In time, my dad began to act as if he despised me; if I asked if he needed help doing his budget, he accused me of trying to steal from him. If I cleaned up the house, he accused me of thinking he was not only helpless but a slob. If I dropped our cocker spaniel off at the house while I worked--something Cat and I had been doing since we got her--he accused me of taking advantage of him. When Cat and I visited, there were many evenings where he refused to talk to me at all; instead, he'd joke and laugh with my wife in the kitchen while I sat alone in the living room. This dynamic only grew worse over time.
I knew he didn't hate me, that he was hurting inside, struggling even more than we kids were. I knew that his anger and pain had to go somewhere, and that deep down he loved me despite the words he said and the way he'd begun to treat me. Yet even if I understood what was going on, I nonetheless sought comfort in Cathy's arms, wondering aloud what I'd done to deserve his hostility.
My brother and I did our best to continue our relationship with each other and our independent lives. Micah moved steadily forward in his real estate career; and my small business--I manufactured orthopedic wrist braces, primarily for carpal tunnel syndrome--was slowly getting off the ground. Like most young people, I thought I knew far more than I actually did about running a business, and soon accumulated credit card debts that greatly exceeded our combined annual income. Despite the fact that I had been working day and night for months, it was touch and go as to whether Cat and I could meet our obligations, and we wondered how we'd ever stay afloat. In our first year of marriage, we'd been tested in every way; Cat and I were lucky that it only served to bring us closer together.
In the hardest moments--when I wondered how I'd be able to pay the rent or put food on the table--I turned to Micah. He would treat me to pizza and beer, and we'd talk. In the end, we decided to sell the two rental houses we'd purchased earlier. The profit on both was enough for Cat and me to climb out of debt, and I gradually began to turn the corner in making my small company profitable. However, I still had to wait tables and my wife had to work as well, simply to make ends meet.
Micah, meanwhile, continued to make life seem easy. He dated, had fun on the weekends, and excelled at his job. When Cathy and I went out in the evenings with him, we would always wonder who he'd bring along this time. Most of the women barely knew him, yet they seemed as enamored of him as I was with Cathy. Yet, if he was doing well on the surface, he was struggling beneath the facade, weighed down by our dad. Dad was still having a hard time, and Micah had assumed the mantle of leadership in our family. Because dad talked to him more than to either Dana or me, Micah alone seemed to understand the depth of my father's grief. One evening in the summer of 1990, when Micah and I were out together, I couldn't help but notice that he seemed especially preoccupied.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"I'm worried about dad."
Though I was worried, too, I knew my reasons were different from his. With me, dad acted irrationally; with Micah, he seemed completely rational. Neither seemed normal.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because he's not getting over mom. It's been almost nine months, but he still cries himself to sleep at night. And he's been getting edgier, too."
I didn't know what to say.
"And then, you know he's still wearing black, but it's worse now. He got rid of his entire wardrobe and replaced it, so that everything he owns now is black. And he never leaves the house anymore, except to go to work. I know he misses mom, but we all do. And mom would want him to be happy, even without her. She'd want him to be strong."
"What do you think we should do?"
"I don't know."
"Do you want Cathy and me to try to talk to him?"
Though I knew he wouldn't listen to me, he was becoming more dependent on my wife's company.
"It won't do any good. I've tried. I've invited him over, but he never comes. And he doesn't want to go anywhere when I visit him. Does he ever go over to see you and Cat at your apartment?"
"No."
Micah shook his head. "He shouldn't close himself off from the world. That's only going to make it worse. It's only going to make him feel more alone."
"Do you tell him that?"
"All the time."
"What does he say?"
"He says he's doing fine."
As the anniversary of my mom's death approached, my dad slowly began emerging from the self-imposed shell he'd constructed around himself. Though he still wore black, Micah, Dana, and I had talked him into joining us in learning country dancing, and the evenings out seemed to revive him. Slowly but surely, he became more like his old self; even with me, he no longer seemed nearly as bitter.
Somehow, it seemed, we'd survived the first year without our mother.
Later that autumn, Cathy and I learned that she was pregnant, and like all anxious parents-to-be, we began making preparations for the baby while we awaited the moment we could first see our baby on the ultrasound.
Cathy threw herself into the pregnancy. She watched everything she ate, exercised, and learned to live with morning sickness before she went to work. Her skin began to take on the flushed glow of an expectant mother. We called our friends and family; everyone, including my dad, was thrilled with the news. In fact, dad was happier than we'd seen him in a long, long time.
When Cat was twelve weeks along, we visited the medical clinic for the ultrasound. In the room, I held Cat's hand as the technician applied the gel and ran the scope over my wife's belly.
"There it is," the technician said quickly, and both Cathy and I stared at the screen in wonder.
The image was tiny, of course, and looked nothing like a baby. A peanut, maybe, but not a baby. Still, it was our first glance, and Cathy squeezed my hand and smiled.
The nurse continued to move the scope, trying to get a better picture; within a few moments, both Cathy and I saw the technician frown.
