The country is fixated, however, on the images of our grief, on the outpouring of sympathy, not just from government officials and lawmakers, but from the media.
And my poll numbers go up.
Which…I haaaate that this isthe reason. I’d gladly drop out of the fucking election if we had Lauren back.
I can’t help feeling…guilty. I mean, we don’t have a suspect in custody, there’s no sign of her credit cards being used—nothing.
If it’s simply another random tragedy, I’m not sure how to get over that.
They still haven’t found the driver who killed Charles and Tory, and this pulls all of that pain not only to thesurface for Chris, the kids, and myself, but also it dredges up that story for newscasters to remind everyone no, that driver is still unknown and at large.
It’s not…fair.
I call Benchley the night before the funeral and cry in his ear. Susa and Carter are coming for the funeral tomorrow, but now he’s just getting over the flu, and the doctors said he really shouldn’t travel. Tomorrow morning,we’re holding a service in the Washington National Cathedral, and then a motorcade to Andrews to fly her coffin and her parents home to Montana. There, we’ll have another church service, followed by the graveside funeral.
But at least Benchley calms me down, comforts me.
“Sweetie, one of the worst parts about wielding the kind of power you do is finding out you’re still powerless in the waysthat count. I don’t have any pithy advice that will help you. All I can tell you is that Kevin will need you guys. He’ll probably push you away out of fear for the optics, but you know what? Fuck that. This isyourlife. Sometimes, you have to worry about the people, not the pictures. Don’t stress him out, but love him as best you can.”
As I lie awake that night and stare at the ceiling, I hatethat I know he’s absolutely right.
