JOHN BIEBE
June 30, 2010

“No! No, no! Not those pants, daddy! No!” Nathan cried for an hour over that fuck-up. Apparently he and Riley had some kind of code for mixing and matching his clothes. In my stupid mind, jeans go with anything. In his mind, those jeans only go with those specific shirts, socks and tennis shoes. One thing I learned today … my boys have enough clothing to dress a small country. Another thing … I don’t really know anything. Today, I feel even more lost than ever, God sakes.

I used to think I was a viable part of my household, I’m discovering that … big time … I wasn’t. Where my kids are concerned, I don’t know how to dress them, feed them or discipline them (although Natalie seems to feel they’re just acting out their fear and loss so discipline might not be the thing to do). Hell, I thought I was a good dad but I can’t even talk to them – in my own fear and loss, all I do is talk at them. Where the Inn is concerned, when did this place ever really need me? It was always my wife’s domain, her world, her areas of expertise. All I ever was or wanted to be was her support.

Fuck. Maybe it’s me who needs discipline.

It comes in pockets you know. Pockets of grief. Pockets of terror. Pockets of confusion. Pockets and pockets full of tears. When my mother died, we knew it was coming. Cancer is like that. I was thirteen and I sort of suspected long before you could even see her melting away. I had time to think about being without her. I had time to imagine growing up faster than I wanted to, to face becoming my father’s son and no longer my mother’s boy. I was the youngest. I hurt like hell, had all those pockets of grief. What I didn’t have was any responsibilities. All I had to do was find my footing, no matter how long it took. No one pushed.

No one’s pushing now. Just me. I see my kids missing their mother and try my fucking hardest to be strong for them, wait until they’re occupied, out playing or asleep before I crack. I don’t always do so good. Maybe it’s too early? Don’t matter. There’s no time. This loss and this time, I don’t get how ever long it takes to find my feet. I have to just keep walking.

“Daddy, Michael’s sick.” That was what Nathan said and I just stood there blinking like an idiot. It was three this morning and the poor baby was puking his little guts out in the crib. Riley would know what to do.

After the clothing negotiation, I packed the boys off and rushed to see the pediatrician. He was more concerned for me than Michael. Why can’t people mind their own business? This is a small town, I understand. But seriously, does everyone need to know every detail of my fucking miserable life?

Michael apparently ate a bug. Nathan apparently watched him do it. Me? I just panicked and hurried them for medical treatment, assuming the worse. The absolute worse. When the fuck does this crazy shit end? Guess I didn’t have to actually ask that question. Doctor Gordon just handed me a business card. A shrink’s card.

Do I need a shrink?

The card says “grief counselor” and I suppose that makes sense, after all, I am doing this grief thing pretty badly. I’m just not ready to show anyone else how badly. The only adult I’ve talked to is Natalie. I kinda think she’s the only adult who can tolerate me.

Tomorrow, I’m going to try to go to work.

***

July 4, 2010

Yeah, I didn’t go to work the next day, or the next. Ben told me to sit tight, that everything at the City Building was in a shambles, that they were using my office to clean and organize the Forth of July parade decorations. He lied out of his ass, but I took it. Fine. Who wants to work anyway?

We went to the parade this morning, me, Nathan and Michael, three dudes, all polished and waiting on Main Street. Hell no, I didn’t want to go. It was almost like I could see the thin “misery” bubble around us. People stayed a few inches further away from us than usual at a parade. Those standing the closest seemed as quiet as we were, even though all around, everyone else was cheering and laughing, talking and pointing.

Me and the boys were supposed to ride on a float, the official Mayor’s Family float. I couldn’t do it. My family’s not all together anymore. It’s broken, like a fragile tea pot left too close to the edge. I wouldn’t have come at all except for the dream. Don’t dream too much lately because I’m not sleeping so good, but early this morning I had a Riley dream. She laid out the boys clothes and gave me a classic Riley glare. “Take the boys to the parade, John.” That was all she said. I didn’t say anything, just woke up and did what she asked.

I was kinda hoping it would cheer the kids up. Nathan remained sullen, too quiet for a healthy, normal kid of four at a parade. He’s been that way since it happened but little Michael looked like he was enjoying himself, smiling and waving his arms around. When the official Stowe Vermont Marching Elvi Brass Band passed, I suddenly felt sick all over. Michael laid his head on my shoulder and whimpered. Jesus fucking Christ, I think that was when I really caught the brunt of it. This wasn’t just about me. It was about my boys too. Nathan would remember Riles, but Michael was only nine months old. Michael will never know his mother. We turned and went home.

