group’s philosophy. Still, it was difficult to face them. Angela was
painfully self-conscious. She was an overweight, twenty-one-year-old, living on
welfare with her father, who had lost both his legs below the knee to cancer.
She couldn’t help being uneasy when it was her time to talk. She apologized
with a smile.
“Poppa went with me. We brought fresh flowers. We always do.”
Angela fingered the pink ribbon, bowed around the folded,
grease-stained, take-out bag she held on her lap, like a prayer book.
“Today, when we got to Tanita Marie’s spot—it’s pretty there in the
shade of a big weeping willow—I started pushing Poppa’s chair, he points and
says, ‘Look, Angie. There’s something on her stone.’ And I could see it. The
wind blew this bag up against it. Poppa wanted to complain to the groundsman.
But I said no.” Angela caressed the bag, then squeezed it.
“I took the bag and folded it. I took the ribbon from the flowers
from our last visit and tied it nice round the bag and saved it. Because of all
the hundreds of stones in the children’s cemetery, this bag came to my baby’s
grave. It came for a reason. Just like all of the babies in this city, mine was
murdered.”
The room’s fluorescent lights hummed. Angela stared at the bag in
her plump hands. The group listened.
“But, what’s the reason? Why was my baby murdered? I was a good
mother. I loved her. Why did someone take her? How could somebody be so bad?
Poppa says somebody who would kill a baby must be dead inside already. But why
can’t the police find my baby’s killer? He’s still out there. He could kill
another baby.” Her voice grew small. “I know it’s been a year, but sometimes,
at night, I can still hear her crying for me.” Angela held the bag to her face
and wept softly.
Lois Jensen left her chair, knelt before Angela, ad put her arms
around her. “Go ahead and let it out, sweetheart. It’s all right.”
Lois knew the hurt. Two years ago, her thirteen-year-old son Allan
was shot in the head while riding his bike through the park near their home.
Lois was the one who found him. She knew the hurt.
Dr. Kate Martin made a note on her clipboard. Her group was
progression. Manifestations of empathy, comfort, and compassion were now
common. Not long ago, Lois, who was married to a lawyer in Marin County, would
refuse to open up as each of the others articulated their grief. Now, through
Angela, Lois was healing. Death, the great equalizer, had taken a child from each
woman. Now, like shipwrecked survivors, they were holding fast to each other,
enduring.
Dr. Kate Martin had endured. Barely.
While writing, she tugged at her blazer’s cuffs, hiding the scars
across her wrists. She watched Angela cherishing her take-out bag. For Kate, it
was leaves, saved from each visit to her parents’ grave.
Kate was eight when her mother and father were late returning home
from a movie. Waiting and playing cards with their neighbor, Mrs. Cook. A
police car arrived at the house. The old woman put an age-spotted hand to her
mouth, Kate stood in her robe, barefoot, alone in the hall. Mrs. Cook talked in
hushed tones with the young officer at the door, holding his hat in his hand. Something
was wrong. Mrs. Cook hurried to her, crushing her against her bosom, with a
smell of moth balls, telling her there had been a horrible, awful car accident.
“You are all alone now, child.”
Kate was sent to live with her mother’s sister Ellen, her husband,
Miles, and their three sons on their pig farm in Oregon.
She hated it.
They were strangers who treated her as the dark child who had brought
the pall of human death into their home. She was given her own room and
everyone avoided her. Her only happiness came once a year, when, only for her
sake they reminded her, they’d stop work and pile into the family wagon to
drive to California to visit the cemetery where her parents were.
Uncle Miles loathed it. “It costs too damn much
painfully self-conscious. She was an overweight, twenty-one-year-old, living on
welfare with her father, who had lost both his legs below the knee to cancer.
She couldn’t help being uneasy when it was her time to talk. She apologized
with a smile.
“Poppa went with me. We brought fresh flowers. We always do.”
Angela fingered the pink ribbon, bowed around the folded,
grease-stained, take-out bag she held on her lap, like a prayer book.
“Today, when we got to Tanita Marie’s spot—it’s pretty there in the
shade of a big weeping willow—I started pushing Poppa’s chair, he points and
says, ‘Look, Angie. There’s something on her stone.’ And I could see it. The
wind blew this bag up against it. Poppa wanted to complain to the groundsman.
But I said no.” Angela caressed the bag, then squeezed it.
“I took the bag and folded it. I took the ribbon from the flowers
from our last visit and tied it nice round the bag and saved it. Because of all
the hundreds of stones in the children’s cemetery, this bag came to my baby’s
grave. It came for a reason. Just like all of the babies in this city, mine was
murdered.”
The room’s fluorescent lights hummed. Angela stared at the bag in
her plump hands. The group listened.
“But, what’s the reason? Why was my baby murdered? I was a good
mother. I loved her. Why did someone take her? How could somebody be so bad?
Poppa says somebody who would kill a baby must be dead inside already. But why
can’t the police find my baby’s killer? He’s still out there. He could kill
another baby.” Her voice grew small. “I know it’s been a year, but sometimes,
at night, I can still hear her crying for me.” Angela held the bag to her face
and wept softly.
Lois Jensen left her chair, knelt before Angela, ad put her arms
around her. “Go ahead and let it out, sweetheart. It’s all right.”
Lois knew the hurt. Two years ago, her thirteen-year-old son Allan
was shot in the head while riding his bike through the park near their home.
Lois was the one who found him. She knew the hurt.
Dr. Kate Martin made a note on her clipboard. Her group was
progression. Manifestations of empathy, comfort, and compassion were now
common. Not long ago, Lois, who was married to a lawyer in Marin County, would
refuse to open up as each of the others articulated their grief. Now, through
Angela, Lois was healing. Death, the great equalizer, had taken a child from each
woman. Now, like shipwrecked survivors, they were holding fast to each other,
enduring.
Dr. Kate Martin had endured. Barely.
While writing, she tugged at her blazer’s cuffs, hiding the scars
across her wrists. She watched Angela cherishing her take-out bag. For Kate, it
was leaves, saved from each visit to her parents’ grave.
Kate was eight when her mother and father were late returning home
from a movie. Waiting and playing cards with their neighbor, Mrs. Cook. A
police car arrived at the house. The old woman put an age-spotted hand to her
mouth, Kate stood in her robe, barefoot, alone in the hall. Mrs. Cook talked in
hushed tones with the young officer at the door, holding his hat in his hand. Something
was wrong. Mrs. Cook hurried to her, crushing her against her bosom, with a
smell of moth balls, telling her there had been a horrible, awful car accident.
“You are all alone now, child.”
Kate was sent to live with her mother’s sister Ellen, her husband,
Miles, and their three sons on their pig farm in Oregon.
She hated it.
They were strangers who treated her as the dark child who had brought
the pall of human death into their home. She was given her own room and
everyone avoided her. Her only happiness came once a year, when, only for her
sake they reminded her, they’d stop work and pile into the family wagon to
drive to California to visit the cemetery where her parents were.
Uncle Miles loathed it. “It costs too damn much
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