Find a Way to My Heart

She was only two roads away, so she arrived very quickly. I could see the look of concern on her face as she bustled in. I was going to get very familiar with that look over the next few days and weeks.

"Go," she said, succinctly.

I had already got my jacket, had informed the kids that Mrs. Broad was around, and I had to zip off the airport. I wasn't about to drop anything on the kids till I knew for sure, so I did my best to keep it light.

"Don't let them see any news, okay? Bed by nine. Don't let Leah browbeat you."

"I got it," she said, sympathetically. "Go, find out what is happening. Get details. I have my cell. Call me when you get a moment."

I sped off, glad for once that I owned a nice BMW 3m convertible. It made short work of the drive, and I wasn't really worrying about speed limits that night.

When I got to the airport, it was a madhouse. Lines of traffic, cops everywhere, helicopters overhead, film crews everywhere. Cops were stopping people coming in and asking them questions; why, I have no idea. I was truthful about why I was there, and I was waved into short-term parking, the closest parking to the terminal. I didn't even think about the cost, I just parked and ran into the main terminal. Dallas -- Fort Worth only has five terminals: A through E, they are all semi-circles, and since it's a hub for American Airlines, they have desks in all of the terminals. I just ran into the one closest to where I parked, Terminal E. It took me a moment to find someone wearing their uniform, and when I explained who I was, the look of sympathy and disguised horror was terrifying. Exactly as I'd seen on Mrs. Broads face earlier.

That's when I started to learn things about disaster management for Airlines. Like, for a start, they have it. They have procedures for this, things the employees must do. Never admit culpability, for a start. Offer sympathy, but never offer absolute statements. I was taken to a room in Terminal B that was full of about another thirty to forty people, all of whom looked up expectantly when the door opened and I was ushered inside.

I was told "Wait here, there will be someone by very soon with whatever information they have to give us."

The other people, seeing I was just another relative, went back to their phones and talking among themselves. There was a buffet set up against one wall, with coffee, and I went over to get a cup.

Everyone was intent on their information devices, as you would be. As I got coffee, people talked to me to ask if I had any more current information. I explained I'd just got there, and they filled me in on the scuttlebutt that was known. Well, "known," is a strong word. "Rumored," was closer to the truth.

Apparently, the flight was at least half full. American had a full roster of people on the plane and would make that available when they had more concrete information on who might have survived, if any. There had been a message from the pilots before communication had ceased, very soon after the first mayday had been issued. The plane had gone straight down. Terrorism was not ruled out, but not the first suspicion at the time. Aliens had been seen in the area, that last one was from a wide-eyed woman who obviously had way too much coffee.

I sat, staring at my own phone. I was lucky, in that Mrs. Broad had the presence of mind to stuff an extra battery in my pocket before I had rushed out. I would never have thought of it. Thankfully I had the correct charging cable in the car.

Others were wandering the room, asking if anyone had a charger because their phones or iPads were dead. Amazingly, at some point, the airlines had the foresight to make a bunch available, brought in by a harassed looking employee who didn't stay.

Everyone in the room was in some degree of shock. I could see it. Crying, head shaking, imploring of the almighty as to why, cursing, threatening dire repercussions on the airline, every kind of behavior you could imagine. I was just numb, waiting for the confirmation of the inevitable.

I had the Direct TV app on my phone, a holdover from when we'd gone on vacation and Auggie just HAD to see "her" Dolphins play. We had the NFL Season Pass thing, and for some reason, Auggie was a massive fan of the Dolphins, even though she was born and bred in Texas. I still had the app, and I discovered I could stream live TV on it. I alternated between CNN and our local stations, to see who had the most up to date information, which wasn't much more than we already knew.

I got two calls, one from Mrs. Broad, letting me know the kids were asleep, and asking how I was doing, was there any news? The other was from Auggie's Boss, John Pickford, head of production at KEXB. To be honest, I was surprised it took him that long. He knew what flight Auggie was on; it was his assistant who had booked it. He worked for a damn news station, for Christ sake. All right, it was a financial news station, but it was a news station nonetheless. They had the tickers, or access to AP news, or whatever the method for instant news was these days. He should have known earlier than I did.

