Today My Name Is Billie

by Neile Parisi

  It was determined that both Mrs. Calhoun and Mrs. Blackmoore had been reading to the children, and when the fire broke out, they didn’t have a chance to escape, so they stayed with them. The other five were on their way to another class, and they were waiting for a teacher to fetch them near the classroom door. And the four that escaped were upstairs attending an art class. That was the closest description we had then, although the investigation was not over yet.

  CHAPTER 23

  Becky Sue’s Funeral

  I WAS COMPELLED TO VISIT the Belmont home after the fire. I knocked on the door, and her younger brother Thomas answered. “Hi, Miss Billie, how y’all doin’?”

  I replied, “How are you doing?”

  “Y’all want to talk to my momma and daddy?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Becky’s parents entered the room, somber and quiet. Fear, sadness, and doubt shadowed their faces. I just didn’t know what to say. I held them in my arms, and we all wept for a long time. What can you say? You cannot say, “I know how you feel,” because you don’t know how they feel. You can’t say, “She’s in a better place,” because how can an innocent five-year-old need to go to a better place? You say you’re sorry, but what does that mean? You talk about how the good die young, and see their hollow eyes and know they don’t believe that.

  I said, “She was the most beautiful young girl, and she made everyone happy. That was because of you. Because you loved her, and she knew it. I cannot imagine how awful this is for you. I don’t know how you are dealing with this tragedy. I only know that Becky Sue is smiling down on you, and looks forward to the day you will all be reunited in Heaven. I imagine that Heavenly Father has brought her to her relatives, where she is getting reacquainted with grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, her brother, and new friends. They are sharing stories and memories and laughing and loving. She misses you all, but she knows the plan. She knows that when she came to this earth, she didn’t know how long she’d be here. She only knew that she had to spend her time learning and loving, and when she was called back, she would go willingly. She promised that she would be happy and share that happiness with everyone, and she did. I know we don’t understand. We ask, ‘Why? Why her? Why now?’ And I don’t know why. I only know that I trust God that He knows why. I believe that one day, we will comprehend, and until then, we just have to have faith. There are no words, no explanations, no excuses, no solutions. There is only love and forgiveness.”

  “Well, we don’t understand, and we are angry, sad, and upset with everything and everyone,” said Mr. Belmont. “We don’t know what to do or how to do it. We’ve never had to do this before. We don’t believe like you do. We’ve lost faith in God. Why would He let this happen?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I want to help you. Let me help you pay for the funeral, pick out some clothes, talk to the undertaker, and please, please let me speak at her funeral.”

  Mrs. Belmont said, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say to anyone. I just can’t believe this has happened. Who can I blame? I hate everyone. I hate all those parents whose children are still alive. Why did they deserve to live, and not Becky Sue? I hate all those children. I just want to hit someone.”

  “You can hit me.” I stood up and walked over to her and wrapped my arms around her. At first she beat her fists against my chest, and then she sobbed and sobbed uncontrollably. So did Mr. Belmont. I let them cry as long as they needed to. They needed to get it out and talk to someone. I felt so badly for all the parents of the twelve children, but especially for the Belmonts. They just couldn’t do anything. They were paralyzed.

  I asked, “Shall I come back in the morning, and we can talk about your plans?”

  “No, no, we have to start planning now. It’s been three days. I know we need to do something,” said Mr. Belmont.

  “I can’t do anything, I just can’t,” said Mrs. Belmont.

  “Please, let me do it. The Calhouns have donated gravesites in their family plot, and offered to pay for anyone who needs help with the funeral costs.”

  “Help? Who has money for a five-year-old’s funeral? No one thinks you’ll need it for your child. We are so unprepared.”

  “We can take care of everything. Let’s pick out her prettiest dress to wear and a matching bow for her hair,” I gently suggested.

  Mrs. Belmont finally agreed.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow to help. Now please try to rest tonight.” I closed the door and cried all the way to the undertaker’s. How can you even be an undertaker? How can you stand the pain? How do you sleep at night? When I was in college, there was a job opening for makeup artist at a funeral home in my town. I applied for the job because I was great with makeup, and I wanted to help the deceased to look good. I always felt a special relationship with the dead. When I told my mom, she forbade it. She said, “You cannot live here and work there.”

  I asked “Why not?”

  She said, “You will always smell of the dead.”

  When I knocked on the undertaker’s door, Sam answered, introduced himself as the undertaker, and stood there, looking dead himself. He was exhausted—and beside himself. He said this was the worst event he had ever had to deal with. He looked completely drained. He told me he hadn’t slept or eaten in days. He didn’t know if he could finish, and he said he would probably retire after these funerals were completed. Although there were three undertakers from surrounding towns who had volunteered to help, he still couldn’t wrap his head around it at all. How could all this have happened? How was he going to able to make these children look like themselves, like beautiful little angels? He was good at what he did, but could he be that good? He felt a special obligation to help all these families. He had known them for years. He knew everyone in town.

  I said I had come to bring Becky Sue’s outfit to wear.

