Chapter 1
Angels in heaven, hear my plea. Take care of my baby, just for me.
—Unknown
ON JULY 17, 2014, I WAS working my job as a train operator for the New York Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA). I had just driven to Queens and was taking a break when my phone started blowing up. Calls, messages—they just kept coming. I was underground and totally unaware of the happenings in the bustling city above. I could tell from the sheer volume of messages that something was wrong, but I was working and couldn’t get the whole story. Something about my son, Eric. I called my husband, Ben, and said, “I just heard that something happened to Eric. I’m not sure what’s going on. Can you meet me at Stillwell Station? I’m on my way there now.”
I climbed back into the train and headed that way, my mind racing. I wasn’t allowed to check my phone while I was driving, and the suspense was making me a nervous wreck. I still hadn’t figured out exactly what had happened to my son. Then I realized that I was rocking back and forth, trying to will the train to go faster. I could feel the anxiety building up inside me. When I arrived at the station, I was alarmed to see Ben standing in the office waiting for me. “What are you doing up here? You can’t be in here. I’ll get in trouble. I told you to meet me downstairs.” I was furious that he was breaking the rules at my job.
“Gwen, it’s OK. They let me in. You won’t be in trouble. I told them that you needed to get home.”
I was still confused, and I had a strange feeling in my stomach. When we got downstairs, I started questioning him nonstop. “What’s going on? Did you hear anything? What happened to Eric?”
He said, “We’re headed to the hospital to see him. He should be there now.”
“Hospital? What do you mean he should be there? I don’t understand! We need to call somebody to find out exactly what happened!”
“Make sure to put your seatbelt on,” he said.
“I have my seatbelt on. I just—” Just then his phone rang. I couldn’t hear what the person on the other end was saying, but I could tell by the look on his face that it was bad. “Was that about Eric?”
“Yeah, he’s there, so we’re going to the hospital to see him now.”
I tried to calm myself down. “OK, but what did they say?” He was silent. “Is anything wrong with my son? Tell me! Tell me!”
He looked at me, and I saw tears streaming down his face, something I’d never seen before. I was truly getting scared.
“Gwen, Eric is dead.”
I don’t remember much after that. He told me later I was flailing my arms and legs, trying to kick the door open and bust out the window. I was a mother in pain. He had to turn on the automatic locks to keep me safe. He had tried to reason with me: “Gwen, we will be there soon! Please leave the door alone!”
I’m not sure what was going through my mind, but I do recall thinking that if I could just get out of the car, I could run faster. I could get to my son. I could help him. My boy needed me. My mind was spinning. This couldn’t be happening again. It couldn’t be real. I couldn’t have lost another child. There had to be some explanation.
On the way to the hospital, Ben tried to get assistance from a police officer. He was of no help, but at the time I didn’t understand his reluctance. When we got to the hospital, they told Ben that I couldn’t go in since I was obviously in no condition to see Eric. We went home so that we could try to find out what had happened. I remember sitting in the living room just feeling numb, not sure what was going on. Nothing was making sense to me. Everything around me seemed to be moving really fast and in slow motion all at once. It was like my senses couldn’t comprehend what was happening around me.
I tried a trick that I had heard about on some TV show. I needed something to focus on, so I chose Eric’s graduation photo, which was displayed on the wall in a neat row along with mine and those of my two other biological children, Emery and Ellisha. As I looked at Eric’s beaming face, I remembered how proud I was of my firstborn that day. Then I focused on my breathing. As I continued to focus on the photo, I took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and exhaled. Then I turned my attention to my right foot. Still looking at the photo, I squeezed it and then relaxed it, then moved on to the left foot. This sounded silly when I heard it, but at this moment it gave me a sense of control. My mind was focused on one small task, and that brought me a brief sense of calm.
Just then the front door slammed shut, yanking me back into the harsh world I was trying to escape. Family members kept coming by in a steady stream, and that damn front door slammed each time, causing me to jump in my seat. The relaxation was short lived, and once again I was a nervous wreck. My mind was like a pressure cooker as I relived the moments leading up to this point. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.
We kept getting bits of information. Police. Cigarettes. Choke-hold. Sidewalk. Something happened over on Bay Street in Staten Island, and news in the community travels real fast, especially bad news. I couldn’t make much sense of it, but I knew that something horrible had happened because news reporters began showing up at the house. Just a few hours ago, I was driving the train at work, and now there were reporters outside, all wanting to talk with us. It was a whirlwind, and everything was happening so fast that the family wasn’t sure what to do, what to say, or who to talk to.
