The Knock at the Door

by Ryan Manion

  Though I hated to leave Rob behind at Arlington that day, I was comforted to know that he carried me in his heart, and I carried him in mine. I am never without it, I thought as I left the cemetery that day. Anywhere I go you go, my dear.

  There’s a line of that same poem that goes, “I fear no fate, for you are my fate, my sweet.” I truly believe that. There’s not much I can say about an afterlife, or if there even is one. But if there is, I hope you can find me wherever Rob is. That line of thinking, while poetic and beautiful in many ways, has plagued me at times. Rob was my best friend. It was hard for me to imagine a life without him in it. After all, his fate was my fate. And after he was killed, there were months and months when I honestly couldn’t have cared if I lived or died.

  I wouldn’t say I was suicidal, and I certainly never took any measures to hasten our reunion, but I wouldn’t have minded if something or someone else had. On occasion, I would ask myself, If you got hit by a bus on the highway today, would you care? For a long time, my answer was no. As far as I was concerned, time simply couldn’t go fast enough. What had once been an exciting life full of potential was now a punishing sentence I simply had to endure. I had turned twenty-six a month before my husband died. Life should have been a blank canvas I was excited to leave my mark on. Instead, it was an hourglass containing grains of sand that I was waiting impatiently to run out.

  After Rob’s burial, I returned to our home in California accompanied by my mom. She stayed with me for several months as I worked to get back on my feet. It was strange to be back at the base, even though I no longer had any real connection to military life. I remember one evening hearing a noise at the front door and looking through the peephole. It was dark outside.

  Almost immediately, I felt that same sick feeling in my stomach that I had experienced the morning I received the news that changed my life forever. It was just a physically sick feeling of dread. Something as simple as gazing out the peephole at my doorstep and seeing the porch light fall in a similar pattern was all it took to transport me back to that moment when I learned about Rob. And it was a feeling that I never wanted to experience again. I knew that I needed to move past that moment to get my life back on track, but I had no idea how.

  Thank God my mom was there to push me along. She forced me to actually do something with my time, when all I wanted to do was watch it disappear. Mostly, I wanted to sleep the days away, because being unconscious and dead to the world was the quickest and least painful way to pass the time. But my mom instituted a plan: Together we would accomplish one thing each day.

  In the beginning, that meant simply taking a shower. Even that effort seemed daunting. And when I completed the goal, I was free to go back to bed. As time went on, the tasks got a little more involved—spending an hour at the Social Security office to collect some fifty-five-dollar check in Rob’s name; going to the Verizon store to cancel his phone contract; making calls to close his credit card accounts.

  As soon as I finished the task or returned home from the errand, I would head straight to my room for another nap. I’d sleep until dinner and then, as soon as we had eaten, I was back in bed. What else was I going to do with my day? I felt no compulsion to visit with friends or go out to dinner or take a walk. I wasn’t living in those days. I was merely existing.

  Eventually, I evolved from being empty and apathetic into being angry. At first, I was angry about the set of circumstances that had stolen my husband away from me. At the time of Rob’s death, he was on a foot patrol with several other Marines, crossing a canal. The IED he stepped on was barely detectable. These sorts of death traps aren’t meant to be obvious, of course, but this one was especially treacherous because it had been there long enough for grass to grow over it; and thus, it was easily missed by Rob when he went to take a step.

  Maybe this little detail would have made someone else feel better; perhaps it would have brought confirmation that the event, while tragic, was unavoidable. There’s no way he could have noticed that IED. But that was not the case with me. I found it infuriating. You mean to tell me that that bomb had been planted there for months—maybe even years—and had been passed over by American after American, and Rob just happened to be the one to step on it? It brought me no peace at all to know that my future had been ripped from me on account of such a hapless brush with chance.

  And when I was done being angry at the situation, I directed my anger toward others. I was frustrated living back in Marine Corps base housing. I felt so out of place. I was planted among all the active-duty families who were in the midst of the typical military life cycle of work-ups, deployments, and reunions, and I felt disconnected from all of it. I went to meetings with the other wives as it came time for their husbands to return from Afghanistan, knowing full well mine wouldn’t be among them.

  I thought it would make me feel connected to a community, but it had the opposite effect. I felt alienated and annoyed. I went back to work at my job in retail at a Bath & Body Works store and found myself telling off customers in my head. You people have no freaking clue, I’d think to myself. I’d try to keep my composure when a customer went on a five-minute tirade about how it was an “absolute disgrace” that we didn’t keep more warm vanilla sugar body lotion in stock, or when a shopper bemoaned the fact that I wouldn’t accept an expired coupon. It took every ounce of my discipline not to shake them and tell them that, if these were their biggest complaints, they didn’t know how good they had it.

  And finally, after I had exhausted my anger toward others, I directed it toward myself in the form of guilt. I never worried that I could have done more to prevent Rob’s death or to let him know how loved he was, but guilt was, nonetheless, an inescapable part of my grieving process. It would hit me in the most subtle and unexpected ways.

