Talking to Shadows

By Sharon Webb

Lily McKinley grew up fearing she might be different. She’d spent her entire childhood yearning for normalcy while watching her mother constantly teeter on the edge of insanity. As an adult, Lily vowed to provide her own daughter, Sarah, with a secure, ordinary upbringingone totally unlike her own.
But when Sarah is killed in a freak accident, Lily finds herself alone and in despair when her mother finally succumbs to the horrible madness lurking in the shadows. Helplessly forced to watch as her mother retreats into a world that only she inhabits, Lily reaches out to the only source of love and strength she’s ever known, and returns to her ancestral home in the mountains of North Carolina.
It is there, surrounded by the stark beauty of the Appalachian Mountains, that Lily is compelled to uncover the mystery surrounding her father’s death more than three decades earlier. And it is there the dreams and visions begin—and Lily’s worst fears are recognized when she learns the source of her mother’s torment. For Lily soon discovers that, like her mother, she has inherited a rare and terrifying traitone that’s been passed down through generations of women in her mother’s family, one that enables the possessor to communicate with those who have passed from this world into the next: the gift of the sight.
As Lily’s fear turns into acceptance, she learns to embrace her newfound gift and begins to explore a world beyond anything she has ever known. The messages that come to her from the other side intensify her determination to uncover the truth about the “supposed” accident that took her father’s life. As Lily probes deep into the past, she is plunged into a world of danger, deceit, betrayal, torture, and murder. As the mystery begins to unravel and the truth begins to unfold, Lily finds herself pulled inexorably closer to the deep, black abyss that separates her two worlds. And she is faced with a terrifying reality: Will the darkness that stole her mother’s soul claim hers as well?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Nov 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781936587629

Sharon Webb

Sharon B. Webb began her writing career at the age of eleven when she won her first author’s award for an original work of poetry. In recent years, her articles have regularly appeared in local magazines and periodicals. Talking To Shadows was inspired by childhood memories of eccentric ancestors, and also by stories that were told and retold of the women in her family who were gifted with “the sight” the ability to communicate with those who had passed from this world into the next. Sharon lives in North Carolina and divides her time between the mountains and the coast. She is actively involved in a number of charitable and civic organizations and currently co-chairs a program that regularly distributes food to those in need. She is wife, mother, and grandmother.

Book preview

Talking To Shadows

by

Sharon B. Webb

Published by

Brighton Publishing LLC

501 W. Ray Rd.

Suite 4

Chandler, AZ 85225

www.BrightonPublishing.com

Copyright 2011

ISBN 978-1-936587-62-9

E-Book

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover Design by: Tom Rodriquez

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Chapter One

I lost my mother and my daughter on the same day. It was a Wednesday, just like any other Wednesday, except that by day’s end my mother had retreated into a safe, impenetrable shell somewhere deep inside herself, buried to such an unfathomable degree that no one in this horrible, cruel world could touch her. And my daughter… my beautiful, precious child, the light of my life, the only thing I’d ever done right… my darling Sarah… was dead.

It was a freak accident that should never have happened, a tragedy that took seven young lives and left our small, close-knit community reeling with grief and numb with pain, anger, and disbelief.

When the phone call came I’d been working in my studio, packing up a shipment that included a series of landscape scenes commissioned by a small, upscale gallery in Savannah. I remember I’d been smiling when I answered the phone, recalling Sarah’s excited departure from the house that morning. It was the day she and her fellow classmates had been anxiously anticipating for months: the eagerly awaited and highly lauded annual eighth-grade trip. Sarah had bounced around the kitchen, chattering animatedly and ignoring my insistent pleas to eat the scrambled eggs and toast that sat untouched on her plate.

We’ll be the very first group to tour the new planetarium, she’d told me for at least the hundredth time. And we get to ride into town on a chartered bus. Did I tell you that?

Oh, I think you mentioned it at least once or twice before, I’d replied with a smile.

