by Marie Force
“Hey. Thanks for taking my call.”
“Sure.”
A long, uncomfortable silence follows my one-word reply. Old Roni would’ve filled the silence with chatter in an effort to smooth the awkward edges. New Roni refuses to make that effort.
“I know you’re angry with me.”
“I’m not angry. That would take emotional energy I don’t have right now.”
“I’m sorry, Roni,” she says, sounding tearful. “I fucked up, and I’m very, very sorry. Tell me how I can make this right.”
“You can’t, Sarah. I’m sorry to be harsh, but I don't feel like I can ever again count on you to be there for me in a time of need. Friends are there for each other, and you chose not to be there for me at the most difficult time of my life.” Credit to the Wild Widows on Instagram for giving me the courage and the words to speak my truth, even if it hurts.
After another long pause, she says, “Fair enough. I hate that this has happened to Patrick—and to you.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
“Would it be okay if I checked in once in a while?”
“Sure.” It’ll take some time for her to realize we’ll never again be the friends we once were.
“I’m thinking of you, Roni. All the time.”
“Thank you.” We’ve never been so polite with each other, not even the day we met when we had no idea if we were going to be good roommates.
“Well, I, uh, I’ll let you go.”
“Thanks for calling.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will.” I press the red button to end the call, thankful to have gotten through that without tears. I ought to feel bad for being hard on her, but I don’t. She was one of my closest friends, and she fell off the face of the earth after my husband died. I owe her nothing.
On New Year’s Day, I strip the bed and wash the sheets and towels before I hit the road for home, feeling rested and somewhat restored by the time away.
Four hours later, as I cross the 14th Street Bridge that takes me from Northern Virginia into the District, I experience a feeling of elation that reminds me of the time, about two years ago, when I drove home from a conference in Richmond. I was away from Patrick for four nights, the longest we’d been apart since college, and I was so excited to see him. We were silly that way, dramatic about having to spend any time apart and always so damned glad to be back together.
He was waiting outside our place when I drove up in the old Toyota Camry we shared before he bought the Audi. I can still remember his big smile, the way he opened the driver’s door and pulled me into the tightest hug, so tight I couldn’t breathe, not that I cared. He kissed me right there on the street and told me I was never allowed to leave again. We spent the rest of that day and night in bed making up for lost time. I don’t think we even ate dinner that night.
With that memory close to my heart, I find myself looking for him as I approach our block, hoping against hope that he might be waiting the way he was that time. But there’s no one there.
I knew there wouldn’t be, but the powerful feeling of disappointment threatens to undo the progress I made while I was away. I knew he wouldn’t be there, and yet I let myself hope. I’ve got to stop doing this shit to myself. This situation is rough enough without me making it worse than it needs to be.
After stowing the car in the parking garage, I trudge toward home, dragging my suitcase behind me. I’m almost there when I see Not-Patrick across the street, walking hand in hand with his little girl, who skips alongside him. I try not to stare, but I can’t help it.
Thankfully, he’s completely absorbed in her and doesn’t see me. I figure I’m about one encounter away from him calling the police on me. While I drag my heavy suitcase up the stairs, I laugh to myself as I imagine Sam, the cop, getting that phone call about me. “There’s a weirdo following me around,” he’d say. “She says I remind her of someone, which is fine, but she’s creeping me out.”
I need to stop being a freaking weirdo and get back to some semblance of normal, whatever that might be in the aftermath of calamity. That’s the only resolution I’ve brought into this new year. Get back to “normal.”
If only I could figure out what the hell that means.
* * *
On January 3, I meet with Lilia Van Nostrand, chief of staff at the White House, at the coffee shop that’s served as the host to my non-relationship with Not-Patrick, to complete paperwork and discuss the role of communications director to the first lady. I still want to pinch myself over that title and that I’ll be working in the White House! Because Patrick was required to have a top-secret security clearance as a DEA agent, we both were fully vetted, which will expedite my employment.
I’m not required to have a security clearance to work with the first lady, who also doesn’t have one, but I would’ve been subjected to a lengthy review process that won’t be necessary now. Thank you, Patrick.
I looked Lilia up on the White House website so I’d recognize her. When she comes through the door, I wave to her from the table I grabbed for us. She’s gorgeous, with shiny dark hair cut in a cute bob and luminous brown eyes that light up when she smiles. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she says, shaking my hand.
“You as well. Sam speaks so highly of you.”
“Aw, thank you.” She removes her red wool coat and black scarf. “She thinks the world of you, as well. Let me grab a coffee, and we’ll chat. Can I get you anything?”
“I’m all set. Thank you.”
While I wait for her, I sip my hot chocolate and scan the other patrons, wondering if Not-Patrick only comes in first thing in the morning or if he does meetings here during the workday. And why do I care about a man who bears a passing resemblance to my late husband and who thinks I’m a weirdo stalker?
I don’t care. I’m just wondering if I’ll see him. That’s all it is.