  He started to cry, and said, “I’ve tried so hard to make her look beautiful, and she doesn’t look like that sweet little girl I knew.”

  “May I see her, please?”

  “Prepare yourself. I’m still trying.”

  “Okay, I will.” I walked into the room where she lay. He was right; she didn’t look like Becky Sue. She had on a long, dark brown wig which tried to imitate her beautiful long curls. The makeup was so thick covering her burned skin that it didn’t look like her; it looked like a mask. It was cracking in places. I thought to myself, I must convince the Belmonts to have a closed coffin after they say their goodbyes. I actually hoped they didn’t want to see her like this, that maybe they’d want to remember her as she was. But I knew that everyone needs closure to be able to go on. Well, now what? Should I tell Sam he has done a good job? Do I tell the Belmonts so they can be prepared? I prayed that I would know what to say. Her funeral was in two days. No amount of time could fix Becky Sue.

  I said goodnight to Sam and walked slowly, ever so slowly, to my car, and then I threw up. I paused for a while looking up at the stars, the heavenly stars, and asked God, “Why?” I knew there would not be an answer tonight. I pleaded with Him to help me say the right words to Becky’s parents, knowing the only thing they would recognize would be her dress.

  I drove home and reflected upon my own father’s death. I had been young, only thirty-nine, and my mom was a mere sixty. She was devastated. She had just retired so she could spend time with my dad. He wasn’t well. They planned to buy a place in Florida and vacation there as much as possible.

  I was living out of state, and it was July. I had plans to live and teach in Munich, Germany the coming school year. The deal was, the German teacher would live in my condo and teach German, and I would live in her condo and teach English. I was excited. I called my family to tell them of my plans. On July 6, I was getting ready for the move. I had cleaned out a portion of my condo, confirmed my flight reservations, and was starting to pack.

  I was saying my morning prayers, and was told distinctly to go home. I asked why, and my answer wasn’t what I wanted t
o hear. My dad was very sick, and I needed to go right away. I changed my plans, canceled my flight to Germany, booked a flight to my hometown. I called my mom and said I was coming home. I flew out the next morning. It was July 7.

  My dad was advised to have exploratory surgery. He checked into the hospital on July 18. On July 19, he had the surgery, and the results weren’t good. He had cancer. He was seventy-eight—too young to die. I remember going into the ladies’ room in the hall and kneeling on the hard, cold floor and begging the Heavenly Father to save this man. He made it through the night, and I was optimistic. He was good for eight days and I thought he’d come home, but then he had a relapse and got very bad. The prognosis was dim.

  I didn’t want to prepare for his death, but I knew it was inevitable. This would be the first major death in our family. We’d been through the deaths of grandparents and older aunts and uncles, but this was my dad. I knew I had to be strong for my mom.

  On August 7, at 3:30 in the morning, my dad passed away. I was the first one to see him dead in the hospital. My mom cried. We both cried. We hadn’t expected this outcome. Mom held him in her arms and commented that his body was the straightest he had ever been in his thirty years of crippling arthritis. We stayed a long while and talked to him, hugged him, and kissed him. He was warm to the touch.

  We gathered his belongings and left. It was done. I was the first one to see him in the coffin. I will never forget his image. I was the first one to see Becky Sue dead, and I will never forget that image, either.

  I had to be the one to bring his clothes to the undertaker. I was the one to help plan his funeral, and I was the one to go to the funeral parlor and take the limo home to pick up my mom, my brothers, and their families. I got to spend some time with my dad alone as he lay there smiling. He just looked asleep, that’s all. I kept thinking, “I wish I could wake him. I wish I could wake up and know that it was all a dream.” I was glad he looked so good for my mom’s sake.

  My dad, my hero, was gone; but I would always remember him. I still talk to him all the time, and he influences me daily. What would he tell me to say to Becky’s family? What comfort could I give them? My dad had looked like my dad. He was handsome and whole. He looked so peaceful. Becky didn’t look like any of the above. My dad would say, “Tell them she is not there; she is with God. She is still beautiful, and very peaceful. She is happy. She just left a shell of herself behind on this earth. Her body is perfected in Heaven. She is whole and happy. Remember that, and remember her that way.” Thanks, Dad. That’s what I will share with them. It will still be very difficult, but I know what to say.

  The next day, I went over to the Belmonts and shared with them the message my dad had given me. It went better than I thought. They were calmer than the day before, but they hadn’t seen Becky Sue yet. I went with them to the funeral parlor, and it was horrible. Mrs. Belmont screamed when she saw Becky Sue. Her husband had to hold her up so she wouldn’t collapse on the floor, and was strong for both of them.

  As time passed, they were able to calm down, talking about how wonderful she was and how happy she had made them feel. Even Sam told stories of Becky Sue, and they all smiled and chuckled a little. They decided not to let her siblings see her, and to have a closed coffin. My prayers were answered. It was the best thing to do.

  Now we had to make it through the funeral. I did get to speak at Becky’s funeral, and I echoed the sentiments of all those attending. She was pure joy, and would never be replaced. I paid my last respects and took a break to get ready for the next funeral, which was next in the same church. There was a third funeral across town. Then I would be done for the day. Three funerals in one day was incomprehensible.

