I find myself holding her hand, which is warmer than I can ever recall it, like a cake fifteen minutes out of the oven, cool enough to eat but warm enough to melt the frosting. The warmth makes her real to me. I tell myself, “She’s not dead. Look, she’s breathing”—my brain’s attempt to protect me. But deceit is a lost cause.
Katie won’t be coming back to APU in the fall. She won’t be painting the mural for our apartment as we’d planned. And she won’t be in the wedding pictures for the rest of my siblings like she was for mine.
My sister is gone.
And so at last we are gathered as a family—as complete as we ever will be again. We’ll face this crisis shoulder to shoulder, together.
We spend an hour or so around Katie’s bed, sharing stories, wiping tears, and engaging in quiet conversation. Bethany smooths Katie’s blankets and fusses with her dreary grey hospital socks.
“So do they know what caused the accident?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “The cops told us she swerved to the right onto the gravel shoulder, then came back onto the blacktop before suddenly making a sharp left turn into oncoming traffic. They don’t know why she turned to the left.” I recall my vision of Katie slumped over the wheel before impact, but I don’t mention it because it was just an illogical vision, not an eyewitness account. It’s weird. If I told them, would they think I had cracked?
Let’s face it: How do I know whether this image was from God or from my own overwrought imagination or wishful thinking? I don’t know what to do with the vision. It’s more than a little odd. I keep my mouth shut.
“Was she on her phone?” Sam asks.
“No, the cops found her phone inside her purse,” Scott says. “She must have just been dinking around with her stupid CD player.”
I bristle at his words, feeling defensive for Katie but unable to deny the likelihood that he is correct. Why else would she have swerved? She was such a distractible driver. Over the years we all warned Katie about keeping her eyes on the road. Somehow her death feels all the more senseless because it was likely caused by something so preventable.
We are exhausted. Scott, Sam, Tember, and I have not been home since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. Our poor dogs have been alone in the house since we all raced out the door. The older kids were on a plane all night and need to sleep. Everyone needs food, showers, and clean clothes; Scott, my introvert husband, needs to get some time alone. They need to go home. What do I need?
I want to be with the other kids; I want to be the helper mom who blows up air mattresses and puts fresh sheets on beds and doles out clean towels for showers and fixes a big country breakfast; and I certainly could use sleep and a shower as much as anyone. But more than all that, I want to be with Katie. The thought of leaving her is inconceivable. I simply cannot do it.
I pull Scott aside. “I can’t leave her. Even if she is brain-dead, I can’t leave her body here all alone. I love that little body of hers. I’ve looked after it her whole life. I carried it inside me, and I feel connected to it in a way I can’t explain. I know it makes no logical sense, but I will regret it if I walk out of here. Until this is all over, I absolutely cannot leave.”
“I get it,” Scott replies. “You are her mommy. It doesn’t need to be any more logical than that. And I absolutely cannot stay. I’m about to lose it. I need to get home and be alone and bawl. I’ve gotta get out of here.”
“Yep, and I get that,” I say. “You go. Take the kids. Spend the day with them, feed them, help them process. And get some time alone. And I’ll spend the day here with Katie. We’ll tag-team this mess.”
“Perfect. I’ll come back and visit after lunch. Then I’ll bring the kids back again tonight, and we can say our final goodbyes.”
“Bring one of Katie’s hats when you come back—maybe a knit one from my mom—to help cover up her bandages.” I want her to look as Katie-like as possible for every nurse and doctor who comes through the door. And maybe also for me.
So Scott and I split our duties as parents. Off the other kids go, under Scott’s capable care. And I turn around to keep watch over our middle child.
In the corner of her room, I find a chair—the cheap, plastic stacking kind. I pull it close to Katie’s bed and settle in. I reach to tuck her blanket under her feet and notice that her grey hospital socks have been replaced by cute, white footie socks—with purple trim. Who changed her socks? One of her sisters? A nurse? I smile and tuck the covers around her feet.