He was non-committal, asking if I knew anything, promising to keep in touch. I couldn't decide if that was because of commitment to their employee, or because the potential human-interest story of them losing one of their own would bring Pulitzer prize images dancing in front of his eyes. I didn't have that much respect for John Pickford; too much attachment to what the story could do for them, rather than what the story actually was. Either way, if they knew anything, they'd get in touch with me. I promised the reverse, a promise that if I remembered to keep, well, great. If I didn't, I wasn't going to lose any sleep over it.

It took over seven hours until someone from the airlines showed up. Can you imagine that job? Going into a room of frightened and stressed relatives to tell them their loved ones didn't survive a plane crash? They don't do it alone. They show up en-mass to do it. Safety in numbers, all in the name of "grief counseling." They even have religious figures with them, just to be sure.

They have this down to an art. I learned a lot about how Airlines prepare for this kind of situation over the next couple of months, but I'll get to that in a bit.

When they made the announcement, well, I'm sure you can imagine the reaction. Crying, upset people, stoic visages, people just shutting down, gently rocking themselves. The counselor crew who accompanied the announcer distributed themselves through the group, who'd grown to over eighty people at that point.

They handed out lists of the manifest, so you could find the name, and they could then cross them off. That wasn't sufficient for actual death certificates to be issued. I found out later there had to be more... personal identification. In Auggie's case, it was her rings and dental records. Her body was too destroyed to make identification any other way. That came much later.

I just wanted to get out of there. I was still numb as the counselor took my details after I had acknowledged Auggie's name among the people on the plane, and had shown my driver's license to prove I was her husband. She was gone. Final confirmation. Even though the airline couldn't say for sure, we'd all seen the footage of the wreckage on CNN, they now had crews on site, and we'd seen what little there was of the plane left. No one was surviving that.

I had to get home to the girls. I had to be there in the morning to get them off to school. Mrs. Broad couldn't be asked to do that. It would mean too many unanswerable questions from the girls.

That meant... I had to tell them. How do you do that? How do you tell two young girls their mother is never coming home? What's the protocol for that? I was willing to bet the airline didn't have an answer for that.

Either way, I had to get out of there. As I look back on it, I know I should never have driven home. I was deep in shock. I just... had to leave. To take care of the kids. I was a single dad now. Who was their pediatrician? I honestly had no clue; Auggie dealt with all that. I took the kids to their after-school activities, and Auggie dealt with the medical and personal stuff that girls need. That was our division of labor.

As I said, it's stupid the things you worry about in those situations, but that's what occurs to you, because you haven't even begun to process the real horror of the situation yet.

When that does happen, it's... well, I have no words. You start thinking about what their last moments must have been like, on a plane plunging towards the ground, with no control over anything. How terrified they must have been before their life was snuffed out with such violence.

The airline sent us out counselors, to actually address this stuff. They come in, and they make themselves available to answer questions, and believe me, they are prepared. Some of the shit they get asked, hell, some of the shit WE asked.

I got home at three AM, and found Mrs. Broad asleep on the couch, in what looked like an extremely uncomfortable position. I woke her gently, and took her home; I was too wired to sleep.

I sat in the dark, in the living room, with a glass of whisky that I never actually drank, just thinking about our lives. About the future. What to tell the kids, how to break it to them.

When seven rolled around, I groggily got up, took a shower, and then woke the kids. We had cereal, and then Leah asked where Mom was. Wasn't she due home by now?

I brushed it off. I just... couldn't tell them. Not right then and there. I was on the verge of collapsing in on myself as it was. I didn't have the internal strength to address this, and have the conversation that needed to be had.

I took them to school, and then went home. One of the things about being the boss is that you make the rules, and you don't have to ask to take the day off. I just called Clarice, my assistant, and told her I was taking a day, and that was that.