I do hope this rain stops, her grandmother had interjected worriedly from her place at the table.

Don’t worry, Granny, Sarah had assured her. We’ll be inside all day long. We’re going to tour the museum this morning, have lunch in the cafeteria at noon, and then spend the rest of the afternoon in the new wing. I can’t wait to see the planetarium! Dawn’s mother knows someone who’s a guide at the museum, and she told us they have reclining seats that lay back, and it’s just like looking at the night sky. Did you know that, Mom?

Yes, honey, I think you mentioned that, too, I’d answered indulgently.

Minutes later she was at the back door, propelled by the insistent sound of a car horn coming from the street by the back gate.

There’s my ride, Sarah had announced excitedly. She’d opened the door and had one foot over the threshold when she suddenly turned and rushed back into the kitchen. She strode over to the table and leaned over to gently kiss her grandmother’s cheek, brushing Mama’s hair back from her forehead and pausing for a brief moment to study her face intently before coming over to where I stood by the sink, watching this oddly moving scene.

Bye, Mom. I love you, she’d whispered as she gave me a final hug and kiss. There have been many nights that I’ve dreamt of that last embrace, nights when I’ve awakened in the darkness with the feel of her soft lips on mine.

Throughout that nightmarish afternoon, as I stood in the downpour with other distraught parents and concerned onlookers, waiting behind the barrier of yellow police tape that cordoned off the area of rubble and debris which had once been the planetarium, I held onto the memory of Sarah’s joy that morning.

Rescue workers toiled determinedly throughout the afternoon and into the early evening before they finally managed to penetrate far enough into the wreckage to successfully locate the area of devastation. As daylight waned and day turned into dusk, they began bringing out the survivors one by one, their dazed expressions indicative of the horror they’d endured.

I stood unmoving in the rain, hoping and praying each time a figure emerged from the rubble that Sarah would be next. I was watching when they brought out Marianne, Sarah’s best friend. She stumbled, trembling, into her mother’s arms, not speaking at first, tears streaming down her face. As emergency personnel began coaxing her into a waiting ambulance, she began to speak, and her words chilled me.

She was standing right next to me! she wailed. She was laughing and clutching my hand. And the next instant… she was gone.

It was then that I noticed for the first time that Marianne’s entire left side was bloody and torn, her clothing hanging in tatters, and the flesh of her arm a raw, gory mess that hung limply and uselessly at her side. As I watched a paramedic minister to her, wrapping her wounded limb in sterile gauze, she looked up, and her eyes met mine. In them, I saw the reflection of horror and hopelessness, and in that instant, I knew. I knew my precious child would not be walking out of the wreckage as Marianne had done. Marianne knew it too, and in our silent communication, she read my thoughts and felt my loss, as I did hers.

Full darkness had fallen before the weary rescue team began bringing out the bodies of those who hadn’t survived the destruction. Moments earlier, word had quickly and quietly spread through the waiting crowd that all of the survivors had been brought out and a body count had been done inside the wreckage, thus accounting for everyone known to have been inside.

I stood, silent and still throughout the long hours of the afternoon and early evening, motionless as a statue in the steady rain. But when the last stretcher was carried out, bearing its wretched load, something within me—a force comprised of black rage and ugly, searing pain—suddenly broke loose, propelling me forward through the flimsy barrier of yellow police tape. I hurled myself toward the still, shrouded form on the stretcher and began clawing at the unyielding black plastic that covered the body beneath.

A voice spoke from behind me as a hand grasped my arm, attempting to pull me away. Ma’am, please. You need to go back on the other side of the barrier.

Without taking my eyes off the form on the stretcher, I replied, I can’t. That’s my child under there. I know it. I have to see.

I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, the voice patiently answered. At last I looked up into the kind, sorrowful eyes of the fireman. I saw reflected in his gaze all the horrors of the day. I felt his torment and pain.

Please, I begged. I know it’s her. I have to see.

He continued to gently pull me away as he spoke again. You don’t want to see, he stated adamantly.

