by Neile Parisi
Dear, sweet Jonathan. Someday, I would share with him the horror I had experienced, the fact that I had been swiftly discarded as a criminal, without a fair hearing.
We shared a lot though. We both loved plays and movies, camping and the outdoors, dancing, the shore, anything on the beach, craft shows, and good food. He was an excellent cook, and we enjoyed grilling all year long. The most important thing we shared was love for family. Could his family substitute for mine and satisfy my needs? I sure as hell was going to try to make it work.
Jonathan had a comfortable life. We had a great time together. He had a part-time job just to pass the time, and was always available to “come out and play” with me. We traveled a lot, visiting his family members. We’d go on weekend trips, often staying at Hilton Head and many other island spots. I loved my time with him, and often wondered if Philip was with someone now. He probably was, and that was good for everyone, I guess.
Jonathan was not the kind of guy I thought I would have been attracted to. He was a little shorter than me, and that had always bothered me in the past—but not now. He was also a little older than me, and that was a benefit. He had traveled all over the world and was happy to introduce me to new places, new food, new people. I remember the first opera he took me to. I loved it. He liked a variety of music, and shared it with me. I had always loved line dancing and country music. Jonathan surprised me on my birthday. He had taken dance lessons, and was now taking me line dancing. He was such an unselfish guy.
He knew so much, and so many people. I was fascinated that everywhere we went, he met someone he knew. He would casually say, “Well, you can’t live this long and not know a lot of people. It comes with the age.” I examined my life. I knew my family, some friends, and some teachers. I realized I had spent so much time talking to eighth graders, I had lost the ability to converse with adults—until I met Jonathan. He was now my hero, my guardian angel, my confidant, my friend, and my lover. I was so lucky—no, blessed—to share my life with him. Some of my happiest moments with him were spent just walking along the beach, holding hands and saying nothing.
Sometimes, I would ask about cases he had worked on. He asked why was I so interested in prisoners who were serving time for accusations of physical abuse. Someday, I knew I would tell him the whole story, but not today. I secretly feared that he would reject me if he knew the truth—but how could he? He was too kind for that type of behavior.
If I wanted this relationship to flourish, though, I would need to be perfectly honest. I didn’t know if I was prepared for that. His family had welcomed me in all aspects of life. They had opened their homes as well as their arms, and invited me to all their family functions. They said their dad hadn’t been this peaceful and happy since their mom had passed away, and they were indebted to me. The youngest children had started to call me Granny. It touched me so, and I cried openly.
I had actually started going back to church because of Jonathan’s frequent invitations. He never gave up on me. He said I had to forgive God, because He loved me and had helped me through this journey.
I also had to forgive myself. I’d had my share of hardships and unpleasantries, but nothing this harsh or tragic had infiltrated my world until this experience. After that, I lost faith for a while. I knew I would someday return to church and God, but at that point, I had no interest in any God.
It wasn’t so bad living in South Carolina. I had all I needed. I had my little home, and the lunch ladies always saved lunch for me. And boy, could they cook! Chicken-fried steak, biscuits, and gravy were my favorites. I painted my little cabin and built two large bookcases, which I filled with my favorite books—mostly science texts. I did so love teaching science.
When everyone left the school, I was free to roam the library for hours uninterrupted. It was extremely pleasant, but I had to admit I was lonely for family and friends. I needed to change that, and change it soon.
I suspected that today would be like any other day, even though it was a special day. It was my sixtieth birthday. I whispered, “Happy Birthday, Billie,” to myself as tears ran down my cheeks. Do you think anyone would remember my birthday? Do you think Philip and the boys remembered? Do you think they cared to remember? Did anyone here even know it was my birthday?
CHAPTER 19
Birthday Celebration
AS I PASSED THE KINDERGARTEN DOOR, Becky Sue jumped out of the closet and yelled, “Happy Birthday, Miss Billie! I’m so excited to celebrate your special day.”
