Devastation
I was lost. Three months had passed and boxes still littered my tiny apartment. Collections of shattered memories, stacked upon another, a myriad of emotions, never to be whole again. The loss of my wife had destroyed everything I held dear. Neither my son nor I could walk through our house without seeing her, feeling her, aching for her. We had no other choice but to leave behind what should have been our forever. A 1930s English style house in the affluent Southwest Hills neighborhood of Portland, Oregon had been a dream come true when we signed the dotted line, keys in hand. After losing Vicky, that dream turned into a nightmare, one I could not escape in the waking world.
Denial had been my friend those three months in ways I never thought possible. This place would only be temporary, I kept telling myself. One day we would return to our wonderful house and there she’d be, waiting for us outside the garage like she always did. As I stood there, in my apartment, surrounded by boxes, I still believed with my whole heart she would just show up one day. No one would have been able to convince me she wasn’t going to find me somehow if I didn’t return to the house, that she wouldn’t stop looking for Devin and me. But that’s the worst part of denial, isn’t it? It just won’t let you move on. And if you’re lost, you have no sense of direction. With no sense of direction, there’s no such thing as moving on. A vicious circle to be in for sure.
You don’t plan for loss. Sure you can set up things like life insurance and contingency plans, but you don’t actually plan for someone to just be gone from the world the next day. Had she fallen ill, slowly fading away, maybe it would have been different. I don’t know, maybe it wouldn’t. Seems whether they pass over time or are ripped from your arms unexpectedly, their absence stings pretty damn bad. Part of me had wished losing Vicky had been a longer process. One in which Devin and I could have said goodbye, gotten to prepare ourselves and not left so many things unsaid.
April 17, 2023 will live with me forever. As much as I wish I could forget it, I just can’t. Devin’s high school had another baseball game in Beaverton and Vicky and I made plans to meet up at the game. She texted me, saying she was running a little late at work and would be there as soon as she could. By the fifth inning she still hadn’t shown up and I was getting a little worried. Devin had been looking for her every time he headed out onto the field. Every out he would scan the bleachers, his glances becoming more furtive with his shoulders tightening in anxiousness. When my phone finally rang I answered without even looking at the screen, expecting to hear her apologetic voice. Instead I heard a gravely serious voice.
“May I speak with Malachi Oates?”
“Speaking,” I mumbled, sensing something off.
“This is Sergeant Calhoun with the Oregon State Police. I’m calling to inform you there has been an automobile accident on Highway 26 involving your wife, Victoria Oates...”
“Is she okay?” I blurted, jumping to my feet. “Where is she? I’ll be there immediately.”
Looking back, I think I knew what he was going to say next and I was just trying to hold off the inevitable. If I didn’t let him say it, then it couldn’t have happened, but I think I knew better in that moment.
“I’m sorry Mr. Oates,” he paused for a moment before continuing with a slight crack in his voice, “she didn’t make it. A semi struck her vehicle from behind. There’s nothing left. She’s gone.”
I saw Devin then, looking at me on my phone, and I turned away from him. I was not going to let him see my face as they told me the love of my life, the love of his life, was dead. My mind raced as I asked Sergeant Calhoun where to go and what I needed to do next. I latched myself to his deeply serious voice, only that one crack showing as he walked me through my next steps.
She died on impact. There was no goodbye, no chance to rush to the hospital, nothing. My wife was just gone. How was I to tell my son he’d never again be able to lay on the couch, his head in Vicky’s lap as she ran her fingers through his hair while pushing the unkempt pieces behind his ear? No more late weekend mornings moaning to his mom’s wake-up calls to get out of bed and feed the dog. All these thoughts ran sprints through my head as Sergeant Calhoun continued to speak to me. I answered robotically, numb to everything.
As I hung up the phone I could see the other parents looking at me, concern written plainly on their faces. They knew something was wrong but I needed to steel myself before turning back towards the field.
“Are you okay?” Rachel Blevins, Scotty’s mom asked as I gathered myself.
“No,” I replied simply. “No I’m not.”
I didn’t feel like getting into it with anyone at the time. My focus was only on getting Devin out of there quickly before I lost it in front of everyone. Thankfully the inning had just ended and Devin was already heading into the dugout. I wasn’t holding it together as much as I had hoped as I made it nearer to the fence. The look on Devin’s face was an open book. He knew there was something wrong. The hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life was to look my son in the eye, telling him he’d never see his mom again. I never want to see my son fall apart like he did that day.
“Dad, what’s going on?” he asked for the upteenth time as he followed me through the parking lot. Finally he stopped and yelled, “Dad!”
