by Jackie Hance
I went back in the house and got busy cleaning and organizing. In what seemed hardly any time, Diane called to say that they had arrived safely at the campsite.
“You’re there already?” I asked, delighted.
“I told you it’s not very far,” she said.
We chatted a little, and I felt a wash of relief that the weekend had started smoothly. Knowing all was fine, Warren and I decided to enjoy the night and went off to join our close friends Brad and Melissa Katinas, who were having a lobster bake in their backyard. We danced under the stars as our friends all had a good laugh about Warren’s outfit. For some reason, he had decided to surprise me that night by wearing pink plaid shorts with a white belt and a pink button-down shirt. White loafers completed the look. Knowing I’d be sad without the girls home, he wanted to make me laugh. It worked.
Nothing special happened that night—we just had a good time with friends. But I sometimes look back on that night and wonder if we will ever have an evening like it again. The very normalcy is what I can no longer imagine, the simplicity of a happy evening not marred by a backdrop of loss, emptiness, and pain.
• • •
On Saturday morning, Warren got up early and I lay in bed, my mind whirling. Although I knew how lucky I was—my girls were happy and well loved—I wanted even more for them. Like so many mothers, I thought endlessly about what would make them happy, and even when my life revolved around camp and car pools, I enjoyed all the tasks of motherhood. But my head never stopped focusing on “What next?” and “Am I doing this right?” Without them home this weekend, needing me to cook and counsel, I found myself focusing on their futures.
We lived in Floral Park on Long Island, in the house where Warren had grown up, which his great-grandfather had built. Warren liked the sense of deep-rooted tradition in the walls, but Emma and Alyson shared a bedroom and Katie’s room wasn’t much bigger than a closet. Was it time to move? Did they need their own rooms? And then came the question of schools. Several of our friends had already moved to a nearby town where they had a middle school, which Floral Park didn’t. Katie was only in kindergarten, but shouldn’t we be thinking ahead?
The phone rang a few times with friends calling, but I didn’t answer. My friend Jeannine Votruba texted to see how Warren and I were doing on our own. She and I had met at the Mothers’ Club in town years ago, and with her high energy and take-charge attitude, Jeannine could probably run any corporation in America. But right now she focused her executive skills on her four young children and her many friends, me included. Her daughters Sydney and Nina were as close as sisters with Emma and Alyson.
“We’re having a great time!” I quickly texted back.
Let her imagine laughter, great sex, and a romantic second honeymoon. If I admitted to her that I had sunk into a blue mood without the girls around, she’d rush over and tell me to snap out of it. And she’d be right. I knew I should try to enjoy this private time with Warren.
You have a wonderful life with three beautiful children, I told myself. Just appreciate it.
I knew I was blessed. My girls had a gleam about them and seemed to glow with joy. Though still young, they had big hearts and enough confidence to help the underdogs. Emma’s third-grade teacher told us how incredibly kind my daughter was to an autistic boy in her class. He responded to Emma better than to anyone else—probably because she always took the time to talk to him and give him special attention. I was proud of that. Loving my daughters and having fun with them was having the right effect.
A few days earlier, a woman I didn’t know had come up to me at the beach club where the girls attended day camp.
“Are you Alyson Hance’s mother?” she asked.
“I am.”
“I just wanted to meet you,” she said, extending a hand. “You have such a happy child, I figured you must be a really great person.”
Remembering that as I lay in bed on that Saturday morning, I smiled into my pillow. Yes, I had happy children. And what could be more important than that? Everyone admired Alyson’s ease and her smile embraced the world. I didn’t have to worry about her. And Katie, though only five, expected the world to be good to her, and so far, she hadn’t been disappointed.
Emma was the Energizer Bunny of the group—she loved being active. Her days this summer started with an 8 a.m. enrichment program at the school, then at 9:30, I drove all the girls to camp for a full day of swimming, sports, and playing at the beach.