Keep telling yourself that, girl. I’m just curious about him. Nothing more than that. It makes me feel queasy to even think about “liking” another man the way I liked Patrick. Not to mention, I’m pregnant, which is a sobering reminder of what my immediate future is going to look like. When I try to imagine “dating” while pregnant, I have to laugh to myself. Who’d want to take on the red-hot mess of my life?
I have no business being curious about any man, let alone one who’s a single encounter away from reporting me to the police.
Lilia returns with a steaming cup and sits across from me. “Thanks for taking the time to meet. I thought it would be easier to do it here before your official start date at the White House. Getting in there can be a hassle before you’re officially on board.”
“I still can’t believe I’m going to work there.”
“It’s surreal at first. I first started working with Mrs. Gooding when her husband was still in the Senate. She was involved in a number of initiatives involving military families and child welfare reforms. When they became the vice president and second lady, we moved to the White House and continued that work. Then after he resigned due to illness, I was retained by Mrs. Cappuano when her husband became the vice president, and now here I am working for the first lady.”
“Your career has mirrored, in a way, the new president’s.” He went from chief of staff to a senator to vice president and then to president in two years.
“Indeed it has. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind, but I’m delighted to work for her, to know them both and to consider them friends.”
“I haven’t known them long, but they seem like great people. She’s been very good to me since…” Damn it.
Lilia reaches across the table and places her hand on mine. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Roni.”
“Thank you. I was hoping to get through one thing without bringing that into it, but alas…”
“It’s totally understandable. What happened to your husband was so tragic, and I can’t begin to know what you’ve been through since.”
“I
t’s been pretty brutal, but I’m still here.” I force a smile. “And possibly doing a tiny bit better than I was at the beginning. That said, I don’t want you to think I can’t do the job. I’m very excited to get started and to support Sam any way that I can.”
We spend the next hour going over the duties of my new position, which include crafting statements for the first lady on a wide range of issues and subjects, managing the FLOTUS social media accounts and handling press inquiries.
“Everyone wants an interview with her.” Lilia hands over a very full file folder. “I printed the first hundred. There are, like, five hundred other requests from media outlets all over the world. It’ll be up to you to go through them all, narrow them down to a few that might interest her and then work with her to decide whether she’s willing or able. As you know, she has a full-time job on top of this, not to mention three children, so her time is at a premium. After you get started, I’m going to talk to her about trying to set up a once-a-day call so we can stay on the same page with her.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“The most important thing, obviously, is that we have to clear everything we do on her behalf with her. And that can mean having to hold things until she’s available.”
“I understand. I’d never want to speak for her without her approval.”
“She’s lovely to work with, but is the busiest person I’ve ever met.”
“I really admire what she’s doing, juggling both jobs and motherhood.”
“She’s a wonder, and a lovely, lovely person, as you certainly know.”
“She’s been very good to me since we met under the worst of circumstances.”
“That sounds like her. She introduced me to my fiancé, Harry, who’s a longtime friend of the president.”
“I was going to say that’s a gorgeous sparkler you’ve got there.”
Her pretty face flames with embarrassment. “Thank you.” She gazes at the ring for a second. “He did good.”
“How long have you been engaged?”
“Just over a week. He proposed at the first family’s Christmas Eve party.”
“That’s really cool. Congratulations.”
“Thanks, and I’m sorry to be going on about it. I don’t mean to be insensitive.”
“Please don’t do that. You’re entitled to your happiness, and I can’t wait to meet your guy. It’s all good.”
Lilia smiles as she fiddles with her pearls. “I can see why Sam likes you so much.”
“Likewise.”
We talk for another half hour about the daily routine at the White House, where to park, how she’ll meet me on my first day next Monday to walk me through getting a badge and parking pass to use if I need to drive to work and to give me a tour of the East and West Wing offices. By the time we part company with a quick hug on the sidewalk, I feel like I’ve made another new friend. She’s sweet, kind, smart and stylish.
So stylish, in fact, that it occurs to me I have nothing to wear to work in the White House. I wore leggings and hoodies to the Star, and clearly, that won’t work at my new job. As I walk home, I call my mom. When she answers, I ask, “You want to go shopping with me?”
* * *
I barely sleep the night before my first day at the freaking White House. I got together yesterday with my parents, sisters and their families to celebrate my new job. They’re so excited for me to have this opportunity. I almost told them about the baby, but I’m sticking it out until my next appointment with Dr. Gordon on Wednesday afternoon.
Over the weekend, I texted Lilia to ask what I need to do to get out of work for the appointment. She said there’s no problem with taking time for outside appointments and promised to walk me through the scheduling system that she uses to keep tabs on everyone. After the ultrasound appointment, I’ll attend my first meeting of the Wild Widows, which I’m also looking forward to.
I’ve chatted a few times by text with Iris. She introduced me to Brielle, who lost her husband while she was expecting their first child. We’ve played text tag the last few days, but I’m hoping to chat with her tonight after work.