I stiffened, pulling my arm from his grasp. Why? I demanded.

He merely shook his head.

Tell me! I shouted. Tell me!

He gave me a long, assessing look, and something in my face must have prompted him to be honest with me, for his expression changed from sorrow to pity, and he responded in a quiet, gentle tone. Most of the remains are unrecognizable, he said. When the roof collapsed, the… Here he paused as his voice broke. "The… children were… crushed. There isn’t a lot left."

Suddenly, all the strength left my body, leaving me with a leaden, drained and totally empty feeling. I turned and walked to my car and drove home on automatic pilot. I remember nothing of the drive, and when I parked in my driveway, I sat for several minutes, staring out the windshield at the pouring rain, asking myself how I could possibly bear to enter the house—the house that had been Sarah’s home for her entire life, the house whose walls had echoed the sound of her laughter, her tears, her excited chatter.

There was a note on the table by the front door from my neighbor, Mrs. O’Brien, who had come by to sit with my mother until bedtime. In the note she’d assured me that Mama had eaten supper and gone to bed at her usual time. Mrs. O’Brien had been Mama’s friend for a long time and understood the need to shield Mama from any unpleasantness that might arise. Knowing this, I was confident that news of the tragedy had not reached my household.

I tiptoed down the short hallway to Mama’s room and peeked in. She was sleeping peacefully, totally oblivious to the horror that had taken place earlier in the day. I sank to the floor, leaning against the hallway wall outside Mama’s room, and allowed the sheer force of my grief to wash over and encompass me. My heart was bursting with pain, and every fiber of my body ached with the longing to hold my daughter in my arms just once more. Yet, I did not cry.

I was still sitting there when the first knock sounded on the door. Ours was a neighborhood in the truest sense of the word, and I knew that news of the tragedy would have spread progressively from house to house throughout the course of the afternoon and evening. Eyes would have been watchful, and ears would have been attuned, awaiting my return home, listening and watching for my car. I wearily arose and made my way to the front door.

The caring and concern of my friends and neighbors was genuine and should have been emotionally moving. Yet no tears came. I sat, dry-eyed, in a chair in the corner of the living room, nodding and silently accepting condolences from a steady stream of thoughtful individuals who had come by to offer their heartfelt sympathy and support.

At some point, the inevitable moment I’d been most dreading arrived. I looked up to see Mama standing in the doorway, having been awakened by the steady comings and goings. She said nothing, but her eyes searched my face frantically, as if she could read the horrible news there. I slowly stood and gently led her to a chair. Kneeling before her, I began speaking in halting tones, telling her of the day’s tragic occurrence and of its heartbreaking outcome. As I spoke, I plainly saw the invisible shell form around Mama. Or rather, I saw her reaction to it. As I held her hands and gazed into her face, I witnessed the exact moment when Mama withdrew from the world. I was aware of her retreat into the infinite depths of a safe refuge where she could be touched by neither pain nor grief nor any reality that could cause her to hurt in any way.

To say Mama was fragile would have been the grossest of understatements. Even as a very small child, I understood the necessity of taking whatever measures were necessary to ensure my mother was never exposed to unpleasantness of any kind. Looking back over my childhood, it seemed to me that somehow I’d always had an inherent sense that Mama was different. It was, quite simply, a fact of life for me. Sarah had understood this too. The main difference was that I’d at least attempted to explain to Sarah why Mama was the way she was. No one had ever really explained it to me.

I don’t remember much about my earliest years. I do have a vague recollection of my father although I’ve never been quite certain if it was based on actual memory or simply wishful thinking. I remember a tall, lanky man with kind, twinkling eyes and a smile that lit up my world. I dream sometimes of being lifted high over his head by strong, yet gentle hands, of being twirled around and around, looking down into his laughing face and seeing pure joy reflected there. This dream is always so vivid that I awaken with the sense of actually feeling his hands holding me, and in the dream, I can feel the wind in my hair and the sunshine on my face. Because of this, I’ve always been certain my dream isn’t really a dream at all, but rather a genuine memory.

