How Do I Say Goodbye?

I asked some friends to help me create a character for a story. I took their suggestions and wrote. Here are their contributions, followed by the story that came from them.

1. Answered: male
2. Partly answered: nickname "Mac" still need first name.
3. Answered: Last name McAvoy
4. Answered: 50 years old
5. Answered: Hair turning silver with blue eyes.
6. Answered: Inner city Detroit
7. Answered: Recently widowed with a grandson to look after
8. Answered: Sheriff/Law Enforcement Officer
9. Answered: Good trait- somewhat like Sheriff Andy Taylor (Griffith)
10. Answered: Not-so-good trait - may cross the line if needed (Longmire)
11. Answered: Problem - Lost wife after 27 years of marriage.
12. Answered: How is the character dealing with the problem - Sheriff Mac has not dealt with the death of his wife. However, his 3 year old grandson is forcing the issue. He begins to have flashbacks of his wife and his daughter who also died Together in the car crash. The father of the 3 year old has not been seen since learning of the pregnancy 4 years ago.
When all the questions are answered, my assignment is to write a short story based on the character we have created together.

How Do I Say Goodbye?

By Phil Ruby

Sean “Mac” McAvoy stood looking at his grandson, Jacob, whom he always called Jake. His brow narrowed, his eyes got misty and his jaw clinched as he tried to answer the questions the three-year-old boy had just asked. It had been six months since the death of his Mac’s wife, Marianne, and his daughter, Laura, in the car crash. Jake was Laura’s only child. Mac had not really dealt with the loss. He threw himself into his work and drank himself to sleep most nights after Jake went to bed. Despite the advice of all his men and others in the Sheriff’s office, as well as the department’s counselor, Mac had not allowed himself to go through the grieving process. He was stuck in the anger stage, internalizing it until he had nearly destroyed his health. He moved quickly past the denial stage, having been in law enforcement for thirty years. He had seen plenty of death and knew there was no use in denying that it had ripped apart his own family.

The fifty-year-old Mac’s once reddish-blonde hair had almost all turned to silver. His blue eyes glistened with the forming tears as he took his grandson firmly, but gently by the shoulders.

The boy spoke again, with a quiver in his voice, “Grandpa, are mommy and grandma ever coming home?”

Maybe the young Jake had a lot of his grandfather in him, getting stuck in the denial stage of grief, even though the deaths were explained to him by the counselor months before.

The questions welled up in Mac’s chest and formed a hard lump right in the middle of his gut. The questions were forcing Mac to move on through the stages of grief. He asked himself, “What if I had seen the signs earlier?” and “Why didn’t I react sooner?” He began to ask God to bring them back, knowing that could not happen.

“Jake,” Mac finally spoke, trying to control his voice, “Do you believe in God – in heaven?”

“Mommy told me about them,” Jake said, his eyes lighting up for a moment, “Heaven is a place where nobody gets sick or hurt, and God takes care of them forever!” Then Jake slumped, his eyes fell to the floor. “That’s where mommy and grandma are, isn’t it? They are not coming back. Are they?”

Those seven words in his grandfather’s question were all Jake needed to understand, finally. Only his grandpa could settle the issue, no matter what anyone else had told him. Jake had somehow, through the magic of youth, leaped all the way to acceptance.

Mac, however would still need some processing.

Seven months earlier

Mac McAvoy sat as his desk in the Wayne County Sheriff’s Department in Detroit, Michigan. He was in charge of the Special Response Team (SRT), responsible for the handling of critical incidents and high-risk operations in a manner that reduces the chance of violence, injury, or death. The day was routine so far, with little for the specialized tactical officers except to keep up their continued training on tactical weapons and scenarios, play cards and chew the fat. Routine, that is, until the call came from the Sheriff that there was a hostage situation on the west side of town in a hospital emergency room.