Wearing a black suit with a pink silk blouse, I put new black heels in a tote bag and slip on sneakers for the walk to the Eastern Market Metro station. I take the blue line to Metro Center, which is a mad house during rush hour. After a short walk, I’m at the gate to the White House, where I show my driver’s license to the guard.
“I’m starting as the communications director to the first lady today.” I hold back the giggle that’s dying to bust loose at the preposterousness of that sentence. This has to be the most surreal experience of my life.
He checks a list and makes a phone call that brings Lilia to meet me at the checkpoint.
“Welcome to the White House team,” she says with a warm, welcoming smile that puts me immediately at ease.
The next few hours pass in a blur of more paperwork, a tour of the East and West Wings and a meeting with the rest of the first lady’s staff.
We’re wrapping things up when Sam comes rushing in, her face flushed from the cold and her curly dirty-blonde hair down around her shoulders. She’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater with camel-colored wool pants and black boots. Her blue eyes light up with pleasure when she sees me.
I stand to greet her with a hug.
“It’s so good to see you.” She stands back to take a good look at me, keeping her hands on my shoulders. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m still here,” I tell her, aware of my new colleagues watching us with curiosity. I decide to address the elephant in every room I’m in. “I lost my husband of three and a half months, who was my boyfriend for almost ten years before that, in October when he was struck by a random bullet on 12th Street. I met Sam, er, Mrs. Cappuano, when she had the misfortune of having to inform me of what happened to Patrick. She’s been a very good friend to me since then and has honored me greatly by asking me to join this amazing team.”
“My name is Sam,” she says emphatically. “Just Sam.”
“We’re so sorry for your loss, Roni,” Lilia says as the others weigh in with their condolences.
“Thank you,” I say, touched by their kind words, “but I’m okay, excited to be here and to have this new challenge.”
“I was hoping to be here to greet you first thing,” Sam says, “but I got called out on a new case earlier this morning and got here as soon as I could.”
“Thanks for coming in. I know how busy you are.”
“I wanted the chance to talk to you guys about how we should be managing Skippy’s Instagram account and growing fan club,” Sam says, rolling her eyes, “and yes, I can’t believe we have to worry about managing the first dog’s account, but alas, she gets more mail than the president does. Scotty started the account for her, but it’s gotten way bigger than he could’ve imagined, and now it needs more attention than any of us have time to give it.”
“I’m on it,” I tell her, delighted by the idea of managing an Insta account for the first dog. “Would it be possible to meet with Scotty and Skippy to get to know them a little better?” I’ve met Scotty once before, the night I attended the grief group meeting at Metro PD headquarters. But I haven’t met Skippy.
“We’ll make that happen.” Sam checks the time on the wall clock. “We have the first meeting of Nick’s new task force to address the issue of mental health and guns. Lilia and Roni, why don’t you join me for that, but only if you feel like you’re strong enough to address that topic, Roni.”
“I’m fine, and I’d love to be involved in that issue.” What better way can I make something positive come of Patrick’s senseless death than by being involved in an effort to address the gun violence that has become so commonplace in our society? It’s not acceptable, and we need to do something about it. The man who fired the shot that killed Patrick had well-documented mental health issues that should’ve precluded him from having a gun in the first place.
I tell mysel
f I can handle this meeting. I hope I’m right.
7
Roni
I walk with Sam and Lilia to a conference room in the West Wing.
The handsome young president is standing outside the door, shaking hands with people as they arrive for the meeting. He lights up with pleasure when he sees his wife coming toward him. They’re crazy about each other and don’t care who knows it.
He greets her with a kiss to the cheek. “How’s your day going so far?”
“Not too bad. You remember Roni, right?”
“Of course.” He shakes my hand and offers me a warm smile. “It’s great to see you again. Welcome to the team.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Roni has agreed to work with us on the task force,” Sam says.
“I appreciate you bringing your unique perspective to this challenging issue,” he says.
“I think it’ll be helpful to feel like I’m doing something to help prevent what happened to me and Patrick and our families from happening to other people.”
“We’re very happy to have you.”
He’s gorgeous, charming, sweet, sincere and madly in love with his beautiful wife.
I’m truly honored to have the chance to work with and for both of them.
The task force is chaired by Dr. Anthony Trulo, the resident psychiatrist for the Metropolitan Police Department, a close friend and colleague of Sam’s. They’ve brought in people from all walks of life to form this task force—doctors, educators, scientists, weapons manufacturers, social media executives, citizen gun owners and law enforcement representatives.
Nick—am I allowed to think of him as Nick?—opens the meeting by thanking everyone for agreeing to work on one of the most vexing issues of our time. “We all know someone who’s been touched by gun violence. My family has been touched by gun violence. My father-in-law, retired MPD Deputy Chief Skip Holland, succumbed in October to injuries he suffered in a shooting four years ago last month that left him a quadriplegic. Our friend lost her young husband to a stray bullet fired during an argument on a city street.