ANOTHER WORLD, NOT HER OWN

         Is there a shingle out by the road? Is my name listed in the yellow pages? A client called last week to talk of her aunt's death and her own mortality. She is fighting cancer; she is ahead on points but her foe packs dynamite in its fists. "Avoid the right uppercut" I want to tell her, but I can do little more than listen. We put our phones back on the cradle. Death recedes a little for both of us.

         Thursday morning it returns. There is an email from my part-time employee Margaret. She had planned to come in that day but can't. Early that morning, a young woman, just 23, was driving home from her job at a cafe. On a winding part of US 9, her attention was distracted from the road, her Bronco crossed into the southbound lane and slammed into a fuel truck. She was killed instantly. She was the daughter of Margaret's best friend, Hilary.

         Hilary lives in Connecticut. When she comes back to her old area, she stays with Margaret. She called at my house last year the day of our Valatian wake, arriving with Margaret to pay her respects. She has been here several other times to pick up keys, drop off mail and give her friend messages. I have run into her at the post office, the Grand Union and other places. I know her as Margaret's friend, but now she has become a fellow traveler.

         The accident makes the six o'clock news, and there is a photo in the local paper along with an account, with details given mostly by the State Police and County Sheriff. The services are on Saturday and the funeral, a private affair, takes place on Sunday. I attend neither. Late Sunday afternoon I hear a car pull into my driveway. Margaret has stopped and wants to talk about everything. She is alone. Hilary has been staying with her during this period and will remain until Wednesday.

         She tells me what is known of the accident. From the accounts given the family by the rescue squads, the girl was killed instantly. They know the reason for her distraction. Knowing relieves my mind. I used to live next door to a veteran cop. He told me many police attribute such accidents to what they called 'Suicide By Car.' Margaret's story removes that possibility. I tell her my ghoulish thought; she does not mind.

         She tells me everything she can about the wonderful girl named Lena, and of the crowds that packed the funeral. She goes on to speak of the youth at the boat launch last night, congregating to try to say their last good byes to their friend. I get the impression that Lena was someone who was on her own wavelength and that only in the last year had her mother been able to tune her in again.

         Lena is to be cremated. Hilary and Lena's father have divorced. The ashes are to be divided. Hilary's half is to be scattered over the Hudson. Her father wants to take his half for a last horseback ride. Margaret smiles as she tell me that Hilary immediately told him that her half would like to take that ride also.

         I think back to the undertaker who handled my daughter's funeral, and I tell Margaret that he told my wife and I that scattering ashes might lead to unpleasant surprises. He was a good man. He did not frown when hordes of young teens invaded his funeral home, running roughshod over their elders on their way to see my daughter. They wrote notes and left them with her, gave her small jewelry to take with her and at one point nearly tipped over the coffin. After he locked the doors for the night, they sat on his lawn until three in the morning. I tell Margaret this; I am sure I have done so before, but the story comes with the territory.

         We are standing, looking out my bay window at the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon sun. The grass is so green, but it is cold for June. I think of Mozart and his mysterious visitor, handing the composer silver and requesting a Requiem for his master. Mozart was sure the man was from another world, and that is where our conversation seems to be going.

         Margaret is mystified. She tells of how hard it is to reach Hilary. Hilary is now part of a fraternity to which she, Margaret, can not be admitted. Margaret knows I understand, and realizes that I am a card-carrying member. I joined thirteen years ago this coming Sunday. She speaks of Hilary's tales of her last conversations with Lena, and her trip to her apartment yesterday where she chose clothing of her daughter to wear.

         ‘I've been there’, I tell her, smelling her scent, thinking I've heard my daughter's voice on a tape and searching for it in vain. Hilary is luckier. She makes contact. She gets up early at Margaret’s and goes outside to sit in a swing and drink her morning coffee. She has an inspiration. She calls Lena's cell phone to hear her voice.

         "You've reached Lena. I am not here right now, please leave a message."

         Hilary smiles and speaks into her phone.

         "Yes, Lena! I'll leave you a message. You are here! You are in the grass, the breeze, the trees, the sun up in the sky and you will never leave us. We'll see you soon."

         I walk Margaret to her car. She rolls down my drive, turns right and heads home. I trudge out to my shingle and turn it around.

CLOSED - COME BACK AGAIN.

Valatie June 4, 2002


Hilary called me on June 9th, the anniversary of my daughter's death, to thank me for the story. We spoke almost an hour. In the original version, Hilary was Jamie and Lena, Annette. Hilary asked that I use the real names so I have changed it today. 6-13-02