I was not quite three years old when my mother took me away from the place that had always been her home. She relocated to a small town not far from Atlanta, where we still live to this day. No one ever told me what happened to Mama that was so traumatic to make her leave the only life she’d ever known and start over in a new, strange place. The accident which took my father’s life occurred months before Mama suddenly decided to leave her home. And although I know she must have missed him horribly, it still didn’t explain why she felt leaving was her only option. I always sensed that Mama had experienced something she could not or would not share with anyone, something that propelled her forward into a new life, far away from everything she knew. I grew up with a burning desire to know what horrible event had forced Mama to run away from her home and her family, especially at a time when she needed their love and support the most, but instinct prohibited me from questioning my mother about this.

Once, when I was about ten or so, I mustered up the nerve to ask my Aunt Ida, and she very gently, but firmly told me, Someday you’ll understand. But until then, I can’t tell you. So don’t ask me again, not until the time’s right.

But when will it be right, Aunt Ida? I’d persisted. How will I know?

You’ll know, she’d stated simply, giving me a penetrating look. I promise, you’ll know.

Even years later, I remember every single word of that conversation, and to this day I haven’t broached the subject with her again.

* * *

The weeks following Sarah’s funeral were a hollow, empty time for me. I went about the horrible, mundane task of arranging the memorial service as if in a catatonic state. I honestly recall having no feelings at all. Only once did my shell threaten to crack. It was when I was called to the medical examiner’s office to identify Sarah’s remains. I hated that word… remains. It seemed so impersonal…so generic. How could a life so full of exuberance and joy and irrepressible energy be defined by such a bland, apathetic word? I was prepared for the very worst and had envisioned in my mind a shrouded figure lying on an autopsy table, awaiting a final verdict: words from my lips that would forever give closure to the glorious force that had been my child’s life.

But when I arrived at the unimposing block building, the room I was ushered into evinced no nightmarish images of violent death or its aftermath. It was merely a sparse, non-threatening office with no furniture other than two chairs and a table upon which sat a basic cardboard box no larger than perhaps a foot square.

A solicitous, nervous young man, who had earlier identified himself as Dr. Something-Or-Other, assistant to the chief medical examiner, led me over to the table. I stoically peered into the box, whose contents caused my chest to sear with an acute, intense pain that made me catch my breath. For inside lay Sarah’s new denim jacket, the very one we’d so joyfully purchased on a happy, carefree Saturday just a few weeks ago. On top of the jacket was a plastic pouch that held Sarah’s most prized possession: a charm bracelet she’d worn, without fail, every day of her life.

We understand these items belonged to your daughter, Dr. Whatever-His-Name-Was was saying in my ear. These items were removed from your daughter’s rem—from Sarah.

(In my mind, I was screaming, Just go ahead and say it. Remains. All that’s left of my beautiful daughter can be summed up in one ugly word… remains.)

In some cases, we’ve had to use dental records for identification purposes. But most of the parents of the victims have been able to make positive identification from clothing or other items.

While he was speaking, I continued to stare at the contents of the box, trying hard not to focus on the stains that covered the fabric of the jacket Sarah had so nonchalantly thrown over her arm as she headed out the door that last morning. But I knew, even as I averted my eyes from the unspeakable horror of those stains that he was trying to tell me in as painless a way as possible that I was identifying possessions rather than a body for a reason: quite simply, there was little body left to identify. I walked out of the office in an even more zombie-like state than when I’d entered.

I traveled back home to North Carolina for the funeral. Mama stayed behind under the gentle care of our neighbor, Mrs. O’Brien. My daughter was laid to rest in the family cemetery atop a hill overlooking a panoramic mountain range bursting with all the glory spring brings to the Appalachian Mountains. I returned to Georgia immediately afterwards, haunted day and night by the brutal image of the closed coffin we’d so lovingly touched and stroked, hearing Aunt Ida’s words as she spoke to the polished wood, Rest well, my sweet angel. Rest well.

