I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling fan for a bit. I knew it was early—it’s always early when I wake up like this. I could see dawn creeping up behind the blackout shades in my room.
The day’s tasks were flooding through my mind, each “To-Do” fighting for some mental attention. But I just kept on staring at the fan blades. Sometimes, I’d try to focus on a single blade and follow it around counter-clockwise until my eyes gave up and the blades become a blur again.
I sigh. One of those “all of the life in me leaves” kind of exhales. And so begins another round of “Memory Lane: The Despair Edition.” As we watch the summer fade to fall, it is marked by the Labor Day holiday: a weekend that used to mean so much to us as it was the last gala at the beach house. Family and friends would gather, we would cook off all the leftovers and food that had accumulated from the previous weeks and empty the freezer for when we shut the house down in just a few weeks.
Well, we had the family over alright, and we were at the beach house. The only problem was David and I were planning a funeral. Our mother’s funeral. There was food, to be certain. I couldn’t eat. I wouldn’t eat. I’d just returned on an emergency flight back from Panama. David needed me, and I needed David. We were pulling together the pieces and sorting out the “what next.”
I tried to keep the calm-face on. I was shattered inside. And if I was shattered, David was a trillion pieces of broken. Labor Day, the official start of the worst 60 days of my life:
I walked out of the jungle having spent some time on the beach earlier that day, playing in the water with my friends and their kid. The black truck pulls up, and one of the guys is like, “We need to get you to a phone right now. The Embassy is looking for you, something has happened.”
Right out of a spy novel. Only this is my real life. We ramble down a dirt road to a makeshift office. I pick up the phone and dial the number. A bunch of relays are switched, and the IP rerouting gets me through to the embassy. The guy on the phone patches yet another set of relays, and I hear my brother’s voice.
Something is very, VERY wrong. I know before he even tells me. “Something’s happened to Mommy.” I can tell he has been crying. “Mom’s dead, Tim. Mom’s dead.” “Okay, breathe,” I tell myself. I remember staring out the backdoor into the backyards of “Nowhereville, Panama.”
I’ve got to get out of here.
“David,” I reply. “I love you, man. I’m coming home. I’m coming home. I need to hang up now and find a way out of here.” I have so many questions, but now is not the time to ask—now is the time to act. I immediately call American Express and explain the situation. I’m on the next flight out of Panama City in the morning. Now, I need to get several hundred miles back to Panama City.
A helicopter just left from the beach and can’t turn around. We look into a Piper or Cessna, but something about flying over the jungle in the middle of the night in a foreign country seems sketchy at best.
All resources exhausted, we find a driver and a pick-up to begin the arduous drive back. The driver doesn’t speak English. My Spanish is okay, but I don’t feel like talking. I filled a water bottle with vodka and filled a bag of ice and put them at my feet. I’ve got at least six hours to myself, and quite frankly, numbness is the only thing I am looking for right now.
A while earlier, I setup a Skype and called the house. The family filled me on the details they knew to that point. I replay the events as they have told them to me. David’s voice is repeating itself over and over in my mind.
Why am I not home? Why did I go on this stupid trip? Why didn’t I just stay home and go to the beach? What would have I done differently? Stupid questions, really. Coulda. Woulda. Shoulda.
The next 24 hours, I am in full fast-forward. Truck to hotel room. Call Jason on Skype. Cry my eyes out, don’t sleep, splash water on my face. Hop into a cab to the airport. Flight is just more time to think. I am writing furiously in my books to get all my thoughts down before we touch down.
Some punk-ass customs kid is saying something to me about being in Panama for all of a day. I snap out of it and say something entirely rude and walk out. He doesn’t bother to follow me.
Tom’s out front in the car, getting ready to bring me back. I’ve been awake for over 36 hours now.
David calls my cell. He is at the Orange house. His voice is more stable. I tell him I will be there in a couple hours. I call Jackie, my ex-wife… I need to speak to her, not sure why but just know I do. I explain as best I can what I’ve been told has happened.
We arrive in Orange. There are police cars in the driveway. I get out and light a cigarette. I’ve smoked more than a pack already today.
There’s my brother. I see the pain in his eyes. They would never be the same…
Labor Day. The start of the worst 60 days of my life for years to come. September 5th, 2009, October 15th, 2011, December 25th, January 1st, January 25th, and February 22nd. There isn’t a month that passes from Labor to March in which I am not bombarded with the reminder of all that has been lost.
I labor all right… at least they got that part right.