She had made me a homemade card with the tiniest piece of lace taped to it. It was probably a treasure she had found and decided to give to me.
Soon, other voices joined in as I walked down the hall.
“Happy Birthday, Billie!”
“Thank YOU.”
“Hi, Miss Billie, happy birthday!”
“Oh, thanks!”
“Hello, Mrs. Murray, have a great birthday!”
“Thanks for remembering.”
I smiled, trying to feel cared about, loved, and important. But then, I was important—important to these children. After all, I had once been Billie, not just a janitor or teacher’s aide. I had been a teacher, a friend, a grandma image. Twelve years earlier, I had been an eighth-grade teacher. And at that time, I wasn’t just a good teacher…I was a great teacher. My students loved me, and I adored them. I spent countless hours after school explaining the phases of the moon, why dry ice was dry, or how a shark could sleep underwater. I loved teaching. I lived in my classroom, and I lived to teach.
And now, I could no longer practice my trade, my talent, my career. They had all been taken from me in an instant. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair. How could this have happened? No one had promised that life would be fair and have a happy ending—only that we would have experiences and opportunities to grow and learn and teach.
I missed teaching. I missed molding and shaping minds, the minds of the children. I was heartbroken when I had to quit, so when I arrived in South Carolina, I naturally gravitated to a small schoolhouse on the edge of town. I walked in and asked if they needed a janitor or teacher’s aide, a caretaker, or any position, because I needed them, and I needed a job. They didn’t realize how much they needed me, too. Surprisingly they said they needed a janitor, and there was a little one-room cabin behind the school that I could call home. Oh, the tender mercies of God!
I had watched many children grow and graduate from that little schoolhouse. And today was my birthday, and the entire school was celebrating. Sweeping the halls, I looked around and noticed that all the students were wearing handmade badges that said “TODAY, MY NAME IS BILLIE.” It touched my heart to know that someone cared about me and my birthday. I must thank Mrs. Baxter for spearheading this celebration.
The kindergarten students were the most excited, all wanting to show me their badges and asking me to call them Billie. They proudly displayed their badges, pointing to their names. I went along with the celebration, and I admit I loved every minute of it.
Then I heard an announcement over the loudspeaker: “Mrs. Murray, please report to the kindergarten room right away.” I thought someone must need to be relieved, so I hurried to the room.
I burst through the door and heard the sweet refrain of “happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.” The entire school was there.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and I fielded questions between numerous hugs.
“How old are you, Miss Billie?”
“What are you doing for your birthday, Miss Billie?”
“Are you having cake?”
“Did you get any presents?”
I smiled at them all. “I’m sixty years old, and I’m having my party right now. I don’t need any cake.”
“Well, that is too bad, because Mrs. Baxter got you one. Just look at that!” squealed one little first grader.
Behind me, Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Young were carrying in a huge birthday cake with several pink roses on it. It was inscribed Happy Birthday,
Miss Billie. That’s what they all called me there, and I loved it.
The children screamed with delight as I blew out the candles.
“You did it, Miss Billie!” yelled Becky Sue. “I knew y’all could. Make sure you save me a pink rose!”
Three students struggled to carry in an enormous birthday card, about three feet by four feet wide, complete with the signatures of the entire student body: sixty-one students, seven teachers, an assistant principal, and a principal. It was overwhelming.
I had longed for this attention, which confirmed that I was important, good, and deserving. No one here was judging me, suspecting me, or damning me. I was welcome, looked up to, trusted, and loved. I had forgotten what that felt like to be loved. I was so moved that I cried. I cried for my two sons, Max and Joseph, for my husband Philip, and for my lost career, which had spanned twenty-five years and included hundreds of students. I cried for all the missed holidays and events that had passed during the twelve years I had spent at the Thomas J. Easly School.
