Everything She Feared, page 7
13
Seattle, Washington
Soft classical music floated in the somber air of the North Seattle community hall.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, gleaming on the polished wood floors. The building was often rented for corporate meetings, community gatherings, banquets and wedding receptions.
Today it was crisis counseling.
Watching people entering and leaving the hall, Sara accepted the risk in bringing Katie here. But given what Katie had experienced, Sara wanted her to talk to someone who knew about these things. She also secretly hoped that in some way coming here would allay her own deepening fears that went beyond the tragedy, to something so dark it was unimaginable.
“Welcome,” Violet Juarez, director of the Sunny Days Youth Center, greeted Sara and Katie. “Please sign in and we’ll set you up.”
At a table nearby, an SDYC volunteer gave Sara a consent form to fill in. Upon completing it, Sara and Katie waited in the reception area where Connie, Dakota and a few others from the group were talking. Seeing Katie, they swept around her in a flutter of tearful hugs.
“Oh, Katie,” Dakota said.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” Connie embraced her, then clasped Sara’s hand briefly.
“I felt we needed to come,” Sara said, putting her arm around Katie, pulling her close. “Are Lynora and Chuck here?”
“No,” Connie said. “But word is the service might be next week.”
A woman emerged from a room nearby and said: “Sara and Katie Harmon?”
The woman was in her forties, wearing black-framed glasses and holding a tablet. A laminated ID card hung from a chain on her neck.
“Sally Mehta,” she said. “I’m with the crisis team. Sorry if I’m interrupting.”
“It’s okay,” Connie said, excusing herself with the others.
Sally Mehta turned to Sara and Katie. “Please come with me.”
As they walked with her, they saw some people leaving, including Dylan Frick and his mom. Dylan appeared to give Katie a cold look, which she returned as they passed each other, leaving Sara unsure what to think of it. In the main room, the hall dividers had been employed, configuring the area into several small rooms that afforded privacy. Each had folding chairs around a folding table with a box of tissues, a pitcher of water and plastic glasses.
“Not the warmest, most ideal setting,” Dr. Mehta said. “But it’s the best way for us to help the most people the soonest.”
Everyone sat and Dr. Mehta poured them water while smiling.
“I’m a psychiatrist. I teach a class at the University of Washington. I have a practice and I volunteer with the crisis network. There are a number of us here today. You can call me Sally, if you like. Do you have any questions before we start?”
“This is confidential, right?” Sara said. “Whatever we discuss stays with us?”
“Absolutely,” Dr. Mehta said. “For us, this is doctor-patient privilege.”
Sara nodded. “We’re here for help,” she said. “I brought Katie here because after what happened, and after we got the note about crisis counseling, I felt it would help if she talked to someone.”
“Of course.” Dr. Mehta smiled. “Katie, do you have any questions? I might not have all the answers but it’s good to ask.”
Katie lowered her head, looking into her hands.
“Just that I’m really, really sorry for what happened.”
Dr. Mehta observed her, then said: “I can understand how hard this is.”
“Sally, are you familiar with what happened?” Sara asked.
“We’ve been given a summary, but not specific names or details to protect privacy.”
“So you’re probably not aware,” Sara said, “but Anna was our babysitter, our friend, and Katie was with her on the cliff. She saw it happen.”
Katie lowered her head. Sara hugged her.
“I was not aware.” Dr. Mehta took a moment, processing Katie’s connection to the tragedy. “I see.”
“Last night,” Sara said, “Katie had a nightmare about it.”
“Would you like to tell me about it, Katie?” Dr. Mehta asked.
Looking into her hands, Katie began.
“I just keep seeing Anna hanging on to the branch and she keeps begging me to get help, then in the dream I’m having all these bad thoughts and Anna’s screaming why, why, why, and I don’t know why, and I feel like it’s my fault Anna’s dead...”
Katie buried her face into Sara as she consoled her.
Dr. Mehta leaned closer to them.
“Katie—” Dr. Mehta’s voice was soft “—this is a normal reaction. It’s okay to have these thoughts and feelings after such a terrible event.”
Dr. Mehta waited for a few seconds.
“Part of this, the way your mind mends itself and helps you heal, is to relive the tragedy, to blame yourself for what happened, to feel guilty for things that you were never really in control of.”
Dr. Mehta paused.
“You may feel this way for a while because the pain, the hurt, is part of the way our hearts heal. But over time, you’ll stop feeling it so much.”
Katie, still burrowed into Sara, blinked through tears at Dr. Mehta, who continued for several minutes about what to expect and the things Katie and Sara should and should not do.
“Like don’t watch or read the news reports on what happened,” she said. “And remember, you’ll never forget your friend, you’ll always remember her, and when you’re healed, your happy memories will erase the difficult ones you’re holding now.”
Sara cleared her throat.
“Sally, the service for Anna is happening soon. Should I take Katie to it?”
“If Katie wants to go, that’s okay. It’s good to say goodbye and honor the memory of your friend,” Dr. Mehta said. “If Katie prefers not to go, that’s okay, too.”
