I'll See You Again

by Jackie Hance

  “I can’t buy the girls dresses now or put ribbons in their hair,” I said, brushing a smudge off the headstone. “All I can do is make sure it’s beautiful here. This is the only place I can still take care of them.”

  Warren’s eyes filled with tears. “John did a good job,” he said. “He knew what it meant to you.”

  We lingered longer than usual, and for the first time I felt some peace being at the burial plots. I knew I would start spending time here with my girls again. John had turned it into a haven where I could come to be close to the girls, talk to them or read to them or leave them little gifts.

  I managed better than I expected during Thanksgiving dinner at Jeannine’s. She kept the mood casual, which took away some of the sting, and with just her immediate family, I didn’t feel like a freak. But as I looked around at her very normal family, I wondered—as I so often did—who else had ever been in a situation as extreme as mine. I knew of other people who had lost one child, but to have a whole family wiped out seemed leagues beyond any probability. I was like a triple amputee—mutilated so severely that others wanted to look away. I felt like an oddity, an aberration, an abomination.

  My pain was so deep that I couldn’t imagine others had ever survived anything comparable. But I realized that through the centuries and across different parts of the world, mothers’ hearts beat much the same. In thinking about the first Thanksgiving celebrated by early settlers, I realized that those Pilgrims must have lost children during the harsh conditions of the first brutal winter in the New World. The loss must have been as devastating for those seventeenth-century mothers as it was for me. But the Pilgrims had chosen to look forward and celebrate the good. As I took a bite of Jeannine’s sweet potato casserole, I wondered how I could possibly do the same.

  Thirteen

  We had money pouring in right after the accident from people who had heard about Emma, Alyson, and Katie and wanted to do something. There are only so many flowers to send. Neighbors and friends had an urge to give, as did strangers from around the country who sent sympathy cards with unsolicited contributions. Often cards contained a crisp five-dollar bill or a wrinkled twenty. Older people sent shakily written checks and children put in coins from piggy banks. Personally, I could imagine being touched by a tragic story on TV and feeling sorry for the people involved, but to find their address, buy a card, write a note, put in money? It seemed stunning to me that so many people made the effort to show compassion for our family.

  Warren worked hard to get the foundation started, and my running friend Bernadette pitched in with her usual energy. They set up an official board with friends and advisers. I initially stayed on the outskirts of the action, glad to have the foundation but still too dazed to do much thinking. The generosity was overwhelming. A Wall Street firm sent us $25,000—which left me jumping up and down in delight—and a middle school organized a book sale and gave us the $200 proceeds. We got a letter from a mom who said her five-year-old set up a lemonade stand with her cousins and raised $50 selling drinks, cookies, and brownies. She sent the check to the foundation along with a note: “I didn’t know the family personally and I am saddened each day for them. They are amazing people to take such a sad ordeal and turn it into something positive to help others.”

  Another contribution came with a letter that read, “My heart goes out to Mrs. Hance. She is a role model of how to stay strong and brave throughout a tragic situation.”

  Strong and brave? Not a chance. Amazing? No way. I cried every day. I had meltdowns on a regular basis. Reading all the notes made me feel like a fraud. I didn’t want to be a role model, I wanted to be a regular mom. Why would anyone look up to me when I stumbled at every step?

  Though I struggled, coming up with projects for the Hance Family Foundation gave Warren a great sense of meaning and purpose. “You need to come to the meetings,” he said to me one night when he came home, invigorated by what was being planned. “It’s impressive what the foundation is doing.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it, Jackie. We can do a lot of good.”

  “Great. Good. Great that we’re doing good,” I said.

  Meetings were hard for me and the whole business aspect—the bureaucratic lingo—made me shudder. For me this wasn’t a business, it was about the girls.

  But Warren was right on one level. With the mystifying twist our lives had taken, we had the chance to do good. But how? Families who lose a child to illness often want to help find a cure for the disease. We had happy, healthy children to memorialize, so it seemed natural that we help other children lead happy, healthy lives.

  The foundation made its first contributions in the early fall following the accident. I remembered talking to the school superintendent at the wake and thought about how important learning had been to the girls, so we came up with the idea of providing books and supplies and school trip expenses for children whose families struggled to afford them. Our town had three elementary schools—two public and one parochial—which seemed perfect. Three schools, three girls, three hearts.

