The Knock at the Door

by Ryan Manion

  I had left my job in medical sales and taken a position with the Travis Manion Foundation, the organization created after the death of Brendan’s best friend. I never dreamed that I’d be a staff member myself at the foundation one day, let alone leading the programs that support people just like me—families of the fallen.

  I looked back at my “Maybe” pile and resolved to dump the whole tower of clothes into my pack. Better to be safe than sorry, right? A million different things could happen on this hike—from weather extremes to injuries—and I wanted to be prepared for every one of them. I’d just about made up my mind on this packing strategy when I remembered the sage advice of an outdoorsy friend:

  “What if?” weighs a lot.

  Hmm…good point. Prior to remembering that advice, I’d been thinking, What if it snows? I’d toss a pair of gloves in my pack. What if the terrain is rocky? Better bring the hiking poles. I could practically feel my shoulders getting crushed under the weight of an increasingly heavy pack.

  Extra weight was something I could not afford. I could imagine “What if?” scenarios until I was blue in the face. But the fact remained that each item would result in a heavier pack and a less pleasant experience. That lightweight raincoat might get used, but it might not. And it wasn’t going to feel so “lightweight” three hours into a strenuous climb. Clearly, I needed to rethink my approach.

  Over the years, I’ve had a fraught relationship with that question, “What if?”

  I am a planner. Ryan and I could not be more different in this regard. Take, for example, the way we approached an interview we recently did together on CBS This Morning. I and my fellow authors, Ryan and Heather, had been invited to the studio to share our stories of loss and grief.

  I’d been interviewed about Brendan before, but never on a national outlet, where millions of people would be watching and listening.

  Heather would be opening up for the first time publicly about losing her husband, Marine First Lieutenant Rob Kelly. Her father-in-law, General John Kelly, was serving as President Trump’s White House chief of staff at the time, which only increased the segment’s viewership and added to my fears. The night before the interview, Heather and I had experienced what I believe was a healthy dose of terror, and we wanted to prepare everything we could. Ryan, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with it.

  I had asked the producers to give us a set of questions that would resemble what we might be asked. I tend to get emotional when questioned about Brendan and I hoped that, by preparing well for the questions, I would be able to control those emotions.

  The night before, I worked rigorously through the questions and prompts. In my head, I outlined, drafted, revised, and rehearsed each one, never feeling fully satisfied with my answers. I didn’t want to sound scripted, but I needed to have my talking points solid before I could feel comfortable or satisfied.

  I tried to get Ryan in on the process so we could approach the questions together. She immediately plugged her ears when I read the first question aloud. “Nope, don’t tell me,” she chided. “I don’t want to hear them. Preparing for anything like this screws me up. The best way for me to prep is to watch TV and relax.”

  “What? How is that even possible?” I couldn’t believe it. “I don’t know how you operate like that. If I didn’t prepare everything I did, I would get nothing done.”

  This, of course, was coming from a woman who rehearses everything from the questions I want to ask at my doctor’s appointments, to the speeches I plan to give my credit card company when I see unfamiliar charges to my account. Before that interview, I considered every possible nightmare that could arise while I was talking: What if I lose my mind and mispronounce Brendan’s name? What if I clam up before I can successfully get my message out? Or worse, what if I break down and can’t finish my thought? Even my contingency plans have contingency plans. For me, “What if?” isn’t some casual question I muse over when I’m feeling reflective. It’s the strategy I’ve always depended on to feel prepared and to be successful.

  There are some things, of course, that you simply can’t prepare for, even if you’re bold enough to imagine the nightmare scenarios. Yes, I had distantly and reluctantly considered that the death of my husband in Afghanistan while he was deployed was a real possibility. But there was no reasonable solution to that “What if?” scenario, so I shoved it away and tried not to think about it.

  Now that it’s become my reality, I am forced to think about it. Having Brendan in my life for only eight years was never the plan. Every day since September 21, 2010, I’ve been asking myself “What if?” What if he hadn’t gone out that day? What if he had actually come home? What if it was just an injury he sustained and not death? And I’ll tell you what: Asking that question has taught me something. My friend was right.

  “What if?” weighs a lot.

  There have been times when I’ve felt crushed under the weight of this question. My life could have been so different, I used to think. I’d have my husband, a beautiful family, and the life I had always imagined for myself. I felt cheated and bitter. But after years of asking this question, I’ve arrived at some surprising conclusions that have allowed me to imagine a better life for myself.

  In order to share them, I have to go back to the beginning.

  Brendan and I met at the Greene Turtle Sports Bar & Grille, in Baltimore, Maryland. We were both juniors in college, he at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, where he roomed with Travis Manion, and I at Johns Hopkins University, where I was studying business. It was Memorial Day weekend of 2003 and we nearly missed one another.

  Brendan hadn’t planned to go to the bar that night. He had been visiting friends for the long weekend at the Jersey Shore and had initially planned to stay at the beach through that Monday. But a group of his high school friends persuaded him to head back to Maryland and go out Sunday night. Fortunately for me, they must have made a strong case.