“Thank you, Sally,” Sara said. “This has been helpful.”
Dr. Mehta reached into her pocket for her card.
“I’m happy to have follow-up sessions with Katie, if you like. No charge.”
“Thank you.”
“Katie, do you have any other questions, anything you’d like to know?”
“So I shouldn’t feel like what happened to Anna was my fault?”
“It was a tragic accident that happened close to you.”
“Just like with that boy,” Katie said.
“No,” Sara said, placing her hand on Katie’s lap. “No, nothing like that.”
Puzzled, Dr. Mehta blinked.
“What boy?” she asked, reaching for her tablet and swiping the screen. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Dr. Mehta searched her summary. “There was a boy?”
“No.” Sara was shaking her head. “She’s confused things. It’s a complicated, unrelated matter. Nothing to do with this. No, honey.”
Dr. Mehta pulled her focus from her tablet, to look at Sara and Katie. An awkward silence passed between them before it was broken by Sara.
“We’ll go now.” Sara stood, taking Katie’s hand. “Thank you again, Sally.”
“I’ll go that way with you.”
They walked without talking and before Dr. Mehta took up the form for the next session, she stood at the hall door, watching Sara and Katie go down the sidewalk.
14
Bothell, Washington
Gifts wrapped with festive paper and bows formed small mountains around her at their Christmas tree, her mom beaming, taking pictures while her dad’s booming laughter filled the house.
Sara was three, no, maybe four, at the time, and it was one of her earliest happiest memories.
Savoring it now while driving in the rain, she glanced at her tattoo, which catapulted her back through her life even further, to a hazy memory that she fought to keep out of her head...driving at night in the rain...wipers swiping like a beating heart...the scream...something seizing her...
Sara pushed away the painful thoughts until she was rescued by reflections of her parents: George and Marjorie Cole.
Her mom was an office administrator; her dad was an electrician. They were honest, hardworking, loving people, who lived their faith. Always volunteering to do whatever they could. Sara remembered the aromas of their kitchen, remembered standing on a chair after washing her hands, after Mom cut the onions and celery. “You scoop them into the pot, honey.” Helping Mom make sandwiches, soup and chili, then driving with Dad to deliver the food to a church basement or mission. “You have to help people, that’s what we do.”
But there were moments, in those early years, when they looked at her, that she saw dread behind their eyes, a fear of something coming.
A darkness.
Sara turned to her daughter in the car beside her.
It’s the same way I look at Katie.
Sara had been startled when Katie told the grief counselor about the boy. I should’ve expected it as part of the risk. Thankfully the session was confidential. Sara didn’t want to think about the boy, because the matter had been resolved long ago, and it didn’t fit with anything.
But maybe it does now.
Maybe it fits because of Anna’s death. No. Stop. Don’t think about it.
Sara took in the trees of the countryside.
“Isn’t this pretty, hon?”
Katie nodded.
“Grandma always loved driving this way,” Sara said. “When I was little, we’d come here to buy apples and Grandma made pies.”
After several more miles, Sara came to the Silverbrook Hills Senior Living Home and parked. They registered at the desk, then went through the lobby. Along the way they saw Bella Spencer, a woman in her fifties who volunteered at Silverbrook. She had large glasses and was pushing a wheeled cart filled with books.
“Well, if it isn’t Sara and Katie.”
“Hi, Bella,” Sara said.
“Let me know if your mom would like a book today. Got some new John Grisham and Stephen King.”
“Alright. Thanks, Bella.”
Bella glanced around, then whispered a warning. “Hetta’s here today.”
Sara nodded. They passed by residents in cushioned chairs or wheelchairs playing cards at a table. A few steps down the hall they met Hetta Boden, Silverbrook’s manager.
“Hello, Sara,” said Hetta, her hair pulled into a tight bun, her smooth face holding little warmth.
“Hello.”
“You’ve received our notice about the adjustment in our rates?”
“I have, thank you,” Sara said, continuing with Katie to the elevator.
“A deadline is approaching,” Hetta called after her.
“I know. Thank you,” Sara said as they stepped inside the elevator.
They ascended to the fourth floor. The air in the hall held a mix of perfume and hospital. Suite 404 had a sign with large letters: Mrs. Marjorie Cole. The door was open.
“Grandma!”
Marjorie, sitting in her wheelchair at the window, was wearing a print dress. Katie rushed into her open arms.
“I saw you driving up.” Marjorie held her tight. “Oh, that feels good!”
“Hi, Mom.” Sara kissed her mother’s cheek, then sat on the bed with its quilted spread.
“It’s so lovely to see my two girls!”
“We brought you a present,” Katie said. “Can I give it to her, Mom?”
Sara shifted her bag on the bed. Katie retrieved a box of chocolates and gave it to her grandmother.
“The kind you like, Grandma, milk chocolate.”
“Oh, that’s so nice.” Marjorie kissed Katie. “Thank you. Why don’t you have one right now? Go right ahead and open the box.”
Katie’s fingers found the seam of the cellophane wrapping and tore it away from the box.
“You look nice, Mom,” Sara said. “How are you?”
