I'll See You Again Part 36

How could a person with any normal human sympathy exploit Emma's last words as a TV catchphrase? Maybe producers and network executives were as heartless as the Hollywood stereotype. I called HBO, begging them to change the t.i.tle. For almost two years now, I had replayed the words from my last conversation with Emma over and over in my head. I heard her every inflection, thought about what she must have been thinking and might have been feeling. Ours had been a private conversation, a private exchange between mother and child. Now it would be nothing more than a catchy t.i.tle to get ratings.

In late April, our foundation had received a $30,000 check from HBO with a lovely note:

"Please accept this donation on behalf of HBO Doc.u.mentary Films. We're so sorry for your loss. Emma, Alyson and Katie live on through the good work you're doing with the Hance Family Foundation."

I had jumped up and down shrieking in delight. All the good we could do with that money! The network hadn't asked for anything in return. Warren was more distrustful.

"Don't cash it yet," he had said. "Let's see what's in the movie first."

"Oh, you're killing me!" I said, joking, as I clutched the check. "The movie's already made. Let's cash it and do something positive with it."

But Warren had convinced me to wait, and now I was glad. "You were right. No way can we accept this," I told Warren as soon as we learned the movie's t.i.tle. We wrote a note to HBO explaining that the foundation was sending the check back. We suggested that if they really cared about doing good, they should make a contribution in the girls' names to one of the other charities that the foundation supported.

As far as I know, they never did.

I had tried to be understanding about Danny's eagerness to cooperate with HBO. If he wanted answers or absolution (or both), that was fine. But now he'd crossed the line. He could sell his own soul, but what right did he have to take advantage of my daughters?

"I bet he didn't have approval of the t.i.tle," Jeannine said, trying to calm me down and offer some perspective. "He probably didn't have much control at all."

"Then he shouldn't have signed the contract!" I said. "Doesn't he think of anything?"

When I complained about the t.i.tle, the people at HBO were sympathetic in the same way that customer service reps from your credit card company tend to be when you've been overcharged-they murmured how sorry they were, said they'd look into it, and then didn't do anything at all. They probably figured that if the t.i.tle got me this riled, it would stimulate ratings, too.

Very early one morning, my mind was racing a million miles an hour and my pent-up anger at Danny felt like it would explode my heart. I didn't begrudge him whatever money he got for partic.i.p.ating in the doc.u.mentary-he needed it-but I badly wanted an apology. Diane couldn't talk for herself, and Danny needed to say I'm sorry on her behalf. He also needed to recognize how his actions affected other people.

I grabbed my phone and began tapping out a text:

"Do you ever consider Warren and me in any decisions you make? Warren spoke lovely words about Diane and Erin and Bryan at the funeral. Did you ever thank him? He got the burial plots and took care of everything. Doesn't that count with you?"

People warn against making phone calls to ex-lovers when you're drunk. How about not texting a brother-in-law when you're tired and angry? On the other hand, I don't think I said anything unreasonable. I thought I was being helpful and giving him the advice n.o.body else would offer.

"It doesn't matter how the accident happened," I went on, "eight people are dead and they need an apology. Diane's not here to speak for herself and you need to apologize for her. It's like when a child does something wrong-you stand by her, but you still apologize."

I didn't hate Danny and I even had some sympathy for him. He needed to take care of Bryan all by himself, and he didn't have a lot of resources to do it. While Warren and I were surrounded by loving friends, Danny seemed adrift, with n.o.body to give him good advice. All I wanted to do was point out how hurtful his behavior had been in the hope that it might change. I didn't believe in turning your back on people. I still had faith that hearing from me would give Danny a new perspective, and we could all hug and be friends again.

I read the text over. I thought about it.

I hit Send.

A few minutes later, he texted back his reply:

"You're crazy. Go get help."

I stared at my phone and began hyperventilating. After all these months of pain, is this where we had ended up-pointless name calling? We were still family and needed to support each other in our time of need. How did we get to this place of no communication? Maybe Danny's stonewalling meant he really did know something-something bad-that he wanted to hide. We had all been devastated by the same event, and I wanted to talk and get answers, too. I cared about my nephew and wanted to see him again.

Needing to restore some sanity after that nasty one-line text, I grabbed my cell phone again. No texting Danny this time-I'd call him. I didn't really expect him to answer, but suddenly he was on the line. He wasn't nice-and then neither was I. We started screaming at each other, months of no communication ending in a burst of emotional attacks and accusations.

I hung up and began crying uncontrollably. Suddenly I couldn't breathe. I began clawing at the sofa, gasping for air, trying to get myself under control. I couldn't get any air into my lungs. I rushed downstairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt, where Warren's brother David was sleeping, and told him the story.

"You can't tell Warren!" I insisted. "He'll be so mad. But help me! I can't breathe."

"Calm down, calm down. Think of the baby," David said. He led me upstairs, to get a paper bag I could breathe into. Just then, Warren appeared.

"What's going on?" Warren asked.

"Nothing," I gasped. "I'm just ... it's okay ... I can't breathe."

But David ignored my warning. "She texted Danny," David told him. "And then she called him."

"Why did you do that?" Warren moaned. "Why did you contact him?"

"I'm so sorry," I said, sobbing. "I wanted to make things better. But it only gets worse."

"You're not going to get what you need from him," Warren said. "Why do you keep trying?"

"I want him to apologize. I don't understand any of this. We were all so close. How can we not be in each other's lives?"

"He won't apologize," Warren said. "Stop. Just stop."

I sputtered out the whole story, and I watched Warren's face slowly turn to a frozen mask. The anger seemed to seep from his pores, and if we had been in a movie, flames would have begun shooting from his eyes.

"I'm done," he said. "This is it. I've bitten my tongue long enough."

He started heading out the door and I ran after him, tugging at his arm.

"Where are you going?"

"To Danny's. This is enough. I can't take much more," Warren said, clutching his car keys.

"Please stay," I begged. "Remember our rule? No driving when you're angry."

"I don't care. I can't hold back anymore," he bellowed.

The intensity of his rage scared me. "Stay here," I said, sobbing and clinging to him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called him. I just had things I wanted to say. He should understand what he's doing."

"I'll kill him," Warren said. The threat reverberated as he slammed the car door and revved the motor.

I tried to run out to the driveway, thinking I would stand behind the car so he couldn't go anywhere, but he was faster and pulled out while I stood there sobbing, watching him go.

I don't know where Warren ended up that morning, but he didn't go to Danny's and like so many other upheavals, we both let it drift away. Warren's ferocity reminded me that while he usually kept his emotions in check, he still felt them as deeply as I did. I had my fabulous friends to talk to almost every day, but who was there to support Warren when he and I resorted to attacking each other rather than leaning on each other? He had a lot of close friends, but they were at work all day. If Warren felt overcome by a wave of sadness at three o'clock in the afternoon, he was unlikely to interrupt Brad at the investment bank where he worked or Doug at his office to get some bucking-up or emotional support. Thank goodness a couple of his friends popped in a few evenings a week to sit on our couch. Nothing monumental was ever said, it was just important that they were there.

Our neighbor Laura, who had known Mr. Hance since childhood, called him one day when she saw Warren desolate. She figured having his dad to talk to might help.

"Warren isn't doing well, he's having a hard time," she said to Mr. Hance.