That was the thing. We had friends. We had work mates. We had family, but no one actually knew the details of her traveling; I mean, why would they? Would your friends know what flight you were taking for business, or what day you are due home? No, right? That meant I would have to be the one to tell them, no one would be calling me, asking about it. Small mercies to be thankful for, I guess.

So no one knew, besides John Pickford. I did call him, and filled him on Auggie's likely fate. There was silence from him as he absorbed this. We ended our call with promises of further communication that I didn't believe for a second. Not that I was unhappy about that. While I didn't blame them for Auggie traveling, yet, I didn't feel very well-disposed towards them right then, and I'm pretty sure Pickford could feel that from the abruptness of my statements.

I'm sure readers will have picked up on the fact that I've not detailed much in the way of conversation or dialog. There's a reason for that. I remember very distinctly that the entire time was more about feeling and emotion than it was reason. The words exchanged didn't matter, as much as the meaning conveyed. It was about deep level human interaction, not just words.

There's this idea that when people are in times of immense personal strife, having others around matters. Not because of what they say or do, just simply because they are there; you are not alone. This is the crux of what I'm trying to communicate, the words were immaterial at the time, only how I, and the kids, felt, and what others tried to do so show we weren't alone. I don't know how else to explain it.

In the days to come, once the details were out, thanks to the local TV station and CNN, hell, even Pickford called me and hemmed and hawed around the idea of me coming in for a "therapeutic chat." On the air, of course. We had lots of friends and acquaintances call or leave emails or Facebook messages. I mean, everyone was nice, of course. Everyone wanted to offer support: "if you need anything, anything at all, please don't hesitate to call", which is what you say in these situations, right? What else can you say? But in among all that support, you can't help but notice the very subtle probing for more details. She was their friend, too, for sure, and as such, I'm sure they did want details. The trouble was, I just didn't want to talk about it.

You end up with almost a script to follow when people talk to you. An internal decision as to how far you are prepared to go; what you are prepared to say, how much of yourself and your emotional state, such as mine was, you are prepared to reveal. In my case, it wasn't a lot.

One thing I had done was call Irv. He'd arrived back from his trip that morning, and came over the instant I asked. I didn't tell him why, just... get your ass over here. We need to talk.

He came, and I sat him down and told him, and then got to watch him crumple inside. His face went blank and the tears just... ran. He sat there, somewhat unshaven, unkempt short hair, in a stained Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned, staring at nothing for over a couple of minutes. I was starting to get alarmed. Then he just got up, came around the table and hugged me, and just didn't let go, tears arriving in droves.

Eventually, he did let go, and we just sat and talked, man to man. He asked me what I was going to do next, and I remember saying, "Survive, and keep it together for the kids."

Those were the magic words for him. He straightened up, and told me, very seriously, that he was there and he wasn't leaving. They'd need him. They'd need both of us. He was damn right about that.

He was there when I told the kids that afternoon, after I'd gotten them home. I explained the that plane that mommy had been traveling on had had an accident, and crashed, and as a result, mommy wouldn't be coming home. There was none of that "she's in heaven" crap, at least not from me. I was a confirmed atheist, and Auggie, while brought up ostensibly Catholic, was about as lapsed as you could possibly get. We'd both steered clear of trying to indoctrinate the kids with any pre-suppositions about religion, although we'd also done our best to ensure that they had respect of other people's beliefs, as long as those beliefs weren't being foistered on them.

Then I got to watch them collapse, too. There was a lot of hugging and crying that afternoon, for both Irv and me. Lots of pleading with a god they didn't believe in, because who else do you turn to in situations like that? Who do you plead with, or curse, depending on your feelings of the moment?

They peppered me with questions, most of which I couldn't answer because I didn't know myself. I'd glance meaningfully at Irv, and he'd take over, redirecting the conversation, and then trade off with me.

The kids were... well, they were an eight-year-old and a five-year-old who've just been told that they'll never see their mom, whom they loved as much as any kid loves a parent, again. You do the math on that one.