Just Katie, me, and God. These Sunday hours will be a sanctuary amid the shock—a sacred vigil for me. And for Scott, back at the house, these hours, too, will be sacred, tender, and absolutely necessary, shoring him up for the grueling days ahead.
From the very beginning, our grief looks starkly different—and equally right for us both.
16
FALL 2007, AZUSA PACIFIC UNIVERSITY
Katie had graduated from high school in June and would start as a freshman at Azusa Pacific in September. Bethany would be a junior. Matt had just graduated from APU in May and married Andrea in July—the most joyful occasion for our family to date. We all adored Andrea, and everyone was thrilled to welcome this remarkable new daughter into our family.
In August, Katie packed her bags for college, and the two of us flew to California. Her best friend, Kati Harkin, was also attending APU, but they planned to be on different floors in Trinity Hall—“so we can double the number of friends we make!” they told me. After dropping off my daughter’s luggage in her empty dorm room, the two of us hit the stores for dorm supplies.
For some kids, a new laundry basket, pillow, or shower caddy were just necessary purchases for college. But Katie always attached memories and meaning to things people gave her, large or small. As we shopped, even the mundane purchases were received as gifts, and she was over-the-moon happy about each one. Our budget didn’t have much room for extras, so she spent forty dollars of her own money on a comfy butterfly-style chair and fifteen dollars on a hot pot, both of which she deemed essential for her plan to create a home-away-from-home atmosphere for new friends in her tiny dorm room.
By the time I flew home on Sunday, Katie seemed to be settling nicely into her new freshman world. It’s never easy to leave a child at college and return to a more empty house, and the absence of Katie’s joyful nature left a gap at home that we all sorely felt. But it helped that her exuberance spilled out into the e-mails she began to send.
A few days after arriving home, we received this:
September 3
Hello, family!
College experience, Day Four. My dorm room is pretty much set up, and it’s dang cute. Trinity Hall is beautiful and new, and it’s been 107 degrees consistently here (yes! 107 degrees!). Trinity’s lawn is so nice, and Kati and I have been playing Frisbee, and we played on a huge Slip ’N Slide and ate free ice cream.
My floor is called “4th North.” Yes, it rhymes. I feel like I have APU’s finest girls on my floor. And my room has started to be the hub of all the action. I love it! Yesterday, girls kept stopping in, and eventually I had four girls on my bed, two on my roommate’s bed, both desk chairs and both comfy chairs filled, and girls scattered on the floor. People love it in here, and I looove that they love it. It’s wonderful.
My roommate is sweet and very shy, but she loves that our room gets a lot of traffic. She’s so easygoing, but I’m learning to read her better: The only electrical outlet in our room is by the mirror on her side of the dresser, so my curling iron cord is always hanging over her dresser drawers. I noticed, and I was like, “Ahh, sorry, that’s so inconvenient!” And she just said, “No, it’s totally fine! I just keep my curling iron in my drawer . . . ,” which is her sweet way of saying, “Get your curling iron out of my space, you sweaty hog!” (It’s all in the interpretation.)
More soon! I MISS YOU GUYS AND I LOVE YOU! I have two homes—one in Illinois with my family, and my APU home. It’s so wonderful to have two places you love so mu
ch.
Katie
Katie’s initial college plans had been to major in psychology and get a master’s in art therapy. She decided to hold off on taking any art courses during her first semester and discipline herself to focus on academics. I was curious how it would work out for her to stop creating art, cold turkey.
She called in late October. “Mom! It’s time to register for spring classes, and I’m going crazy being out of the art studio. I never should have tried to make it a whole semester without taking any art.”
“I wondered how that might turn out for you,” I said.
“I hate it,” she said. “I’m changing my major. I want to be a studio art major, and I want to paint for a living. I don’t want to be a painting teacher, or even a therapist who uses art. I want to be an actual painter. Next semester, I want to take as many art classes as I can fit in my schedule.”
“What about your gen eds?” I asked.