  For example, about six months after we buried Rob, I decided to treat myself to a new comforter for our bed. I selected a bright pink-and-orange floral quilt from Garnet Hill to brighten up a room that held so many dark memories as of late. It was a Lilly Pulitzer design with cheery flowers on one side and buzzing bumblebees on the other. I figured my room could use a little refreshing. I found it on final sale. It was nothing extravagant, but it was fancier than the items I usually bought at that time in my life.

  When it arrived in the mail, I was excited to open it and see how it looked in our room. But as I lifted the cardboard flap and peeked inside the box, I felt sick. What was I doing? How could I be so frivolous? I felt guilty for feeling happy about something so shallow. I was angry at myself for trying to move on from or revise the life and home Rob and I had built together. I even felt guilty about the money I had used to purchase the quilt.

  When Rob died, I received what was in his bank account, as well as the standard-issue compensation from the military’s life insurance. The idea of using his money at all—let alone to buy something so silly and unnecessary—nauseated me. It may sound irrational, but purchasing that blanket felt like I was endorsing, or somehow accepting, Rob’s death; like I was okay accepting money and new furnishings in exchange for the lives we were meant to spend together. Looking at the blanket, I felt I’d purchased something with blood money. I was disgusted and upset with myself.

  I never quite got over that feeling. Because it had been on final sale, I was unable to return the blanket, but to this day the quilt remains in its original packaging buried deep in my closet. I have no plans to bring it back out, though I’ve tried to pawn it off on friends on several occasions.

  These years without Rob have been trying. When we were in our early twenties and newly married, life was nothing but a flurry of possibilities. Would Rob make the Marines a career? Would we move again? Would we live abroad? Would we have a family? What unforeseen obstacles would we roll up our sleeves and tackle together? We didn’t know, but we were excited to find out.

  The not-knowing was never scary for us, certainly not at that age anyway. After all, uncertainty was just another word for “possibility
,” and that felt thrilling.

  When Rob was killed and all that possibility disappeared in an instant, the uncertainty of what life would be like without him was a weight I couldn’t bear. There was no life without Rob. There was no plan B. “I fear no fate because you are my fate,” and all that. So what happens when one half of a couple bound to the same fate forever makes an early exit? This was never part of the design.

  At this moment, there sits on my desk at work a framed image that I look at daily. It’s two skeletons holding hands. Below them are the words, ’TIL DEATH DO US PART IS FOR QUITTERS. And I’m no quitter. Rob and I promised to love one another for the rest of our lives. He kept his end of the deal, and I intend to keep mine. It’s only in recent years that I’ve started to be able to imagine a life for myself beyond the one that Rob and I built together. I’ve slowly permitted myself to have that thought, without becoming riddled with debilitating guilt.

  The years we spent together were not nearly enough, but they were the best of my life. And I hope, with the years I have left, I can keep some part of him in this world by living the way he did. My friends and family have heard me say this before, but Rob was a just a better person than I was. It’s that simple, really. He was less judgmental and more forgiving. He was self-sacrificing, generous, and tons of fun to be around. The world needs more of all those things, doesn’t it?

  And I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why we were deprived of them. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about that. I couldn’t have kept my husband from stepping on that IED, but I can prevent the loss of the qualities he had, and the values he stood for. I want to do that for him. I want to bring his spirit of generosity, humor, and warmth to others. After years of struggling, I’m now in a position where I can do that. It took some time, but I made it. And I don’t intend to squander the opportunity.

  * Improvised explosive device.

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  The Road Map

  Two or three months after Rob died, I was linked up with a financial adviser named Chip Stratmann. Chip, a former Marine himself, came highly recommended by other people in the military community, who assured me that I could trust him.

  The quilt incident had left me feeling queasy about anything financially related to Rob’s death, and I knew I was going to need to get a handle on things soon. All service members on active duty have term policies issued by Servicemembers’ Group Life Insurance.

  Within a week or two after a service member dies, beneficiaries receive a lump sum—oddly named a “death gratuity”—to address immediate financial needs. That timing is important, because service members’ paychecks stop the day they die. Many families need immediate support to cover rent, utilities, and other bills, and to pay for funeral expenses that aren’t covered by the military.

  Many young widows, including myself, have no idea how to handle this sudden change in financial status and are desperate for direction they can trust on how to navigate it. Since my husband’s death, I’ve heard stories of many young widows left penniless soon after their husband’s death.

  In some cases, they mismanage the benefits; in other cases, unscrupulous “money managers” prey upon them—promising one thing and delivering another. As someone who’s gone through it, I can say it’s nearly impossible to make sound decisions that will affect your life when your world has just been turned upside down.