I discovered something today. Age makes a man afraid. It’s not like I’m a pussy, but the good and bad and damaging stuff of life happens as you age. Granted, losing my wife when I need her most has nothing to do with me getting older but somehow, over the past few weeks, I’ve grown ancient. Words take longer to formulate. Ideas, nearly impossible. My hair is growing back almost all grey, just like I thought it would. My kids seem whole but somehow more frail then I thought they were. A bug can make them sick, the wrong jeans and shirt and make them cry, the fact that we’re out of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese can send them screaming from me. I’m a monster who could end their existence if I don’t get my act together. They don’t think that, I do. Put it this way, I’m in no place to be losing anyone else. Of course, in my fucked up brain, there is no one else, just me and Nathan and Michael.

It’s just the three of us but my days and nights are crowded with bodies, pulsing, talking, grinning like there’s something to smile about. This afternoon it was the sheriff and his wife, Tracy. Ben Wade is a way better sheriff than I ever was, but what the hell does he think he can do for me? He already gave me a damn good excuse not to face the world by filling my office with flags and red, white and blue bunting. No way a mayor can work in that mess.

I want a beer. I want ten beers. Thirty. I just don’t have the strength to go down to the pub. Don’t have the energy to face whoever’s down there either.

I fingered the shrink’s business card twice today. When I get up the nerve to actually read the number on it, maybe I’ll call.

***

July 7, 2010

Last night I didn’t sleep. I paced the floor. Yeah, I’ll admit it, I called real quietly for my wife. We have ghosts in this big old mansion. The dream I had the other night felt way too real. Maybe I wasn’t dreaming. Maybe she was really here. Maybe she’s a ghost and maybe she can help me.

Instead she says nothing. Too tired to be awake and too tired to sleep, I went out to the kitchen to make coffee. Five-fifteen in the morning.

Why is that shrink’s business card on the counter? I didn’t put it there, did I?

Today I read the number. Around nine I dialed the number. Grief Counselor, Dr. Harold Kirsch answered the phone. All I said was my name and he told me he’ll see me first thing tomorrow morning. Eight sharp.

“John, I’m proud of you,” Natalie sighed while folding a mountain of tiny clothes heaped on my dining room table. An odd image shot through my head, the vision of a nanny or something. Someone to manage things while I go to work. Then I thought … work?

Work is defined so many ways here in the Biebe household. Before buying the Inn, I worked coaching kid’s hockey in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. After moving to Vermont, I worked to help renovate and rebuild this Inn. Riley originally worked as … everything. Executive chef for the place, manager, organizer, promoter, you name it. After we lost our first baby, it never seemed the same to her and she backed off, focusing on CEO responsibilities, hiring Chef Chris to run the kitchen along with our own Chef Andy. Brought in Kim to help handle promotions and management. While Riles and I were making kids, we were also collecting the other kind of family around us. Looking at Natalie, her hands folding like the wind, I realized how many of us are really here in Vermont together.

Jack and Nat did leave for a while, but after their terrible loss, returned and have a farm and riding stables outside Stowe. East manages the stables. Lachlan married Jessie and moved to town. Egan brought his son here. Our two Jeffs are living nearby too, both finding love; Jeff Mitchell with a buff gardener, and Jeff Wigand with lovely Kelly. Colin’s here, wooing a girl and avoiding the downfalls of NASCAR life. Hando’s not far away with his family in Burlington. We have Ben Wade, Sheriff of Stowe Vermont. Under our own roof live Richie Roberts and Bud White’s grandson, Cory. Cory’s gal is our bartender here at the Inn’s Pub. Cal McCaffrey lived here too before he chose the time portals and 18th Century Scotland.

Currently two other brothers are temporarily holed up at the Inn too. Terry, who seems as sullen as Nathan, and Maximus Decimus Meridian … who stands waiting, ready and able to do whatever I need. I just don’t need anything. Not from him. Not really from any of them … except maybe Natalie who understands how much fabric softener should go in a load of kid clothes.