Every day at 4 p.m., when camp ended, the other girls carpooled home and Emma hopped into my car, scarfed down a snack, and changed her clothes while I drove her to travel soccer practice. Two hours later, we zipped to another town (requiring another change of clothes) so she could rehearse for a play with a church theater troupe. Emma was one of the youngest in the cast, and since the adults couldn’t get to the stage each evening until after work, the rehearsals went on until 10 p.m. The production of Beauty and the Beast would surely be terrific, but really, was all this worth it?
“I’m so tired,” Emma groaned one morning when I woke her at 7 a.m.
Uh-oh. What had we gotten into? I didn’t want her feeling stressed and pressured.
“You’re doing a lot,” I said, stroking her head. “Maybe you should give up something. Should we stop the enrichment?”
“No!” she said, sitting bolt upright. “I got picked special for that.”
“Travel soccer?”
“Not travel soccer!” she said. “I tried out for the team and I made it. I can’t quit.”
“Camp? You don’t have to go to camp.”
“Nooooo! I love camp!”
Well, that was that. I didn’t have to ask about rehearsal. Neither of us would want her to give up the play. Emma was transformed when she stepped onstage. I loved watching her and could easily imagine her becoming a talented actress one day.
Warren, who believed in strict bedtimes, didn’t like how the days and nights were getting longer. The girls needed their sleep. Or maybe Warren was trying to keep his little girls from growing up too quickly. Emma was only eight—how busy would she be when she was fifteen?
“But Daddy, I want to do the play,” Emma said, overhearing us discussing it one night. “I know it’s late, but I’m going to sleep right now. I won’t complain.”
Too much? Just right? Was Emma overscheduled or getting exactly the stimulation she needed?
Thinking about the girls now made me want to hear their voices.
I checked the time and called Diane. My girls were too young to have their own cell phones, so Diane handed hers over to them and we chatted briefly about their plans for the day. Boats! Swimming! Hikes! Their excitement came through the phone. We blew kisses good-bye, and for the rest of the day I smiled as I pictured them happily playing together at the campsite.
When we spoke again that evening, Alyson proudly reported that they had gone swimming and paddle boating. She and Emma had swum far out in the lake and then clambered up on the dock, where they practiced their dives and cannonballs.
“I didn’t get to the dock, Mommy, but I went in the lake,” Katie reported when it was her turn to talk.
“That’s great,” I said, smiling at the delight in her voice. “And by next year, I promise you’ll be swimming all the way out with your sisters.”
The campsite had an arcade, and as soon as we hung up, they were going to head over for a round of games.
“I packed quarters for you,” I reminded Emma. “Make sure you share them with your sisters.”
“I know, Mom, I’ll share,” Emma said good-naturedly. “And after the arcade, we’re going to roast marshmallows.”
I didn’t have to worry about Emma. She always took charge of a situation and helped her sisters. I was happy that the girls were having experiences with their aunt and uncle that they wouldn’t have had with Warren and me.
Sunday morning I woke up in a rush of good spirits. I could see the end of the weekend. The girls would be home
soon.
Anxious as I had been about the children getting to the campsite safely, I never thought twice about their trip home. Maybe worry is more an emotional reaction than a response to reality. Watching them drive off, I felt helpless to safeguard them. But now that they were coming home, I assumed they were out of harm’s way, that my sister-in-law was only hours away from delivering them safely to my doorstep. Maybe that wasn’t rational—but when is worry ever rational?
In the late morning, Emma called Warren at his office to say that Aunt Diane had gotten a late start, but they were all in the car now and heading home. It was like Emma to worry about the time. Like her daddy, she was very punctual and must have been concerned about missing play practice. Warren phoned me to relay the message, and I started figuring out how to reorganize the day. A little after noon—12:08 p.m., as records later showed—I spoke to Diane to check what was happening. Just a late start, she explained. No problem and no reason to worry.
