The Letter by Marie Tillman

Author:Marie Tillman [Tillman, Marie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781455505609
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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The day of my dinner with Kelly and her friends, a couple of forensic experts contacted Dannie and offered to review Pat’s autopsy report. I wanted to advance our search for the truth, but I was also suspicious. Since Pat’s death, it seemed like hordes of people had descended to offer their assistance when really they were looking to capitalize in some way on Pat’s name or image. Reporters, writers, lawyers, filmmakers—everybody wanted in on the Tillman story. It had made me deeply mistrustful and guarded, and I felt the seriousness of my role as the guardian of Pat’s legacy each day. He’d trusted me, and I was extremely protective of him. I was afraid that his autopsy was going to get out somehow, or that photos were going to leak and show up on the Internet. I didn’t want that for my sake and Pat’s family’s sake, but I especially didn’t want it for Pat’s sake. I was figuring it all out as I went, and after some deliberation, I declined to give the forensic experts authorization unless they agreed to sign a nondisclosure agreement.

Alex was an enormous help during this period, fielding calls for me and generally doing whatever he could to protect me. But still, the stream of attorneys, investigators, and journalists, the long calls with Dannie, and the painful paperwork wore on me, slowing down my express train. I wanted them to all go away. Pat was gone, and I needed to focus on accepting a life without him. I kept Pat’s good-bye letter to me in a drawer in my bed stand, and on a nearly nightly basis, I would take it out of its envelope and let him tell me to live. He wouldn’t want to see me stuck. He wanted me to have a life.

It would be easier to have a life if I could soak up a little sunshine, I reasoned. February in New York City is cold—much colder than in Washington—so when Maura invited me to go to the Caribbean with her and a group of other women, I accepted. We stayed in a beautiful house overlooking the beach, lounged in the sun all day, then danced all night. One night we met a group of young guys, and we danced with them for hours, saying little more over the pulsing music than “Sure, I’ll have another Pacifico.” I felt light—lighter than I’d felt in a long, long time.

I returned home to find a uniformed officer at my door who wanted to brief me about the next level of investigations into Pat’s death—hearings before Congress. My first thought was Oh god, I hope none of my neighbors saw him. I didn’t want them to ask questions about why a military officer would be waiting to talk to me. I wanted to be their young blonde neighbor who worked in the media and danced on the beach—not a tragic widow mired in investigations.

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