Chapter Twelve
One of the things I truly hate about my position is it leaves little room for personal grieving, or for incorporating anyone you wish into how you grieve.
The funeral is held eight days after their deaths. The children were moved yesterday, while we were all attending a memorial service at the college where Tory worked as a researcher. Last night they spent their first night as the newest White House residents.
Kev stayed over, presumably in his bedroom, but once the children were asleep he joined us in ours, where he and I held Chris between us as he finally was able to let go and cry in heartbreaking sobs while we comforted him.
Today, as we sit at the graveside with Chris, I’m painfully aware of every telephoto lens, every camera, every cell phone pointed at us. Capturing the grief of three precious children, their grandparents, and us.
Chris holds Hudson in his lap, while I sit on his left, and Ivy and Myla sit on his right, with Shawna and Hudson Harris on the other side of them. Kev sits on my left, and I have to keep reminding myself not to reach over for his hand. Lauren sits on his left, and I could kiss that woman for being here today and supporting us. I don’t have to feel as guilty for leaving Kev out of public displays of affection. Leo sits directly behind me, next to Elliot.
I keep my right arm draped around Chris, and my left hand holding Hudson’s.
I’m still in shock, in some ways, even though I know I can’t show my true emotions. I have to keep them tightly capped and only express what the public will agree is an acceptable level of emotion without dipping into what might get labeled as histrionics or melodrama.
I’m now a mom. Not taking them isn’t an option I even considered. They’re our kids now, and I will fiercely protect them, and love them, and try to give them as good of a life as I can.
If I could graduate from high school a couple of years early, followed by college and law school, and end up president…I should be able to figure out how to be a mom.
It’s a full military funeral, because Charles was an Army vet, but they are being buried next to each other.
I know tomorrow’s front pages will show a picture of Chris standing and holding Hudson on his hip, both of them saluting Charles coffin. Or else it will be a picture of Chris’ tears as he wept when the officer knelt and presented him and Hudson and the girls with the folded flag that had adorned Charles’ coffin.
I’m honored that State Senator Benchley Evans is in attendance, accompanied by his son-in-law, Susa’s husband, Carter. Benchley was a dear friend of Momma’s, way back when, even from before they were both serving as senators together in the Florida state legislature.
Before that, Momma and Benchley worked for the same law firm. Benchley’s wife, Michelle, stayed home because she’s recovering from the flu and not feeling up to traveling. They attended my inauguration, but that was so crazy, and my attention was pulled in so many directions, that I was barely able to do more than say hello to them and hug them. I’d hoped to have a little time with Benchley during the inauguration. He gave us crucial advice during my campaign, sitting down with Kevin several times, as well as pulling a few strings to get support for me from moderate GOP supporters who were sick of Fullmer and his far-right Evangelical minority base.
Chris, Kevin, Carter, and Owen have become quite close over the past several years, and not just because Carter and Kevin bounce ideas off each other and have formulated tactics lethal to the political opposition. They are also members of an exclusive club of powerful men who love powerful women, and who have secrets to keep.
During the last several years, I’ve reconnected with and become closer to Benchley, and his wife. Momma named them my godparents when I was born, but since I grew up mostly in Tallahassee and their house was outside of Brandon, I barely knew them and they felt more like distant relatives. I remember spending time with them when I was a little kid. Once Benchley was elected to state office and serving in Tallahassee, I was usually too busy with my own studies and life to spend much time with him and Michelle.
There will be a wake after the graveside service, but I’m not going. That would be a security nightmare. It’s already enough of one for Chris and the kids, but Lauren and Kevin will be with them. Chris made that call after I left the decision up to him.
I’m not sure if it was husband Chris who decided that, Uncle Chris who’s now Chris the dad, First Spouse Mr. Bruunt, Special Agent Bruunt, or Priest, but it doesn’t matter—it was his call to make. The kids have been through enough, and will already be uprooted. I want Tory’s parents and Chris able to visit with family and friends without half an army surrounding them.
I’ve already said goodbye to Chris and the kids and Tory’s parents, and they are making their way toward their limos. Carter is having a brief private chat with Kevin before they head toward the motorcade. Elliot, Leo, and other key staffers have already departed, some on their way back to the White House.
I turn to Benchley. “You are still coming to the White House for dinner tonight, right?” I’ve wanted him and his wife to come up for a visit, but something always gets in the way, usually my schedule.
Benchley flashes me the winning smile that served him so well throughout his political career. “Can I ask a favor, President Samuels?”
I smile back. “Depends. I’m not allowed to nuke anyone, or so I’ve been told. And you can call me Shae. You’ve known me since I was a baby.”
He glances around and leans in, dropping his voice. “Can I ride back with you now? Please? I’m tired, and I can send Carter on to the wake. I’d love to be able to say I rode in a presidential motorcade at least once in my life.”
This I can do. He and Carter both have already been cleared for full access to us and the White House. It’s the least I can do for an old family friend.
“Absolutely, Senator Evans.” I grin and hold out my arm for him to take. We almost lost him years ago to a serious heart attack, so I’m grateful for his presence now. My path to the White House was definitely smoothed by his sage wisdom about Floridian voters and politics. Kevin has him on speed-dial, I think.
“I’m so proud of you, Shae,” he says as we slowly make our way at his speed down the hill toward The Beast with a circle of Secret Service agents surrounding us at a discreet distance. “Your momma…” He chokes up. “She’d be proud of you, too.”