The team rolled quickly, grabbing gear, suiting up with body armor and helmets, and piling into the truck they called the “bread truck” unofficially. When they arrived at the facility, it was surrounded by city police, other Sheriff units, an FBI unit, and a town councilman asking too many questions.

“Get him out of the way!” Mac yelled, pointing at the politician, “Where are the feds?”

Mac knew that if the FBI was involved they would assume control of the situation and be giving out orders. The federal agent met Mac halfway flashing his badge and beginning to tell Mac what to do. Mac, a usually soft-spoken, calm individual who didn’t like to yell at anyone could take on his aggressive side when needed.

“Before you start,” Mac interrupted, “We are the Wayne County SRT. We’re handling this. We’ve been called in the sheriff, and if you have any questions or comments, he’ll be here shortly, I’m sure.”

Mac’s forcefulness took the agent by surprise, as he stepped back for a moment to gather his thoughts. This was obviously a young agent on his first, or one of his first, assignments. Mac moved on toward the city cars, asking the police chief about the details of the situation.

We have two men with semi-automatic handguns, two each, I believe,” said the chief, Robert Donovan, “and loaded down with clips. They entered the ER shortly after noon demanding to remove a gunshot victim from the premises. They thought they were going to get in and out with him before any law enforcement showed up, it seems. They faced resistance from one very tough lady, the head nurse.”

“My wife,” Mac said nodding his head, “Has she…has anyone been hurt?”

“There has been no gunfire so far,” Robert said, “but when we had one of the armed men on the phone earlier I heard some of the staff in the background screaming about the men damaging some of the medical equipment and putting patients’ lives in danger.”

“We have maps of the building and my men are moving in now,” Mac said, “We’ll get this thing over with and do it without anyone getting hurt.” Mac said it with the confidence he always displayed. Whether he truly believed it or not was anyone’s guess.

One month later

“It always makes me nervous when you leave for work,” Marianne said, her arms around Mac’s neck,” she gave him a kiss.

“Things have been quiet for a while now,” Mac said, “ever since…”

“Ever since you and your men came riding on your white horses and rescued me, and everyone else at the hospital?” Marianne said smiling, “You know I never would have imagined you’d be coming to see me at work!” She was trying to joke, but she was afraid.

The two men they took into custody without incident glared at Marianne on their way out. One of them, called “Chalk” by the other, had said to her, “We’ve got friends. They’ll be looking for you.” He was referring to the fact that Marianne had detained them long enough for the police to arrive.

“Look,” Mac said, “I know you’re worried, and I am too. That’s why my friends at DPD have extra patrols in the neighborhood. Some of the guys are even coming by in their off-duty hours to keep an eye on the house. Are you planning to go anywhere today?”

“Laura and I are going to shop for Jacob’s birthday party!” Marianne said excitedly, “He’s turning three this coming Saturday, you know!”

“Let me know where you are. I’ll try to get away and meet you two for lunch,” Mac said with a smile, “Jake’s at Amy’s, I assume?”

“Yes,” Marianne nodded, “He begged me to go. I think your sister would keep him if we let her. He plays so well with Bradley!”

Another kiss, and Mac was out the door. Marianne looked out, up and down the street, and waved at Fred, the off-duty cop that Mac had gotten to follow her if she went anywhere. The two who had held the ER staff and patients hostage a month before were behind bars, but they had ties to a local drug gang, and had threatened Mac’s wife. He wasn’t taking any chances.

On his way up the street, Mac noticed a car moving slowly. He took note, but it was a late-model car and the two men inside were dressed in casual business attire, and going by he saw a laptop and some papers in the back seat. “Probably insurance salesmen or realtors,” he thought to himself. He glanced into his rear-view to make sure Fred was still watching.

Noon

Mac’s phone rang. “That must be the gals telling me where to meet them for lunch,” Mac said to a couple of his team sitting nearby. “Hello!”

“Dad!” the voice on the other end was shaking and he heard sobs.

“Laura!” Mac said, “What’s wrong?!”