I stopped there in the middle of the parking lot and turned back to him. The tears were starting to break free as I saw the fear in his eyes, the worry creased on every inch of his face. How was I going to do it? How do you pull off a bandaid that is keeping you alive?
“It’s mom,” I croaked.
“Where is she?” Devin asked loudly. “Is she okay?”
“No Dev, she’s not.” I had to do it, I had to rip it off. “There was an accident on the highway. Her car was hit from behind as she was stuck in traffic. She didn’t make it. I’m sorry son, she’s gone.”
The floodgates burst for the both of us as my words sunk in. Devin, standing there a moment prior with his gear in hand, didn’t even bother to let go of his bags. He simply collapsed to the ground, a guttural utterance of pure agony. I was there with him within a moment, my arms wrapped around him as we sobbed together, the pain of our hearts beating in unison. We weren’t alone for long however, as Devin’s teammates abandoned their game at his soul wrenching cry. Though we were on an island then, it was nice not to feel completely alone.
The day of her funeral was harder than the day of the accident. It was surreal, like it never truly happened and was just a bad dream you couldn’t wake from. Having all our friends and family come, giving condolences and saying so many wonderful things about Vicky, made the dream a reality. Standing there with Devin, rain pattering upon everything while her casket was lowered with my heart locked inside, that reality finally set in. Devin no longer had a mother. Neither of us would ever hear her laugh, snorting as she always did. No more late nights catching up on episodes of our favorite shows, her head slowly falling onto my shoulder as she fell asleep, unable to ever make it past eleven. Entire routines, thrown out the window. My wife was gone forever.
The next several weeks didn’t get any easier. I kept looking for her to be there, expecting her to place her hand on my neck and shoulders like she did when I was stressed. Devin would need help with homework and he would come into a room, begin asking where mom was, realizing before finishing his question there was only me to help him now. He also stopped sleeping in his own bed the day Vicky died, preferring instead to sleep in her spot, hugging one of her pillows to breathe in her scent all night. I did the same thing with her other pillow. Also, I was happy not being alone at night as well.
I’ve never been much of a cryer. Not even at sixteen when my first dog was put down. Neither movies nor television shows had any effect upon me. Hell, I didn’t even cry the day Devin was born even though it was one the happiest moments of my life. Vicky’s and my wedding day, that was the most I remember ever crying. I stood, waiting at the altar for her to make her appearance and start her trek down the aisle.
The Old Laurelhurst Church had always been Vicky’s dream venue and when it was available on the date we wanted, we snagged it. Two columns of darkly stained wooden pews lined the aisle, elaborately decorated with Vicky’s favorite flowers, carnations. Bright sunlight shone through the stained glass windows of the eastern wall, leaving magical beams of light angling inward. Three parallel chord trusses, matching the finish of the pews, supported the immaculate vaulted ceiling, with six chandeliers hanging between them. The ambiance that day was perfect.
The moment I saw her, all of that went out the window. I had eyes only for her. In the whitest dress I had ever seen, a light veil only partially obscuring her smile, I could only grin like a fool. Before I knew what was happening, a tear began its slow journey down a cheek. Then a second followed. By the time she got to me it felt like a mini-waterfall was covering my face. Wiping the tears away we laughed together as we took one another’s hands. Until the day after the funeral that was the most tears I had ever shed in a single instance.
The morning after the funeral, I woke from a dream about Vicky. All my dreams were of her. I was weeping as I woke, my pillow and sheets drenched in tears and my heart still clinging to the last vestige of her smile. The tears didn’t stop simply because I was awake, they continued even after I had sat up, clawing at my chest, trying to dig out the heart that was grieving so.
So there I stood, three months removed from a gaping wound that tore both my son and myself apart, and the first sign of light finally showed itself. Other than work and school, Devin and I didn’t venture out much. Not even to get groceries anymore, preferring instead to have them delivered at our doorstep. We didn’t want the world to see us suffer, nor did we want to see everyone else’s happiness. That changed one day, late in July.
“Dad?” Devin said as he leaned against me. “Can we go out for breakfast this morning?”
“Sure buddy. Where you wanna go?” I honestly didn’t want to. I also didn’t want to tell him no, but his response changed all that.
He looked down for a moment, almost like he was afraid to answer. I squeezed his shoulder to reassure him, doing my best to support him in every moment possible.
“Cornerstone?” he finally asked, looking up at me once again. His eyes were watering and I finally understood.
“You got it. Go get dressed and we’ll head out.”
Shooting his first, though brief, smile in months, Devin darted into his room to get ready. I was surprised, yet not. The New Deal Cafe had been Vicky’s favorite breakfast nook and as a family we made certain to visit bi-weekly. I wasn’t certain how this was going to go, but considering the speed at which Devin ran out the door telling me to come on, I was mildly optimistic.
