“Whoever survives a test, whatever it may be, must tell the story.”
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“What are we doing here?” William stood beside me at the kitchen counter, his blond head higher than my waist…since when? Gosh, he’s seven already.
“I’m making lunch,” I said, absently. I slapped together another grilled cheese sandwich and flopped it onto the griddle.
“No, no,” he shook his head impatiently. “I mean, why are we here? Not in the kitchen. Not in this house. People. Why are we borned?”
How am I supposed to answer that? What does he want from me? My mind echoes WHY on a constant loop. It’s been a year since April 1st, the day of Leanna’s accident. The day I lost my sister. The day my siblings, Julie, David, and Jenny lost their sister. The day my mom lost her ‘Cubby Bear.’ The day my brother-in-law Ken lost his best friend. The day Sam, Timmy, and Matthew lost their mom. Just like that, a lifetime of moments made final, snapped shut in the seconds it takes for a car to slam sideways into a hydro pole.
He’s standing there holding his plate and tomorrow I could lose him too. Do I say that we’re all part of a bigger picture? God’s plan? We’re here to live each day to the fullest? What the hell do I know.
I know the hum of fear.
I know the Quiet Room on the 9th floor.
I know the constant pulse of helplessness and a steady roar of anger.
I know brain fog – the kind that earns you a $500 fine and 6 points because you didn’t register the stale red light before you blew through it, almost crashing into two oncoming cars – one of them, a cop.
I know what it’s like to get to your car with a cart full of unpaid-for groceries. Uh, why isn’t this bagged? Oh shit, I didn’t go through the check-out.
I know what it’s like to run in the rain at midnight with nowhere to go.
I know what it’s like to curl up and cry on my birthday, reading her card from last year, the last card I’ll ever get from her: Dear Laurkie, love you always…more and more. Miss you and our antics as little kids! Your older, wiser…sister, Leanna. xxxxx ooooo.
I know what it’s like to wonder if it’s possible to run out of tears.
I know heartbroken like the back of my hand. Unfixable. Unfair. And I know it reflected in the eyes of the people I love.
I can’t give that answer to my self-proclaimed ninja boy with the gentlest soul and deep brown, wonder-full eyes.
When I was just a bit older than William, my dad died in a scuba diving accident. I remember asking Leanna what heaven was like.
“It’s this place way up in the sky where you get to eat chocolate all day and do whatever you want. You never, ever get sick. There are no scary things there and nothing hurts.”
I followed her gaze up to the ceiling.
“You can’t see it,” she said with a little impatience.
Still, I wanted evidence. Some kind of sign.
Leanna was inspiration, love and light. “Laurkie, your photos make me cry,” she told me again and again. “You!” she’d say and lock teary eyes with mine. Dramatic was her way. Always giving more.
In January 2015, I submitted an image of two of my kids on the beach to the NAPCP (National Association of Professional Child Photographers) International Photography Competition. The beach is a special place for me. It’s no coincidence that we are only minutes away from watching the sun set over the water whenever we want. The beach is warmth, healing and growing up very close to my brother and three sisters. On a hot summer day, Mom would ask, “Who wants to go to the beach!” Leanna, Julie, Jenny, David, and I scrambled to gather towels, claim air mattresses, and throw food in the cooler. If everybody helped, we’d be in the water faster. These were the brighter days after my dad died. We would swim until our lips were blue and then warm up under towels and dash out to swim again. We’d race back down to the water because we needed to “rinse off just one more time” for the millionth time after it was time to go. Mom wasn’t asleep under her big glasses and floppy beach hat. She was watching us. She was making sure we had a childhood. My heart will forever linger there. I named my image with it’s swirling clouds, soft sunbeams, and carefree divers, Finding Heaven.
Four months later, on April 2nd, my husband Mat and I drove home from St. Mike’s in rainy darkness with shattered hearts. I sat down numbly at my desk. There were several disorienting messages from friends, by email and on social media: “CONGRATS, LAURA!”
The winners for the competition had been announced just a few hours after Leanna died. Finding Heaven, submitted alongside thousands of other entries, placed 2nd in the Siblings category.
I believe in signs.
I believe I’ll never leave the 9th floor.
I believe she’s with me and you’ll always find us at the beach. Even in the middle of winter.
“To love. We’re born to love,” I tell William, pulling him close and letting my tears fall into his soft hair.
Finding Heaven. Finding Hope.