The Day.

It’s interesting, really, how I became a writer. And even more interesting how writing would play such a major role in grieving Toby’s death. I’m educated as a designer. I have a BFA in Graphic Design and an MFA in Advertising Design. In all those years of schooling I think I took one writing class. So when I went to interview at Erwin Penland in October of 2009, I never imagined being a writer. I was applying for a Senior Design position in the their studio. I had my book, cover letter, resume neatly organized. New pants and shoes, I was ready to nail this interview. Long story short, the Creative Director interviewing me sat across the table and within minutes announced that I should be a writer. Huh? There was denial on my part, persistence on his, and 45 minutes later I walked out a Junior Copywriter. Walk in hoping to be a Sr. Designer, walk out a Jr. Copywriter. Who the hell does that happen too? A blessing I wouldn’t realize for about a year.

After Toby died my mind flooded with words. It was as if all my thoughts were constructed to be written. So I started writing. I kept a journal in my bag. I have a voice recording app on my phone. Words just raced out of my mind and onto paper, and it made me feel better. So I kept writing.

THE DAY.
My twin brother sat in his car, quiet. Silence everywhere except inside his head. I was 3000 miles away living loudly. Drinks with friends, laughter and tears of joy. I don’t know if he cried, but if so, they were tears of a sadness that I could never comprehend. As he raised the gun to his head, I said cheers surrounded by smiling friends and hot pizza. I wouldn’t know that he pulled the trigger for another 18 hours.

Two men dressed in their Class A’s got out of their car and slowly walked to my parents front door. My mothers was unaware of their presence, my father was out running errands. They knocked for what must have been a lifetime for them. My mom thought it was the usual Saturday morning visit from the Jehovah’s Witness, but if only. When she finally opened the door she said very little. “You’re here about my son.” They quietly replied “Yes ma’am.” I imagine the tone of her voice changing. I see the color leave her face, I see the mens eyes fall to the floor. “But he’s in Alaska, he’s home from Afghanistan.” Once again a piercing “Yes Ma’am” slipped from their lips and stabbed her in the heart.

By the time my older brother arrived at the house, my father was ghostly white. My mothers face was soaked in tears and two men sat stiff in their dress uniforms. He had been at his daughters soccer game down the street from my parents house. My mother called and told to come now. He immediately knew something terrible was wrong. He rushed to my parents house. With each step from his car to the door he was trying to figure out what was going on. First, he saw Louie the dog, he was fine. Then he entered the house and saw my father, visual torn apart and broken. He saw my mother, and unlike me, he knew it was Toby. It would then become his job to hold up our family.

The conversation quickly turned to me. I was 2000 miles away rushing through the house preparing to go to the last Blue Ridge Roller Girls bout of 2010. I was 5 minutes from walking out the door when the phone range.

It’s not normal for my mother to call during the day on a Saturday. As a hairdresser, Saturdays are generally her busier days. A daytime phone call on Wednesday would not be as suspicious. She often calls when she’s spotted a great sale, or stumbled across something she thinks I might need. But not on a Saturday at 2 PM. Her voice let me know immediately that something was wrong. My first thought was that something had happened to my father. “What’s wrong with Daddy?” I asked. Her voice was slow and painful to listen to, “it’s not your father.” It was easy to tell that she had been crying. “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?” I asked. Much like my mother, I thought Toby was safe. He was home. He was not at war. So he never entered my mind.

“It’s Toby.” What must it have been like to call me? To be a loving mother wrecked by the tragic loss of her son, now forced to call his twin sister and deliver the crushing news. “What’s wrong with him?” My voice has now changed. There was concern in my voice before. But now my heart is pounding. Racing. I’m already leaning back against the front door for support. “He’s dead,” she whispered. I collapsed and screamed in one uncontrolled move. I couldn’t even hear myself screaming. Ten feet away from my mother sat my older brother Tracy who head every scream on the other end of the line. Before I knew what was happening I had fallen to the floor and jammed my head into a corner and began to weep loudly and uncontrollably. “He killed himself last night” my mother tearfully cried.

“NO. NO HE DIDN’T. MY BROTHER WOULDN’T DO THAT. HE WOULDN’T. THIS IS NOT TRUE. YOU STOP. YOU STOP SAYING THAT.” I know I continued to scream, but I have no idea what I said. My six-foot tall frame took up a meager square of space in the doorway, head first into a corner surrounded by hanging jackets and bags. The world around my was suddenly not mine any longer. I shook uncontrollably, tears raced down my cheeks and I just screamed. Kelly would later meekly tell me that I had repeatedly called my mother a liar. That over and over while my mother cried I called her a liar.

My mother asked to talk to Kelly, my partner of 8+ years. I had become so unglued that I couldn’t hear her. I handed the phone to Kelly and went outside on the porch to smoke. I couldn’t smoke. I was crying and shaking so much that I literally couldn’t inhale. I paced back and forth across the porch shaking my head and chanting, “it’s not true.” But it was.

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