And yet I was extremely lucky to have a job; not a career, but a job, where I could influence so many eager minds craving knowledge. On any afternoon, you could find me with one of those eager minds, explaining or teaching a scientific concept or theory, and enjoying every minute of it.
“So, why are there phases of the moon, Miss Billie?”
“Well as the moon orbits the earth, its appearance changes, and we see a different phase each day. Maybe you could use this topic for your science fair project, since you are so interested in it.”
“Yes, I’d like that. Can you help me?”
“Of course I can!”
The requests continued, buoying me up to the point where I actually thought I was still teaching! For a short moment, I allowed myself to feel joy, but it didn’t last.
CHAPTER 20
Becky Sue
BECKY SUE WAS A DARLING, sweet girl with long, curly brown hair, big green eyes, and a smile that never ended. She had a space between her two front teeth that she called special. She said God made it just for her, so everyone knew it was her. She was such a happy child. She loved life and all it offered. She said “yes” to everything!
“Wanna act in our play, Becky Sue?”
“Sure, I do.”
“Wanna play outside?”
“Of course.”
“Wanna read to the other children?”
“Definitely.”
She was smarter that most of the students in the school. She was different. She never complained, had positive words to guide others daily, and was always ready to help with whatever was going on at the time. Her vocabulary was immense. She spoke as if she had lived many years on earth already.
I enjoyed conversing with her. She was entertaining and always had a tale to tell. She would recount stories, and you’d swear she had been a part of each one. She’d hear a story on the local news and retell it as if she were the reporter. Her rendition was so real. She could imitate anyone. Not just in the way she dressed, but in the way she walked, the way she talked, and especially her mannerisms. She proclaimed that one day, she would be a famous actress, and everyone believed her. I most definitely did.
Her grandmama lived with her, her four brothers, and her mom and dad. She said Becky was spoiled because she was the only girl. But who wouldn’t want to spoil this precious child? At the age of five, she could tame anyone, teach anyone, and make anyone smile. Everyone wanted to either be with her or be her. I’d never met such a happy child. I wanted to be with her all the time.
She would run up to me in the hallway and throw her arms around my legs and squeal with delight every morning that she saw me.
“Hi, Miss Billie! How y’all doing today? I’s just fine. Let me tell y’all what my cat did last night. She done ran away, but she returned with a friend. Can y’all believe her? Now, Mama says I have two mouths to feed and I’m in a mighty heap of trouble. Y’all want a cat?”
One day in the classroom, I heard Becky say to her teacher, “Miss Teacher, I ain’t got near a pencil,” meaning I don’t have a pencil. She knew her kind teacher would have a pencil for her.
She came from a poor family. Easly was a poor town, but the children were happy. They had very little, but they had enough love to go around, and Becky felt that she was loved.
She was a special child. I looked forward to watching her grow and progressing into a fine young woman. I couldn’t even imagine what she would become. She said she wasn’t sure if she should be a princess, a doctor, or an actress. My bet was an actress. She could have been Scarlett in Gone with the Wind.
At recess, she was the one child who always invited the loner to join in and play games. There was one girl, Annamae, who had nothing on this earth. I don’t think she even had running water in her home. Some of the kids would poke fun at her. They would say she smelled, but not Becky Sue. She would defend her, and say, “Come play with me. Don’t you be crying now, they don’t knows what they talking about.” Soon, Annamae and Becky would be laughing and playing, and all was well. She had a way of making things all better. She was a special child.
“My daddy said they broke the mold when they made me,” she would proudly proclaim. Her daddy was right. I wished I could clone her. What the world needs is many more Becky Sues.
I loved this child. If I’d had a daughter, I would have wished her to be just like Becky Sue. One day, she brought a present for me. She had carefully wrapped it in newspaper. It was a bracelet with some of the stones missing, but she had polished it up so it shone like the stars.
“I got this fer y’all, Miss Billie, ’cause I love you.”
I put on that bracelet, and I never took it off from that day on. It made her so happy to see me wear it.
