March 29
Dear Diary:
The day before yesterday I think my entry was about the crack in the new countertop and how annoyed I am about it. And I think I mentioned that I lost 2 pounds. Did I say that Mom called to tell me she and Dad are coming for a week in June? Did I forget to tell you that the cat threw up in Mike’s shoe again? I rinsed it out and put it back in the closet in the hope that she’ll use it again next time she’s mad at me. It’s those stupid wingtip shoes that Mike’s clueless a-hole father gave him that fit neither his feet nor his personality. So it’s OK if Soffie throws up in them. Symbolic somehow. Did I mention that little Corky next door came by again to see if Mike could come out and play? As he’s just 4, he doesn’t understand that, “Mike’s in Iraq” means Mike is really gone.
Next time he comes to play, I don’t know how I’ll explain that Mike really is gone now. Really. Two guys came by in uniforms this morning to tell me he’s dead. They were in a black car. They said he was in a convoy outside Falujah – I wonder if that’s how you spell that? There was a bomb and guys with guns and a little girl. The two guys in the black car – damn, what were their names? – said Mike jumped off his vehicle when the bomb went off and the shooting started and ran to grab the little girl. He picked up the kid and threw her under a humvee. Then he got shot and died.
I wonder what the little girl’s name was. I should have asked the guys in the black car.
I called his sister. I called my sister. I called his brother. I called Mom and Daddy. They all cried. I didn’t cry. Carrie said she and Mike’s brother would tell the a-hole before they come over, so I don’t have to talk to him. I guess that means I have to see him though. Do widows have rules they have to follow about their a-hole fathers-in-law? Mom and Dad are on their way with Sarah, and should arrive in a few hours. Sarah said she won’t bring the kids, but Rick will come tomorrow as soon as he gets them settled with his mother. They all kept telling me how much they love me and how brave I’m being. Little do they know.
They’ll help with the a-hole, though. Daddy will know what to do to keep my head from exploding. I better change the sheets in the guest room. The last time they were used was when Mike’s buddy, Butch came to visit just before they were deployed. I used to laugh until I cried when Butch imitated Major Squitieri with the heavy New Jersey accent and Mike would pretend to be shavetail Lieutenant Butch Morris begging the major to forgive him for shooting his jeep. Mike is such a wonderful mimic. Was. Mike was.
I better call Butch. Or will he already know? They are in the same unit. Were. They were in the same unit. Maybe Butch is dead too. The guys in the black car didn’t say. I won’t call Butch yet. Not until I stop wishing it was him and not Mike that died for the little girl with no name.
I have to figure out a no-religion ceremony for his memorial. That’ll piss off the a-hole, but it’s what Mike wants. Wanted. Would have wanted. I better tell someone he needs to be cremated. Mike, not the a-hole. Although I wish …
The a-hole will want a bunch of praying and crap. I’ll have to tell him if he wants to pray he’ll have to do it outside with the smokers. I can see him out there talking to god about his dead son that he hasn’t spoken to in 2 years, while the poor, innocent smokers move away from him, looking uneasy. I’d like his god to tell me why Mike is dead and the a-hole isn’t. Mike imitates his religious diatribes so perfectly, even his mother laughs. Imitated. Mike imitated. And his Mom can’t laugh any more because she died about 3 years after the a-hole divorced her. I guess that’s good because this would kill her. But I miss her.
I have to buy some food for Mom and Dad and Sarah. I need food for Soffie too. If Mike were here he’d say, “Yeah, something for her to throw up.” Then I’d laugh and smack him on the arm and tell him I like the cat better than him. That’s not true, though.
Will they give me a flag even if there isn’t a grave? Do I have to wear black to his memorial service? He wouldn’t like that. He loves to see me in yellow, or red. Loved.
I guess I’d better get moving. I better make a to-do list. If Mike were here, he’d laugh at my list. But he’s not here. He’ll never be here again. Maybe I could put that first on my list of things that will never happen again:
1. Mike will never laugh at my lists.
2. Mike will never see me in yellow.
3. Mike will never make fun of the cat.
4. Mike will never put his arms around me and make the world OK.
It’ll be a long list.
When the guys in the black car finished telling me Mike was dead, and bringing me a glass of water and making me sit down, they asked me if they could call anyone for me. I said, “Yes, would you call Mike please and tell him I can’t handle this without him.”
So, Diary, do you think it would work if, at the end of my to-do list, as the very last thing to do, I wrote:
“I want to die too”?
Diana
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