“I could take one or two gen eds next semester, I suppose. But I want to dive into my art. I can’t explain it, Mom, but I just need to be painting.”
“Go for it, Katie,” I heard myself saying, against logic. “Take the art classes. It’s sort of like eating your dessert before finishing your veggies—and it might mean taking freshman biology as a junior—but if it’s worth it to you, I trust you to manage your schedule.”
“Thanks, Mom! And I don’t care if I’m the only junior among a bunch of freshmen. Right now, I just gotta paint.”
In a later e-mail, she wrote, “I have an agenda with a canvas.”
And she did. When the spring semester began, Katie managed to squeeze three full-credit art classes plus studio time into her schedule, giving her eighteen hours each week to create art. Because of her strong portfolio from high school, the art department chair offered her one of the coveted studio spaces normally reserved for juniors and seniors. Katie was thrilled to have her own little nook for creating—and she called home with a request: “Mom! Can you mail me my art toolbox? I am setting up shop in my studio space, and I want all my best brushes and equipment!”
“Sure thing, honey,” I told her. “I’ll get it in the mail tomorrow.”
The toolbox was actually a fishing tackle box filled with top-quality oil and watercolor brushes, paints, and tools that my artistic mother had passed down to Katie a year prior. Grammy had always been meticulous about caring for her brushes. But cleanup wasn’t nearly as much fun for Katie as painting. Let’s just say those brushes got a rude awakening when they landed in Illinois. I lectured Katie about the importance of taking care of her tools—to little effect—but nonetheless she got a lot of miles out of those brushes throughout her senior year.
I shipped the toolbox to California with a note that hinted about cleaning. I received this e-mail when it arrived:
Hey, Mom!
I’m so excited about my new art stuff. I took your advice and scrubbed everything out (heh, it was a lot messier than I thought . . .) and now it is clean as a whistle. I can’t wait!
Love you,
Katie
The girl could be taught.
Katie began exploring photography in her new graphic design class. I got this e-mail shortly after the start of her second semester:
Mom! My next project is going to be a tribute to Bethany—beautiful and tasteful—and she’s going to like it. I already did a photo shoot of her for the project. I’ll tell you about it as it goes along. She doesn’t know yet, though, so don’t tell.
I am two weeks ahead in my regular classes. I like to get my “real schoolwork” done quickly so I can just focus on my painting during the week. My days are maniacally long, but I like them. The sun is shining now. I am very grateful for that.
I called Matt and Andrea yesterday and invited myself over for dinner. We had steak and cheesecake and mashed potatoes. Then we had tea and watched Aladdin. They love hosting, and I love seeing them. It was wonderful. Bethany and I have been having lots of fun too.
Oh! Kati just texted me. She just learned how to shut off the water in the dorm bathrooms, so I’ve got to go pranking.
I miss and love you guys.
AND DAD, YOU HAVE TO COME VISIT! I’LL WILT OTHERWISE!
Katie
Grammy and Pop-Pop (my parents) mailed fifty dollars of monthly “fun money” to each of their grandkids during their college years. This freed them up to enjoy an occasional trip to the movies, Starbucks, or In-N-Out Burger. But when a child sponsorship organization, Compassion International, hosted a chapel service at APU, Bethany and Katie were gripped by the difference sponsorship could make for a child living in poverty. They each sponsored a Compassion child of their own, dedicating thirty-eight dollars of their monthly fun money to their respective kids. We liked their idea of fun.
Katie’s Compassion child was a five-year-old girl from Indonesia whose first and middle names are Kristen Anjelin. Katie called her Anjelin, which sounded way more exotic than Kristen. In one of her art classes, Katie painted a large watercolor of Anjelin from the photo that came in her sponsorship packet. She wrote this description of her work:
When I was young, my family sponsored a child named Trifonia. Years into her sponsorship, her country, Rwanda, became plagued with war and mass genocide, and Trifonia simply disappeared. We got a shiny new replacement child in the mail, and I never heard about Trifonia again. Impoverished children are invisible. Warlords and traffickers treat them like they’re replaceable, but they’re not. This is a portrait of my Compassion child, Anjelin, from Indonesia, who just turned five, who is real, alive, and irreplaceable.