“We’ve been in a bad car crash! I’ve called 911!” Laura said, her voice getting weaker as she spoke, “Dad! Mom’s not breathing! I’m bleeding! Trapped in the car!”

Mac could not speak at first. He was gathering his thoughts. Ordinarily he would have quizzed about location and informed the main office about the call immediately. This was not ordinary. This was his daughter, and his wife.

“Dad,” Laura said, her voice trailing, “If I don’t make it,”

“Stop that!” Mac said firmly, “You hang on! They’re coming to help you!”

“Take care of Ja….” Silence

Mac called out over and over, but there was no response. He contacted the 911 center, found out the location of the crash and headed there as quickly as possible. The ambulances, fire department and city police were on the scene. The bodies of Mac’s wife and daughter were being put into separate ambulances, pronounced dead at the crash. Marianne’s car was over a small embankment, piled up against a large concrete pillar that supported the Interstate Highway just overhead. There was no sign of skid marks nor evidence of another vehicle involvement. It looked to the detectives like a single car accident. It was concluded that the driver, Mac’s wife, must have been distracted and ran off the road, killing both the occupants of the vehicle.

Mac could not get the fact out of his head that the perpetrator at the hospital ER had threatened his wife. He spent the next couple of months trying to convince the prosecuting attorney to investigate the possibility that Marianne and Laura had been run off the road by one of “Chalk’s” associates in crime. No evidence was found, and Mac was ordered by a judge to cease and desist any attempts to investigate further, in an official capacity as an officer of the Sheriff’s Department of Wayne County. Mac tendered his resignation immediately upon hearing that judgment, and began an investigation with the help of a private detective. Spending his days talking to the PI and his nights in a drunken stupor, Mac was missing meals, missing sleep, and missing his life.

Six months later

Mac looked at his grandson, kissed him on the forehead, and said, “We’re going to be all right.”

Four nights earlier

Mac had gotten a tip from his private investigator that the one called “Chalk”, nicknamed because of the chalk lines of dead bodies he had been responsible for in the city, was released from jail along with his partner. Mac was also told of their hiding location. He crept out late at night alone, drove to a block away from where the assailants were supposedly hiding, and walked through backyards to the house. He held a tactical flashlight and wore his holstered 9mm pistol at his side. He also had on his bullet proof vest. He crept near the back door of the residence and began making noise, throwing rocks at the back door and yelling.

Noises came from inside the house. Mac stood in the alley, off the premises and waited. The back door flew open, obviously kicked or shoved from inside. Then a face slowly appeared, then another.

“Come on out!” Mac called, shining his light at the back door, nearly blinding the two..

“Who are you? What do you want?” one of them demanded.

“I am…or was, the director of the Wayne County Sheriff’s Strategic Response Team,” Mac shouted.  “I also am…or was, the husband of Marianne McAvoy and the father of Laura McAvoy. Do you know those names?”

“Sorry!” the voice shouted, “I can’t help you.”

“You ordered one of your boys to run them off the road out under the Interstate,” Mac shouted. “They both died in the crash. Now I’m here to take you in for conspiracy to commit murder.”

“By yourself?” the voice called out. “And you are no longer with the sheriff’s department? I’d say you’re out of luck, pal!”

Shots were fired from the door and window out into the alley. In the next seconds, lights blared from up and down the alley and bullets riddled the back of the house. The SRT had come to back him up under the instructions of the new head. As Mac stood there, never having fired a shot, he was approached by a few of his old crew.

“They fired the first shots, sir,” one of them said.

“You don’t have to call me sir, anymore,” Mac said. “I’m not your boss anymore.”

“You will always have my respect and admiration, sir,” the young man said, “and as far as I’m concerned, you will always be ‘sir’ to me.”

Four days later

Mac looked once more on his young grandson, who had already started to play with his toy cars. He went outside, sat down on the back stoop, and cried. He cried until he had no more tears. Then he looked up, and said, “God, how do I say goodbye?”