what had happened. Sidney cringed at the thought of having to explain
the catastrophe to her little girl when she was older, at having to
relive, years later, the horror she was now feeling. How to tell her
daughter that her father had died for no apparent reason other than a
plane doing the unthinkable, shedding almost two hundred lives in the
process, and killing the man who had helped breathe life into her.
Jason’s parents had passed on years before. An only child, he had
adopted Sidney’s family as his own, and they had happily accepted him.
Sidney’s two older brothers had already called with offers of help,
commiseration and, finally, quiet sobbing.
Western had offered to fly Sidney to the small town near where the crash
had occurred, but she had declined. She could not bear to be with other
family members of crash victims. She envisioned all of them boarding
long, gray buses in silence, unable to make eye contact, exhausted limbs
twitching, frail nervous systems ready to crumble from overwhelming
shock. Struggling with complicated feelings of denial, grief and sorrow
was terrible enough without being surrounded by people you didn’t know
who were going through the same ordeal. Right now, the comfort of
similarly stricken folk did not sound at all appealing to her.
She headed upstairs, walked down the hallway and paused at her bedroom.
As she leaned against the door, it halfway opened. She looked around
the room, at all the familiar objects, each having a unique history of
its own; memories inextricably tied to her life with Jason. Her gaze
finally came to rest on the unmade bed. So much pleasure had occurred
there. She couldn’t believe that that early morning encounter before
Jason had boarded the plane was to be the last time.
She closed the door quietly and walked down the hallway to Amy’s room.
The even breathing of her daughter was comforting, especially now.
Sidney sat in the wicker rocking chair beside the trundle bed. She and
Jason had recently succeeded in moving their daughter from crib to bed.
The effort had required many nights of sleeping on the floor beside the
little girl until she grew comfortable with the new arrangements.
While she slowly rocked in the chair, Sidney continued to watch her
daughter, the tangle of blond hair, the small feet in thick socks that
had kicked free from the blankets. At seven-thirty, a small cry escaped
Amy’s lips and she abruptly sat up, eyes tightly shut like a baby
bird’s. Barely a moment passed before mother had daughter in her arms.
They rocked for a while longer until Amy awoke fully.
As the sun began its ascent, Sidney gave Amy a bath, dried her hair,
dressed her in warm clothes and helped her down the stairs to the
kitchen. While Sidney was making breakfast and brewing coffee, Amy
wandered into the adjacent living room, where Sidney could hear her
playing with an ever-growing pile of toys that had occupied one corner
of the room for the last year. Sidney opened the cupboard and
automatically pulled out two coffee cups. She stopped halfway to the
coffeepot, rocking slowly back and forth on the wood floor. She bit
into her lip until the urge to scream subsided. She felt as though
someone had cut her in half. She put one cup back on the shelf and
carried her coffee and a bowl of hot oatmeal over to the small pine
kitchen table.
She looked toward the living room. “Amy. Amy, sweetie, it’s time to
eat.” She could barely speak above a whisper. Her throat was killing
her; her entire body seemed to have eroded into one large ache. The
little girl hurtled through the doorway. Amy’s normal speed was most
other kids’ top speed. She carried a stuffed Tigger and a photo frame.
As she raced toward her mother, her little face was bright and shining,
hair still slightly damp, straight on top with curls emerging at the
bottom.
Sidney’s breath suddenly left her body as Amy held up a photo of Jason.
It had been taken just last month. He had been outside working in the
yard. Amy had crept up on him and sprayed him with the hose. Daughter