But losing her made me an idiot. A mindless, empty, lost idiot without enough sense to even watch TV. My promotion was sudden and unexpected but thankfully only parts of it appear to have been permanent.
On Tuesday night, as the officers stood in my living room, I called work, Cheryl and my sister, Leslie. I talked to both of my boys, Ben and John. John automatically assumed that the police were here about B and seemed to take everything very calmly. He then proceeded to message their father to tell him that I needed to talk to him, so I got a call from Doug that night and told him. I told my sister that I would call our mother but mom picked up on the vibe and called Leslie just late enough that Leslie assumed that she knew. I got a call from my mother Tuesday night too.
That’s everyone who knew (from me, at least) when I went to bed Tuesday night. Wednesday would be a different story.
I wanted her work to know as soon as I could because she had clients lined up with massage appointments that afternoon. Cheryl took me into the center so I could tell her manager that she was gone. We were still assuming it was domestic violence and I wanted to talk to one of the owners who knew the truth about what happened in January. They weren’t available so I sat down with Jonathan (who has turned out to be a really cool guy) to give him the news. I know that her co-workers had several sessions together to help them process their grief together but I wasn’t part of any of that.
I was alive – breathing, talking, moving – but I was weak and empty inside. The detective told me to get a small notebook to carry with me so I could write things down because the shock will make you forget everything. I carried my notebook around like a talisman for weeks, but almost never wrote a thing in it. You need the presence of mind to realize that something’s important to remember in order to kick into the gear that writes it down. I rarely had that much mind power available to me. The few questions that I did manage to write down to remember to ask the detective, he couldn’t answer for me anyway.
Who owned the gun?
Were B’s hands tested for gunpowder residue at the scene?
I wish I could share details about that day, but I was a full-blown idiot by 1 pm and can only recall flashes. I know I made phone calls. I tried to reach people. I made a list. I had to send friend requests to some people on Facebook because I didn’t have her phone or computer and had no way to contact them.
Making the phone calls is unreal. I felt like a disease. Like I had pain and suffering tied in a package to give all these nice people and they had no idea what was coming. It sucked. I devastated people I care about and people I barely know. I have no information, only a very confusing story that still isn’t completely resolved. I can tell them she’s gone. Tell them she was shot. Tell them he was there. Tell them he told the police it was suicide. The rest is up to them.
Most people knew about January. About how he should have been rotting in prison for 10 years for what he did to her instead of going to her counseling appointment with her. I was having mental breakdowns every time I saw the word “suicide” connected to her name, so you can’t blame folks for thinking he was guilty and getting away with it.
My sister drove out and was with me Wednesday evening. That was nice. She was not an idiot. She was amazing. She helped me make calls and I wish I’d had the presence of mind to give her more names and numbers instead of asking my father, Faerin’s estranged grandfather, to handle them.
I asked my father to tell his family; my cousins, uncle, aunt and the like. I guess he tried to make calls but when it proved hard to connect he sent out this mass email instead:
“We just heard the Faren, Kya’s oldest is dead.
The death is being investigated. It may be suicide or murder.
Right now Leslie is with Kya. I will visit them tomorrow.
She was a smart, beautiful person beset with depression and some poor choices.
Please keep Kya and her family in your thoughts and prayers.”
He misspelled her name.
He blamed her for both possible causes of death and misspelled his own granddaughter’s beautiful, fucking name.
At least I know idiocy runs in the family.