Finally, my brother-in-law announced that he thought we should let one reporter in and ask him to print exactly what we told him. That way he felt that at least we would have some control over the message that would apparently be all over the news judging by the number of crews that had gathered outside, constantly asking us for comment whenever someone would enter or leave. The reporter who was chosen came in and talked to each of us. We gave our statements and asked him whether he would show us what he planned to print. He seemed very respectful and promised that he would write exactly what we had said. We thanked him for doing that and walked him to the door. Just then he stopped and turned around.
“There’s one thing that I want to tell you before you see it on the news tomorrow morning. We have it as an exclusive.”
“What do you mean?” Ben asked.
“There’s a video of the incident.”
Back in the day, we referred to the downtown area as “South Brooklyn,” and that’s where I grew up. I was born in 1949 at Cumberland Hospital on 39 Auburn Place. That beautiful, historic building located near Fort Greene Park was also the birthplace of some famous folks like Michael Jordan, Mike Tyson, and Spike Lee. The hospital served the community well, and practically everyone in the area was born there, knew someone who worked there, or had a relative pass away there. It closed in the 1980s and is now used by the city as a homeless shelter.
When I would walk by there as a child, I would often imagine all the events that took place inside those red brick walls. I’d smile thinking about the adorable little babies that were being born to excited, hopeful young couples. I’d imagine what it was like when people were getting sad news about being sick, and how excited they would be when they got better. Then I’d get a slight shiver thinking about the ones who passed away, hoping that wouldn’t happen in my family for a long time. It was like we were all on loan from that place, like we were given the gift of life, sent out into the world, only to return one day, at the end.
I was always something of a quiet little girl. I tended to keep to myself, not talking too much or making a big fuss about things. It wasn’t because I didn’t have ideas, because I did. Thoughts were always dancing around inside my head as I tried to figure out how the world worked and how I fit into it. I would watch all the children screaming and playing in the streets, mothers sitting on stoops laughing, crying, and living their lives for everyone to see. That just wasn’t me. I preferred to think things through first, to observe others and learn from them. I felt more comfortable that way. I would rather wait for things to come to me.
My mother, Lula Mae, and father, Joseph Flagg, raised us to be polite and respectful. I had two sisters, Sharon and Marilyn, and two brothers, Joseph and James. With five kids, you could say it was always a busy household. Not only that, but we also had extended family nearby, and that number increased quite a bit as the years went on. I also had a best friend named Vernice. I had known her since we were babies, and she ended up living with us as well. I guess my parents figured that one more child wasn’t going to make much difference. Most people assumed that she was my sister because we were inseparable. That was fine by me because my parents taught us that family was everything. It was important to stick together and be there for each other. And by taking in Vernice when she needed it, they had reinforced the importance of unity. My folks always tried to lead by example.
My father was a Baptist minister, and most of my mother’s and father’s siblings lived on the same street with us. My father’s sisters all had family nicknames—Sweets, Doll Baby, Baby-Mae, Lil’ Sister, Cora, and Maude—and he had two brothers, Wilbert and Eugene. My mother had three sisters in the area—Alberta, Martha-Lee, and Catherine—and a brother named James who stayed back in North Carolina. Throughout my childhood, our extended family lived either on the same street or just a few blocks away. What fun we had with so many of my cousins always around. They all played an important role in my childhood and adult life.
In our neighborhood, we were surrounded by all types of people, from all over the world. None of us had a lot of money, but we did have our unique heritage, and we all cherished it like gold. There were the Irish, Italians, Germans, and of course Black folks. It was very much a melting pot and a good way to learn about different cultures by going to school with the other children. We were all neighbors and tried to treat each other with respect. While people were proud of their heritage and didn’t hide it, out on the streets we were the same. We were a family. Grownups looked out for each other, and children were raised to respect the adults.
That doesn’t mean things were perfect by any means. There would, of course, be fights and arguments, but they would usually blow over. Some of the boys would fight in the street occasionally, settling some type of disagreement. My grandmother would get very upset. “Those boys need to stop that before it gets out of hand,” she would say. I told her, “It’s OK, Grandma. They will act foolish and when it’s over they will be friends again.” She still didn’t like it, especially if there was a Black boy fighting a White one. When she was growing up, she was always worried that the Black kid would be the one in trouble. I could tell that it really upset her.