We then launched into the kind of conversation you might have a million times with friends or family. Two moms chatting about logistics. We talked about what time they’d be home and about plans for the week ahead. Diane wanted to attend Emma’s play, but since she worked full-time, could she get tickets for the following Sunday? Sure. We went over how many tickets she’d need. Let’s see, Erin could sit on her lap and Danny and five-year-old Bryan would stay home, so one ticket should be enough.
“I’ll make sure to come to that performance, too,” I promised.
“Great,” she said.
I called my friend Melissa to tell her about the schedule change. Melissa, a pretty blonde with a perfectly decorated house that looks like she has a staff cleaning it 24/7, keeps everything in such meticulous order that her husband, Brad, jokes that they live in a museum. But she’s one of the most warmhearted people I know, and she and Brad, a successful Wall Street guy, were among our closest friends. Our oldest daughters were the same age and shared the same name, and both Emmas had been cast in the summer play.
“Emma won’t be going to play rehearsal today,” I told Melissa, explaining the situation. “The girls are getting home late.”
“Is everything okay?” Melissa asked.
“Everything is fine.”
But by 12:58 p.m., it wasn’t fine.
The phone in the house rang, and when I answered, Emma said, “Something is wrong with Aunt Diane.”
“What? What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Emma was crying and she sounded scared. I heard Alyson in the background, also crying. My heart began to pound. What was happening?
Diane took the phone from her.
“They’re just being silly,” Diane said. “They’re playing.” But her words were slurred, almost incoherent. I assumed that they were on the road heading home, pulled over somewhere.
“Are you okay? Where are you?” I kept asking.
I couldn’t get an answer.
“Let me talk to Emma again,” I said.
Diane continued talking, her sentences muddled, and I looked around for my cell phone to call Warren. My strong, capable husband could take care of this. He’d talk to his sister and straighten it out. Diane hung up just as Warren walked in the door.
“I just spoke to your sister and she’s slurring her words. She sounds drunk,” I said, growing more nervous.
“Impossible,” he said.
“I know, but she sounded strange. Maybe she had a seizure. Or a stroke.”
He grabbed the phone and called her right back. She answered and Warren immediately knew something was wrong. She couldn’t have a coherent conversation. Scared as he was, he went into action. He would go over and get them.
“Stay right where you are,” I heard him say. “Do not move. Do you understand, Diane? Do not get back in the car. Do not move.”
He asked to speak to Emma, trying to figure out exactly where they were.
“Tell me what signs you see on the road,” he said to our eight-year-old. “Read me all the words you can.”
Instead of getting overwrought, I felt unexpectedly calm. A problem, yes, but Warren would handle it. Diane must have made it to a rest stop, which meant other adults would be around to comfort the children. I pictured them at McDonald’s, many people nearby, the girls in safe hands. Someone was surely helping them.
Warren listened as Emma carefully read from the road signs, spelling out the words she didn’t know. My good girl. She wasn’t crying anymore and apparently sounded composed. As near as Warren could tell, they had stopped at a rest area near the Tappan Zee Bridge in Tarrytown.
“I’m on my way,” he said, rushing toward the door. He called his dad, asking him to come with him. If Diane couldn’t drive, they’d need two people to get the kids and the Windstar back home. As he left the house, he called back to me, “Call the police. Call 911.”
I went over the conversations in my mind again and concluded that Diane had suffered a seizure. That was the only reasonable explanation. I knew something about seizures because Danny had been struck with one out of the blue not long ago. And one of my oldest friends from nursery school was regularly coping with her husband’s seizures from a brain tumor. I had heard all the symptoms. Diane’s seemed to fit the pattern.
I punched in the emergency police number and blurted out the story. We needed help. My sister-in-law was driving my kids home from a camping trip, and something seemed to be wrong.
“I think she’s sick or having a medical emergency,” I said.
I stressed that there were five children in the car. Five children. As far as I knew, the car had pulled over at a rest area in Tarrytown, but I couldn’t say exactly where.