  Brendan was a graduate of DeMatha Catholic High School, a prestigious, all-boys prep school outside Washington, where he was a competitive athlete and an impressive student. I can imagine right about now you’re picturing a self-absorbed, entitled snob with a big ego, but I promise you, Brendan Looney was anything but. Nothing was ever handed to Brendan; he truly earned any accolade he ever received. Every day, he got up well before sunrise so he could drive the hour-long commute to the high school.

  Even back then, he was responsible and hardworking. He was the oldest of six children and was used to playing the roles of leader and adviser. His family was tight-knit, loving, and practical. They didn’t live a luxurious lifestyle, but what they did have went a long way. Like others in his family, Brendan was equal parts pragmatic and generous. He was mild-mannered and kind, but also tough. He was the most disciplined twenty-two-year-old I’d ever met.

  But before I knew all that, he was just a cute boy at the Greene Turtle on the Sunday before Memorial Day. And that night, he was downright shy.

  I, too, had gone to the bar with a friend from high school, and she knew Brendan’s DeMatha buddies from years before. Pretty soon, our groups were mingling. I could tell he wanted to talk to me, but he was more reserved than most, and he didn’t quite seem to know how.

  I decided to help him along a bit. We spent the rest of the night bar-hopping, flirting, and playing little cat-and-mouse games with one another until, at the end of the night, he finally worked up the courage to ask for my number.

  I don’t know where this is going to go, I thought to myself later that night. Maybe he’ll call and we’ll go on a date, maybe not.

  Having grown up in the Annapolis area, I was familiar with the Naval Academy and its graduates. Was I even interested in dating someone in the Navy? Weren’t they gone all the time? Fortunately, these questions felt like they concerned events far in the future and didn’t deter me from enjoying the excitement of meeting someone new.

  A couple of days went by and I hadn’t heard a peep from Brenda
n. Initially, I thought I didn’t care if I ever did, but as time went on, I realized I was actually very annoyed. We had a good time, didn’t we? I couldn’t have been the only one who felt that way. What happened?

  Brendan was mature, but he was twenty-two just the same. As I later learned, he took his dating cues from Vince Vaughn in the 1996 comedy Swingers: Waiting two days to call a girl is “industry standard,” but waiting three days—“now, that’s money.” Brendan was probably surprised, then, on day three, when the first thing out of my mouth as I picked up the phone was, “It took you three days to finally call, huh?”

  It’s definitely not my personality to be so brazen, but at this point, I figured this wasn’t going anywhere anyway. The stakes were pretty low, so I could be bold.

  In fact, I almost didn’t go out with him when he finally did ask me. But thankfully, I did end up accepting his invitation, and by the time we sat down at our table at Ruby Tuesday that evening, my attitude had changed entirely.

  Our conversation was effortless and our connection instant. Brendan was sweet, respectful, and charming. He asked me about my family and told me all about his. He shared his goals and plans and I immediately got the sense that I fit into them.

  He was very clear about his values and priorities, and I knew this guy was playing for keeps. What I didn’t know, however, was that I was vying for the role of “girlfriend” against some fairly stiff competition.

  Brendan had been casually dating another girl at the time he asked me out and had just taken her to his junior ring dance at the academy. Little did I know, he was deciding whether to get serious with her, and had asked me out just to see what else was out there. By the end of our date, I guess he’d made up his mind. And so had I.

  From then on, we were inseparable. Or as inseparable as two college kids can be, when one is a collegiate athlete under the strict authority of service academy rules, and the other is a thirty-minute drive away.

  And though that first year was a little difficult to balance, Brendan always found time for me. Even if it was just a few hours on a weeknight before he had to rush back for a room inspection. The days we didn’t spend together in person, we’d spend together on the phone. We discussed everything: our family histories and what we wanted when we started our own families one day, our careers, our friends, our pet peeves, our goals, and our fears.

  Even though things, initially, were easy and carefree between us, they got serious pretty quickly. There was no waiting period to “feel things out” or “see how it goes.” With Brendan’s demanding school and sports schedules, that wasn’t an option anyway. Either we were doing this, or we weren’t.

  Within a couple of months, Brendan had come a long way from the reserved, shy boy I had met at the Greene Turtle. He was never the type to speak just to hear himself talk. He was far too humble for that. If he spoke, it was because he had something to say. During those months, he had a lot to say, and I loved hearing it.

  Looking back, I realize it was probably not your typical early-twenties relationship. The challenges posed by our schedules taught me early on that I would need to be independent, and Brendan’s constant orientation toward the future made things pretty serious right off the bat.

  There was very little gray area when it came to Brendan’s intentions for me. And as a planner, that’s just the way I liked it. Military life, on the other hand, was all gray area. I had had no experience with it, other than a grandfather who had served in World War II, which meant I had a lot to learn.

  During one of our long phone conversations, Brendan shared with me that he had put in to become an Intelligence officer after graduation and a commissioned officer in the Navy. His dream was to be in the special warfare community as a Navy SEAL, but the fact that he was color-blind made that almost impossible. Intelligence was a good alternative, but in Brendan’s mind, he still couldn’t help wondering if there was something else out there for him.