My mother continued to exist in her self-inflicted state of exile from the world, and I could only watch helplessly as, day after day, she remained mute and seemingly oblivious to the world around her. She functioned, but just barely. She ate whatever was placed before her, slept in her bed at night, and sat still and silent in a chair by the kitchen window during the daytime, never speaking and seldom moving. She reacted to nothing and responded to no one.

The first few weeks were the worst. Thankfully, Aunt Ida arrived in a whirlwind of efficient briskness, taking over Mama’s care and clearing out Sarah’s room, immediately packing all her clothes and belongings, which she boxed up and donated to a nearby charity.

She stayed with us for the entire summer, helping with Mama, and in many ways ministering to me as well. By the time she left at the beginning of August in order to return to her job as a school nurse for the mountain county in which she lived, there had been some marginal improvement in Mama’s condition. There were mornings when I’d emerge from my room to find Mama dressed and sitting in her usual chair. There had also been a few times when I’d awakened in the still hours of the night, certain I heard Mama’s voice speaking from behind her closed door. But on each occasion, I’d opened Mama’s bedroom door only to be greeted by silence, to find Mama sleeping peacefully in her bed.

After Aunt Ida’s departure, I spiraled into a deep depression. It was as if I’d put off mourning my child until now, and I woke up each morning after a night of fitful sleep, feeling as if a huge, crushing boulder were sitting on my chest, a weight I equated with knowledge: the knowledge of Sarah’s death.

I dealt with my depression in the only way I knew how: I painted, steadily and oftentimes feverishly. There were days on end when I spent every waking moment in my studio, and the works that resulted from these marathon-painting binges were unlike anything I’d ever created. Instead of the muted, peaceful landscapes I was known for, my canvasses were yielding scenes bursting with all the brutality nature is capable of: landscapes filled with bold, violent color. There were scenes depicting doomed ships tossed on stormy, raging seas; brilliantly green fields of corn and dancing wildflowers succumbing to the merciless fury of tornados; volcanoes erupting in savage, flaming flumes of fire and smoke; and desolate snow-swept countrysides gripped in the throes of rampant, merciless blizzards.

Often, Mrs. O’Brien or another neighbor sat with Mama while I immersed myself in this destructive form of pseudo-therapy. At other times, I led my mother into the studio with me, situating her in a chair by the door. She never reacted to this departure from her routine, and sat as usual, staring fixedly into space.

While I was battling the demon of depression, the lawyers were battling each other, pointing fingers and assigning blame. The attorneys representing the parents of the children who had perished when the planetarium roof collapsed were relentlessly pushing to get a trial date set. The opposing attorneys, those representing the group of investors who were listed as owners of the museum and planetarium, were frantically attempting to lay all culpability at the feet of the architects and building inspectors who had approved the design of the new complex that housed the planetarium. Each time one of the attorneys called to bring me up to date on the latest developments of the case, I would listen half-heartedly, caring little what the eventual outcome would be.

Months passed, bringing the opposing parties no closer to a settlement of any kind. I didn’t care. I knew no amount of money could ever compensate for the life of my precious child, that no matter how large the settlement might eventually turn out to be, I’d gladly relinquish it all just to have one more day… even one more hour with Sarah.

On a gloomy, stormy afternoon in late August, I’d taken Mama into the studio with me and had immersed myself totally in my work. I painted in a near-frenzy for the better part of the afternoon, and had a nearly completed canvas in front of me. It was a particularly disturbing one, depicting a flooded street full of rushing water and wind-battered trees. Suddenly, I became aware of a peculiar keening sound. Snapping out of my state of absorbed concentration, I was shocked to discover that the tormented sounds were issuing from the chair where my mother had sat quietly and unobtrusively for the last few hours. She was staring transfixed at the painting before me, horror and acute terror reflected on her face. It wasn’t until I hastily threw a cover over the canvas that she resumed her normal trancelike state. Yet she continued to be noticeably agitated, frenziedly picking at her clothing while she stared unblinking into space.