My parents were from the South and very proud of their roots. Daddy grew up on a farm in Sparta, Georgia. He didn’t get past the third grade because his family needed him to work, and that left little time for school. My mother was from Greensboro, North Carolina, and she grew up with a love of cooking. People from all over our Brooklyn neighborhood would ask what we were having for supper each night. They loved hearing about the southern dishes Mama would cook, hoping to get invited over for a meal, which they often were.
Our frequent block parties were about fellowship and fun. The mothers would bring covered dishes for the others to try as the kids played stickball or splashed water on each other under the hot August sun. We didn’t realize that things were so different in other parts of the country. Of course, as people of color, we heard about the civil rights movement and what was happening in the South, but in our community, discrimination and racial intolerance wasn’t a big issue, at least to me. I’m sure Mama and Daddy saw things differently, but as a child I felt happy and secure.
People often talk about their past in such glowing terms and carry on about how simple things were back then, and I do understand why that happens. In our complex world today, we deal with so much technology—the internet, cell phones, GPS tracking—it’s everywhere. It has taken over our homes, our cars, and our lives. These conveniences certainly make life easier in some ways, but in others I’m not so sure.
In our neighborhood, the outside was our internet and shouting down the block usually worked better than any phone ever could. I would keep my treasures—a few pennies and some cheap trinkets—in an old cigar box that I’d found on the sidewalk. I also really liked playing with paper dolls. We couldn’t afford the fancy books of perforated clothes with folding tabs that held them on the doll, so I would cut out my own from old newspapers or magazines. Sometimes Vernice and I would go to the five-and-ten store to look at the shiny toys, hoping we could buy something brand new one day.
On special occasions, we’d go on an errand with Mama and even take the bus. I loved the clanging sounds as I dropped the three nickels into the metal box and carefully walked down the aisle, climbing on the seat by Mama. Then, especially during the summer when everyone was outside, I would crawl over Mama’s lap and press my face against the window, fascinated by the scenes playing out all over the city. I loved seeing other families talking and laughing, all hoping to catch a mild breeze to provide some relief from the punishing heat that arose from the asphalt. No one had air-conditioning, so during the day the houses and apartments were like ovens, trapping the heat inside, noisy metal fans working overtime but providing only minimal relief.
We lived in the same general neighborhood throughout my childhood, so we had lots of friends and family in the area. Our extended family continued to grow, so we felt at home no matter whose house we went to. Most of us lived on Warren Street, and there were always other kids to play with and a gathering happening every weekend. It seemed like someone was always cooking something on a grill, sending spicy aromas all over the neighborhood. I felt fortunate that we had such a good life. We struggled to pay the bills from time to time just like everyone else, but with family to lean on, we always managed. In 1967, I graduated from John Adams High School in Queens located near an area called Ozone Park. The school, built in 1927, was a beautiful three-story building with the cafeteria in the basement. Just like the neighborhoods around there, the student population was very diverse, with all races blending together, all waiting for the bell to ring at the end of the day so we could get outside.
I was always a pretty good student, usually As and Bs, especially in math. I liked reading and studying, and it came easy for me, so I didn’t have to work at it like some of the other kids did. It was exciting to learn about other places around the country. I’d imagine what it would be like to live somewhere else, but then I’d think I was being silly: I’d never leave all my family here in South Brooklyn. Not only that, but I’d also met a boy named Bernard Garner during my senior year, and I was in love.
He had gone to Westinghouse High School in Brooklyn and was a few years older than me. However, things were a little complicated at first because he already had three children. I was eighteen when we got involved, and it was a package deal; I had an instant family. I hadn’t expected to have children around so quickly, but it seemed to work out perfectly. Bernard’s ex was very understanding, so the kids were a part of our life from day one. There were two girls (Lorraine Margaret and Ella Lynette) and a boy (Elliott Bernard), all under ten years old. Soon they were my stepchildren, and it was a role that I was born to fill. Being a mother and taking care of those kids just came naturally to me. Motherhood fit me like a glove. I took right to it.
Bernard and his first wife had gotten married very young, ages fifteen and sixteen. She had gotten pregnant, and their parents insisted on it. The union lasted about five years. I was happy to help raise those three children, and they were at our house every weekend. Today, they have children of their own who consider me their grandmother, just as if they were my own grandbabies. People I knew from way back know I’m not the natural grandmother, but others don’t realize I’m the “stepgrandmother.” They just consider me “Grandma.” That’s how close I became with those children and their mother. I treated them really well and they always respected me, even though their mother was still alive. She and I maintained a good relationship and never had any real problems.