Every once in a while, you meet someone, and you know you knew them before this life. That’s how it was with Becky. I know I knew her in the preexistence. I know we were friends there, maybe even sisters. We were kin.
I was so blessed to know her now. Even though I was fifty-five ears older than Becky Sue, there was very little difference in our ages. After all, she could have been in heaven longer than me and come to earth later than me. I could have sworn I had played with her at the Heavenly Father’s feet.
I was so grateful and thankful to a Heavenly Father, who let me know I mattered.
CHAPTER 21
The Last Body
I GENTLY PLACED THE LAST frail body of a five-year-old on the wet, wrinkled, blue tarp. The fire department had provided it. Her body was as light as air. Being burned so badly, there wasn’t much left to carry. The tears carved a path through the soot on my face and streamed down my neck. How could this have happened? How could we explain to Becky Sue’s parents that their beautiful little girl would not be returning to their comforting arms ever again? How could this be real?
She was still wearing the badge in honor of my birthday. Though curled around the edges from the intense heat, the letters were still legible: “TODAY, MY NAME IS BILLIE.” I had come to love this little girl. I imagined what she would look like at sweet sixteen. She was truly a Southern belle. I could see her at a debutante ball in all her finery, sashaying around the fine young men who wanted her hand, or perhaps just one dance with her. I could see her as a doting momma, loving and teaching her young-uns. She would have been perfect.
Now she was still—so still and quiet, yet so beautiful. Her long brown hair framed her face, which was covered in soot. Her green eyes were closed to the world. Her little body was half the size, but you knew it was Becky Sue. I was the last one to see her alive, and the first one to see her dead. I couldn’t stop sobbing.
Now, this special soul was gone. I had carried her body out of the charred, smoldering shell of a building. Who would be there to welcome everyone, to help everyone? Who would smile at everyone and play with everyone? Who would compliment everyone, and tell us stories only the way she could? How would we go on without her? How could we explain what had happened, or why it
had happened? How long would we have to wait until we saw her again? What would I say to make it better?
I was so terribly sad. I had lost a good friend. I knew I’d see her again, but I missed her too much. I wanted to rewind the tape and go back to the party, when we had all been happy. I wanted to hug her again, and hear her laugh and tell me stories. I wanted to play with her again. I wanted her back. The realization was that I wouldn’t see her again on this earth.
I didn’t hate God. I knew there was a reason. They say the Lord takes the very best souls early. They don’t have to live a long time on Earth, because they have already perfected themselves. They just have to obtain a body, teach others, experience life, learn the lessons designed especially for them, and love others. Then they can return to Heaven, where they will welcome us someday in a glorious reunion in the sky. I knew this to be true without a shadow of a doubt, but it was still utterly devastating.
Many of the students had left early for holiday break the previous Thursday—a true blessing. No one knew where or how the fire had started, but it burned so intensely that we had little time to evacuate the building. I tried to save as many as I could, continually returning to the smoke-filled building over and over, over and over.
The volunteer fire department consisted of eight men. They rushed to the fire, but it was so intense, they had great difficulty getting through it. I wonder how many more lives could have been saved. What could we have done differently?
After a tedious investigation, it was believed that a birthday candle thrown in the trash in the janitor’s closet could have caused the fire. It had smoldered in the trash, and filled the room with toxic fumes. Coupled with the rags and cleaning fluids, it had ignited rapidly, but gone unnoticed. My celebration had caused such a tragedy.
The kindergarten room was located at the far end of the building, the furthest from the exit door. Many of the kindergarten children did not make it out. I was able to help four of them from the building before the firemen arrived: two little girls named Dixie Taylor and Georgia Lawson, and two boys, Buddy Ray Preston and Chase Jackson. Although they were soot-covered, crying, and scared, they were alive. They would return to their families that day. How lucky they and their parents were. I carried out three little ones who did not make it.
