Page 28 of Someone to Remember
The revelation from Jack has been so shocking that I haven’t told anyone about it yet. Rather, I’ve sat on it for days, processing the many implications. I’ll make sure Jack’s therapist knows about it before they meet next week.
Intense anger at the man I loved more than life makes everything else more difficult. From helping my kids to bathe, dress, eat, play, go to the bathroom, get to sleep or whatever it is theyneed, I’m dragging all that anger along with me. It becomes harder all the time to keep it hidden from them. Lately, I find myself talking to one person about the anger—the only person who truly understands what I’m going through.
Brad Albright.
He’s furious with his late spouse, too.
We’re aware that addiction is anillnessand should be treated as such, but he didn’t even know his wife, Mary Alice, was addicted until it was too late. In my case, we did everything we could to get help for Spencer, including mortgaging our home and our future to pay for multiple trips to rehab that didn’t work. Because of my sister, the first lady, and brother-in-law, the president, I received millions in donations after Spencer died, which gives me financial security that many widows, like Brad, don’t have.
He won’t hear of me helping him financially, but I’ll keep offering until he lets me. I plan to use most of the money to fund the foundation I’ve started in Spencer’s memory to help people like Brad, whose lives have been ruined by opioid addiction.
Joshua Charles, whose middle name is in honor of my late father, has fallen asleep while feeding, so I put him down to nap while I feed Jack and Ella some lunch.
“Mr. Brad invited us to meet them at the park today,” I tell the kids as I cut PB&Js into squares and serve them with apple slices. “Doesn’t that sound fun?”
“I love the park,” Ella says.
“I don’t want to go,” Jack says. “Let’s just stay home.”
Before he suddenly lost his father, who was also his favorite person and playmate, Jack never would’ve turned down a trip to the park.
“It’ll be fun,” I tell him, “and it’ll get us out of the house for some fresh air.”
“I don’t want fresh air.”
He’s gearing up for a serious tantrum, so I do what histherapist suggested and disengage for now as I prepare to leave the house with two young children and a baby. I pack one bag for the older kids and another for Josh. I toss in drinks, snacks and changes of clothes in case the kids get wet or muddy, one of which happens just about every time we go anywhere.
When I’m ready to go, I load Josh into the baby car seat and help Ella into her jacket. “You don’t have to play at the park, Jack, but you do have to come so the rest of us can go.”
He doesn’t care for that news, but he grabs his sweatshirt and heads for the car. He’s outraged by everything lately, not that I blame him. He’s got good reason, and I’m trying to respect his feelings while walking the fine line of keeping our lives moving forward. It’s a delicate balancing act on the best of days and a much more trying task on the weekends when his dad’s glaring absence is that much more pronounced.
I ache for all of us, but mostly for him.
While Ella is sad that her daddy has died, she’s almost too young at three and a half to fully process the implications of someone being gone forever. Jack, on the other hand, is all too aware of whatforevermeans, and his little heart is shattered.
Brad and I have talked a lot about how difficult it’s been to parent our kids through this loss. His seven-year-old daughter, Daphne, is unusually perceptive for such a young child and is having an awful time coping with her mother’s absence. His four-year-old son, Drake, is sad and moody and having temper tantrums for the first time but doesn’t seem to fully grasp what happened to his mother. He cries for her at bedtime every night, and Brad is left feeling helpless to mend their broken hearts while managing his own debilitating grief.
Nothing in either of our lives prepared us for these challenges, so we rely on each other as we navigate our way through them.
As I drive to the park, I glance in the mirror to check on Jack, who’s staring out the passenger side window, his expression unreadable.
“Mommy, let’s sing,” Ella says.
“No singing,” Jack says in the testy tone that’s new since disaster struck.
“Why no singing?” Ella asks.
I can almost hear her chin wobbling as she fights tears. She’s still not accustomed to Jack being mean to her when he never was before their father died. He used to dote on her and indulge her every whim. Now, he has no patience for her, which is another loss for my sweet baby girl.
“I vote for singing.” I put on Ella’s favorite soundtrack,Moana, and turn up the volume, delighting in the joyful sound of her voice. She sings at the top of her lungs, which used to make Jack laugh.
Not anymore.
The next time I look in the mirror, I notice that Jack’s face is red from the outrage of it all.
I wish I knew what to do for him.
Seven