That was probably because when she and Bernard decided to go their separate ways, there was no harshness. She had chosen to be with someone else, and he wanted to be with me. We always got along, and she would call me to say, “I want to bring the children over for the weekend. Is it OK?” She would call me instead of calling him. Of course, I always said, “Sure.”
Even now, her sisters and brothers, many of whom live in Washington, DC, will call to ask me if I can visit when I’m in town. They tell me, “Our sister always said you were a great person. She couldn’t have found a better stepmother for the children.” A lot of people thought that was an unusual relationship, but that’s just the way it developed. It wasn’t by accident, though. I was dedicated to making my new family work, just as I had learned from my parents. At the end of the day, family was all you had to rely on, so you’d better have a strong foundation.
When my own children were born, the stepchildren used to tease my kids and say, “Oh, she was our mother before she was your mother.” They really loved each other and always called each other brother and sister. Bernard’s first wife had two other children, and those children were close with my children as well. Bernard’s sisters Hazel, Frieda, Constance, and Edna were also around, so it was like one big family. I was really proud that it happened like that. Often, there was a lot of dysfunction with extended families, but not with us.
While I loved those children so much, I was very excited when my first child was born on September 15, 1970, in Long Island College Hospital in the Cobble Hill section of Brooklyn. Since the other children were getting older, it was wonderful to have a newborn of my own to raise. I had been around plenty of babies growing up, but it’s true that when you have one of your own, it’s so special. All those feelings I had wondered about came true many times over. I couldn’t believe this little one would be dependent on me to protect him from harm. It was a responsibility I took very seriously. I often whispered to him, “I’ll never let anything happen to you, little man.” Bernard’s first son already had his name, so we changed it up. We named him Eric Bernard Garner.
I first noticed Eric’s asthma when he was about seven months old. He was my firstborn, so I wasn’t sure if I was being overprotective, but I could tell he was having trouble breathing. It was cute at the beginning, how he would purse his lips together as he stared at me with those big brown eyes. It almost looked like he was trying to speak. Then I guess that mother’s intuition kicked in because something didn’t feel right. He would gasp for air constantly. It wasn’t a slow, steady breathing pattern. Instead, it was like he was gulping for air, as if he had just come from being underwater. I told my husband something was wrong. We took him to the hospital right away.
Sure enough, the doctor agreed that there was an issue. Not only that, but he also informed me that my little Eric had to stay in the hospital. “We need to monitor him,” he told me. I couldn’t fathom leaving my baby there. At that time, visitors were only allowed during posted hours. There was no option to stay overnight and camp out beside my baby. I had to leave him there and go home with no idea of how long he would have to stay. It reminded me of the times I’d pass by Cumberland Hospital and think about the helpless newborns inside.
Every night when I left the hospital after visiting hours and got in bed, I would toss and turn. I just couldn’t sleep. It felt like a part of me was missing. After a long labor and several months of doting on my sweet baby, there was now a void, an emptiness, and it was tearing me apart. I had promised him that I would keep him safe, and it felt like I was failing. At night when the house was still, I would instinctively twitch every time there was a creak or settling noise. I knew I wouldn’t be able to relax until Eric was back at home.
The diagnosis indicated that he had an upper respiratory infection and would require more treatment and monitoring. In fact, they ended up keeping him there for almost five months. I couldn’t believe he had to be there that long, but the doctors wanted to make sure he was able to breathe unassisted, which I understood, but I wasn’t happy about it. I went there every single day and worked it into my routine. Any time they had visitors’ hours, I was there. There was a backyard area where the sick children were allowed to play and have visitors if they were feeling up to it. Of course, my husband, parents, and other family members came as well, but I didn’t miss a single day. I couldn’t. I knew it was important to bond with my child while he was young, so those few hours we spent together each day in the garden were very precious to me.
My little boy looked so vulnerable in that special crib where they monitored him constantly, but I was sure that any day now they would let him come home. They just kept saying, “Not yet, Gwen. Not yet.” In September 1971 I told the doctor, “You know his birthday is on the 15th. We want to have a party for him at home. You have to let me take him. It’s his first birthday. Please?” He thought for a minute and said, “OK, Gwen, you can take him home for the weekend for his birthday. Then I want to see you back here on Monday.” I was so happy and excited that I would have agreed to anything. “Yes, of course,” I said, as my mind raced. My baby would be coming home!