Realistically, I figured you just had to ride it out, be there, hug them as much as you could, offer as much reassurance as you could, and as much physical contact as you could.

We had a very tearful day, and I made sure they were off school the next day. The school was all about offering crisis counselors for the kids, once they understood the situation.

Irv stuck around and moved into the spare room for a few days.

I had to call Chuck and Barb, and let them know. They were devastated, as you can imagine. Barb couldn't even speak after I told her; I ended up finishing the call with Chuck on the line. It was strained.

I can't decide if they decided to leave me be a bit before coming over, or if they just weren't able to face anyone themselves. It doesn't really matter, anyway.

The details started coming out to the masses, and that's when the circus started. You'd think that in a situation such as this, people would respect the loss you've had. They'd leave you alone to grieve.

You'd be wrong.

The ambulance chasers started calling, offering me millions if "they could take my case, get justice for what's been done to our family." We got calls from journalists, looking for a human-interest story. We got calls from the airline, both lawyers, trying very tactfully to get us to understand that slandering the airline in the media would be "counterproductive for everyone involved." We got phone calls from mystics and physics, all telling me that "Auggie had a message for us." Then just the weirdo's, who want to talk to someone who's had an honest to god tragedy befall them.

KEXB, Auggie's radio station, did a show on her, which got picked up by NPR. They did a retrospective on their website, using promo pics and stuff pulled from her Facebook feed. Heck, did you know that Facebook has an internal group dedicated to pulling down the deceased accounts and what you need to provide before they'll do it? I now know.

Then there was the service. Something else I found out is that the FAA doesn't release the victims remains for quite some time. They are still doing forensic analysis, and as one guy there very tactfully explained, "The bodies are so broken up and dispersed it takes a work out which bits go with which body." Yeah, thanks for that image. Even then, there has to be an official autopsy, and then a hearing so the coroner can give an official reason for death, and a death certificate released.

We ended up having a memorial service for Auggie, instead of a funeral. We did the funeral as a much more personal thing, once the remains were released. Auggie's remains were cremated and we scattered them in the back garden, where we'd had such great memories as a family. That way, she'd always be there with us. I don't mind admitting that we all broken down totally when we did that. Irv was even more destroyed than I was.

The memorial service was much more widely attended than I had thought it would be. We even had some local politicians show up. The mayor, for example. It was... tasteful, I guess. I don't know. Not really an expert in those kinds of things. I didn't do a reception at home; I just didn't want to. Neither did either of the kids, or Irv, for that matter. So we didn't. We'd do our own mourning, in our own way.

One thing we did get earlier than the remains, which I was not expecting, were what personal effects they could identify as hers. Her rings. The clothes she was wearing that survived, we got a shoe, her necklace that I'd given her on our fifth wedding anniversary, her laptop case with a shattered laptop and iPad inside, and her suitcase. Surprisingly, the suitcase had survived quite well.

When the memorial service happened, my older brother showed up. Our parents were both long gone, they died when I was twenty-seven. They were old hippies from the sixties, who, once we'd both gone, had decamped to some hippie commune in Virginia, best I could tell. They were constantly high and messed up and I had some very strange voice mails from them. They'd both died of carbon monoxide poisoning, late in winter.

Neither Conrad, my older brother, or myself were particularly cut up when it happened. Both of us had a very strained and long-distance relationship with our parents, even when growing up. They weren't so much parents, as roommates. It had come out in the way both of us had grown, although Conrad had taken a very different route than I had. He was career military, and had enlisted as soon as he was old enough.

To be honest, neither of us particularly liked the other. I found him insufferable and inflexible, and I'm sure he found me just the opposite. He liked his hunting, his guns, his farm, his very definitely second-in-the-relationship wife, and shipping out every six months to some god-forsaken place so he could kill people. We both just about tolerated each other, but there was nothing beyond that. Once Mom and Dad died, there was very little communication, to be honest, and I was fine with that. He was even a shitty uncle. He had no kids of his own and no intention of having any, regardless of what his mouse wife thought.