  “Okay, so you’re doing Intel. What does that mean then?” I asked him one night. At that point there was still so much I didn’t understand. To me, the military was a series of emblems and acronyms, and I was more interested in brass tacks.

  “Well,” he explained, “I’ll have to go to more schooling in Virginia Beach. That’s where all the Intel officers go after graduation.”

  “For how long?” I could feel myself getting defensive.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe a year.”

  “Well, I’m in Maryland, Brendan.” I was happy for him, of course. But I was graduating college and would be early on in my career, too. I needed to establish some footing. “I can’t just uproot my life and move to be with you. My life is here.”

  “Amy, it’s fine.” He was even-keeled and calm by nature, but even more so when my anxieties were mounting. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

  We did the best we could, but the distance certainly didn’t make things any easier. We took turns driving the four hours between Virginia Beach and Columbia, Maryland, to see one another on weekends and we continued to make the most of our phone conversations.

  At one point, almost a year into our relationship, I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake. I wasn’t cut out for the military life, I decided: living at the mercy of the Navy’s demands and always being forced to surrender your will to the powers that be.

  I wanted to be with someone who was actually around and with whom I could spend time. Brendan was always doing things to woo and impress me, and while I loved it in one way, I also wondered if relationships were supposed to be more of a game or challenge. Besides, I was still young and this felt very serious. Had I really kissed all the frogs I needed to kiss in order to get to Prince Charming?

  Before Brendan, I’d always gone for the bad boys: the charming, winsome partiers who adore the spotlight, thrive on attention, and rarely take notice of other people’s feelings. And Brendan was the complete opposite. Here was a guy who, early in our relationship, asked me on a “date” to take our younger sisters to an ice show and bought them ice cream and souvenirs.

  He was too disciplined an athlete to be a heavy drinker and too humble to command the center of attention. But still, I wondered if I was missing something, and Navy life was hard. I told Brendan I was sorry, but I couldn’t do it anymore. We broke up.

  And that lasted all of a week.

  At some point during those seven days, I had the good sense to realize that, hey, maybe dating a good person was actually a good thing. Maybe spending my time with someone I genuinely admired, and who respected me in a way I deserved, was a rare blessing I might not get a shot at again, even if he did have a demanding career. I realized that having something real, authentic, and lasting was more important and enjoyable than the chase I’d grown accustomed to. Who knew?

  Fortunately, it wasn’t too difficult to persuade him to take me back. And after that, I jumped in with both feet. It was a good thing I did, because Brendan had his first deployment coming up—a full year in Korea—which was about to test our mettle.

  It proved to be a long, lonely year without Brendan’s calming presence in my life, but he was largely out of danger and, in the end, it only strengthened our commitment to one another.

  But when he returned to Virginia Beach at the end of the deployment, he learned he would be deploying to Iraq a few months later. I was crushed. The next deployment would be only three months long, but it was about to take our lives in a very different direction.

  Brendan deployed to Iraq in 2006, when things in the Middle East were very lively. While there, he continued to work in Intelligence, gathering and interpreting data about potential enemy threats and delivering it to the people responsible for responding to them.

  Brendan was happy to be serving his country in a meaningful way, but it wasn’t quite checking the box for him.

  During his Iraq deployment, Brendan worked closely with a team of Navy SEALs, and he ached to be with them at the tip of the spear, knocking down doors and hunting
down bad guys. He was excited, then, when he learned that changes in the restrictions around color blindness meant he could do a lateral transfer and compete for a spot on a SEAL team.

  He still had to do the training, though, and there were no guarantees. He knew that only a small fraction of the guys who start BUD/S make it through to qualify as SEALs. Friends and colleagues advised him not to get his hopes up. But all Brendan heard was that the restriction had been lifted; the rest fell on deaf ears because his mind was already made up.

  “I’ve put in my package to go to BUD/S,” he told me when he got home. “And I really hope you’ll support me.”

  I braced myself for an even longer-distance relationship. Training took place in California, and Brendan would be driving cross-country with his brother to start with BUD/S Class 265 in March 2007. What could I say? I would never feel right knowing I had held him back from his dream. And I was too naive at the time to truly understand the danger he was putting himself in. I had a vague sense that the Special Operations track he was starting on came with heightened risks, but the concepts of war, combat, and loss were still quite distant to me.

  Until one month later, on April 29, 2007, when our lives took yet another jolting turn. That’s when Brendan learned that his best friend and Naval Academy roommate, Travis Manion, had been killed in Iraq.

  The news triggered something deep inside Brendan that changed him forever. He was devastated. But he could not even attend the funeral. Had he left his training, he would not have been allowed to return. He struggled with the guilt of not being able to be there to help lay Travis to rest on the East Coast or support his family in their greatest time of need. At twenty-six, he was on a career track that he had fought long and hard to join. But when his best friend died, Brendan took a hard look at his life and wondered if he was spending it the way he should be.