  CHAPTER 24

  After the Funerals: The New School

  WELL, WE FINISHED THE FUNERALS. Then we had to try to put the town back together and help the living go on living—an unimaginable task to accomplish. But the people were strong and resilient. We wanted these children to know we would always love them, remember them, and carry on. They would never fade from our memories. A memorial was planned, a statue donated, a plaque created; money was raised, and the school was refurbished.

  The statue depicted two older women seated in rocking chairs reading from large storybooks with twelve students clustered around their feet, listening intently with wide-open eyes and smiling faces. It was just the way we wanted to remember them all: joyous and learning. The town had voted, and that was the image they wanted to use as a remembrance of their loved ones. The parents of seven of the students decided to accept the Calhouns’ generous offer, and buried their children in the Calhoun plot. The town also voted to place the statue in the cemetery. The other five chose to either bury their children privately or to leave town completely. A bronze plaque with the names of all those who perished was mounted on the school.

  How do you cope with such a loss? I still had nightmares about the fire, and so did many others. The only way was to keep busy working on the new school and planning a memorial. It would take years, but we would do it. After grieving and school vacation, we relocated into the grange building. Mrs. Baxter, the assistant principal, became the principal. She was perfect. I knew it was difficult for her to try to replace Mrs. Calhoun, but she tried her best. The mood was somber, and some students had difficulty learning, studying, and focusing, as did some of the teachers. We continued to try, believing that the fallen students would want us to carry on.

  The plans for the school were voted upon by the town, and passed unanimously. After the vote, the town council decided that we would use the same plot of land and rebuild the old school, with the exception of the kindergarten room. The new school provided a new space on the first floor, with plenty of large windows and areas to play in. We chose bright colors to paint all the walls, and named rooms after each of the deceased. The library was now called the Henrietta Calhoun Library. The media room, auditorium, and all-purpose room was to be called the Augusta Blackmoore Media Center. There were twelve rooms, each designated in honor of one of the deceased students.

  We loved the project and made frequent trips to watch the progress. The student body, along with the faculty, facilitated several field trips to contribute to the project. On one such day, we planted hundreds of tulip bulbs around the school in honor of the deceased. On another, we cleaned up specific areas, removing building supplies and debris. We also had a picnic and played around the school grounds, like we had done in the olden days before the tragedy. Each and every one of us felt that we were contributing to the new atmosphere that surrounded the building. We planned to be back in the building within two years. Enough time would have elapsed to soften our hearts and minds.

  The local businesses contributed to the progress, and everyone came to help in one way or another. Some of the single moms brought food for the workers on a consistent basis. Many fathers came in the evenings or on weekends to contribute their talents and effort. The mayor declared a day of recognition for everyone we had lost. The governor even came to our town three times to offer condolences and work parties to help. He organized everything. We had enough school supplies—more than we’d ever had. New furniture filled the grange. We used it before we moved into our new building. We were truly making progress—it was evident.

  We did lose several families. Three families who had lost their children left the town, and at least four others decided to leave and start fresh in a new town. This was my home now. I did debate whether to leave, but I felt comfortable here. I felt needed here. I felt safe here. Most of all, I felt loved here. I carried on as the aide/custodian/helper, and performed whatever jobs were needed. The teachers still valued my scientific knowledge and ability to work with children. I still loved teaching the kids after school. It helped fill a void in all our lives. I still lived in the little cabin behind the school, and welcomed every aspect of my life.

  It’s very interesting how many parents came to pick up their students after school. You could see the gratitud
e in their eyes, knowing that they still had their children. In the past, or BTF (before the fire), kids had walked home; now they were mostly joined by parents who kissed them more and hugged them tighter. It seemed to be one of the good results we experienced after the fire. People were more respectful to each other in the town than ever before. There was less bickering and actual fighting. People helped each other more.

  I wondered how long this change would last. I hoped that this newfound love and generosity would be the new way of living in Easly. We all felt the change, and welcomed it. With each new day, we saw more progress: not just in rebuilding, but in our lives in general. People suggested activities in which the town as a whole participated regularly. On Sundays, we gathered for potluck dinners, rotating between the various churches. Once a month, there was a family fun night for everyone to enjoy. It usually consisted of a movie shown outside on the wall of one of the buildings in town, homemade root beer, and treats of every kind imaginable. Everyone brought something. For the first time in over a year, we started to smile and laugh. We could talk about our loved ones who had passed without becoming hysterical. We could tell stories and tales about them and smile. It wasn’t easy, but it was happening.

  The change was monumental. There was a shift in the entire town from darkness to a tiny glimmer of light, which continually grew brighter and brighter. We now knew that we were going to make it. We could rebuild not only our school and our town, but also—most importantly—our hearts.

  It felt so good. Children were learning again, not only learning but enjoying school again. Parents were happier, less fearful, willing to risk letting go of the past, and looking forward to the future. We all decided to try our very hardest.