Scott had not yet seen Katie’s new life at college, and to keep our daughter from wilting, we flew out in early February to visit the kids and celebrate Katie’s nineteenth birthday. Before leaving home, I baked and packed a chocolate cheesecake—her birthday dessert of choice. We stayed in a hotel with a pool, and Katie’s older sibs and her friends met us there to celebrate. After swimming and pizza and presents, I lit candles on her chocolate cheesecake, and we all gathered around to sing “Happy Birthday.” Scott filmed our elated girl as she blew out the candles commemorating her nineteenth year.
Dorm life, with its close proximity to new friends, clearly suited Katie. We toured her dorm, saw her room, met her friends, and got a glimpse into her life as a college student. Although she got homesick sometimes—she especially missed Sam, Tember, and Dan—the life she was building in California was Katie at her best: with friends who challenged her, classes that broadened her worldview, and an art community she loved.
Later that day over coffee with Kati Harkin, our two Katies recounted one of their recent dorm adventures. “Kati came to my room one day,” our daughter began, “and she told me, ‘Um, I have three dollars. And you know, I noticed the other week that goldfish were only ten cents each at Albertsons . . .’ I told her, ‘I’m in!’”
The girls’ faces were lit with mischief. “So we rallied a few other girls,” Kati Harkin continued, “including one who has a car—and an hour later Katie and I found ourselves with thirty goldfish to distribute. We chose 4th South—our faux rivals—to prank.”
“And we tried as quietly and unassumingly as possible to walk down to their bathroom, hiding thirty goldfish in plastic bags under our sweatshirts!” Katie said. “We were very stealth.”
“Very,” Kati Harkin added. “It’s a big community bathroom with lots of showers and sinks and toilets. And we filled each sink to the brim and placed a fish in it, then added a fish to each toilet. But a few of the goldfish died during the commute—so we put those little buddies in each shower’s soap dish.”
“And then we scurried out of there as fast as we could—but very nonchalantly!” Katie said.
“Very,” Kati Harkin agreed. Then turning to her friend, she added, “Until you lost your focus and felt the need to say hi to someone—right as we were closing the door to 4th South!”
Katie shrugged and grinned. “You know focus is not my strong suit.”
“You are many great things, Katie, but inconspicuous? No way.” To us, she continued: “As soon as the first woman on that hall found her bladder full, Troy, the resident director, came knocking on Katie’s door, and we were busted.”
“We got written up,” our daughter confessed. “But the good news is, Troy and his wife really like us! And he’s our newest favorite person to prank. Totally worth it.”
Our daughter was thriving, inside and out. She and Kati Harkin were closer than ever, and their plan to double the number of friends they made by living on different floors was panning out nicely.
The next day, she paraded us over to the art department to show us her studio space. Clearly the art classes she was taking were breathing life into her soul. She let us peek at a few pieces she was working on. One in particular caught my eye—a seven-by-twenty-one-inch still life drawing of some of her paintbrushes. The title: My Voice. Yep. Her voice indeed.
I got a call from an excited Katie one Saturday afternoon in March.
“Mom! I just saved 4th North!”
“What?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
She explained.
It was laundry day for Katie and some girlfriends on 4th North. Waiting for her clothes to dry, Katie was relaxing in a chair by a door that led to a balcony. Suddenly, the door popped open and two young men tossed a smoke bomb into the laundry room. Then they took off running. Katie—recognizing that it was just a smoke bomb but nonetheless indignant that anyone should “attack” 4th North—gave chase across the balcony and down the stairs. The first guy raced across the street and ducked into a building. Katie—barefoot but fast—chased the second guy clear across campus before finally losing sight of him. She walked back to 4th North, dejected.
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