"What is it?" Cathy asked.
"I'm not sure yet," the technician answered. She forced a smile. "Could you excuse me for a moment?" The technician got up and left the room.
We didn't know what to make of it; we had no idea whether this was normal or unexpected. A couple of minutes later, the doctor came in.
"Is anything wrong?" Cathy asked.
"Let me take a look," the doctor said. For a moment, as the technician began working the scope, we watched them both staring at the screen. The technician pointed and whispered something to the doctor. He whispered something back. Neither would answer our questions; in time, the technician rose and left the room. The doctor looked serious.
"Something's wrong, isn't it?" Cathy asked.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But we can't find a heartbeat."
Cat burst into tears; eventually, I led her from the office. Our baby had died, just as my mother had, for no apparent reason at all. A few days later, Cat had a D&C. In the wheelchair after the procedure, all she could do was wipe her tears; there was nothing I could say to ease her pain.
Later, in Micah's arms, I cried as well.
Cat and I spent the next few months worrying about the possibility of becoming parents. We didn't know how long it would take for her to get pregnant again, nor did we know whether she could carry a baby to term. We'd been told that miscarriages were common; everyone seemed to know someone who'd had one and tried to console us with the thought that everything would be fine in the long run. We knew they meant well, we knew what they were saying was true. But we also were well acquainted with the other kind of story, the kind where things didn't work out, and to Cat, the thought of never becoming a mother was unbearable. Another hard Christmas came and went, and on my birthday, when I turned twenty-five, my sister called to sing me "Happy Birthday." When she asked me what I wanted, I could think of only one thing to say.
Our prayers were answered again in late January 1991, but we kept the news to ourselves this time. We didn't want a repeat of what had happened before, but in April we learned the baby w
as developing normally and finally shared the good news. Cathy's belly grew over the summer, and she spent hours looking through baby-name books and reading What to Expect When You're Expecting.
Yet the stresses of life seemed to keep coming, one after the other, without relief. Despite working two jobs--three if you count Cat's job--we were still struggling financially, unable to get ahead. Cat had health insurance through her employer, one that covered maternity, but in early summer, while she was five months along, she was laid off. When our cocker spaniel puppy reached twenty pounds, we were evicted from our apartment and had to find a new place to live. Our one car broke down completely, and the only car we could afford as a replacement was thirteen years old and had a hundred thousand miles on the odometer. The IRS decided to audit both my business and my personal tax returns concerning the previous three years; though I would eventually be cleared completely, the stress of working two jobs while collecting the necessary documents--they wanted receipts for everything--added to an already difficult summer.
Somehow I was able to squeeze in time to write a book with Billy Mills, entitled Wokini. Though it would end up being the first work I'd ever publish, I was under no illusions that it had to do with the quality of my writing. Rather, its merit derived from who Billy was.
In September, we rushed to the hospital when labor pains began. It was a fast labor; Cat dilated quickly, and was nearly ready to deliver by the time we reached the hospital. Cat was in back labor--the baby was facing the wrong way--and in immense pain. There was a mad scramble as the room began to be readied, but moments after the doctor arrived, the baby's heart suddenly slowed.
By the looks on the doctor's and nurse's faces, I knew it was serious. There was a chance we would lose another baby.
All at once, the world seemed to shrink; all I could think about was Cat and the baby she carried inside her. There is a panic that comes in moments like those, one that squeezes the heart with a feeling of utter helplessness. I barely remember the heated rush of activity as the doctor swung into action; I stood off to the side, praying as I'd never prayed before.
The doctor was good, and a moment later I was a father. But the baby's skin was gray, and for the longest moment, he made no sound at all. Later, we'd learn that he was anemic and that he'd bled back through the umbilical cord. But at the time, I simply wanted to hear the cry of life.
And then, after what seemed like forever, I finally did.
Within a few minutes--minutes that seem far longer when it's actually happening--the doctor assured us our son would be fine, and for the first time I relaxed enough to realize that we'd actually become parents. Cat held the baby against her. We named him Miles Andrew, and the first person I called was Micah.
"I'm a father!" I screamed into the receiver. "I have a son!"
Micah whooped on the other end. "Congratulations, Daddy! How's mama doing?"
"She's doing great--and thankfully the baby is, too. But you've got to get down here! You've got to see this little guy! He's so cute!"
He laughed again. "I'm on my way, little brother. I'm on my way."
He was the first one to reach the hospital, and after taking one look at Miles, he turned to me.
"Why, he looks just like me."
I slapped him on the back. "You should only be so lucky. You might be handsome, but you don't hold a candle to this guy!"
Despite the new life of fatherhood I was suddenly leading, my brother and I continued to make time to be together. For a short while, he helped me with my orthopedic business, but by the end of the year I eventually decided to give it up. With a new child at home, I needed something more stable, and I took a job as a pharmaceutical representative with Lederle Labs in early 1992. It was the first time in my life in which I'd officially be earning above minimum wage. I was twenty-six years old.