I blink back tears. “Thanks, Benchley.”
Once we’re alone and underway, he sighs. “I have to be honest—I hope SusieJo decides she doesn’t want to go any farther than governor.”
“Why?” That’s surprising, considering Benchley is a major GOP operative in Florida. Benchley is the last person I ever would have thought I’d hear words like that from. He would have run for governor himself had it not been for the heart attack. Michelle put her foot down and ended his career as an elected official once his final term in the state Senate elapsed.
Didn’t end his involvement in politics, though, and he’s still a kick-ass attorney and political operative, although he’s mostly retired from law practice.
“I don’t have to tell you this is a hard life,” he says. “It’s a lonely life.” He chokes up, which moves me because he’s not a man prone to emotion like this. “It’s a life of secrets, and she’s got more than enough on her plate already. Stress like that ages you faster than anything. I can only imagine what would happen if she ran for a national office.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s part of the reason why your mom didn’t run for US Senate.” He looks at me, and there’s something deeper in his gaze.
It makes me shiver.
He continues. “You’re a mom now.” I watch him dab at his eyes with a handkerchief. “And I have a promise to keep.”
I shiver again, remembering a promise of my own. “What promise?”
“I promised your mother I’d give you something if you ever became a mom. Or, that it’d be given to you when I died.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, withdraws a small letter-sized envelope, and holds it out to me.
I stare at it. On it, written in my mother’s distinctive script, is her nickname for me.
Sunflower
I can’t bring myself to reach for it yet. Instead, I look him in the eyes. “What is this?”
“You need to read it.” He sighs. “Like I said, politics is a life of secrets. Some of them deeper and older than others. They get deeper the higher you ascend.”
For a moment, I wonder if he knows.
We have about forty-five minutes before we reach the White House, but I have a feeling whatever this is will shake me to my core.
Finally, I take it from him and force myself to open it. It’s written in her hand, in blue ink, before Alzheimer’s started stealing her life a piece at a time. I wonder if she wrote it with her favorite pen, the one I gave her that she always used, the one that now sits in a pen holder on my desk where I can see it every day and remember her.
Sunflower,
As I write this, you’ve just graduated law school. Last night, after your graduation party, you came home and we shared a glass of wine and laughed and I have never in my life been more proud of you.
I’m writing this now because I was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I haven’t told you yet because I didn’t want to add extra stress on you or spoil your graduation. It’s only a matter of time before I can’t tell you any of this, however, so I’m setting things in motion now.
You claim you never want kids. I respect that. I know how life can take us in different directions than we expect, though. You might one day meet a guy who coaxes you to change your mind.
I don’t know the circumstances under which you’ve received this note. If you’re receiving it, it means I’m not alive, or at the very least I’m not lucid, because I’d be telling you this myself. The man who’s given you this note, or who you’ve just inherited it from, was personally given explicit instructions by me to present it to you himself if he was alive and you became a mom. Or to pass it on to you with an accompanying note from him upon his death.
I don’t know where you are in life right now, if you became president, or if you ever sought office at all and decided to practice law. I don’t know if you’re still in Florida or some exotic locale and living an exciting life.
All I know is that I hope you are blessed and happy and fulfilled. And becoming a mom is a terrifying journey.
There are things I never told you, things I never could tell you. They are things you need to know, because they are key pieces of your past.
I’ve lied to you, Sunflower. And I hated to do it. I hated like hell. But I had to do it. I did it even when this man begged me to tell you part of it, once you turned eighteen.
The first lie is that there wasn’t an accident—there was an on-purpose. The sonofabitch I was married to was beating me, lying to me, abusing me. He was a drunk and a schemer, and I didn’t know it until after I married him. I wanted to be a mom, an attorney, maybe even governor.
He changed after I married him, and made me afraid, terrified.
When I called in for work one too many times, a friend of mine was notified and he came to check on me. This man is important, Sunflower. This man saved me when I hit my rock-bottom and thought I’d ruined my life.
This man is really your biological father. He had even more to lose than I did, and he took a huge risk by helping me. A risk in many ways. A risk that he freely offered to take, that I let him take, a risk I accept multiple layers of guilt for taking, and that I would do again because I got to be your mom.
There’s a reason I never went farther in state government—I didn’t want further scrutiny on my life. As of when I write this letter, you don’t yet know one of the reasons, and I will keep that reason from you as long as I possibly can so I don’t add extra stress on you right now. The second reason was because of fear of discovery of a secret from my past, and this other man will tell you about that.
I knew I couldn’t risk it. I proved to myself what I needed to, I proved to you what was possible, and I know that I made good differences in our state. I wanted to leave you a good example, not a scandal that might taint your future by my ancient actions.
Hopefully, what I did with my life is enough to offset choices I made years ago.
I hope this man is still alive. He stood back and silently watched from afar, helping only when I would let him, and let a dead, drunk, abusive asshole take credit for giving you life. I want him to finally be able to take credit for the selfless love he’s shown you all these years. And he has. He’s been there in ways big and small, for both of us, while having to maintain a distance because the last thing I would ever do would be to harm him or his other loved ones.
Because of his sacrifices, Sunflower, I have you. You were my greatest joy, my greatest achievement, and the light of my life, baby.
I’m proud of you, and I want you to finally know the truth. I owe it to him. I owe everything to him.
And so do you.
I love you,
Momma.