“I had my hair done yesterday.”
“I like how they feathered it.”
Still working on the box, Katie said: “Mom, should we tell Grandma what happened to Anna? How I saw her body bleeding on the rocks. Sally said it was okay to talk about it.”
“Oh, no,” Marjorie said.
Sara’s focus flicked to her mother and in that second, she saw the sparkle in her mother’s face dim. Sara never doubted for a moment that her mother had learned of the tragedy. The residents of Silverbrook were news-watchers in the common room. Marjorie had a TV in her room, and she used the laptop Sara had given her two years ago almost every day.
In an attempt to shift the subject, she reached for the chocolates. “Let me finish opening the box, honey.” She shook the tight lid loose and lifted it. “Take one.”
“You go first, Grandma.”
“Oh, I’ll have one a little later, dear. Go ahead.”
Katie picked a chocolate and bit into it.
“Now—” Sara got her tablet and a pair of small earphones from her bag “—Katie, why don’t you go over to Grandma’s table and finish watching the movie we started yesterday while I visit with her?”
“But I want to finish watching Snow White, first, and can I have one more chocolate?”
“Okay, Snow White and only one more.”
After selecting another, Katie settled in on a chair at the table on the far side of the room and inserted her earphones. When the movie came to life on the tablet, Sara sat closer to her mother and lowered her voice.
“Mom, do you know what happened at Katie’s day camp?”
“Yes, when I saw it on the news, I sent you that email.”
“Oh, I haven’t read it yet. I’m so sorry—things have been so hectic.”
“It’s okay. This is all just so horrible.”
Sara nodded, her chin crumpling.
“You don’t know all of it. Anna Shaw was Katie’s sitter, and when she fell, Katie was there.”
Marjorie Cole drew a breath. “Katie was there when she died?”
Sara nodded, tears rolling down her face.
“In what way was she there, Sara?”
“She was the only person with her, the last person to see her alive.”
Marjorie blinked, wincing slightly.
“Mom, I can’t even say the words. I just don’t know how to deal with it.”
Marjorie lifted her wrinkled hands, taking Sara’s hands into hers, while looking at Sara’s tattoo.
“Mom, it can’t be true, can it?”
They both turned to watch Katie across the room, sitting at the table with her legs crossed, finishing her chocolate. Her tablet was angled; they could see the movie. It was playing the part where the wicked witch queen was offering Snow White a poisoned apple.
“Tell me it’s not true, Mom.” Sara’s whispered voice cracked.
Marjorie’s face filled with trepidation, then tender compassion.
“I know you’re afraid. I know what you fear. But you have to stay strong and trust your heart. Katie’s a good girl.”
15
Seattle, Washington
Here’s Anna Shaw, a toddler blowing out candles on a cake.
Now here’s Anna, front teeth missing, a pink helmet, gripping the handles of her bike. “Watch me, Daddy, watch!” And here’s Anna, hugging Jon, her little brother, laughing with her mom and dad at the Grand Canyon.
The video played on the screens in the chapel of the funeral home, along with one of Anna’s favorite songs, Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel.” One wall was lined with photos of Anna, always smiling, eyes bright like stars.
Fragrant flowers everywhere.
Anna’s urn and candles were centered at the front on a table.
It was all Sara could do to hold herself together. Katie had wanted to come, so they’d joined the mourners filling the chapel. Most were teens wearing black or dark clothes and holding hands or gripping tissues, amid soft sniffles, whispers and shuffling of fabric.
The service was livestreamed and began with Reverend Arturo Santos from Anna’s family’s church at the podium, welcoming everyone, including those online, reviewing the program agenda.
He paused a moment before continuing.
“In gathering here today to celebrate Anna Catherine Shaw, we may ask why—why was her young life cut short? Parents are not supposed to grieve their children. This is not supposed to happen.
“But it did happen and we don’t have the answers, and it hurts so much for all of us who loved Anna.”
The reverend paused, holding the edges of the podium.
“But, in many ways Anna’s death lights a path for us, a path to find meaning in our lives. Our pain reinforces the truth in our hearts of how strongly we are connected to each other. And now, our bond to Anna takes on a new spiritual form, a glorious transcendent understanding that she will always be a part of us...”
Reverend Santos continued for several minutes before concluding.
Then, one by one, others came to the podium to give eulogies.
Paige Kendall and Charlotte Cook, two of Anna’s school friends, stood together, offering their memories.
“Anna was always there to fix you when your day sucked,” Paige said.
“Yeah, we need ice cream was her solution to everything,” Charlotte said, causing a ripple of laughter.
“Anna was the best of us,” Paige said.
“She really was,” Charlotte said as they consoled each other.
One of Anna’s teacher’s spoke next. Then the principal of her school, then Anna’s aunt Dolores, from Reno, who’d taught her how to play poker.
“It wasn’t long before she was cleaning up. She was so good, so good.”
The eulogies concluded with Chuck, Lynora and Jon, her little brother. At the podium together, supporting each other, they worked through tears to say what they needed to say.
“I was honored to be your dad,” Chuck said.