But if the baby--and my radically transformed life--was enough to help me keep from dwelling on mom, my dad continued to experience intense periods of ups and downs. The good mood he'd had over the summer was replaced with a funk, then replaced again with optimism. It had reached the point where we didn't know what to expect when we went to see him, and both Micah and I wondered aloud whether he was manic-depressive.
My sister, too, seemed to be having a rough time, struggling to find herself as many young adults do. Never a great student, she dropped out of college to work full-time, then proceeded to quit her job a couple of weeks later. From there, she wandered from one job to the next, working as a cocktail waitress, an aerobics instructor, a receptionist at a tanning salon. She and Micah got separate apartments again, and my dad helped her with the rent. Physically, she was changing as well. By her early twenties, she'd become something of a beauty. She was quite popular with the opposite sex all of a sudden, but like Micah, she seemed to move quickly from one relationship to the next.
"What is it with you two?" I asked Micah one night.
"What do you mean?"
"You and Dana. Can't either of you date anyone for longer than a month?"
"I dated Juli and Cindy for years."
"Half the time you say you were dating them, you were actually broken up, and you were dating other people. And then you ended it with both of them."
He smiled. "Not everyone wants to be married at twenty-three, Nick."
"I didn't plan to marry that early. It's just that I met Cathy."
"You didn't have to marry her right away."
"Yes I did. Do you know what she said to me when she decided to move to California? While I was picking her up at the airport?"
He shook his head.
"When I met her at the airport, I started telling her all this really sweet stuff--you know, how much I loved her, how glad I was that she'd moved out here, how much I appreciated her courage. Anyway, she let me finish before she finally smiled.
"'I love you, too, Nick. And I'm glad I came. But let's get one thing straight. As much as I love you, I'm not going to abandon my family for a relationship that might be only temporary.' So what does that mean? I asked her, and she patted my chest. 'You've got six months to propose, or I'm going back home.'"
Micah's eyes widened. "She said that?"
"Yep."
He laughed. "I love that girl. She doesn't take guff from anyone, does she?"
"Nope."
"You did the right thing, Nick. You couldn't have married anyone better."
"I know. But as I was saying earlier--what's with you?"
"It's simple, Nick," he said. "I haven't met my Cathy yet. But when I do, I'll marry her and settle down."
By 1992, three years after my mom had died, each of us had somehow found a way to move on. I had a family and a new career; Dana had a new boyfriend and was back in college. Micah continued to date and enjoy one exciting weekend after the next. Though dad was still wearing black, the ups and downs were getting less frequent, and he'd even begun to think about dating again. Our family life, as much as could be expected, was gradually regaining some semblance of normalcy.
In October, Cathy and I eventually came to the conclusion that it would be best if we moved away. While we loved California, practicalities precluded us from being able to create the kind of family life we wanted for our son. My salary, while decent, wasn't enough to enable us to live in the kind of neighborhood Cathy wanted for Miles. Nor, due to rapidly escalating housing costs, could we foresee a change in the future.
What Cat and I wanted, I suppose, was the chance to live the American dream. We dreamed of having a house we could call our own, a decent-size yard for the kids, a barbecue grill in the backyard. Just the basics, but the basics were out of reach, and after a series of long discussions with Cat, I finally talked to my boss about applying for a transfer to a territory in the southeast. My boss wasn't thrilled by my request; I'd only been with the company for eight months, had only recently completed all my training, and was doing well in my territory. He didn't want to go through the process of hiring someone new, since there was alway
s a risk the new employee wouldn't work out. And, of course, the territory would suffer while a new employee was being trained.
That night, I called Micah.
"Micah," I said, "do you want a job selling pharmaceuticals?"
My proposal made perfect sense to me. We'd run together, waited tables together, owned houses together, and he'd been part of the small company I'd started as well. We even looked somewhat alike.
For a moment, Micah was taken aback. Though he'd done well in real estate, it was strictly commission work, and was dominated by the large brokerage houses. Because he was with a smaller firm, finding new listings required endless hustle, and he'd grown tired of the way his firm dragged out paying him what he was owed.
"What do you mean?" he finally asked.
"If I get the transfer, I'll introduce you to my boss, you can interview with him, and I bet he'll hire you."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
He thought about it overnight and called me the next morning.
"Nick," he said. "I think I want to be a pharmaceutical rep."
And lo and behold, after I received a new territory centered in New Bern, North Carolina, my brother was hired, took over my old territory in Sacramento, and I handed him the keys to my company car.
Meanwhile, Cat and I began the process of getting ready for a new life on the other side of the country.
In early November, less than a week after Micah accepted the job, I was at home and beginning the slow process of packing up our things when I got a frantic call from my father.
"You've got to get to the hospital right now," my father suddenly said. He was breathless and scattered, a reprise of that fateful call three years ago. "She's at Methodist. Do you know where that is? Bob just brought her in a couple of minutes ago."
Bob, I knew, was Dana's boyfriend, but my dad's garbled message didn't make sense.
"Who? Are you talking about Dana? Is she okay?"
"Dana . . . she's in the hospital . . ."