Stay Safe: Chapter Twenty-Four
What follows is a chapter from "Stay Safe: Life After Loss," a book that I wrote following the death of my brother, Robert James Reeves. Rob, only 14-months younger than me and 32 years old at the time of his death, was a Navy SEAL on the prestigious SEAL Team 6. On August 6, 2011, while on a mission in Afghanistan, he and too many of his teammates and other servicemen, lost their lives when their helicopter was shot down by enemy fire. It was the single largest loss of American life in the Afghan war. And because of the high profile nature of this event–being on the cusp of the Bin Laden mission and the number of those lost–my dad and I were part of many, many memorials and events, and the recipients of much outreach, and the point of contact for all those wanting to do something in Rob’s memory. This book chronicles the first month after his death. I am releasing a chapter a day starting August 5th as we mark the fourth anniversary of life without him.
It had been two weeks since Rob died. I drove back to Shreveport again that day, to the home where Rob and I grew up. It was another long day of driving and arriving home to a kitchen table crowded by people. There was no time to say a personal hello to Dad, or to apologize for my outburst from the day before.When I walked in the house, no one moved. It was like we all lived together and they were greeting me as I came in from a day’s work. No one sitting at the table lived at that house except Dad.I was dressed casually in a black cotton jumper, strapless, with wedges and a wide belt. I had planned to change into something a little dressier for the evening; there was a "celebration of life" program for Jonas in Shreveport. I have always been a careful dresser, believing that a my clothes are the first introduction to who I am and my personality. Clothes can tell people how you want them to treat you. What you have to say and how you act are important, but clothes can tell a story without your ever speaking. Crista was at the house and dressed much more casually than I was planning to dress. She had talked to Jonas’s family and knew about the tone for the evening a bit better than I did; it would kept casual. I kept my outfit on, changed into heels and layered on some jewelry. I knew that people would be looking at me even though this event wasn’t about me or Rob. Rob and I were connected to Jonas and people would notice me. I wanted say the right thing even though I wasn’t speaking. My attire could do that for me.Though Jonas’s family no longer lived in Shreveport, his mom, dad and sister had all come in for Rob’s service. They sat with us in our family section of the church and grieved for our loss while they were also grieving the loss of their son. They were so kind and insisted that Rob’s service was about Rob and not Jonas. The event this Saturday night was about Jonas. Dad and I would attend to support them, like they attended the week before to support us.S. was still in town and was at the house. He changed into his uniform and he, Dad and I rode together to the celebration. I saw many familiar faces, some of which I had seen last week at Rob’s service but didn’t get to talk, others that I hadn’t yet seen, or rather hadn’t remembered seeing. I have felt like I had been walking through my own personal historical timeline the past couple of weeks. I felt like people were staring at me as I walked through the room with whispers of “that’s Rob’s sister.” This night was supposed to be about Jonas, but I still felt on display. I was cognizant of the eyes on me.They had so many people get up and tell Jonas stories. It was good to hear that he never changed from high school. The stories were tall, exaggerated and magnanimous. Just like Jonas. His wife seemed like a sweet person.There was an open bar; we were in Louisiana, after all. And we were all drinking. But Crista imbibed more than the rest of our group. It had been a stressful couple of weeks and she was feeling the pressure. Jonas was her high school boyfriend, though that was a water long under an old bridge. She needed the release of a good drunk, though, I think. Mindy, Lori and I managed to maneuver her out of there before an overly embarrassing moment, though our new police lieutenant friend did practically carry her to the car.We went to dinner at an old Shreveport establishment. Me, three couples and Crista. Crista’s husband stayed home with her two boys. So, I was the lone single person left of my high school friends. I wondered if they felt sorry for me or envied me. Probably a little bit of both. I am comfortable sitting alone, making decisions that only effect me and knowing I never have to explain or apologize for anything. That is what I tell myself, anyway. But I was still reeling from R.’s text dump, though all my friends were obeying my orders to not ask about him or talk about him to me. We ate rich food, drank too much wine and laughed over dessert. I took my shoes off under the table and walked out barefoot and a little drunk.I had fun. I felt guilty about it, but I had fun. I realized more and more as each day passed that I appreciated the relationships that I have with friends more and more. It was nice to have a gathering with my old, good friends. It was a good time and felt like old times. It sucked that the reason we came together was for tragedy. But I liked the comfort of these old friendships and it made me sad that we’d grown apart to the point where we saw each other only at holidays, weddings and now, funerals.
© 2015 Emily Reeves Dean and msadverthinker.com. All Rights Reserved.