It was so interesting watching Eric as we made our way out of the hospital. His little eyes popped open wide at all of the city noises—the cars, trucks, sirens. It was so new to him and a big change from the controlled environment of that tiny crib. I can’t describe how complete I felt with him at home. When all of the family came over for his first birthday party, I was so happy that I could barely focus on the festivities. My baby had come back, and the whole family was there to celebrate.
Any milestone event like a first birthday gave our family yet another reason to come together and celebrate. So when I found out my baby was coming home, I wasted no time decorating and coordinating his party. We had such a fun day celebrating Eric and his health. Despite that asthma, he was out of the hospital on his birthday and smearing cake all over his face as we all watched and laughed. I couldn’t have been happier.
That Monday, as promised, I did take him back, but he only ended up staying a week or so longer until he was ready to come home for good. We were provided with a breathing machine that he needed to use daily, and the doctor told me there would be a lot of restrictions. Also, as Eric got older, if he didn’t improve dramatically, he might have to go to a special school or even be homeschooled. He probably wouldn’t be able to play sports, either. I nodded slowly as the doctor gave us this news. I was ready to do whatever I had to do to keep my boy healthy.
By the time he was around three years old, Eric seemed to have improved a great deal. He even went to school—first at Head Start in October 1973, then to Bethel Daycare. Once he started attending elementary school at PS 32 in 1976, his condition was almost unnoticeable. He would have an attack every now and then, but for the most part his breathing seemed under control. He was even able to eventually play sports and run around like the other children. Still, I was cautious, and when he was at school I asked the teachers about him to make sure he wasn’t overdoing it. Everyone assured me that he was fine. The doctor was amazed by his recovery and said he’d never seen anything quite like it. It was a miracle. Eric could breathe.
That was a big relief for me because two years after Eric was born, I had another son named Emery. With a toddler and an infant along with the stepchildren, I sure did have my hands full, but it was a good feeling. Bernard was working hard to provide for us, and I worked too when I could. Fortunately, Emery did not have any immediate health issues, so while he was very little I was able to watch Eric start to become his own person.
Eric learned how to love and share with other people as a small child. He was very personable and trusting. He would always go along with the ideas of other kids because he was so friendly he thought everyone was that way. I used to tell him, “Eric, everybody’s not your friend.” On many occasions he would bring a kid home from school. “Ma, they wanted to beat my friend up, so I brought him home. He’s going to eat dinner with us.” That was just the type of person he was. If he found out that someone had betrayed him, he would be heartbroken and wouldn’t want to speak to them. I did my best to educate him and teach him about how the world worked. I’d say, “Things like that happen.” He’d say, “No, he was supposed to be my friend.” It was just inconceivable to him that a person could betray his trust. Since he was so loyal and trusting, he thought everyone was. There were some things he had to learn on his own.
One thing that was undeniable was his love of other people. He had the ability to connect with almost anyone. He especially looked forward to holidays, particularly Christmas. Christmas was the most magical time of year for him. As a child, he couldn’t wait to see which toys he got. “I know we got something great,” he would tell the other kids. I would never let them see anything before the big day. I was very careful to make it special, like my mother had done with us. On Christmas morning, all of their little eyes would light up, and I would grab my Instamatic camera, taking picture after picture as the square flash on top twirled until it burned out.
The kids just loved the spirit of being around each other, and we never missed a family gathering. I remember there was one cookout that Eric missed because he was in the hospital for his asthma. Everyone asked, “Where is Eric? Eric’s not coming?” He was always the life of the party, so they looked forward to seeing him. He always wanted everyone to be happy.
For being such a skinny child, Eric was always a big eater. He wanted to get his share, but he would make sure everyone else had some, too. My mother used to say, “I’d rather clothe him than feed him.” Speaking of my mother, those kids sure did love to go stay with their grandparents. Eric would tell me, “We love to go over to Grandma’s house because it’s like a big campout. She lets us all sleep in the living room and she puts sheets up like tents and even brings us food in there. We love that!” He was so excited describing it all to me. My mother was always coming up with things like that to keep them entertained. I can tell you she never did that for us when we were little, but I was learning that grandchildren are special and spoiling them is part of the fun.
They used to always say that Grandma loved Eric the best. I said, “Why do you all say that? She treats you all very well and lets all of you come over at the same time.” They’d say, “Yeah, but you can just tell Eric is her favorite.” All the other kids in the family said that, too, but I couldn’t see it. To me, she treated them the same, but they were adamant about it. They were mostly just kidding around because there was love enough for all of them.
