I'll See You Again Part 21

"You should get involved," Kate urged me, sounding a lot like Warren.

Much as I liked the program, I didn't really want to get involved, but I hated letting people down.

"I'll make the snacks," I promised Kate.

I made a big fruit salad and a.s.sembled goodie bags that included a photo of the girls for everyone to take home. Kate and Liz tied every aspect of Beautiful Me to my girls. The mission, they said, was "to extend the lessons Emma, Alyson, and Katie taught through their examples-that being comfortable with who you are makes you a better sister, daughter, and friend."

"Come to the first session," Kate urged. "You can give out the gift bags and talk to the girls. It will be something to do."

Of course, I couldn't turn her down. The girls were ages five through ten, about the same age range as Emma, Alyson, and Katie, and since the program was held in Floral Park, I recognized all the girls. Seeing children I knew involved in a program that gave them confidence to succeed should have been a great satisfaction. And on one level, it really was.

On another level, it was a buzz saw to my heart.

One thought hummed endlessly in my head: My girls would love this program. Why aren't they here?

I made it through to the end of a cla.s.s with a smile on my face, then raced home and fell into my bed sobbing. I couldn't get up again for days.

When I mentioned that Kate would be doing another Beautiful Me soon, Warren, who saw how it had immobilized me, said, "You're not going back there."

"I have to. She needs help. And this one's in a different town."

I thought being in a cla.s.s far away where I didn't know the children would be slightly better. But it backfired.

"Are Emma, Alyson, and Katie the girls who died because they didn't hold their mommy's hand when they crossed the street?" one five-year-old asked me, looking at the picture of them.

"Uh, no," I said, shocked. "They died in a car accident."

She looked at me skeptically. I could only look back in disbelief. I didn't know where she got the idea; maybe her own mom had used the story as a threat when they crossed a busy street together. The little girl's confused comment shouldn't have mattered, but it threw me into a tailspin. Once again, I went home from the session and dissolved in a puddle.

"How are you doing with Beautiful Me?" Jeannine asked when she came over later and found me barely able to move.

"Everybody loves it," I said. "But the whole time I'm sitting there, I keep thinking that the only reason it exists is because my girls are gone."

Never one to sugarcoat, Jeannine nodded. "It's a mixed blessing," she admitted.

"I'm happy that it does so much good, and I even like watching the girls gain so much confidence during the course. But ..." I dropped my head back onto a pillow, unable to continue.

"But your girls aren't there, so it's hard to care about anything else."

"Does that make me a bad person?" I asked.

Jeannine shook her head. "Just an honest one."

Bernadette and I had taken over responsibility for a Youth Council run in town a couple of years earlier, and we'd expanded it dramatically. Now Bernadette had the idea that by connecting the run with the foundation, we could make it monumental. The more we all talked about it, the bigger the idea grew. We'd organize several races for children and adults, as well as games and activities-a Hance Family Fun Day that would take over the whole town.

We picked a Sat.u.r.day in May and put the date on the calendar.

Planning became a big deal during the fall. Committees were formed and a.s.signments were made. People volunteered to organize events, coordinate with the town, and collect major donations for an auction. With so much to do, a lot of busy people got even busier. I started to feel a little guilty about how hard they were working-and how disconnected I felt.

In rational moments, I knew I couldn't change that the girls were gone. If I had to be on this earth without them, I might as well try to make other children happy. I wanted the girls to be remembered, and we expected that on Family Fun Day, hundreds would come out in their honor. But when a child dies after five or seven or eight years on this planet, what legacy can she leave? It would be nice to see smiles on children's faces and know that in some way, Emma, Alyson, and Katie helped put them there.

As the foundation grew, I wanted to love the raft of positive programs we were sponsoring. Theoretically, I did. One nice activity called Grow With Me gave fifth-graders a full-day outing to the local park and garden where they planted seeds and learned about nature.

As with Beautiful Me, I went along as a tribute to the girls. The first field trip went off perfectly-a sunny, beautiful day and the fifth-graders smiled as they dug their hands in the dirt and tenderly touched the shoots of new plants. Their faces lit up with excitement when botanists explained the cycles of growth and specialists taught them about b.u.t.terflies and snakes. It was sweet and inspiring. But my heart boiled with anger and resentment.

These are Emma's cla.s.smates. Why isn't Emma here? I thought.

I cared about the other children, and I knew they liked the program. We were doing something lovely in the girls' memory.

But all I really felt was pain.

These children are having a wonderful day because my daughters are dead.

I kept my unworthy feelings to myself and pushed on.

Fourteen

Our house always had a beautiful glow at Christmas, our happiness s.h.i.+ning as brightly as the lights that we strung from every beam and banister. I festooned the downstairs rooms with garlands and wreaths and children's drawings, and Warren liked to buy a tree so ma.s.sive that it sc.r.a.ped the ceiling. In the interest of preserving the paint job, we eventually bought a graceful artificial tree that looked perfect when we decorated it with ornaments and twinkling lights. Three stockings hung on the mantel and presents quickly piled up under the tree.

But the year the girls died, I never unpacked the lights from their storage boxes and I didn't want a tree. I couldn't muster an ounce of Christmas cheer. I didn't even go to church. G.o.d obviously hadn't listened to my prayers in a while, and I wasn't in the mood to offer any new ones. We had a tradition of going to the home of our friends Maria and Anthony every Christmas Eve. They lived about thirty minutes away. Warren and Anthony had grown up together, and our children, who were the same age, liked celebrating together.

But there was no celebrating this year.

Trying to bring us some cheer, my friend and neighbor Laura and some others on our block bought a little pink tabletop tree that they decorated with ornaments and bows and a pink skirt.

Somewhat abashed, Laura brought it to the house.

"Oh no, what's this?" I asked when I first saw it. "You've got to be kidding me."

The tree was adorned with soccer ball ornaments, pictures of the girls, lots of angels, and a big EAK strung across it. "We all decorated it with the things the girls like," Laura said.

I put it on the end table in the living room. When it lit up, I sometimes laughed and thought how cute it was to have a pink Christmas tree. At other times, I reflected on how far my life had sunk-from the glorious holiday festivities I used to have, I was now left with a sad little Charlie Brown tree and no children to laugh with me.

Others in town wanted to give us some cheer, too, and I heard rumors that a big group planned to come caroling at our house on Christmas morning.

"I don't want that," I said to Isabelle one morning. She had come over with coffee and was sitting in my kitchen. "No way. Make them cancel it."

"I didn't have anything to do with it," she said plaintively, taking a sip from her cup rather than looking at me.

"Can't you stop it?"

"I don't know. An email went out and-"