Later that evening, after the doctor had come and gone and Mama was tranquilly resting in a drug-induced sleep, I called Aunt Ida. I was desperate to hear her sweet, familiar voice on the phone, and found myself babbling hysterically to her. She listened patiently as I described to her the episode with my mother, and she murmured comforting sounds as I expressed my helplessness and totally hopeless frustration.

When I finally stopped talking, feeling completely spent and oddly purged, Aunt Ida said nothing for a few moments. When she did speak, her words were totally unexpected.

Lily, honey, she said softly, come home. Bring your mama and come on home to stay. Come home so I can take care of her… of both of you.

Home. She was referring to the modest mountain farm where she and my father had grown up. Home. Yes, home. It was the one place in the world where I always felt total peace and contentment, the only place where the outside world could truly be held at bay. Yet it was also the place from which my mother had fled all those years ago. Although I’d spent every childhood summer there for as long as I could remember, Mama had never once returned there.

For the next few days, I thought of little else. In my mind I kept hearing Aunt Ida’s words… Come home, Lily. I found myself remembering the excitement and anticipation that always prefaced the arrival of Aunt Ida and Uncle Hank at the beginning of each summer vacation. From the time I was six years old until I was twelve, they would make the five-hour drive to our little home on the outskirts of Atlanta, usually arriving in the early afternoon. Bright and early the next morning, the three of us would pile into their car and, as Uncle Hank was fond of saying, Head for the hills! After I turned twelve, I was allowed to ride the bus from Atlanta to Asheville, a thrilling experience for such a sheltered child as myself.

From a very early age, I was an extremely perceptive child, and I worried about leaving Mama alone for the entire summer. But surprisingly, she seemed to take it all in stride. Regardless of her chronic fragile state of mind, she seemed to have reconciled herself to the fact that it was important for me to know the love and bonds of family and to be familiar with my heritage and ancestry. And there were certainly no better examples of familial love than Aunt Ida and Uncle Hank. They were the epitome of the doting aunt and uncle, and I loved them with a fierce intensity that has never lost its strength.

Aunt Ida is my father’s younger sister. There was a five-year age difference between them, and she was only twenty-three or so when I was born. She and Uncle Hank were never able to have children, and she told me countless times over the years that they always loved me as their own. And I knew their selfless love also extended to Sarah.

I was seventeen when I spent my last entire summer with them. Sarah was born the following spring, and the demands of being a single parent and of making a living and supporting a child were just too great to allow for such a luxury as spending entire summers in the mountains. Yet I wanted Sarah to know them, and to love the mountains and her ancestral home as much as I did. So, each and every summer, from the time she was born, I took her to spend a week or two with Aunt Ida and Uncle Hank in their rambling farmhouse. Those carefree, joyfully happy times of hiatus with my daughter are by far some of my best memories.

Within a week of that phone conversation with Aunt Ida, I put my house on the market. The morning after I signed the listing contract I walked around the house, going from room to room, allowing the feelings of pain and loss to wash over me, and knowing I’d made the right decision. For in every room, around every corner, there were constant reminders of Sarah; evocative mementos of all I’d lost.

I had no regrets concerning my decision to sell the house. I knew I was doing the right thing and was absolutely certain that a fresh start was the only way I would ever be able to live even a semblance of a normal life again. It had been almost five months since Sarah’s death, and I knew it was time for me to stop merely existing. The time had come for me to start living again. Within a very short time I had a full-price offer on the house, and the closing date was scheduled. On the very day the contract was signed, I made a phone call to Sarah’s best friend, Marianne, and told her about the sale of the house and my imminent move.

Would you do one last thing for me before you go? she’d asked through her tears.

Of course, I’d answered without hesitation.

