A day like no other

This is a longer essay that Anita wrote, most likely for an English class in the fall of her senior year. This was a more in depth version of her college entrance essay that I previously published, “A significant experience“. As I have examined Anita’s writings from high school on, I am more convinced that Heather’s death made such a strong impact on Anita that she was acting on it the rest of her life. She wrote about death many times and spoke with me about death – including the possibility of her own some day – more than I think the average person would. My only explanation is that Heather’s death changed how Anita thought about life.

March 28, 1988. A day like any other day. A day like no other day. This was the day Heather died.

The day began like most Mondays do. My father’s voice boomed “Are you awake?” from the top of the staircase at 6:00 AM. With much difficulty I dragged my body, exhausted from a weekend of parties in parentless dwellings, out of a soft, warm bed and into a tundra-like bathroom. After my body adjusted to the sharp temperature change, I showered, dressed and headed to school. Classes were as usual. First period was boring, my English teacher assigned a 10 page essay, cafeteria food was disgusting, and I fell asleep in sixth period. I couldn’t wait for school to be over. There was a baseball game that day against Bellevue West, out cross-town rivals. These games were always fun to attend. Half of my close friends had gone to West after junior high, so this was a great opportunity to see them again and laugh about old times.

Immediately after arriving, I spotted Heather in the stands, huddling under a wool blanket for protection from the chilly wind. I ascended the stairs and plopped down next to her, taking half of her blanket and smiling my gratitude. We sat together for a while, laughing, watching the game, and talking about musical practice we had later on that evening. As I was glancing around the West crowd looking for a familiar face, my gaze happened upon Steve, a guy from West I had a crush on for about three years. I asked Heather to walk down to his seat with me, but it was cold, the wind had picked up and she was too comfortable under her blanket. After I begged, pleaded, and promised her my first-born son, she agreed to walk down to Steve’s seat with me. After talking to Steve, she decided to leave with me, because she wanted to eat before she went to musical practice. She offered me a ride to my car that was parked in Iceland somewhere, but I said no, thanks, I’ll walk.

She honked as she passsed me, and as I watched her little tan Datsun climb a nearby hill, I had no idea the next time I saw that car it would be nothing but an ugly, twisted mound of crushed metal.

I arrived at musical practice and after about an hour into practice, Karen, a good friend of Heather’s, leaned over and asked me where Heather was. I told her I was sure Heather would be there soon, she probably got tied up. That’s when the ordeal began. Mr. Hanon, the director, stood up and told us Heather had been involved in a serious automobile accident. Her head had gone through the windshield and Life Flight had rushed her to a nearby hospital. Karen immediately fell into my arms, sobbing violently. My sobs joined hers and astonished gasps could be heard from everyone. For ten whole minutes, I closely watched the door, I guess expecting Heather to come walking in with her bouncy curls and jean jacket with a large metal “H” pinned on the upper right lapel. No one entered.

Mr. Hanon insisted that we continue with practice and he assured us there was nothing we could do for Heather except pray. So musical practice continued, continuously interrupted by messages from hysterical parents, confused students, and inaccurate reports. First they told us she would be fine. The someone said she was brain dead. People recanted stories of missing teeth, no lips, and one eye. None of us knew what the real story was.

That night was the most difficult night of my life. Supportive friends and worried parents kept my telephone ringing constantly until about 2:00 AM.

I woke the following morning to a radio announcer stoically relaying the details of Heather’s accident. Those sounds smothered the small spark of hope that the previous night had been a horrible nightmare. The radio announcer’s deep, droning voice seemed to foreshadow the inevitable doom of the ensuing hours. The atmosphere in school was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Counselors lurked around every corner “just in case you wanted to talk”, and pale faces and tear-reddened eyes searched each other for answers.

As I sat in class that day, instead of sleeping, I thought about Heather. I could remember every single detail of her physical being. Her chapped lips that always peeled. Her painted fingernails. The dark roots of her artificially blond hair. Her abnormally small feet. As I daydreamed, feelings of guilt and blame began to creep up on me. What i I had accepted her offer to give me a ride to my car? Then she wouldn’t have been in that particular place at that time. What if I hadn’t asked her to get up in the first place? Maybe she would have stayed for the entire baseball game and not had gotten up at all. Millions of questions and possibilities ran through my head, although, deep down inside, I knew all the hindsight in the world would not change the situation.

After school, I was standing in the gym lobby talking to a friend when the news arrived. Heather was dead. The entire world around me became a wall of deep blackness as I collapsed.

The next day, we were let out of school early to attend a memorial service the school had prepared for her. Articles from the activities she was involved in and pictures of her were displayed for people to see. Afterward, her close friend stood up and read poems dedicated to her memory. I sobbed a little, but I controlled myself pretty well until a girl rose and said: “Tell your friends you love them right now because they may not be here tomorrow.” With that, the floodgates of my heart opened and I cried for what seemed like hours. I cried for all the things Heather would never see or do. I cried for all the things I would never share with her. I cried for the great loss suffered by her family. I cried for everything. Just everything.

A few days later, I was in the bathroom washing my face when I felt another presence in the room. I spun around, but no one was there. Then a strange thing happened. An overwhelming feeling of love and peace came over me and for a split second, I actually felt Heather’s spirit in the room with me. For a fleeting moment, I felt all the sweetness, kindness, and honesty that was Heather in the very center of my bones. Then, for the first time in a long time, I smiled. I knew Heather was happy, wherever she was. I just knew it.

Many months later I was speaking to a close friend. He described Heather’s death in a statement I will never forget: “Sometimes it doesn’t take a lifetime to do what you have to do.”