  I also wanted to support a summer camp because the girls had loved their own camp experiences so much. Emma and Alyson had gone to camp at our beach club for three years and Katie for two. Brad and Melissa recommended a camp for disabled children that they knew about because they had volunteered there when they were young. I liked the idea immediately. Emma had been admired by her teachers for her constant kindness to the other children in her class, and this seemed a great way to honor the respect and understanding she offered everyone.

  Just two months after the accident, Emma, Alyson, and Katie—through the foundation—were already giving a boost to children in need.

  • • •

  A woman in town named Kate Tuffy came to me with an idea that the foundation launch a program to help build self-esteem and positive thinking in girls.

  “I like that,” I said.

  “We can call it Beautiful Me,” Kate suggested. I was in no condition to question anybody’s plans, so I nodded dumbly and told her to go ahead.

  Without knowing it, Kate had hit a topic dear to my heart. I grew up without much self-esteem, and I was determined that Emma, Alyson, and Katie wouldn’t have the same problem. From the moment they were born, I tried to help them feel good about themselves—and about how they looked. I knew that for girls, unfair as it may be, the two are more closely linked than they should be.

  Emma was naturally tall and thin, and during the summer, she would bop around the house in a bikini. One morning when she was just six years old, Alyson put on her own bathing suit, and when she looked in the mirror, her eyes filled with tears.

  “I don’t look like Emma,” she said, rubbing a hand on her round tummy. “I have a belly like Poppy.”

  “Your belly isn’t like Poppy’s,” I said, hugging her. “Everybody has their own shape. You don’t look like Emma. I don’t look like Daddy. Part of what’s wonderful is that we’re all individuals and we look like ourselves and nobody else.”

  “But I don’t look good in the bikini,” Alyson said.

  “You’re gorgeous,” I told her. “But you don’t have to wear a bikini just because Emma does.”

  “Then what should I wear?” she asked.

  “Let’s go find a bathing suit that you feel good in.”

  We went out shopping and Alyson picked a tankini that covered a little more of her tummy but was still a two-piece. She felt good in it and went to the beach proudly.

  Giving my girls a positive self-image was high on my Mom To-Do list—and I kept at it every day. Our house was always happy and upbeat and I made sure the girls knew how much I loved them. I didn’t want them struggling with body image the way I had. Now, with Beautiful Me, I could help other girls gain confidence.

  Kate Tuffy worked with a therapist named Liz Munro to organize a three-class curriculum, and almost immediately, dozens of girls signed up. The first sessions were held at a local church.

 
“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 assembled 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 class 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 class 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 Saturday in May and put the date on the calendar.

  Planning became a big deal during the fall. Committees were formed and assignments 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 butterflies and snakes. It was sweet and inspiring. But my heart boiled with anger and resentment.

  These are Emma’s classmates. 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 shining 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 massive that it scraped 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. God 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—”

  “Oh no, don’t tell me,” I said, rocking b
ack in my chair in shock. “An email? So how many people are going to show up?”

  “Maybe a lot,” she admitted. “Someone from the church is organizing it.”

  “I don’t want people to ruin their Christmases for us,” I said with a groan. “Everyone’s done enough. Plus it’s too emotional for me.”

  “They just want to come caroling so you won’t be so sad on Christmas,” Isabelle said. “People care about you and Warren.”

  “I know they care,” I said. “They feel sorry for us. I don’t need to be reminded that we’re the lonely freaks of Floral Park. While they’re caroling, they’ll be on the lawn thinking, ‘Oh, those poor people,’ and I’ll be propped against the door wanting to die.”

  “I’ll come over and be with you so you’re not standing there alone,” Isabelle promised. “Mark will come, too. I’ll call Jeannine and Rob. Melissa and Brad. We’ll all come.”

  “You’d better be here because I’m not opening the door myself,” I said flatly.

  On Christmas Eve, Warren and I hardly exchanged a word. The house stayed dark and quiet. We had no excited children waiting for Santa Claus, no presents to sneak out of the closets, no “ ’Twas the Night Before Christmas” to read aloud. We had presents for each other, but no stockings were hung by the chimney with care—because we doubted that St. Nicholas would ever be here again.

  Christmas morning, I got up early and went down to the kitchen. If friends were coming to my house, I was determined that they be fed—especially on a holiday. By the time Isabelle and Mark and the other couples she’d called had arrived, I had a pretty breakfast spread laid out for them.

  Jeannine’s eyes welled with tears when she came in and saw the effort I’d made. “This is just what your house always used to be,” she said, giving me a hug. “Huge spreads of food and everyone welcome. It’s good to see.”