If he were here, Tom would be singing Dylan lyrics about standing in doorways and blocking up halls, because that’s exactly what they’re doing.
I have a child on either side of me—Cassie, fifteen, on my left, and Henry, thirteen, on my right. Their hands are firmly in mine, and they’re dressed in matching black outfits—their decision, not mine, one that kind of breaks my heart. They used to do that when they were little—Cassie was small for her age then, and Henry was tall, so they used to pretend they were twins and dress the same to play up their similarities.
They haven’t done that in forever, but when they told me of their plan a few days ago, I let them choose something for me, too. And so here we are, looking at the line of important men in front of us, a trio of blond, pale-skinned grief.
We look like a family a candidate might use in a campaign ad in the Middle West.
Henry strains against my hand. He loves sports, and violent video games I don’t want to know the name of, and history books about World War II. He’s still tall for his age, passing me in height a year ago. Of all of us, he’s been the hardest hit by this. He and Tom were close, closer than Cassie and me, much to my dismay. Tom was a great father, and I’m at a loss to know how to fill the hole he’s left behind.
It’s very loud inside, the noise jump-starting the headache I knew I’d have today. The air’s both stale and full of too much aftershave and the perfume coming off the bank of white flowers behind the stage. The kernel of unease in my stomach has grown to fist size, like a punch; I wish I still had some of the medication my doctor prescribed to deal with the first month after Tom died, when I couldn’t sleep without it and going outside seemed impossible. But I didn’t think to keep any for emergencies, so we stand there for a few minutes, not saying anything, taking it all in, while I remember how to breathe.
Then one of the senators notices us and nudges his colleagues out of the way. The First Family of Grief, we’ve been given special status with seats in the front row, small Reserved signs holding our spaces on the foldout chairs draped in white fabric. Like so many things, I didn’t ask for this, but I couldn’t turn it down. I’ve let myself be photographed in an endless cascade of black dresses, and now there will be more time on camera, more exploitation of us for the “common good,” that eternal excuse that has led me to agree, time and again, to interviews, appearances, and even a few sweaty-palmed speeches.
There’s a thick book on each of the seats, professionally produced. For once, my face is not on the cover. Instead, it’s another shot of Teo’s, taken in the minutes before the explosion, when the building was highlighted by a sunbeam and the puffy blue clouds above held no sense of foreboding.
It’s 513 pages long, one page for every person lost. Those who were simply injured, or scarred in other ways, have their own book, their own groups, and though they were invited today, they’re seated in the back, out of the line of sight of the cameras. For some reason their injuries, their very real, physical ones, don’t seem as important as ours, the psychological remnants of those who are gone. As a result, many of the survivors are angry, disillusioned, fighting for recognition. I don’t blame them, and I should help them with that fight, but I don’t have the energy.
The hour grinds on. The room is overflowing and hot. There are big screens behind the stage projecting a stream of family shots, a photo collage of memories. When it’s our family’s turn, Henry starts shaking next to me. I pull his towhead to my shoulder, making soothing sounds. Cassie stares straight ahead, watching as her father splashes her with a garden hose while she giggles, as he stands proudly next to her when she dressed up for her first formal, as she unwraps a Christmas present while Tom laughs. We chose these photos together a few weeks ago, picking randomly among the digital files I’d never managed to get into physical albums. We had a good cry and a good laugh, too, and I thought about all the progress we’d made since I finally got home on October tenth, and in the days after when it became clear that Tom wouldn’t.
Cassie’s been harder to read since then, withdrawing into herself instead of acting out. Will I learn later that she’s been sneaking off in the dead of night to meet the wrong kind of boy and numb herself with alcohol, pills, or meaningless sex? There’s no sign of this, though more than one person has suggested I should be on the watch for it. Do you know something I don’t? I always ask. No, no, of course not. Only . . . I’ve heard stories about some of the other girls . . . And then they shrug. You know girls . . .
These stories—and their casual acceptance as inevitable for my daughter—make me so, so angry. As if the only way women can deal with their grief is some form of self-injury.
The din cuts out suddenly. Teo’s assistant—the scars from the burns he got that day on his arms still visible—scurries across the stage and tweaks the flags behind the podium. Several tall men in black suits with earpieces surround it. It’s 9:59 a.m.
And while a year ago, I might not have even noticed, now I know what this means.
The president’s coming.
• • •
“Where do you want to begin?” I ask Teo four hours later, when the speeches are done and we’ve been allowed to return to our everyday lives that do not involve bear hugs from presidents and crudités passed on silver platters.
Despite the abundance that