The next morning, Marianne, her mother, Libby and I drove thirty miles to the area’s newest and most advanced medical facility. It was here that Marianne had been taken for treatment after the planetarium’s collapse. It was also where she’d undergone surgery to repair her injured arm, and where she’d come for occupational therapy in the succeeding weeks. But, most notably, it was where Haley, Marianne and Sarah’s close friend, remained in a comatose state, unaware of the passing of time, oblivious to the ugly reality of death and loss she’d just barely escaped.

As we rode the elevator to the third floor intensive care unit, I gently whispered to Marianne, I’m going to miss you, honey.

I’m going to miss you too, she replied. And after a brief pause, she haltingly added, And I really miss Sarah. She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and in a stronger voice said, But coming here to sit with Haley really helps. It gives me hope. And makes me feel closer to Sarah. I feel like she’s watching somehow, telling me everything’s okay. Does that sound funny?

No sweetie, I told her. It doesn’t sound funny at all. I think Sarah would want you to come here. It’s what she would do.

As we approached the waiting area just outside the ICU, a weary-looking woman rose from one of the chairs to meet us. She first embraced Libby, and then Marianne, before turning to me, tears in her eyes.

Oh, Lily, she whispered, grasping both my hands in hers, I’m so sorry about Sarah.

I hugged her tightly, murmuring the words, Thank you, Caroline.

As I stepped back, Libby was asking, Has there been any change?

Haley’s mother shook her head, No. But she’s stable. Her vital signs are all good and the doctors tell us her brain activity appears normal, although there’s still some… what they call, residual swelling. Whatever that means. I just wish she’d wake up.

She’s still in a coma then?

"Yes, and until she comes out of it, there’s no way of knowing whether or not there’s any permanent damage. Or how extensive it might be. And the worst part is… the doctors say she could remain in a coma for months, even years. I’ve been reading everything I can find on the subject, and the encouraging thing is that people have been known to wake up from comas after years and be just fine. But there are by far more cases where they either don’t wake up, or they do and the brain damage is such that they can never function normally again.

"But the doctors are hopeful. She’s not on a ventilator anymore, so she’s breathing on her own, which is remarkable. And the fact that she’s young, strong and otherwise healthy is working in her favor, too. I just wish she’d wake up!"

The last sentence was spoken in a plaintive tone, and I could feel her frustration and pain. I empathized as one mother to another. I realized we shared a common pain, and the fact that hers was less final than mine, that her pain was tempered with hope, made the bond no less tangible. I could see in her eyes that she felt it, too.

Marianne reached over to take Caroline’s hand. Lily’s moving away, she told her. She’s going to North Carolina. I asked her to come here with me today to see Haley before she goes. Is that all right?

Caroline gave her a weary smile, then turned to me, and in a trembling voice, said, Of course, it’s all right. But Lily, before you go in, you need to prepare yourself.

She took a deep breath, obviously steeling herself to speak her next words. The facial damage was very extensive. Practically every bone in her face was crushed. She’s healed for the most part, but it’s just so… Well, she’s… Her face is…

It’s all right, I told her when she trailed off, struggling to find the words to describe the horror of her beautiful daughter’s injuries.

The doctors tell us that later on they’ll be able to do facial reconstruction. There’s a wonderful plastic surgeon on staff here, and she’s already seen Haley and assessed her situation. So it’s not hopeless. She took some measurements and did a computer composite. Plastic surgery’s really come a long way. The doctors can work absolute wonders these days. And this doctor is really one of the best. She’s assured us Haley’s face can be reconstructed to practically what it was before. Caroline’s smile was tremulous, but her voice was stronger. We’ll have our little girl back someday. We just can’t give up hope.

Gazing down at the still figure lying on the narrow hospital bed, I was filled with a strange combination of emotions. I felt compassion and empathy for Haley’s parents, fully aware that the past few months had been nothing short of a living hell for them. I also felt a searing pain, coupled with frustration and despair, for the form