  In those moments of vulnerability, you’ll do just about anything you’re told you should do, provided the advice comes from someone who indicates he or she has authority on the matter. It doesn’t matter if that voice of authority comes from an advertisement that says those pricey shoes are the only things that stand between you and happiness, or if it comes from a scheming predator posing as a financial adviser.

  In my case, I wasn’t worried about being victimized; I was more anxious to get the money out of sight and out of mind. It felt dirty to have it in my possession, and I wanted someone else to handle it. Enter Chip Stratmann.

  Chip greeted me at his office one day with warmth and what appeared to be an almost paternal desire to see me through this uncertain time. He was well aware of my circumstances and eager to help. We sat down, and he pulled out a thick piece of paper folded several times. He called it “the financial road map.”

  “The financial road map works just like a regular map, you see,” he said as he started to unfold the paper, which did resemble something you’d be given at the visitors center of a zoo or at the mouth of a hiking trail. He spread out the paper and flattened it in front me of me to reveal a panorama of possibilities for my future.

  “Now, the base of the map shows you the foundations of your financial future,” he said. “These are things like purchasing a car or buying a home that you might want to consider early on. Then, as you move up the map, there are various milestones along the way to consider: whether you want to set aside a personal travel fund, how to plan for the children you hope to have, whether you’re going to help finance their college education, all the way up to personal investments and your eventual retirement.”

  Each milestone was accompanied by an empty box that encouraged me to imagine the kind of future I wanted to have and enter it into the space.

  I stared at the milestones on the paper and the progression they created toward old age. I knew this resource was meant to take complicated, abstract decisions and turn them into something concrete and understandable. I’m sure it did for many people. It probably gave them a sense of control over their lives and a clear vision for how to rebuild their lives. But I felt none of that. Every milestone laid out on the sheet of paper in front of me was another reminder that I would miss out on the life I had planned to have.

  A house? For whom? It was just me. Where was I supposed to live anyway? The Marine Corps brought Rob and me to California. Was there any point in staying here? And kids? Nothing could have been further from my mind than caring for children. Retirement? I couldn’t even wrap my head around that. I pictured myself with gray hair and a couple bottles of Trader Joe’s wine, alone on my couch with no one for company but my cats. I hope I’m long gone before my life comes to that, I thought.

  Chip was patient and thorough in his explanation of the road map and didn’t seem to sense how disconnected I was from the exercise.

  “So today,” he went on, “I thought we’d talk about your goals, and we’ll enter each goal into the proper place on the financial road map. So…” He took a breath and smiled at me. “What are your goals?”

  I stared at the map in silence. I looked up at his expectant face and welcoming smile then back down at the map. I had nothing.

  “I, uh, I don’t have any,” I said slowly.

  “Okay, no problem,” Chip responded. “That’s okay. It can be overwhelming to look at it all together. Maybe we just take one at a time. Where do you think you’d like to be five years from now?”

  In five years, I would be thirty-one. It sounded like a lifetime away, and yet it also sounded too young an age. Time wasn’t passing quickly enough. There was likely still a lot of life ahead after thirty-one, but it felt like a prison sentence. I wished I was going to be eighty in five years to just get life over with, faster.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Okay,” Chip said slowly. He was willing to try again. “Do you think you’ll want to buy a house someday?”

  “I just, I don’t know.”

  We both stared at the map laid out on the table between us. The silence seemed interminable. It was a terrible feeling to look straight down the barrel at the dismal years ahead for me. I had nothing to say. There was no plan anymore. Rob was the plan, end of story. He was the only plan and now he was gone. I have no goals because everything in my life has been taken away. I don’t have one single thing to put on this stupid road map. What do I want to do with my life? I want to get through it. That’s it. That was the only goal I could think of.

  After sitting in silence for wha
t seemed like several minutes, Chip decided to call it. “It’s okay,” he said. “We can always come back to the financial road map.” He refolded the paper.

  I left that meeting feeling defeated. There was a time when I would have loved an exercise like that. Rob and I would have gladly sat down and stumbled our way through the road map, knowing full well we didn’t have the slightest idea what we were doing. Even big decisions felt lighthearted with Rob. He made everything fun and made the future something to look forward to. In fact, planning for the future and building anticipation toward it was, in many ways, the cornerstone of our relationship. Much of our time was spent apart, dreaming about the next time we’d be together again.

  I was practically a baby when I first met Rob. I was seventeen years old, a young freshman at Florida State University, who wouldn’t even be legal to vote until a few weeks into the first semester. He was a senior with a winsome, outgoing personality that made him easy to be around. He was friends with my cousin Matt, who also attended Florida State, and who was a large part of the reason I’d decided on a college so far away from my home in New Jersey.

  It was late August and I’d just arrived on campus in Tallahassee. Matt rented a house off campus near the football stadium and invited me over for a tailgate party before the game. Rob was there, along with two other friends whom he had invited down from Virginia, where he had spent much of his childhood.