By the summer, Daddy’s condition had improved somewhat more and we moved him home, with the help of wonderful caretakers. Daddy seemed to understand what was being said to him, but his responses were often off track. Yet at least he was home, where we could sing together and share the occasional flashes of lucidity that would come. Sometimes he’d amaze us all. On Thanksgiving as we gathered around his bed, my uncle Alto said, “Who is going to give the blessing?” Without missing a beat, Daddy reached somewhere deep into the recesses of his memory and prayed.
He never fully recovered, but he fought to live. Several times he was near death and refused to go. As I watched this giant of a man who’d loved me more than anything in the world approach the end, it was hard to find much good in life. It seemed so unfair that I could no longer share stories of the campaign with my father. Here I was at the height of my professional career, and my father couldn’t enjoy it with me. Not surprisingly, my absences from home became a source of guilt for me, and the campaign, which had been such a thrill, became something of a slog. But I kept going and told myself that Daddy undoubtedly approved of my decision to keep my commitment to the campaign.
I flew down to Austin the afternoon of the election. By the time I arrived at the Four Seasons Hotel, the news stations were chalking up state after state in the Gore column. By the time I made it downstairs to watch with a few Bush friends and family, everything was going against us: Michigan, Illinois, Pennsylvania, and Florida were all gone. I sat there with Doro Bush Koch, the governor’s sister, and watched in dismay. “Let’s change places,” I said to Doro, employing a superstition from my days as a sports fan. If your team is not winning while you’re sitting on the right side of the sofa, move to the left. Yes, I know it doesn’t matter, but it can’t hurt.
We did change places. Then, almost magically, NBC News reported that we had won Georgia. Next came reports that the news stations were going to reverse their call on Florida. Hours later the TV screen suddenly showed “George W. Bush, 43rd President of the United States.” It was quite a moment. I wanted to call my father but decided not to, fearing that he would be too disoriented to share the moment with me.
I jumped into a minivan with other Bush supporters for the trip to the capitol for the victory speech. It was freezing cold in Austin, and we stood on the square, rocking to music and hugging each other. But something was wrong. Al Gore hadn’t conceded. I could also see the big screen displaying CNN’s election coverage. The margin of victory in Florida was shrinking very fast, and there would likely be a recount.
“You know what this is like?” I said to a friend. “It’s like eating a really spicy meal before bed and having a bad dream. You think to yourself, ‘Must have been what I ate last night. Boy, I’m glad to wake up from that one!’” But of course it wasn’t a dream.
Governor Bush called the morning after the election to say that he wanted me to be national security advisor but that we’d obviously have to wait a bit on any announcement. It was surreal, but we went through the motions of planning a foreign policy transition that might never happen. One particularly bad idea was to have a photo op of the governor and me sitting in front of a fireplace discussing foreign policy. It looked like a faux Oval Office shot and was properly ridiculed. I decided to go home to California.
The return to California gave me a chance to spend quality time with my father. I watched the ups and downs in Florida, my mood swinging with every court decision. Sometimes Daddy seemed to be tracking, becoming agitated and shedding tears when the news was bad.
I left on December 8 to attend a meeting of the foreign policy team in Washington. We were planning for the transition in case there was one. After the session, fellow campaign worker Steve Hadley and I were sitting in the conference room of his law office when we got word that the Florida Supreme Court had ordered a manual recount. As we headed over to a restaurant for dinner, I said, “Steve, I would have loved to serve with you. You would have been a great deputy national security advisor.”
I flew home to California the next day believing that it was over. When I got off the plane and into the car, my driver gave me an update. The Supreme Court had by a 5–4 decision issued a stay, halting the manual recounts and setting a hearing for the matter on Monday, December 11. This meant that the judges in the majority were likely to rule in favor of Bush on the merits of the case, certifying Bush as the winner of Florida’s electoral votes. George W. Bush would indeed become the 43rd President of the United States.
Three days before Christmas I stopped in to see Daddy on my way to dinner, and he seemed in pretty good spirits. I called a few hours later, and Daddy got on the phone. “I’m going home,” he said.
“Daddy, you are at home,” I answered.
“No, it’s time for me to go home.”
I knew in my heart what he meant, and it terrified me. My father, a Presbyterian minister and a man of great faith, believed that at the end of our earthly existence, God calls us home to eternal life.
I rushed to his house. He seemed fine, and I left to drive the ten minutes to my house. As I walked in the door, Clara was calling. Daddy had stopped breathing. We rushed to the hospital. This time the physical and mental damage were irreparable. On Christmas Eve, after slipping into a coma, my father died.
I’d told Daddy just after the election that George Bush wanted me to go to Washington and become national security advisor. He cried at the news, but I couldn’t tell whether they were tears of joy for my achievement or tears of despair because he knew that we would be separated. With his death he resolved my dilemma. Was it coincidence? I’ve always prayed that it was, because I can’t bear to think that John Wesley Rice Jr. deliberately did this one last thing to make sure I fulfilled my dreams. Honestly, it would have been just like him.
chapter forty-one
The funeral for my father stood in stark contrast to the private service for my mother. John Rice loved people and people loved him. Jerusalem Baptist Church, where Clara worshiped, was filled to the rafters. The pastor, Jonathan Staples, gave the eulogy. He was yet another young man whom my father had befriended and mentored. Clara and I sang “In the Garden,” a song that my father had remembered and sung until the very end.
The service ended with a little jazz ensemble playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” for this son of Louisiana.
We laid Daddy to rest at Alta Mesa Memorial Gardens, not far from the Stanford campus, on December 28. A few years before, I’d moved my mother’s remains from Denver to the same cemetery. When I decided to do so, my father had been very pleased. But he’d reminded me that the grave is not really a Christian’s final resting place. “The Lord’s eternal home is the final destination,” he’d say. At the end of Daddy’s life, I was comforted by my faith in the truth of what he had said and my belief that he and my mother were united again.
I left for Washington about a week later. There was so much to do as the new national security advisor. I told myself that I couldn’t afford to be debilitated by my grief. I just powered through the meetings, the briefings, the calls, each day, determined to do what needed to be done. Yet since my mother’s first bout with cancer I had wondered how it would feel to live without my parents. We had been so close. Would I ever feel whole again?