On September 28, 1975, I finally had a girl, and I named her Ellisha, keeping with the theme of starting their names with the letter E. Being around the boys for four years, it was fun to have a little girl I could dote on. With my parents and Bernard’s as well, we had plenty of help and support. Our little family was making its way in the world. By the time I was twenty-six, we had two adorable boys and now the baby girl I’d always wanted. Watching her grow and change was so exciting for me. To see her little personality start to emerge, I just couldn’t imagine anything better. The boys had become very close and pitched in to help take care of their little sister.
Bernard had been working steadily to bring in some money, which at times was very tough. Plus he had the added responsibility of his other three children, but we were making it work as a family. He suffered from high blood pressure, and all of a sudden, out of the blue, he had a stroke in 1975. He totally lost the ability to talk and was confined to a hospital bed at home. A therapist visited regularly to help restore his speech. As in all times of trouble, family came to our aid and offered any help they could. My parents were even more helpful than usual, taking baby Ellisha and the boys as much as I needed so that I could nurse my husband back to health. I was sure that if we were patient and followed the doctor’s advice carefully, my husband would be back home in no time. The children really missed their daddy.
For a time, things did seem to improve. Bernard was making strides in his speech and gaining some of his strength back, but it just wasn’t God’s plan. He lost his grip on life and slipped away from us in 1976. I was left with Eric at five years old, Emery at almost four, and Ellisha at just four months. Bernard Garner was thirty-three years old when he died.
The funeral took place on a Friday, February 13, and the next day, Valentine’s, I took to my bed. I just couldn’t handle the blanket of sadness. One day, my mother was watching Ellisha while Eric and Emery stayed with me. After my father finished work, he came over to talk to the kids and make sure everything was all right. When the door opened, Eric said, “Hi, Grandpa. Mommy didn’t feed us today.” When I overheard that, I realized that he was right: I hadn’t fed my own children. I was afraid my father would be upset, but he wasn’t. He said, “Oh, you didn’t eat anything?” Eric said, “Well, I made cereal for me and Emery and we had juice, but Mommy didn’t get up and cook our bacon and eggs like usual.”
I just lay there listening in on their conversation, still in disbelief that I had been so consumed by grief that I wasn’t caring for the children properly. My father went into my refrigerator and took out a chicken, cut it up, fried it, and fixed their dinner. “I’m fixing y’all dinner and putting some in the refrigerator so tomorrow y’all will have some too,” I heard him say.
It was at that moment when I realized that I needed to get up out of bed and move on with my life—our lives. I couldn’t have lapses like that with small children to raise. I was going into a depression and hadn’t realized what was happening until Eric’s pronouncement snapped me out of it. My father understood how distraught I was, so without saying much about it he would drop by every day at about the same time to check up on us. He was very calm and supportive, but he was also letting me know that someone needed to be there for the kids. I got the message loud and clear. I needed to be strong for them, and I really appreciated him for making sure I understood that.
Then I started to hear rumors about my husband, and it was disturbing. People in the streets were talking about how he had a drug problem and that’s what eventually caused his heart problems. I was shocked because I had no idea that evil had taken hold of my family. I suppose I was so consumed with raising small children that it never occurred to me that Bernard was under the influence. It was shocking to hear, and I realized that I would probably never know exactly what had happened to him.
With my husband gone, my parents stepped in much more, coming to get the children almost every weekend and taking them to their new home on Coney Island. Then on Sunday, after church, they would deliver them back to my place in Brooklyn. That gave me the time I needed to grieve and get myself together. Bernard’s parents, Ella and Elliott Garner, also helped when they could. The kids understood death to a certain point, but they didn’t really comprehend what had happened. I explained to them, “Your father is gone forever.” After a month or so Eric asked, “Is it forever yet? Is he coming home now?” I told him, “No, he’s never coming home.”
I took them to the cemetery once, and while we were standing around talking I saw Emery out of the corner of my eye. He was trying to pull the plaque off his father’s grave. I said, “What are you doing?” He said, “This is a stone. I think it’s too heavy on my daddy.”
That loss was a lot for our young family to handle. At first, I just didn’t even want to face the world without Bernard by my side, despite the things I had heard about his last days. We had started this journey together, and I felt cheated out of our future. What kept me going was being able to see glimpses of him in the children. As the boys got older, I noticed it more with them. There would be a mannerism or a word that reminded me of Bernard and it would make me smile. I realized that we were all going to make it as long as we had each other.