The cop listened politely but responded laconically. “You don’t know where they are?” he asked.
“No. From what my daughter said, they’re at a rest stop in Tarrytown,” I repeated. And then for good measure, I added, “She’s eight years old.” Whether I meant Emma’s age to give validity to the report or express the urgency of the situation, I’m still not sure.
“Well, you’ll have to call the police in Tarrytown,” the cop said. “Maybe they can help. It’s outside our area.” He gave me a phone number to try.
I hung up and suddenly felt my sense of calm disappear as a wave of helplessness crashed over me. Call Tarrytown? I needed to rally help however I could, but I realized how vague my story sounded. At a loss, I called Melissa and filled her in, telling the disconnected details one more time. Brad’s brother was a cop, so maybe he could give some suggestions. What was I supposed to say to the police to get their attention?
“I’m coming right over,” Melissa said.
“You don’t have to,” I assured her.
I tried to reach my cousin Liz, who lived near Tarrytown. Maybe she could get to the car quickly. But I just got her voice mail. I called my mother in New Jersey to see if she knew how to get in touch with Liz.
“Should I come to you?” my mom asked, her voice quavering slightly.
“No, Mom, everything is going to be okay. The girls are at a rest stop. I’m sure somebody is taking care of them. There must be a lot of people around. Warren is on his way there right now.”
I tried the number in Tarrytown and got transferred a couple of times, repeating my story to anyone who would listen. I got through to a cop who asked me my license plate number and registration. I couldn’t remember the number. Maybe I was more anxious than I realized. He couldn’t help without the information, and I hung up in frustration.
Melissa showed up at my door and came into the living room. She knew how to keep her house perfect, but right now, even she couldn’t sort out this mess. After my call to her, Brad had called 911 for me. Eventually, the police went to the only big rest area on a highway in Tarrytown, but didn’t find anything that matched our description.
Melissa called Diane’s cell phone. No answer. I didn’t know that Warren had been trying the number over and over.
“Diane
’s probably in an ambulance,” I told Melissa again. “I think she had a seizure.”
I slipped into a practical gear, anticipating what I had to do. With Emma’s play and Alyson and Katie’s activities, the week ahead was already crammed with responsibilities. But if Diane was in the hospital, I’d pitch in and take care of Erin and Bryan. That’s what family did. The whole thing seemed like an inconvenience and maybe a good story to tell later.
What else can I do? I wondered. Danny had been the last one with them, so maybe he knew something. Diane and the children had planned to leave the campsite first, with Danny staying back to pack up the camper. But everything seemed unclear now. I didn’t have Danny’s cell phone number, so I called another relative to get it. When I finally reached Danny, he sounded groggy. He had gotten home a while ago and fallen asleep before he had to go to work that night.
“Diane’s not there?” he asked sleepily. “She should have been home by now. I’m going to go find her. I know the route she takes.”
Warren called me from the car. He’d contacted his friend Doug Hayden because he was a lawyer and a judge in town and knew a lot of people. Warren had made Doug one of his first calls, thinking he might have some advice. But nobody knew where to go. Diane wasn’t at the rest stop where she was supposed to be, where Warren had implored her to stay.
By now Melissa’s husband, Brad, had come to the house, too. Not knowing what was going on, Jeannine called from Lord & Taylor and started describing a dress she was trying on. Instead of giving an opinion, I told her what was happening.
“I’m coming over,” she said. “I’ll try these later.”
“You don’t have to,” I insisted. “Melissa’s here. We’re fine.”
“Too late,” she said. “I’m already heading to the parking lot.”
What was going on? It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon and my friends were interrupting their plans to come over. I couldn’t understand why. Maybe Diane had gotten sick, but I kept telling myself that everything would be fine. I wouldn’t allow myself to see the urgency that other people did.
Una, the wife of our lawyer-judge friend Doug, walked in at some point.