I’m the elected mayor of Stowe. At this moment, I don’t want to be mayor. I don’t want to be anything. Don’t want to face the business of my Inn, the guests checking in and out every fucking Saturday, the problems that are piling up on Kim’s desk. I actually know almost nothing about how this place works. That was Riley’s thing. Washing and softening clothes was Riley’s thing. Soothing skinned knees …

She made my life. She sheltered my life from all this … work.

I left Nat in the dining room. I know it’s only four in the afternoon, but I’m fucking bone tired. Maybe I’ll sleep a while.

I don’t.

***

July 8, 2010

Eight A.M. sharp. I dial the phone.

“I can’t.”

Dr. Kirsch didn’t say anything at first and I almost hung up. Then I heard his voice, compassionate but also tough. “John, I understand how rough this is. I understand it’s hard to take the first step. What say we try again tomorrow? Eight sharp.”

“Okay.”

Natalie took the kids for the day, a field trip away from grumpy daddy, no doubt. She’s good with kids – hers, mine, everyone else’s. She said they’re going to a petting zoo. Something about mother and baby animals together just doesn’t sit right with me and I told her that. She just smiled and kissed my cheek. The outing includes a matinee showing of “How to Train your Dragon” at the local theatre and McDonald’s for dinner. Now I’m alone all day.

Noon. Terry Thorne showed up at the door. I couldn’t look into his eyes. I’m not gonna lie, knowing how close he and Riley were, knowing he loved her and she loved him … even after all this, it still burns. Jealous? How’s that possible? I was never totally jealous before. I knew she chose me. She stayed with me, had kids with me. Loved me more. My grief is mine and he has no rights to it. Wait. That just doesn’t make sense, does it? Maybe I should feel bad for him. After all, he never got everything I got from her. And … he’s hurting. I just don’t know how to deal with his hurt.

No words. He led me like a lost puppy out of the apartment, down the steps and through the main Inn lobby. Man, we’re busy, there had to be twenty people milling around the lobby, waiting for seats in the dining room for lunch, chatting in the parlor. Irritating how life insists on going on whether you want it to or not. Don’t they know there’s no point?

We walked the paths around the property, miles and miles of paths, then we sat on a bench near the pond. The sun was almost setting when he stood and I followed him back. At my apartment door I finally looked at him. Really looked into his eyes. They were all watery.

“John, mate … I’m sorry. I used to be better at this kinda thing. Sorry.” He left.

Okay, maybe this was the first time the great and powerful Thorne ever had to console someone he actually knew. Someone he cared about. His own brother. Those few words put him in a whole new light. Terry Thorne was the third person I realized had lost Riley besides me. He became clumped in with Nathan and Michael. Another soul to worry about. Another fragile person. Another person hurting real bad.

Natalie called at nine. The kids had konked out in the car seats, sound asleep so she was taking them to her place for the night.

All night I paced the floor. I tried to eat but nothing stayed down. I smoked a whole pack of cigarettes someone left in the kitchen. Around three, I tried watching television but couldn’t stand the noise. When I turned the sound off, the images made me angry.

Pacing the living room I noticed a book Riles was reading, still sitting near the lamp. I couldn’t touch it. I tried, I really did. I pulled up the blanket she liked to wrap herself in to read. I wanted to smell it, to find her still twisted in the fibers. She wasn’t there. I looked in the medicine chest. Nothing. Aspirin. Baby Tylenol. I checked the liquor cabinet. Seems Natalie hid the hard stuff. I could have gone down to the pub but I was afraid someone would see me … sneaking into my own bar … drinking alone. Jesus, what was happening to me?

It didn’t stop there. I used to have a hunting rifle. Even though we got rid of it the day Nathan Terrence Biebe took his first steps, I still went on a rampage looking for it. Tearing clothes from the closets and drawers, I knew it wasn’t in the damn house but I wasn’t finished. I was looking for something. Something to stop the hurt.

I looked in the kitchen drawers, the pantry. How does a man kill himself? How does he slip away from his responsibilities? Leave more pain behind? I sobbed, sitting on the tile floor, holding Riley’s knife bag on my knees.

This man isn’t going to kill himself with her chef’s knife. This man wasn’t going to kill himself at all.

I dressed, got into my jeep and drove down into town. I parked and curled to the side. And I slept for the first time in a long time.

***

July 9, 2010

At exactly eight on the dot, there was a tap on my window. I stretched and nodded.

“John Biebe?” the man said.