brian grunted, flipping a bottle cap into the cooler and leaning back on the lounge. “I’ve got to hire some help at work. Been conducting interviews, and that’s one of those questions everyone says you’re supposed to ask. In the middle of asking it today, I wondered what the point of it was. Is anyone really going to be honest?  I mean, half the kids in there don’t know what they’re going to eat for lunch, much less what they’ll be doing in five years. The other half are too smart to tell me what they
really
think, which is probably along the lines of, ‘Anywhere but here, asshole.’”

I laughed. “It is a ridiculous question, isn’t it? I wonder if anyone ever turns out to be right with their answer. A lot can happen in five years.”

If I thought I’d understood that concept on that moonlit night in 2007, I grasped it on an entirely new level when, five years later, I sat in my cell waiting to hear my fate.